Chapter Text
You sighed into your water bottle for what was probably the fifth time that night. It was another graveyard shift, the only type of shift you worked. Six nights a week, you spent a glorious eight and a half hours in that same warehouse, shoving mounds of papers into machines for measly pay and even worse benefits.
Your job was simple enough. You worked at a newspaper plant, the largest one in the area. Sure, there were smaller presses around town, but none of them compared to the operation yours had going on. Your job was to feed finished papers into the massive organizing machines, stand around when they were backed up, and occasionally unjam shredded papers and restart the presses. Every night at 1:30 a.m., you left the warehouse with dry, cracked knuckles and ink stained fingers, and more often than not a few papercuts to go along with them.
It had never been your dream to be a wage slave for your city’s newspaper. You’d always dreamed of being a journalist, even from when you were just a kid. You used to host faux interviews in your living room, using an old hairbrush as a microphone and scribbling notes eagerly onto your princess themed notebook with a sparkly pen. As you’d grown, those dreams had shriveled away like plums in the heat of summer, but when you’d seen the job posting, you’d figured that being a small cog in the machine of the New York Times was better than being nothing at all.
Your last job had been no better. You’d worked at a gas station in the middle of nowhere, a small town people only stopped in to use the bathroom on long road trips. The strip along the interstate exit was the highlight of that dingy place, and you’d saved every penny from that job to fund your move to the big city. New York, New York, home of America’s favorite hero and endless possibilities. You sighed again as you glanced over the headline of the latest paper you were feeding into one of the machines. It was another piece trashing on Spider-Man for his ‘disregard for private property’ when fighting villains. You knew in your heart that had you turned out to be a journalist, you’d never write such cheap articles. No, you’d chase hard-hitting news, things that got to the bottom of whatever nonsense was plaguing your new home.
The night dragged on like a child stomping their way out of a candy store. You had finished two full bottles of water by the time your lunch break rolled around, at precisely 9:08 p.m. and not a moment sooner. Your supervisor hummed at her clipboard before dismissing you with a jerk of her head, reminding you to be back in exactly fifty minutes. You thanked her with a nod and a small smile that she never looked up to see.
You sat on the front steps of the building as you nibbled at the sandwich you’d packed. You were alone here, now that it was late and all the suit-and-tie executives and polo wearing journalists had gone home for the day. It was rare that they worked past 6:30. Even the chronic workaholics would usually finish their work from home, rather than waste away in one of the dimly lit offices upstairs.
As you ate, you scrolled absently through your phone. It was more of the same junk: changing weather, the stock market, traffic patterns, all the things you tended to ignore. Your life was simple, and you almost liked it that way. You woke up late in the morning, ate and did chores, came to work, then clocked out and slept the blissful night away. You didn’t have many friends, let alone someone to call your own. All you had was a dream and somewhere to waste away your precious hours every day.
Lunch passed by all too quickly, and soon enough you were swiping your keycard and heading back into the building. A few coworkers nodded at you as you made your way to the break room and shoved your lunch tote back into your locker. It was a simple thing, something you’d bought for yourself when you’d realized that the paper bags you used to throw your sandwiches into were far too wasteful. You didn’t spend a lot of money on yourself, not that you had enough to. Work was enough to afford you a one bedroom apartment, weekly groceries, and not much else. You couldn’t remember the last time you’d treated yourself to a dinner that wasn’t cheap takeout from the bodega next door.
Humming softly, you resumed your position and waited for the machines to fire back up. All the lights on the tops of the presses lit up at once, letting out screeching sound as the conveyor belt started to move again. You shuffled a stack of newspaper inserts before shoving them into the top of the machine with a little more force than was needed.
The rest of the shift passed by more quickly than expected. Your supervisor even let you go ten minutes early, so soon enough you found yourself on the cold streets of New York, your hands shoved in your pockets as you tread the three blocks to the subway terminal. You didn’t bother scrolling through your phone as you walked silently. There would be plenty of time for that on the train.
As soon as you made it down the steps of the station, you sincerely regretted your decision to go tech free. Your regular route was closed, as one of the trains had broken down. It wouldn’t be back up until 2:30 at the earliest. You cursed as you glared at the red text, like shooting daggers at it with your eyes would somehow bring the route back to life any quicker.
Sighing for the billionth time that night, you pulled out your phone as you walked back up the steps. You could get a bus, sure, but you weren’t even sure where the nearest station was, nor if any ran near your apartment. A taxi, then? There were none in sight, and you weren’t sure when the next one would come around. You huffed as you opened the uber app and started clicking through the options.
The cheapest ride was a carpool with two other passengers. You didn’t mind sharing a car at all; if anything, it helped to ease your mind a bit about getting into a car with a stranger in the first place. There was strength in numbers, you knew that well even if you tended to be a loner those days.
The car pulled up to the curb ten minutes later. Traffic was somewhat better at this time of night, though not by much. It didn’t really slow down until about 3:00 in the morning, and you were hoping to be sound asleep in your apartment by then.
You opened the passenger seat door and greeted your driver. He asked your name, and you told him. He then smiled and clicked a few buttons on his phone as you slid into the seat and buckled up. You’d only sat up front to give the other two passengers space. You weren’t sure if they were together or not, and you didn’t plan on being in the car long enough to find out. It was only a fifteen minute drive to your complex. Surely nothing could go too haywire in that span of time.
The uber driver pulled up to another curb a few blocks away, and two bickering men slid into the seats in the back of the car. So they were together, it seemed. You usually tried not to eavesdrop, but it was hard to ignore the heated conversation they were engaged in.
“-thought everything would go back to normal!” The shorter one hissed under his breath. You couldn’t see him well through the side window, but you could at least make out his thin form.
“How was I supposed to know it would spit us out years into the future?” The taller, bulkier one shot back. You frowned at his statement. Either they were on drugs of some sort, or something was about to go terribly wrong.
You craned your neck to subtly get a better look at the two. The taller one was easier to see, sitting diagonally from you. You recognized the dark hair and darker sunglasses with a jolt. It was impossible, you tried to tell yourself, but somehow, someway, Doc Ock himself was back from the dead and sitting in the back of your uber.
Your wide eyes flickered to the man sitting next to him. He was shivering, though it likely wasn’t from the cold at all. Unmasked and clearly in pain, Green Goblin was hunched over in the seat beside him, muttering under his breath about ‘multidimensional travel’ and how he ‘needed a stiff drink’.
Your head snapped back to the road ahead of you. You tried in vain to steady your breathing. You heard Doc Ock scoff behind you, likely shaking his head from the sound of his coat swishing. “Look, we’re scaring the poor girl. What’s your name, dear?”
Slowly, you looked back behind you. The two men were watching you with careful eyes, though Doc Ock’s were far kinder than the other’s. You swallowed and told them your name.
“A lovely name,” Green Goblin grumbled. It sounded like it could have been sincere, given any other circumstances.
Doc Ock smiled. “Nice to meet you. I’m Otto, and this is Norman. So sorry to disrupt your night, both of you.”
The uber driver said nothing, his eyes glued to the road. He only shrugged and popped an earbud into his right ear.
You managed a weak attempt at a smile. “It’s nice to meet you. Both of you. But how-”
“How are we here?” Doc Ock - no, Otto - finished for you. “Trust me, it would take all night to explain that.”
“But aren’t you both…” You trailed off. What were you about to say? Evil? Dead? Both options seemed a little uncouth, even for you.
Norman huffed. “Dead? Things change, it seems. And now we’re here.”
Otto ducked his head in defeat. He unfolded his hands to push his glasses up onto the top of his head.
“Now we’re here,” he agreed.
You fumbled with the right words to say next. Everything inside you was screaming to pull a Ladybird and jump out of the moving car. Still, that somewhat human pang inside of you was itching to reach out, to offer a hand to the two bedraggled men in the back seat.
Swallowing, you began to speak. “Do you two have anywhere to go? Any money, or even an ID to get a hotel?”
Otto gave you an indignant look. “I have my ways.”
“We don’t.” Norman’s voice cut through the air of the car’s interior. He looked up, his eyes glistening with the threat of tears. His gaze flickered to you, then to Otto. “We don’t, Otto. The only person who would take us in is Peter. You know that.”
“What’s wrong with that?” Otto asked softly, but Norman’s face said it all. Whatever had happened between them, all of them…Norman wasn’t willing to face those demons yet. You could tell that much, at least.
You folded your hands in your lap. “Why don’t you two come back with me? I have a couch, a nice one, and an air mattress for emergencies. I’m sure we can work it out.”
For the first time since the hell ride had started, Norman had the faint trace of a smile on his face. “You’d really have us?”
Otto didn’t seem nearly as convinced. “Come on, Norman, we can’t possibly ask this girl-”
“I insist!” You interjected. “At least come in for dinner, or just a drink. You don’t have to stay if you don’t want to, but please, just come over while you figure out what to do next.”
Otto seemed to think your offer over. He was scratching at his chin, but Norman was sitting there next to him, still as a statue, eyes softening at the corners. They looked at each other briefly, then both looked back at you.
“I can’t thank you enough,” Otto said genuinely, with a tired smile and ever more tired eyes. “We’ll come in for just a bit.”
Norman didn’t say anything, but he still wore that easy expression, like a weight was lifted off of his shoulders. They both sank into the seats of the car, a silent exhale that resonated off of the walls.
For the first time that night, you exhaled too.