Chapter Text
˚₊𓆩༺🕷༻𓆪₊˚
"… [Spider-Man] sticks to walls due to electrostatic force manipulation, meaning he can technically stick any two objects together and use this ability across his entire body, not just his hands and feet…”
The words ring in her ears, crisp and clear. Jackie is, quite positively, entertained. Mesmerized, even. The screen flickers, shifting between grainy Spider-Man photos while a robotic text-to-speech voice drones on.
Jackie doesn’t need to be watching this video. Top 10 Reasons Spider-Man Is the Greatest Superhero of All Time.
She doesn’t need to be watching it because she already knows Spider-Man is the greatest superhero of all time. Duh.
She also doesn’t need to be watching it because, technically, she has midterms. Technically, midterms are currently ripping her apart, limb by limb. The sheer volume of deadlines gnaws at her brain like a particularly aggressive raccoon. She should be freaking out.
Well, she is freaking out. But she’s doing it silently while watching a YouTube documentary. Which is totally reasonable, because this is Spider-Man content she hasn’t seen yet, and therefore, it is mandatory viewing.
Besides, if they get something wrong, she has a moral obligation to call them out. Or maybe she’ll learn something new—unlikely, since she’s Spider-Man’s number one fan—but still. You never know.
Or maybe she just... needs this.
A loud smack against the desk makes her jump.
“Jackie!” Her laptop screen shakes from the impact.
Her head snaps up, and—oh, Shauna. Right, Shauna is here. Shauna, sitting there with her arms crossed, looking very much like she’d like to murder her. A halo of dust swirls around her head, catching in the light. It gives her an almost divine glow. Which, Jackie thinks, is ironic. Because Shauna is literally the least merciful person alive.
Shauna’s eyebrows pinch together. “Are you seriously watching that instead of doing your paper?”
Jackie narrows her eyes. Then, very deliberately, she turns back to the screen, where Spider-Man is mid-swing, soaring over the city while the text-to-speech guy rambles on.
“This is important.”
Shauna exhales sharply, like she’s physically restraining herself from punching Jackie or something of the sort. “No. This is important, Jackie. This is thirty percent of your final grade.”
Jackie sighs, long and exaggerated. “I know that.”
She does. Kind of. But she also knows that this documentary could hold one Spider-Man fact she’s never heard before.
And that’s a real emergency.
Besides, it’s not like Shauna can do anything about it. It’s Jackie’s choice— her choice —to avoid responsibility, and Shauna’s clearly not making any real effort to change that. So, Jackie turns back to the screen, ignoring the impending doom of her midterm paper.
Shauna, for her part, seems to give up. Not that she was ever really trying in the first place. It's not like Jackie doesn’t notice the faint defeat in Shauna’s eyes, but she’s too busy basking in her victory.
Jackie hums, the smug satisfaction practically echoing in the room. She’s won this one, no contest. She feels like she could do a victory lap around the room—if she weren’t, you know, literally wasting her life away on the internet.
She’s so engrossed in the video it feels like hours have passed, but it’s only been five minutes. Five minutes of perfect Spider-Man content. She’s not complaining. Then, out of nowhere, warm air starts creeping down her neck.
She hits pause, and only then does she register the breathing. The kind of slow, deliberate breathing that only comes from someone who’s trying to get your attention. Jackie turns, and there she is—Natalie fucking Scatorccio, standing like she just stepped out of a rushed college fashion magazine.
Natalie leans back, the movement quick and effortless, like she’s done it a thousand times before. Her bleached hair is a tangled mess of waves, as if she didn’t even try to tame it, because why would she? A leather jacket hangs loosely over a Mario Baby-T that barely reaches her mid-stomach—just enough to remind Jackie that the girl clearly doesn’t know what a waistband is. Oh, and the jorts. The whole look screams chaos, and somehow... it works.
“You know he’s not real, right?” Natalie smirks, leaning forward, daring Jackie to say something.
Jackie glares at her, instinctively leaning away, like proximity to Natalie might somehow lower her IQ. Not that it’s working—Natalie just moves, rings clinking and clanging with every tiny motion, obnoxiously loud in the quiet space. Jackie’s eyes flick to them, drawn in like a crow spotting something shiny.
Then, Natalie’s hand moves—to pick up a coffee cup, of all things—and that’s enough to snap Jackie out of it. She scoffs, disgusted with herself. God, get a grip.
“You’re not real,” she mutters, like that somehow means anything.
Natalie’s smirk deepens, all cocky amusement and general asshole energy. “Is that really the best insult you got, pou?”
Jackie mutters something under her breath that may or may not have been fucking bitch , but it’s low enough that Natalie can’t be sure. Which is exactly how Jackie wants it. She slams her laptop shut, yanks a notebook from her bag, and flips it open like she’s about to actually do something productive for once. It’s a total farce, but whatever. Some people are just so goddamn annoying.
Natalie, for example.
“Don’t let me stop you.” She’s still got that insufferable grin, all teeth and mischief. “I was actually learning a lot.”
“Oh, shut up.”
Natalie shrugs, completely unbothered, and spins back around. A second later, she pulls out a laptop that looks like it’s barely hanging on to life. It’s covered in enough stickers to make it impossible to tell what brand it actually is, but Jackie would bet money that it sounds like a jet engine when it boots up (it does).
She watches out of the corner of her eye as Natalie clicks around, sifting through photos, adjusting lighting, whatever. Jackie always forgets that Nat is, allegedly, a photographer for some big deal magazine. Maybe. Probably. It’s not like she actually listens when Nat talks about it. And she’s definitely not about to start asking now.
Jackie exhales sharply through her nose, resigning herself to the inevitable. Might as well start the damn assignment. She yanks her laptop open again, muttering a silent curse at herself for slamming it shut in the first place. Because of Natalie. Because she’s annoying. Because she exists.
The screen flickers back to life, and there it is—her unfinished documentary video, frozen mid-frame on a random Spider-Man drawing. Jackie stares at it. She has half a mind to just press play and pretend the last five minutes never happened.
But then, out of the corner of her eye, she catches movement. Natalie’s turned around again, fully aware of the dramatic little moment Jackie just created for herself. And, of course, she’s smirking. That insufferable, knowing, shit-eating smirk. Jackie rolls her eyes so hard it’s a miracle they don’t get stuck, then aggressively exits out of YouTube and pulls up her half-finished assignment in Google Docs instead.
“Aw, where’s Spidey?” Natalie coos, leaning in like she’s truly, deeply concerned.
Jackie doesn’t look up. “Shut the fuck up, Natalie.”
There’s a brief, loaded silence—just long enough for Shauna, who has been trying to work silently for the past ten minutes, to almost believe she’s been granted peace—
And then:
“JACKIE, YOU CAN’T THROW A BOOK AT HER!”
˚₊𓆩༺🕷༻𓆪₊˚
She hasn’t always hated Natalie. Not really.
It’s just been really hard not to, lately.
Lately, meaning the past year or so. Ever since they ended up on the same soccer team—after Natalie strolled in halfway through the season, all because Coach Martinez was so impressed by her skills or whatever.
She’s just—ugh—so infuriating. How can someone barely show up to practice, barely care, barely even try —and still be the single best player on the team?
Jackie tries. She tries her goddamn hardest to be the best. To excel. And she does. Sort of . A little.
But never as effortlessly as her.
No one ever does anything as effortlessly as Natalie. It’s infuriating. It’s annoying. It’s frustrating. Jackie loathes her.
She also hates how Natalie always seems to know things—like she’s got some kind of unfair head start in life. The way she’s apparently taking insane biochemistry courses as electives, just for fun. For fun . As an art major.
And the worst part? The absolute most insufferable thing about her?
It’s that everyone notices her.
Not just because she’s talented, or smart, or cool in a way Jackie will never, ever be. But because she has that thing—that pull. The kind that makes people turn their heads when she walks by. The kind that makes it impossible not to look.
And Jackie hates that.
She hates that she notices, too.
Which is… whatever. Like… she just so happens to notice. It doesn’t mean anything. Jackie can certainly attest to that much.
It’s not like hating Natalie is on her mind all that much—only when she’s frustrated, or annoyed at something that just so happens to remind her of Natalie. Or whenever Nat is around her, running her mouth with one of her infuriating comments. Or whenever they’re out in the field.
Which is to say, right now.
They’re running laps because, of course, they are. Coach hadn’t exactly appreciated that half the team was late to practice today—(Nat even more so, by the way!)—thanks to some robbery that had gone down on the most convenient route to campus. The road had still been blocked when they got there, so they’d all had to take some annoying alternate path.
(Blocked because of Spider-Man, by the way. Because Spider-Man saved the day. Which is something Jackie wishes she had seen. Her favorite hero, so close yet so far—but alas.)
Point is, laps were now upon them.
Which sucked, admittedly, because Jackie hates running laps.
So at around lap nine (nine out of eighteen, which is just… cruel, honestly), with her bangs plastered to her forehead and her breath burning in her throat, she decides—discreetly, of course—to slow her jog. Just a little. Just enough that she might actually survive this. Maybe if she times it right, Coach won’t notice. (Some of the girls might, which… boohoo. Whatever. It’s not like they aren’t struggling too .)
And she’d be fine, totally fine—except that her head just so happens to turn in the direction of Natalie.
Which, ugh. Immediately, could this horrible moment get any worse?
Apparently, the answer is yes.
Because why— why —is Natalie (who, as she mentioned, was even later than everyone else) already ahead of her?
Jackie knows she’s seen her pass at least a few times now, which means Natalie’s at, what—lap twelve? Thirteen? And yet she looks… fine.
Not even fine. She looks good.
Like she’s barely broken a sweat. Like this is just some casual morning jog for her.
Jackie, panting and lightheaded, feels something very close to rage.
She hates her.
(And the way her shirt clings to her back.)
But mostly she hates her.
She exhales sharply and forces herself to pick up the pace—if only because acknowledging Natalie in all her stupid, infuriating, effortlessly athletic glory had slowed her down even more.
Unfortunately, she happens to be running past Coach Martinez at that exact moment. He’s barely paying attention, scrolling through his phone, but Jackie knows the second she slows down too much, he’ll magically sense it.
With a fresh burst of energy (or maybe just the fear of getting called out), she pushes herself harder.
She passes Lottie first, who flips her off with a grin. Jackie returns it without hesitation. Van is next, and Jesus Christ, if anyone looks worse off than she does, it’s them. Their face is as red as their hair, and they genuinely seem like they might pass out mid-stride. Jackie snorts, and when Van glares and flips her off, she just keeps moving.
It’s easier when there are distractions—little things to focus on, tiny moments that make running less miserable. She’s actually starting to feel okay, her breathing evening out, her legs settling into the rhythm.
And then—
“Looks like you’re not dying anymore.”
Her smile drops instantly.
She turns her head just enough to see Natalie grinning beside her, keeping pace effortlessly. Of course she is.
Jackie rolls her eyes. “Oh, shut up.”
Natalie laughs, easy and unbothered. Which is annoying because Jackie can practically hear her own pulse in her ears, and Natalie’s acting like this is a casual stroll.
“You were about to say something,” Nat teases. “What, cat got your tongue?”
Jackie exhales sharply, barely resisting the urge to shove her. “What do you want?”
Natalie just shrugs. “Nothing. Just funny how you were half dead a minute ago, and now you’re practically sprinting. Wonder what changed.”
Jackie glares at her. “Maybe the will to live.”
Natalie hums thoughtfully, her smirk widening. “Nah. I think you just push yourself harder when I’m around.”
“Oh, my God—”
“I mean,” Natalie continues, ducking smoothly as Jackie tries to jab an elbow into her side, “if you wanna admit I inspire you, I won’t stop you.”
Jackie has never wanted to kill someone more in her life.
(Or maybe she just wants to wipe that smug smile off Natalie’s face in a completely different way, but she is absolutely not thinking about that right now.)
She keeps running. Faster, even.
She’s fine.
It’s fine.
It’s whatever.
˚₊𓆩༺🕷༻𓆪₊˚
If there’s one thing Jackie Taylor has learned in the (little over) year since she finally (finally) broke free from her parents, it’s that she likes women.
It wasn’t an easy discovery. There were a lot of tears—an embarrassing amount, actually—some hard self-reflection, a handful of experimental make-outs (Shauna and Lottie, for example, though they don’t talk about that anymore), and, if she’s being honest, about a million and one Chappell Roan music videos. But eventually, Jackie reached the undeniable conclusion: she is, in fact, a lesbian.
( “Lottie.”
They’re curled up in Lottie’s bay window, because of course she has one, the kind of ridiculous, sun-drenched architectural feature that only people with old money and good taste seem to have. Jackie is half-wrapped in a blanket, her feet pressed against Lottie’s thigh, while Lottie is scrolling through her phone, idly reading something. She had broken up with Jeff—for real, this time—and in a rare show of generosity, Lottie had been the one to take her in, stuck to her side like glue for the past week.
She’s just finished watching a video of Chapell Roan performing live (again). Something clicks; something changes.
Lottie hums, glancing at her.
Jackie hesitates, then blurts, “I think I like women.”
There’s a pause. Lottie blinks once, head tilting slightly.
“…Yeah?”
Jackie shifts under her gaze, suddenly hyper-aware of every inch of space between them. “Yeah.”
A beat. Then Lottie smirks, slow and knowing. “Yeah, no shit.”
Jackie scowls, smacking her lightly on the arm. “What do you mean, no shit?”
Lottie lets out a laugh, shoving her phone under the pillow. “Babe, you made us watch the ‘Can’t Remember to Forget You’ music video like, five times in a row when it accidentally came on last Friday, and that’s not even the start of it! Shauna was literally about to kill you.”
Jackie groans, dragging the blanket over her face. “Oh my god.”
Lottie laughs again, softer this time. She nudges Jackie’s knee with her own, voice warm. “Welcome to the club, Jax.”)
Which, in hindsight, might’ve been the easy part. Telling Lottie.
Everything after that—learning about herself, truly accepting herself—was the real work. (And if she’s being honest, a big shoutout goes to the therapy sessions Lottie forced her into after she got kicked out, because those definitely did their job.)
Which brings her to now.
She’s much better about it. Accepting herself. Loving herself. The one thing she’s still struggling with is putting herself out there. It’s not like she hasn’t been trying, but no one’s really caught her attention lately.
(And for the record, she does hook up with other girls. Despite what everyone— Lottie —might say otherwise.)
She’s been dragged (read: forced) to this party by her friends. Not that she hadn’t technically agreed a couple of days ago, but that was before the new Spider-Man content dropped, and suddenly, watching that seemed a lot more important than drinking jungle juice in some sweaty apartment.
The whole point, apparently, is to get her to hook up with someone.
Which had sounded great at the time. Now, though, it sounds exhausting.
She’s already backed out without telling anyone, deciding to down a few shots instead—get it over with, be drunk enough to tolerate the party. She’s disgusted, but at least now, the whole thing feels a little more tolerable.
“Jackie.”
Lottie is in front of her now, looking so angelic in this lighting she might actually pass out.
Her friends are hot. Sue her. She’s only a lesbian.
“Hi, Lottie.” She’s all big grins and teeth. She can’t help it.
Yeah, that’s definitely the shots kicking in. She suddenly wants more.
“Hey, Jax.” Lottie takes her hand, guiding her toward the living room—illuminated by warm under-lighting, all soft and golden, which feels weirdly intimate considering this is one of the loudest parties she’s been to lately.
“We were looking for you.”
“Huh?”
“Shauna and I. We were looking for you.”
“Oh. Well.” Jackie lifts her free hand, gesturing vaguely to herself. “Here I am.”
Lottie giggles, her head bobbing up and down as she does. Jackie can’t help but smile at the sight. They walk together toward where Shauna is, uncharacteristically smoking a joint.
“Heeey, Shipman,” Jackie drawls, amusement curling at the edges of her words. “Didn’t know you were letting loose tonight.”
Shauna rolls her eyes but doesn’t bother hiding the flush creeping up her cheeks. “Yeah, well. Long day.” She takes another hit and exhales slowly, the smoke curling around her face.
Jackie tilts her head, watching her. The way the light catches Shauna’s eyes, all warm and rich, makes them look like melted chocolate. The thought makes her giggle to herself.
“Can I have a hit?” she asks, already reaching.
Shauna just lifts a lazy shoulder. “Knock yourself out.”
Jackie takes the joint between her fingers, brings it to her lips, and inhales. The smoke burns its way down her throat, and she exhales through her nose, coughing once before laughing.
Lottie nudges her. “Lightweight.”
Jackie waves her off, already feeling something lighter settle into her bones. “Shut up, I’m fine.” But even as she says it, she’s grinning like an idiot.
Only a couple of minutes pass before everything feels a little softer, a little funnier. She turns to Lottie, who now has her arm slung loosely around Shauna’s shoulders.
Huh. Okay.
The joint is still in Jackie’s hand, and she takes another hit, slower this time, before passing it back. Shauna doesn’t notice right away—too busy grinning up at Lottie, who looks equally charmed by whatever silent conversation they’re having.
Jackie blinks.
Huh. Okay?
Whatever, not asking right now.
Her thoughts certainly feel louder now. She giggles to herself, warmth rushing to her cheeks. The music feels louder, but not in the way it used to—it’s like she can hear every instrument separately, every note striking something inside her, igniting a nerve in her body. She bobs her head to the rhythm, a small, contented smile creeping onto her lips.
“Enjoying yourself there, Jax?” Shauna laughs, nudging her shoulder, finally free from whatever spell Lottie had her under.
Jackie rolls her eyes but doesn’t bother hiding the grin stretching across her face. “Uh-huh.”
Lottie hums, watching her with something unreadable in her expression. “Good. Now all that’s missing is someone to enjoy it with.”
Jackie blinks. “I am enjoying it.”
“You know what I mean.” Lottie’s fingers drum against her plastic cup, her voice all honeyed persuasion. “Someone to take home. Someone fun.”
Jackie snorts. “I have fun on my own, thanks.”
Shauna exchanges a look with Lottie before leaning in, her voice playful. “C’mon, Jax. It wouldn’t kill you to talk to someone tonight.”
Jackie shakes her head. “I don’t need to talk to anyone.”
“But that girl over there—” Lottie gestures toward the crowd. “—was totally checking you out earlier.”
Jackie follows her gaze lazily, catching sight of some girl leaning against the wall, a beer in her hand, looking like she’s waiting for an opening. She immediately looks away. “Great. Hope she finds someone to talk to.”
Shauna groans. “God, you’re impossible.”
Jackie just smirks, taking the joint from her and stealing another hit before handing it back. “Mm-hmm.”
Lottie sighs, tipping her head toward Shauna. “Alright, fine, let’s leave her be. We tried.”
They return to their own conversation, Lottie whispering something into Shauna’s ear that makes her laugh, and just like that, Jackie is left alone again.
The warmth in her chest lingers, but something shifts. She leans back into the couch, exhaling through her nose. Her limbs feel heavy, but her mind is buzzing—too many thoughts, too much awareness. The high isn’t as light and floaty as it was a few minutes ago. Now it’s pressing down on her, making everything feel weirdly slow and disconnected.
She glances around the party. The air inside is thick, almost stifling. The smell of weed, sweat, and cheap beer clings to her clothes, and suddenly, the noise—the overlapping conversations, the music, the occasional burst of laughter—feels like it’s closing in.
Maybe some air wouldn’t hurt.
Jackie pushes off the couch, weaving through the crowd with ease, ignoring whatever half-hearted goodbyes are thrown her way. She barely realizes she’s outside until the cool air hits her face, sharp and crisp against her warm skin.
She stops at the curb, closing her eyes for a moment. The city hums around her—cars rolling by, distant sirens wailing, the occasional burst of laughter from another party down the block. The bass from inside still thrums behind her, but it’s muted now, just a dull vibration in her chest.
She exhales, stuffing her hands into the pockets of her jacket. Maybe she should just go home.
But she doesn’t move right away.
Instead, she just stands there, swaying slightly on her feet, watching the way the streetlights cast long shadows on the pavement. She feels weirdly untethered, like she’s floating just a little outside of herself.
A few people drift past, leaving the party in pairs or small groups, laughing, chattering. No one else is alone.
Jackie rolls her shoulders, shifting her weight from foot to foot. Okay. Time to go, Jax.
She starts walking. Not in a hurry—just letting her feet carry her down the sidewalk, mind still fuzzy but slowly sobering. It’s not even that late, barely past midnight, but the street already feels quieter. Less busy.
Which is weird, because this is New York. The city that never sleeps. Always alive, always buzzing.
She is, in a way, lost.
I mean, I know how to get home. I’m always on this street, right?
…Right?
She’s definitely been here before. She knows that much. Vaguely remembers watching Natalie throw up in that flower pot on the corner after their first party as a team, high off a win and cheap alcohol. The whole group had been giggling the entire way home, buzz never fading, even as Nat doubled over, hands braced on her knees, groaning about how much she hated tequila.
This is nothing like that.
No wide smiles. No echoing laughter. No equally drunk and high teammates stumbling down the sidewalk together, leaning on each other when the world tilted too much.
Just her.
She blinks. Snaps back to reality. Keeps walking, though it’s more of a lazy, uncoordinated waddle. She should call an Uber. Or at least text someone. But the thought barely sticks before floating away like a stray balloon.
It’s too quiet.
Weird.
Her stomach twists—something creeping up her spine, slow and sticky. She shivers, but not from the cold. Her palms feel sweaty.
Then she hears it.
Footsteps.
Not hers.
Someone else’s.
She gulps. Her body tenses, but she tells herself it’s nothing. Just another person walking home. Just some guy heading in the same direction. New York is full of people. Too full for this to be anything serious.
Still, her hands are clammy. Her heart hammers against her ribs.
Just keep walking.
She speeds up. The footsteps behind her match her pace.
Shit.
She almost doesn’t want to turn around. Actually, she knows she shouldn’t turn around. Just keep moving. Don’t—
But no one ever said she listened to her instincts.
She turns.
And standing there, just a few feet away, is a man—tall, broad, face obscured by a balaclava.
She gulps.
“Give me all your money. Now.”
Ah, shit. Just my luck.
Her brain immediately short-circuits, running through every possible reaction in the span of two seconds. She could talk her way out of this. Maybe? Unlikely. She could scream. That’s an option. Or—
Oh. Oh , she could run.
Actually… she should run. Probably. Most likely.
God fucking damn it, Jackie, just run.
Her body finally catches up to her brain, and before she can second-guess herself, she bolts.
The adrenaline kicks in fast. Her legs move on autopilot, arms pumping as she sprints down the street. She can hear the man’s footsteps behind her—heavy, fast, too damn close—but she’s faster. She has to be. She did run eighteen consecutive laps (fairly) fast earlier. That has to count for something, right?
Like, yeah, he’s big and probably has crime-strength or whatever, but if she can just figure out where to—
Something slams into her from behind, hard.
Her breath leaves her in a choked gasp as she goes down, her body colliding with the pavement. The impact rattles her bones, pain spreading through her ribs in a dull, throbbing wave.
She groans.
Okay. So that was definitely unexpected.
She tries to move, but the weight of the man above her keeps her pinned. She can feel his fingers tightening around her wrist, trying to yank her up.
“You’re making this harder than it has to be, sweetheart,” he grunts.
Jackie is just about to start flailing like an idiot when—
Thwip.
Wait. What?
Before she can process what the hell that noise was, the pressure on her body suddenly disappears.
No, not disappears—vanishes. One second there’s a whole-ass man on top of her, and the next, he’s being yanked backward by something fast and sticky.
There’s a loud thud followed by a pained groan.
Jackie blinks. Pushes herself up onto her elbows. Turns her head.
And—
“Oh, wow. Wow . That was, like, really bad form.”
Jackie squints.
Hanging upside down from a nearby streetlight, a red-and-blue-suited figure swings gently back and forth, one leg hooked around a web like a bat that hasn’t quite figured out how to be menacing.
Spider-Man. ( !? )
Her brows furrow. There’s something about the voice. Something—
But then he speaks again, and his tone is lower now, rougher.
“Oh man, this is awkward,” he continues, twisting slightly in his web. “Are you okay? I mean, obviously not great, because, you know”—he gestures vaguely toward the pavement—“face-first collision with the ground and all. But like, scale of one to ten, how much do you wanna throw up right now?”
Jackie just stares at him.
There’s still something familiar. But it’s deeper than she expected, raspier in a way that makes it sound off. Like someone trying just a little too hard to sound cool.
Her brain is still lagging, still trying to piece things together, but before she can focus too hard on it, Spider-Man lets out an exaggerated sigh.
“Oh, okay, cool, yeah. Processing trauma. That’s fair.”
He twists again, now facing the groaning man webbed to the side of a lamppost.
“Dude, you tackled her?” Spider-Man asks, sounding almost personally offended. “What, were you trying to make it into the NFL? That’s not even a proper robbery move! Like, what was your endgame? Just… carry her to an ATM?”
The guy groans again.
“Yeah, no, that’s fair,” Spidey says, as if the guy actually responded. “I’d be embarrassed too.”
Jackie, still on the ground, finally manages a response.
“Oh, my god.”
“You know, that’s what most people say when I save them,” Spider-Man muses, head tilting. “That, or ‘holy shit,’ or ‘please don’t drop me.’ Sometimes just straight-up screaming, but that’s usually when I’m mid-swing—”
“Can you shut up for, like, two seconds?” Jackie groans, pushing herself upright.
“Oh. Yeah. No, totally.” He mimes zipping his lips, then immediately unzips them. He jumps down, landing a few feet away from her. “Hey, so, do you need, like, a ride home? Or—wait, did you drive? I can web your car to a building if you want. That way no one steals your stuff. It’s only fair.”
Jackie pinches the bridge of her nose.
This cannot be happening.
“Why would you even do that?”
“To keep your things safe, obviously.”
“Well, I didn’t drive… I walked!”
She doesn’t mean to sound annoyed, not really. Not when Spider-Man—her top one superhero of all time—is standing right in front of her, hands on his waist like he just wrapped up a D.A.R.E. presentation.
And now that she’s up close, she notices something weird. He’s… short. Like, shorter than she expected. Which is fine, obviously, but weird .
Not as weird as the fact that he won’t shut up.
“-and then, bam! Web to the face. Classic move, never fails—well, except for that one time with the pigeon, but we don’t talk about that. Anyway, you’re welcome for saving your life.”
Jackie squints. “Huh?”
He places both hands on his hips again, tilting his head at her. “You were about to get robbed just now, right? I didn’t just web some poor dude mid-jog?”
“No, you—” She drags a hand down her face. “I know what happened. I just… why?”
“What do you mean why ?” He sounds genuinely baffled. “Because crime is bad? And you’re, like, a person? I dunno, it’s kind of my whole thing here.”
Jackie stares at him, her mind catching up in slow motion.
Spider-Man saved her. Saved her.
Like, in real life. Not in a movie, not in a comic book, not in one of those hyper-realistic daydreams she’s used to having in the middle of the night in bed.
This is real.
“Okay,” she breathes out, suddenly exhausted. “Okay. Thanks, I guess.”
“You guess ?” He scoffs. “Wow. You must be fun at parties.”
Jackie rolls her eyes, but it’s half-hearted. “You can leave now, y’know.”
“Yeah, yeah. I could .” He rocks back on his heels. “Buuut you look a little concussed, and I take my hero duties very seriously, so.”
Jackie sighs. “So?”
“So,” he gestures vaguely at the sidewalk. “I’m walking you home.”
“What? No, you’re not.”
“Yeah, I totally am.”
“What about him?” She points to the man, still webbed.
“Eh,” Spider-Man shrugs, giving him a quick glance. “The police will come pick him up. Come on.”
She groans, but when she starts walking, he follows. Just a step behind, keeping pace with her easily.
And he keeps talking.
Mostly nonsense, but it’s kind of… comforting, in a weird way.
Something about a rogue pretzel cart, a rant about how people who wear backpacks on the subway are a menace to society, an internal crisis about whether or not he should start carrying snacks in his suit.
Jackie barely processes any of it.
Her mind is still stuck on the fact that Spider-Man— her Spider-Man—is right here . Walking her home.
After a few minutes, she exhales sharply and glares at him. “Why are you even still here?”
“Because I’m nice ,” he says, like it’s the most obvious thing in the world.
Jackie side-eyes him. “Yeah, well, you’re annoying.”
“Psh, okay , pot calling the kettle black—”
She stops in front of her building, rubbing at the scrape on her cheek. “Whatever. You can go now.”
He tilts his head up at the building. “Nice place. Rent must be insane.”
Jackie exhales a laugh before she can stop herself. “Yeah.”
Spider-Man nods, rocking back on his heels again. “Alright, well. You’re officially home and un-mugged. My job here is done.”
Jackie shifts on her feet. Her fingers twitch at her sides. She should say something.
She looks up—
And he’s already gone.
Just a faint thwip in the distance.
Jackie exhales, shaking her head.
What the hell just happened?
˚₊𓆩༺🕷༻𓆪₊˚