Work Text:
Benj sits hunched over his desk, fingers tapping on the scratched up wood. The wind howls outside, the windows barely keeping out the biting cold. The worried walls shudder, flimsy windows shaking in their frames every minute or so. Pellets of rain slam against the ground, the streets starting to become partially flooded.
Benj feels Ding Ding scamper under the desk as a loud boom of thunder echoes, her claws scratching on the floor. She lets out an unhappy yowl, curled into a dark corner under the desk. Her collar tag jingles while she shakes, the storm outside unrelenting. He knows better than to try and do anything to calm her during a storm, unless he wants new marks on his hands.
Instead, he starts to pack up the files for the night. His current investigation was on a load of sales and deliveries of guns, bombs, and just about any other weapon you could think of. There had been tons of trucks all coming into the same part of town, delivering to warehouses and leaving without a word. The strange part was, every other supplier in the area was either low or completely out of stock. So, a huge increase in weaponry deliveries, but no one who should revive the deliveries had received the weapons for weeks now.
The files all slide neatly into their slots, Benj turning his attention to the suspect list. The main man on his list was Norman Osborn. The sudden stop in activity from his goons made Benj anxious, paranoid that something was going to happen. It was too quiet for comfort.
However, he knew the old man wouldn’t do anything in this kind of weather, too sick to risk the cold. It was planned to last at least a day or two, maybe even longer. So, no Goblin for a while. But another problem came into play. Benj wasn’t used to being inside this long.
He was usually on patrol at this time, but the rain made that near impossible. He wasn’t able to go to sleep, since he’d basically grown to only work on about 2 hours of sleep, maybe 3 if he was lucky. If he tried to go to sleep now, he wouldn’t be able to fall asleep, or would wake up with sleep paralysis. And he really didn’t want to be frozen in place while a demon stared at him.
There wasn’t anything to be done at this hour. He felt restless, pacing a few steps back and forth. His eyes land on the book sitting on his bed, the cover slightly worn down. The faded words of the title are printed in large black letters, The Hobbit. He remembers vividly how he got the book.
It was quite simple, really. He’d just finished patrol, exhausted after an hours-long fight with Osborne’s goon. He’d run out of web, leaving him to walk home through the shadowy roads. It was cold as hell, and every single inch of his body was in discomfort. About a block away from his apartment, he was stopped in his tracks by a small voice.
“Uhm, Mr Spider-Man, sir?”
He turned around to see a young girl, maybe 7 or 8, standing in the road in front of the alleyway, a book held tight in her hands. The last bits of the day were slowly fading away, the shadows cast long over the ground.
“Oh, hello there lil lady.” He tips his hat towards the kid, trying his best to keep back the coarse grumble in his voice. “Anythin’ I can do for you miss?”
The girl smiles and shakes her head back and forth, extending the book out to him. “No sir, I wanted to thank you for keeping us all safe. So I got you this story!”
The thick book in her hands is worn down at the edges, the ink still a deep black over a monochrome mountain range. The Hobbit.
“Oh, I, uh… well thank you, lil lady, but it seems like you love that story a lot. ‘Sides, helping folks is what I do! You being safe is all the reward I need.”
The girl frowned at him, holding the book out further to him. He could feel the kids mom’s eyes glaring at him from across the street. “I’ve read it ‘bout 10 times now sir, I think you’d really like it. You deserve a good story mister.”
He’d ended up taking the book with a smile and a warm feeling in his heart. It was a nice memory. Now, he picked up the book and sat down on the floor, crossing his legs with the book in his hands. It was the first time he’d decided to read it, spare time being little.
He opens the pages, skipping past the preface to the first chapter. At the top of the page, the chapter title in all capital letters reads AN UNEXPECTED PARTY. He skims his fingertips over the words, the paper soft with the marks of someone’s thumb at the edges.
In a hole in the ground there lived a hobbit. Not a nasty, dirty, wet hole, filled with the ends of worms and an oozy smell, nor yet a dry, bare, sandy hole with nothing to sit down on or…
He silently mouths the words as he reads, an old habit he’d had for years whenever he would read alone. He can hear the jingle of a bell and the padding of paws move from under the desk to next to him, the mass of black fur curled up next to his leg. Ding ding shudders whenever the boom of thunder echoes through the walls, and Benj decides to risk it and stroke her fur. Instead of sinking her fangs into his hand, she starts to purr while he pets her, scooting closer to the warmth of his leg.
He almost finishes the end of the paragraph before he hears a sudden wiring, the familiar flash of orange light bringing him to his feet. Ding ding starts hissing as items begin to rise off the floor, Benj bracing himself for something to crash through the portal.
There’s a heavy thump as a mass falls out of the portal onto the floor, the room going dark as the portal closes. He curses as he sneaks past the form sprawled on the floor, reaching out for the light and flicking it on. The figure winches, followed by a loud groan as they push themselves off the ground. A familiar poncho and bandana catches his eye, with blood slowly spreading through the fabric.
“ Patrick?”
The cowboy starts coughing loudly, body shaking while spots of blood fly onto the floor. Benj moves over, grabbing Patrick under the arms and lifting him up onto the small couch.
“Hiiiiiiii Beeeennn…” Patrick draws out his words, the blood not steadily pooling on top of his poncho. Benj sits him down and makes sure he isn’t going to fall off the couch before searching for the first aid kit.
“Jésus et Sainte Mère… the hell happened to you?”
The kit scrapes the wood of the shelf when he pulls it from its place. Patrick falls quiet, staring at the floor. The only sound in the room is the quiet pattering of rain and Patrick’s shallow breathing.
“It’s nothin I can’t handle, jus’ need to get patched up, ‘s all.” He tries to shove the poncho off himself, the wet fabric clinging to his skin until he peels it off. It hits the ground with a sound similar to a slab of meat being slapped down. The blood is stark red against the pale gray floor.
“You’re bleeding out on my couch, so it’s obviously more than just needing to get patched up.” Benj returns with the first aid kit and a cup full of water. He sits down in front of the couch, winching at the sight of the blood soaked shirt.
“…I got inna bar fight. Wrong place wrong time kinda thing. Either way, somebody got a hit. Knew you weren’t the one to ask questions, so thought this was my best bet. Sorry if I interrupted anything.” The wounds are starting to burn now. Widow was starting to worry from the spot he’d found. She hadn’t been hurt, thank god.
“I’m going to have to take off your shirt to do this. Where did you get hit?”
Patrick nods and lifts his arms up so Benj can remove the sticky fabric. “Shoulder and ribs I think.”
“God… what did you get hit by?” Benj was expecting something like a stab wound or a bullet graze at the most, but not this. Not two bullets lodged deep inside Patrick’s shoulder and between his ribs. He almost felt sick at the sight. He wasn’t sure why, it’s not like he hadn’t had similar injuries. “You got shot, and didn’t lead with that?!”
Patrick looks embarrassed. The blood is starting to become more uncomfortable, sticky on his chest.
“Jeez, ok, I’m going to get the tweezers so I can get the bullets out. Stay still.” Benj stands up, walking quickly to the cabinet. He comes back with a pair of long tweezers and another cup of water, along with a dishrag. The water is visibly warmer than the first, a thin trail of steam flowing from the surface.
Benj starts to dab away the blood with a wet cloth, making sure that he can see the bullet. Patrick hisses when the tweezers touch the sides of the wound, slowly plunging in to pull out the bullet. It slides out after a bit of time and Benj sits it down on the rag. He pulls out the other by his ribs, before stuffing both wounds with gauze and disposing of the bullets. He wets the rag again, pulling out the gauze and starting to clean the wounds.
Once the wounds are clean, he takes a needle and thread from the kit, threading the string through quickly. He sews up the cuts, Patrick wincing in pain each time the needle pierces the skin. Once both wounds are sewn up, Benj gets a dry hand towel before focusing on cleaning the blood off. He takes the cup of warm water, slowly pouring measured amounts of water before dabbing it away with the dry cloth. Finally, he takes two bandages from the kit, sticking them over the shut wounds.
As Benj starts cleaning up the materials, Patrick starts thinking about how he got here.
He lied about the bar fight. It wasn’t close to one at all. He wasn’t even in the city at the time, he was herding a group of cattle across the prairie. It was an empty spot, with bare, flat land as far as the eye could see. That little buzz in his head barely went off before the first shot fired.
The first one hit his shoulder, almost knocking him into the ground. Before the second shot fired, Widow was already off. While she raced across the prairie, he pulled out his pistol with shaky hands, taking aim at the wavy figure.
Two things about Widow: 1. She was calm as could be, and 2. She was fast.
Two things about Patrick o’Hara: 1. He had a high bounty on his head, and 2. He never missed a shot.
When he pulls the trigger, the second bullet hits right between his ribs. He fires off another as the figure starts to slump, sending them fully onto the ground. They didn’t get back up again. Somebody wanted him dead, and he killed them before they could.
“That was stupid of me, huh Widow.”
It was basically code to not kill anybody. No amount of scrubbing would get that off your conscience. None.
The cows were spread out now, but still in a group. Widow “told” him that she’d keep an eye on them until he came back, since getting any form of help out here wasn’t anywhere near likely.
He couldn’t argue with her. She was as stubborn as a mule when she was dead set on something.
He doesn’t realize how long he’s been lost in his thoughts until Benj waves a hand in front of his face.
“Are you okay with staying here for the night?”
“Uh, yea.”
“Okay. The wounds should heal by mid morning or so. I’ll have to remove the stitches. I’ll give you a shirt to use while I sew yours up.”
Patrick nods, watching Benj go through a chest and pull out a shirt and shorts. He hands them to him, helping him stand up and pointing him to the bathroom of the small apartment.
He comes back a while later, the clothes large on his body. Even if Patrick was a half year older, Benj was taller. He had been teased many, many times. Surprisingly, Benj wasn’t the one to do so, instead it was more of the young members of what they called the “spider family”. He’d asked once why they treated him like he was part of it. The response he’d gotten from the black-haired 14 year old girl was, “we kinda just assumed you were, so, welcome, I guess?” He’d decided to memorize their names after that.
Patrick sits down when Benj gestures to do so, sitting next to him on the little couch. The pain of the injuries has dulled down to a low ache. The bloody clothes had been cleared away, set aside for when laundry day came around.
“…It wasn’ a bar fight.”
Benj looks up from the book in his lap. “What?”
“I lied. I didn’t get in a bar fight, wasn’t even close to one. Me an’ Widow were doin’ a job before someone shot me. Didn’t even know they were there. Widow wasn’t hurt thank god but… god damn it…” He doesn’t want to cry, but he starts to anyway, water pooling in his eyes and his throat choking up. He can feel Benj’s hand on his back, the other man silent.
“I killed somebody, I fuckin- god… ” The tears start falling. He desperately tries to swipe away at them, his voice cracked. He feels pathetic, breaking down after practically breaking into Benj’s apartment.
“Webslinger, Patrick, or Parker?” Benj’s voice is gentle towards Patrick. He starts to run small circles on his back, listening to the choked sobs.
Patrick sniffles and wipes his face. “What?”
“I want to know who that person wanted dead. Was it Webslinger, Patrick O’Hara, or Mr. Parker? Do you know?”
Patrick thinks about it. The gun had enough firepower to hit someone from at least half a mile, so not something you could just casually get. It wasn’t like someone wanted to catch him and turn him in, they wanted him killed. If he had to guess, it was some kind of expensive hunting gun. “D'ya Know what the bullet looked like?”
“Kind of slim, sharp at the tip, bronze color.” Definitely a rifle, then.
“Must’ve been some hunter that Osborn man hired to get me. Guess he’s after the bounty on my head, or maybe he’s still sour bout the fights.” The tears have dried, leaving trails of dried up salt on his face. It feels gritty on his skin.
Benj mumbles under his breath. “Guess he’s a bitch in every universe.” He speaks a little louder now, just enough that Patrick can hear him clearly. “At least you’re ok now.”
Patrick just nods, holding his head on an arm propped up on the couch arm. Even with the absence of color and the bitter cold air, the little black and white apartment felt oddly comfortable. He looks down at the book Benj is reading.
“What’s your book about?” Benj glances up, turning back to the pages.
“These little creatures called ‘hobbits.’ I think they might be some kind of mouse creatures.”
“Neat. Is it good?”
“As far as I can tell, yes. I haven’t gotten very far yet. Sad to admit I was always a slow reader.”
“Hm.”
They settle back into silence. The wind continues howling, rain pattering against the walls. Patrick can hear Benj whispering under his breath while he reads, the words mixing with the weather.
Patrick barely notices that the words fall out of his mouth. “You’ve got a nice voice.”
He all but slams his hand across his mouth when Benj looks up from the book. He stares down at the floor, heart pounding in his chest.
“…thank you. I- like yours too.”
There’s an odd feeling in both their chests in the silence. It’s broken when Benj clears his throat.
“Would you like me to read to you?”
Patrick stays quiet for a moment, before answering, “if it wouldn’t bother you too much… it’d be nice.”
Benj nods, flipping open the pages to the first. He still hadn't finished it, and when he got close he’d drift off until he forgot the words. He motions to Patrick to get comfortable, and starts.
The first thought through Patrick’s head is: by god, his voice is mesmerizing. It fills the room, mixing with the sounds of rain and the occasional boom of thunder. The second thought is: this may be the most lovely man I have seen in my life.
He doesn’t feel tiredness overtaking him until he’s fast asleep, listening to the soft drone of Benj’s voice.
Benj looks up from the book at the sound of soft snoring. Carefully, he moves Patrick from a sitting position to laying down, putting his head on his lap. With shaky hands, he threads his fingers through the dusty mess of hair. He tugs gently whenever his fingers get tangled in a knot, undoing as much of the tangles as he can.
A habit he had was to memorize colors of people. He starts to name the ones he finds on Patrick, fingertips trailing just above the weathered skin. Brown hair, tan skin, pink scars. He notices how most of the scars are small, but many litter the man’s face.
Both end up asleep, the rain showering outside in heavy sheets and the tiny apartment closed off from the rest of the world.