“UNDER THE MASK”
— 005, Red and Blue
relationships; platonic!batfam x neglectedbatsib!reader, Harry Osborn x neglectedbatsib!reader
⋆.˚summary; A freaky spider bite incident made your life a whole lotta messier.
tags; spidey!reader, angst, gender-neutral pronouns, not proofread, reader is Tim's age
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You leaned back on the backseat, your “costume” now changed into a classic white tee and pants. Alfred raised an eyebrow from the driver’s seat, looking at you through the rearview mirror.
“Master [Name], might I inquire… why are you sweating so profusely?” he asked, turning his gaze back to the road as he took all the familiar turns toward the manor.
You wiped your forehead. “Oh—uh! The air-conditioning was pretty bad today at the library.”
You had told Alfred to pick you up in the afternoon at the library instead of in the morning at the cemetery, claiming you had finals to study for—which was true. And you did visit Jason before heading down to the ring.
But you definitely did not need to study for your finals.
Then you remembered the package Alfred told you about in a text. “So there’s a package for me?” You didn’t accidentally order something online, right?
“Oh yes. I believe Mr. Harry sent it. I set it aside in the living room,” Alfred said.
That made sense. But why would Harry send you a package?
You smiled. “Thanks for letting me know, Alfred.”
By the time you arrived at the manor, you could hear the bustle in the dining room, plates clattering as they were set down.
Alfred excused himself to help the others, and you headed to the living room. You took a seat on the couch and held the box in your hands—the weight felt familiar.
“What do you have there, little bird?” Dick Grayson asked from the threshold, his casual, carefree smile easy and familiar, though his eyes flicked toward the box in your hands with quiet curiosity.
Seeing your brothers two days in a row? Was it your birthday or something?
The nickname made something in your chest tighten slightly, though you kept your expression in check.
“Nunya,” you replied shortly, turning the box in your hands.
Dick raised an eyebrow in amusement. “Nunya what?”
“Nunya business,” you snapped.
Dick’s smile faded just a little—not completely, but enough to show he got the message.
“…Right,” he muttered, lifting his hands in mock surrender. “Tough crowd.”
You didn’t respond. You just kept your eyes on the box, fingers tracing along the edges.
“There’s dinner today,” he said, slipping his hands into his pockets. “Just wondering if you’d like to attend.”
You kind of felt bad for snapping at him, even if he deserved it—whether for asking questions so carelessly or for acting like you didn’t exist. You weren’t really sure which.
You just wanted to head up to your room and open the mysterious box your best friend sent, but his slightly pained expression made it difficult to say that out loud.
“Okay.”
In an instant, your older brother’s expression lit up like you’d given him a treat. You almost let out a bitter chuckle.
You set the box down where it was, making a mental note to grab it after dinner.
Dick smiled, stepping aside to give you room, then trailed behind you. The voices grew louder with each step you took, the pit in your stomach growing with them.
You were about to bail—tell your older brother your stomach hurt or something—when you heard his footsteps stop behind you.
You were about to turn and ask what was up when his hand reached out, settling gently on your head.
He stood beside you, and you felt that familiar ache settle in your chest—the same one that always came around your family. Whether it was anger or sadness, you couldn’t quite tell.
You weren’t sure about most things lately. Then again, anger and sadness had always been hard for you to tell apart.
Dick’s soft eyes met yours, a genuine smile tugging at his lips—bright enough to make your eyes squint slightly. You swallowed, pressing your lips together.
He sighed wistfully. “I’m sorry. For all the promises… and plans that never happened.”
You broke eye contact, afraid you might start tearing up. You couldn’t let them see that this affected you.
Your older brother kept gently petting your head the way he used to when you were younger. You clenched your fists.
“I promise—I’ll try to do better,” he said, finally removing his hand.
You tapped your shoe lightly against the clean floor, clearing your throat before responding. “Okay.”
He smiled at you one more time before pushing the slightly ajar door open.
As soon as you both entered the dining room, the bustle stopped. You felt their eyes all over you.
You berated yourself for giving in to Dick’s kicked-puppy expression and empty promises.
You fixed your gaze anywhere but them, taking the seat next to Dick with Damian across from you. Slowly, the conversations picked back up, the commotion returning.
You tuned them out, picking at your food and taking small bites. Your appetite always faded around them.
“Eat properly,” Damian muttered from across the table, not even looking up.
You resisted the urge to roll your eyes, stabbing a piece of food just to prove a point.
“I am.”
“Poking at it does not qualify.”
You exhaled quietly through your nose, choosing not to argue further. From the corner of your eye, Dick sent you a small, almost apologetic glance. You ignored it.
“There’s been increased activity downtown,” Tim spoke up, his voice cutting cleanly through the noise. His eyes were glued to his phone, thumb scrolling lazily.
“Red Hood is old news, Tim,” Steph said mockingly.
You felt a flicker of recognition—the guy in the red helmet Uncle Ben had been reading about. Though, you only remembered because he’d gone on a whole tangent about Gotham and its never-ending freaks right after.
“Not him, Steph,” Tim rolled his eyes.
“Are you talking about the weirdo you met—the one in the big red hoodie with a paper bag on their head?” Duke asked, making you unconsciously whip your head toward him.
He didn’t seem to notice, his attention fixed on the piece of steak in front of him. You frowned and turned back to your plate, carefully cutting through your food.
Great. They’re talking about me.
Tim gave him a pointed look. “Yes, Duke. I saw them during a convenience store run.”
“Oh yeah, I saw in the papers those robbers at that retail store were apparently webbed up,” Dick hummed. The tune was familiar, but you couldn't place your finger on it.
Your older brother turned to you. “Wasn’t your friend—the Osborn kid, involved in that failed robbery?”
Just what you needed—every head in the room turning your way. You froze like a deer in headlights. Dick could be such a dick.
You were surprised he even remembered that. Though you couldn’t say you were surprised he didn’t know you were also involved.
Steph made a surprised noise. “You’re friends with the Harry Osborn?”
Your hands felt clammy with all the eyes on you. The heaviest of them all, you assumed, was Cass'.
“Uh… yeah.”
You were glad the topic shifted from you to Harry (not really, since the attention is still all on you).
From your peripheral vision, you caught a hint of surprise and something else that you can't name on your father’s face. He probably didn’t expect his kid to be mingling with his rival’s son.
There was some issue between them—something about unethical practices. It long died over now, but there was still some quiet tension simmering between them.
“How long have you been friends—if you don’t mind me asking?” Duke said with a sheepish smile.
You returned a small smile. “Nah, it’s okay. About five years, I think.”
Duke’s brows lifted slightly. “Five? That’s—wow. You don’t really talk about him—or your friends at all.. matter of fact.” at his last words, something in Duke seemed to click.
Your smile faltered, your only friend was Harry. Not like they'd know that. Especially Duke—this was your first time talking.
Damian narrowed his eyes at you, his snappish voice cut through the conversation you and Duke were having. “Are you unwell? You’re unnaturally tense.”
You blinked, caught off guard. Your shoulders were loose and your breathing was steady. You probably got more comfortable talking about something familiar.
You bit back a smart reply that would result in an another argument.
“I gue—” another voice cuts you off.
“Hm,” Bruce’s gruff tone made you flinch. “You should head up if you're not feeling well."
The others didn’t expect it either, looking at your father with wide eyes.
That familiar irritation and hurt flared up again—yes, you were going to leave anyway, but why couldn’t he at least pretend he wanted you here? In this dinner—In this life. Why couldn't he pretend to be a present father, at least?
You just couldn’t figure out what his problem was.
“Yeah, sure. I’ll go.” Your bitter tone made the tension even thicker.
Dick’s eyes flickered between you and Bruce—the two of you locked in a silent stare-down.
“Um,” he said, placing a hand on your shoulder. You turned to him, raising an unamused eyebrow.
The room was so quiet you were sure a pin drop could be heard.
You almost felt bad ruining their dinner.
“C’mon, I’ll walk you up,” he said, standing and offering his hand.
You ignored it and made a beeline for the door.
He followed you into the living room, where you grabbed the box and tucked it under your arm.
“Need any—”
“No thanks.”
After that, he trailed behind you in silence. You didn’t mind, but it made you tense—and the thought of your bed calling to you all the more inviting.
When you reached your door, you twisted the knob and stepped inside.
You lingered just past the threshold. If he followed you all the way up here, he must’ve wanted to say something, right?
Dick gave you a comforting smile. “I’m sure B meant well—”
You shut the door in his face.
You let out a quiet breath, jaw tightening as you stepped further into your room. The words he didn’t get to finish still lingered anyway—annoying and persistent.
You didn’t want to hear his excuses or reassurance.
Didn’t want the careful tone, the soft look, the way he always tried to smooth things over.
You dropped the box onto your bed, lips pressed into a thin line, staring at it like it could somehow ease the irritation in your chest.
You heard heavy footsteps pacing outside your door—back and forth, hesitant—before eventually fading away.
You exhaled slowly, shoulders still tense, then reached forward and pulled the box closer, the cardboard scraping softly against your sheets.
The tape peeled back with a quiet rip. When you finally opened the flaps, your brows knit together in soft amusement.
Like a switch, the frown on your lips faded—along with the heavy feeling sitting in your chest.
Your skateboard.
A small breath slipped out of you, almost like a laugh you didn’t mean to let escape.
You turned it slightly in your hands, fingers tracing the familiar surface—the worn grip, the chipped edges, the stickers peeling at the corners.
A small piece of paper caught your eye, tucked into the corner. You reached for it, setting your skateboard carefully across your lap.
Had to pull some strings to get this back! No need to repay me, okay? This is a thank you gift—and thank you gifts don’t get thank you gifts in return.
- Your bestest friend, Harry Osborn.
You chuckled softly. He even added his fancy signature next to his name.
For the next few days of school, you didn’t go home immediately. Instead, you went to an abandoned skatepark tucked behind rusted fences and overgrown weeds—forgotten, quiet, and smelly.
You found it when you hung out with Harry a few weeks ago, accidentally going the wrong way by cutting through an alleyway. So much for a shortcut.
It was bad for your enhanced sense of smell, but it just solidified that nobody else would be going there.
Alfred reluctantly agreed to not picking you up after school (you’re not a kid anymore, you could handle yourself!)—on one condition: that you get home before dark.
And it didn’t bother you. No bats, no problems.
It also gave you more practice time for web-swinging, with the same paper bag on top of your head just in case. You also made sure to take the sneakier routes.
One of your small mercies was that the security system recognized you and didn’t blare out big, loud red alarms.
The last day of the week.
You were getting senioritis real quick, even though you weren’t a senior yet.
The whole day was a mess—Flash egging you on, the heat beating down like death rays on your skin, and the cafeteria noise. It wouldn’t have bothered you before, but now, with your enhanced hearing, you’d rather bang your head against the table than sit in a room packed with 200 teenagers.
Another small mercy was Harry—God bless him—doing everything to make your day more tolerable and distracting you.
At this point, you were sure you're surviving your high school years because of him.
He was halfway through rambling about a science article he’d read last night, while you threw in questions and the occasional quip. Before either of you knew it, you were already outside the school—down the stairs from the entrance. Harry’s driver was waiting—right on time, as usual.
“Aw man, see you tomorrow,” you smiled a bit solemnly, though you were also excited to go to the abandoned skate park.
Ever since you started going there, you looked forward to doing wall runs, tic-tacs, and wall flips—launching yourself off cracked concrete as if gravity were optional.
You were afraid at first—of slipping, missing your footing, or hitting the pavement too hard. But when it did happen, the pain was little to nothing.
Harry nodded, a small sad smile on his face—when someone emerged from the passenger seat of the car.
It was Norman freaking Osborn.
The students, fresh from dismissal, started whispering amongst themselves. They were all wide-eyed—and you understood them, being wide-eyed yourself.
You composed yourself, looking up to meet Harry’s eyes—but he was just as stunned as you. He met your “Did you know about this?!” gaze and shook his head, then cleared his throat—trying to look composed and heir-like for his approaching father, still clad in a suit and tie as if he had a meeting right after.
Who are you kidding? He probably did.
“I see you’re faring well at this school of yours,” Norman said, smiling at Harry, who quickly put on a very PR-trained one in response.
“Yeah, Dad. What, uh… brings you here?”
Your best friend slipped his hands into his pockets, slicking back the hair that had fallen onto his forehead—but it didn’t matter, because the loose, slightly tousled waves fell right back into place. You figured he still looked great anyway.
“Just wanted to say hi,” Norman shrugged—and even you knew that couldn’t be it. He then turned his gaze to you, extending a hand to shake.
His eyes crinkled with his smile. “And you must be the [Name] Wayne my son is always talking about.”
You stiffly shook his hand with an equally stiff smile, already planning to point out later how Harry turned red beside you.
You mimicked Harry’s gesture of putting your sweaty hand in your pocket.
“Yup, that’s me. Nice meeting you—Mr. Osborn, sir.” You nodded. You were so going to grill Harry on what he said later.
Norman cleared his throat. “See, why couldn’t you be more polite like your partner?” He raised an eyebrow in amusement.
The two of you instantly tensed, cheeks heating up, and Harry lost his composed heir-like demeanor.
He straightened his back. “Dad. We’re not—not like that,” he responded in a quieter tone.
Norman raised an eyebrow, genuine confusion on his face, but he still humored the two of you.
“Ah, I see.”
You weren’t sure if he actually got the memo or not.
You lightly chuckled—cheeks still warm. “Harry is politer than me. You should see how he talks to the teachers—you’d think he was a teacher’s pet.”
Norman huffed a laugh at that.
From the corner of your eye, you could tell Harry was silently grateful for your attempt to defend him.
Norman looked slightly proud, his lips tugging into an actual genuine smile.
“Mm? Is that so?” he clicked his tongue. “So, how’s your father? Mr. Wayne?”
You almost forgot that man was your dad—and that you were high-key talking to the rival of his company.
This is just a casual conversation.. right?
“He’s doing fine, Mr. Osborn, sir.” You obviously didn’t know how he was faring, and you didn’t care to know.
“Please, call me Norman. Anyone who’s close with my son is a friend of mine.”
You didn’t feel entirely comfortable just calling him Norman—with your mom’s and Alfred’s lessons about politeness still drilled into your head.
“Okay, um, thank you, Mr. Norman. You can call me… [Name].”
You could almost smack yourself in the forehead at how lame you sounded. Your enhanced ears picked up an almost-quiet chuckle beside you.
Classic Harry—finding entertainment in your inconvenience. Though you were glad the tension he’d been carrying earlier seemed gone.
Norman turned back his gaze to his son. “Harry, it amazes me that you haven’t invited your fiancée to dinner.”
The two of you went silent. You searched Norman’s face for a hint of humor—but there was none. He was dead ass serious.
Harry sputtered, the earlier tension coming back like a boomerang. “Dad—what? How?”
You cleared your throat, your cheeks even warmer than before. You were glad the crowd from earlier had lost interest and gone home. Nothing to see here folks, just Norman Osborn thinking you were engaged to his son. Nothing really big.
Norman looked even more confused than before, a crease forming between his brows.
“Mr. Norman, Harry and I—we’re just friends, sir.” You were shocked you even managed to form a coherent sentence.
The man looked at you like you had just said the funniest joke of the century, letting out a real, guttural laugh.
“Oh! I’m sorry for assuming then!” He still looked amused, wearing that picture-perfect smile.
Genes, really.
Norman shook his head with a grin, looking younger. “I just assumed that if my son doesn’t call you his partner, then you must be his fiancée. He can be rather formal sometimes.”
You didn’t even want to think about how young the two of you were to be engaged.
Harry rolled his eyes. “Ugh, Dad. Seriously?” he muttered under his breath, embarrassed. You laughed softly in response.
“But still. Come by for dinner sometime.” He gestured to the sleek black car. “Would you like us to drive you home?”
You shook your head instantly. Even if you didn’t have plans after, you would’ve still refused.
“No thank you, Mr. Norman, sir,” you smiled. “I have my own ride—just got caught up in traffic.”
The older man nodded. “I see. It was nice meeting you, but we have to get going now.”
“It was nice meeting you too, sir.”
He nodded again and finally retreated into the passenger seat.
Harry looked a bit downcast as he heard your refusal. “I’ll see you next time, [Name].”
You rolled your eyes. “Of course you will. Don’t make your dad wait up.” You lightly pushed him toward the car door.
He smiled at you again before getting in. And while the car drove away in a moderate speed, your enhanced hearing caught their conversation.
“I was pleasantly surprised earlier, thinking the two of you were already engaged—” Norman sighed. “Turns out my son is too much of a coward.”
You could almost see Harry roll his eyes.
“Dad, we’re sixteen. Why would you even want me engaged at this age?”
“Smart, attractive, polite, and a Wayne. I wouldn’t expect anything less for my son.”
“Did you even hear anything I said?”
You quickly shifted your senses away—if you kept hearing that, you might actually explode. You walked down more hurriedly to the opposite sidewalk, grateful for the growing distance from the car.
Though, you were curious. Why would Norman Osborn want a Wayne to marry his son? must be a political move you won't understand yet.
You were lying on one of the walls. It wasn’t dizzying or anything—it was as if the world had adjusted its orientation for you.
It was getting late, and you had already texted Alfred that you wouldn’t come home to the manor—instead spending the night at your aunt’s.
The old man was worried, but you eased him by telling him you were already there (you obviously weren’t).
Practice took up more of your time, slowly turning the shameful warmth in your cheeks—whenever you thought back to that conversation—into an adrenaline rush.
It was like sending a risky text to someone you’re interested in, then instantly getting up to clean the entire house—anything to bury your nerves in something useful.
That adrenaline rush, combined with the amount of flips you were doing, eventually crashed down. You would’ve been like soggy noodles by now, but you weren’t. You weren’t even surprised anymore.
You were mindlessly scrolling through your socials, liking posts about something mundane—yet people still felt the need to share them with the internet.
Like, yeah, I guess you eating an ube cupcake at 4:00 p.m. counts as something worth sharing with the whole world.
A notification from Harry stopped your scrolling, and you could already feel your cheeks warming up. You shook your head like a madman, as if that would help.
You pressed it.
Hare 🐰
I've been having dinner at your Aunt's for a while now. What do you think of a change of pace by having one at mine?
Not to pressure you or anything yk but my dad really wants to meet you agqin
Not like he said it outloud but yiu could really just tell -_-
You blinked at the speed at which he was sending the texts, letting out a soft chuckle. Then you bit your bottom lip for a moment.
Dinner at Osborn’s? I mean, sure. But Mr. Norman was a huge ‘ehh’ factor in your decision-making.
You just hoped it wouldn’t be incredibly stuffy or uncomfortable. And it was the first time you’d be going to the house—or mansion—your best friend lived in.
You
Sure ig
Just send me a date or time! I wanna see the place where you grew up in, to be so spoiled lol
Hare 🐰
Hardy har har.
You
Don't you mean, Harry har har?
Hare 🐰
Very funny. I'm just bellowing out of laughter.
You laughed to yourself, but then you checked the time—and it was later than you hoped for it to be. Better to get going now.
You rummaged through your backpack, finding a new, neat paperbag. You just poked uneven holes on them, and swung away.
It was Saturday morning, and you were in the basement—looking for Uncle Ben’s toolbox.
Luckily, you got up early enough to climb out your window and knock on their door to pretend you had just arrived.
You swear karma will get you someday with all these lies.
The basement reeked of cobwebs and time, while water dripped steadily from the rusted pipes above.
You sneezed into your elbow, rubbing your nose afterward as you set down a pile of dusty boxes.
You wondered why the old man left his toolbox buried in a pile of boxes.
Then you raised an eyebrow.
A black suitcase—you could tell it was pristine, even with the layer of dust surrounding it.
You carefully set it down beside your leg, planning to ask Uncle Ben and Aunt May about it later.
With a sigh of relief, you bent down and opened the toolbox. You took out the paint roller in one hand, and kept the suitcase in the other.
You turned for the stairs, carefully making your way up, ducking under the low beam you always forgot about.
By the time you pushed the door open, the familiar warmth of the house settled around you.
“Hey, kiddo—did you find it?” Aunt May’s voice floated in from the table. She was enjoying her afternoon tea.
“Yeah,” you called back, setting the toolbox down beside her with a soft thud. “It was, uh… buried.”
“Sounds about right,” Uncle Ben chuckled from the kitchen, crouched under the sink as he worked. “I keep telling myself I’ll clean that place out.”
You shifted your weight. “For real, Uncle Ben,” you added, forcing a small laugh. “You’ve got, like, a whole secret world down there.”
“Wouldn’t be surprised,” he replied, his voice slightly muffled from under the sink. There was a metallic clink, then a quiet curse under his breath. “Half the stuff down there probably doesn’t even belong to me anymore.”
You huffed out a quiet laugh.
“Hey,” you said casually, lifting it slightly. “Speaking of… not yours—what’s this suitcase for?”
Aunt May tensed, stopping mid-sip of her tea to look at you with wide eyes. Uncle Ben stopped whatever he was tinkering with and slowly slid out from under the sink.
So it definitely wasn’t a case full of withered albums. That was too bad—you were kind of looking forward to seeing more of them in their younger years.
Uncle Ben stood up, meeting Aunt May’s gaze. They did that often—exchanging looks only they seemed to understand.
You stood there awkwardly, tapping your thumb against the suitcase handle.
With a sigh, Uncle Ben put his hand on your shoulder—and you already had a feeling you wouldn’t like whatever they were about to say.
Your mind raced with different possibilities: they were spies (why was that always your first thought?), witness protection, or—worse—it was about your mom.
“Kid… let’s sit you down,” he said gently, guiding you to the seat beside Aunt May before sitting down next to you.
You placed the suitcase at your feet. It was still dusty—and you didn’t want to risk getting it everywhere.
Aunt May’s eyes were glossy, as if she had spent her life trying to forget something, only for it to come back and haunt her.
You stared at the tablecloth, picking at it, wondering if it was too late to throw the suitcase back into the basement if it meant they’d stop acting so strange.
Uncle Ben sighed. “You see, kid… your mom’s job—before you—she was a scientist.”
Your eyes widened in shock, then softened into realization. She had always seemed far more knowledgeable than she let on.
She also prioritized your education above everything, dropping everything just to attend a parent-teacher conference.
You nodded, heart thrumming in anticipation.
“She was real good at it too,” your uncle said with a soft smile, his eyes glinting as though he were lost in a memory.
Your aunt nodded in agreement.
“We don’t know the full details—your mother was always secretive ‘bout that,” Aunt May added, looking at you with her ever-kind and gentle eyes.
Her fingers tightened slightly around the teacup. It had probably gone cold by now.
Like it pained him to say it, your uncle continued, “We do know one thing. Mary worked for Oscorp, or used to.”
The weight of everything settled in your chest. You couldn’t even begin to name the emotions swirling inside you—everything just felt heavy.
You had so many questions, and you weren’t sure if you would like the answers to them.
If your mom was brilliant enough to work for Oscorp, how did things go so wrong? How did she go from futuristic labs to a kitchen that barely functioned?
And if she was important enough not to disclose her work during her lifetime to Uncle Ben and Aunt May, how did everything about her just… vanish?
The last question lingered—pushed to the back of your mind, because thinking about it hurt too much.
Does Harry know anything?
That must be why Uncle Ben was always so suspicious of the Osborns.
Before you knew it, your hands were trembling, accidentally scraping against the wooden table.
The two of them didn’t seem to notice, both struggling to find the right words. And you couldn’t seem to find any words at all.
“Your mother gave us this and told us it contained her life’s work. That she’d like for you to see it one day,” Uncle Ben said, placing his hand over your trembling ones.
Aunt May swallowed. “She gave us permission to look, but we thought it would be better if you saw it first.”
The room felt suffocating.
“Would you have told me this if I hadn’t found it in the basement?” you asked, your voice trembling.
They exchanged another glance, and you couldn’t tell what they were thinking.
Uncle Ben exhaled slowly—the kind that seemed to carry years with it. “We would have,” he said, though the hesitation before the words didn’t go unnoticed.
Aunt May set her teacup down with a soft clink, her hands lingering as if it grounded her. “We were waiting for the right time,” she added gently, though she didn’t sound fully convinced. “You’ve already been through so much. We didn’t want to… add to it.”
You licked your lips, blinking away the tears forming in your eyes. You wanted to believe them, but it was hard right now.
Uncle Ben rubbed his hands together, like he was steadying himself. Then he nodded toward the stairs.
“You can… head up,” he said quietly. “Take it with you. Look through it, study it… at your own pace.”
Aunt May glanced at him, concern flickering across her face.
You stood up a little too fast. The wooden chair scraped loudly against the floor, cutting through the silence.
Then you grabbed the suitcase, clutching the handle tighter than you meant to.
“I’ll be upstairs,” you muttered, not quite meeting their eyes.
Uncle Ben gave a small nod. “Take your time,” he said softly.
The stairs creaked under your steps, each one louder than the last. By the time you reached the top, your grip was clammy, your heart thudding in your ears.
You rubbed your eyes, sniffling.
You dropped the suitcase onto your bed, the mattress dipping under its weight.
The latches clicked open. Inside—files. Dozens of them. Neatly stacked, labeled, organized in a way that felt almost obsessive.
You pulled one out, fingers brushing over the paper.
Your eyes carefully skimmed over the words. Then you took another page. And another. And another—and another—
It was daybreak by the time you stopped reading, your eyes sunken and tired.
After what felt like forever, you leaned back, letting yourself sink into the soft pillows. You draped an arm over your eyes.
It was genius.
Cross-species genetics was something Oscorp openly promoted—framed as the next breakthrough in curing diseases and repairing the human body.
But what you read was something almost entirely different. It was left unfinished, scattered with question marks—yet it was something you had never seen before. Strangely, it felt almost better than anything Oscorp had been putting out.
You didn’t know that for sure, since not every piece of information was released to the public.
You exhaled slowly.
Only one name kept appearing in the papers: Dr. Curt Connors.
You were still shaken from the new knowledge you’d acquired, but like they say—the world kept spinning.
Dr. Curt Connors was the leading scientist for the cross-genetics experiment that is still on-going, but you believed that if they had your mother's work—they’d probably be much more progress. You would have to do some investigating about Dr. Curt someday.
Talking with Harry was weird, but you got over it quickly. Maybe.
You figured you’d talk to him about it soon, just not today. When you were still processing things.
The two of you had just gotten out of class, walking side by side on the way to the cafeteria.
“And you know? That asshole didn’t even say sorry!” you ranted, a vein practically popping from the irritation you were feeling.
Harry rolled his eyes. “No offense, but your brothers piss me off.” His brows creased for a moment. “Actually. Your whole other family pisses me off.”
The idiot, Tim—bumped into you earlier in the morning, breaking half your project that you had to redo in a haste at school.
You were getting angry all over again just by retelling—or remembering—the story. It didn’t help that you and Harry barely had any classes together today.
Then, you perked up. Cheers and shouting could be heard in the other hallway opposite the cafeteria.
You walked toward it, Harry following you, a bit confused. Then you assumed he’d finally heard the noise, as his confusion slowly shifted into curiosity.
A group of people, phones raised, crowded around Flash Thompson—you assumed; no one else would be causing such a ruckus at school. You and Harry weaved through the crowd, muttering quiet “sorry”s as you passed.
Your assumption was correct—Flash was beating on a poor kid who looked like he just wanted it to be over.
Unfortunately for him, the blonde jock dragged it out, surrounding him with his sidekicks, hurling humiliating quips as they shoved him around.
You took a look around. They were all on their phones—recording the scene.
“Flash! Cut it out!” Harry yelled, brows furrowed.
Your temper flared again, and before you knew it—you were in front of the roughed-up boy. He took that chance to scurry into the crowd and leave the scene.
You stood face-to-face with the jock, his sidekicks right behind him wearing disbelieving, mocking smirks. Flash was taken aback for a second before grinning devilishly.
“Puny Wayne! Just what we needed!” He made a show of arrogantly spreading his arms. The crowd got even more hyped, finally able to see Puny Wayne get his ass kicked.
You could feel Harry’s pointed, incredulous gaze on you, but you couldn’t care less.
Flash rolled his shoulders, cracking his knuckles one by one as the circle around you tightened. Someone in the back whooped, the sound sharp and ugly.
“Came to play hero?” Flash tilted his head, stepping closer—close enough that you could smell the mint gum and arrogance on his breath.
“Back off, Flash,” Harry barely made it a step forward before two of Flash’s goons slipped behind him, grabbing his arms and yanking him back.
“Hey—what the hell? Let go!” Harry struggled, twisting against their grip, but they only tightened it, laughing under their breath.
“Stay out of it, rich boy,” one of them muttered.
“Aw, look at that,” Flash drawled, glancing over your shoulder. “Your babysitter’s benched.”
A few people in the crowd laughed, phones tilting to catch Harry struggling.
Flash turned back to you, rolling his neck lazily. “Guess that means no one’s gonna save you now.”
You smirked mockingly at Flash, clenching your fist. “Yeah?”
He leaned in slightly, voice dropping just enough for it to feel personal.
“You really should’ve stayed in your lane, Wayne.”
Without warning, he swung. A wide, cocky punch meant more to impress the crowd than land clean.
You dropped low, leaning your upper body downward as the punch cut through the space above you.
You met Harry’s surprised upside-down eyes.
His expression flickered—shock, concern, and a silent “why are you still doing this?” all at once—while he was still half-struggling in the grip of Flash’s goons.
Flash stumbled a half-step forward from the missed momentum, his confidence cracking for just a split second.
The crowd erupted—some gasping, others shouting louder, the energy spiking instantly.
“Yo—he missed that!”
“No way!”
Then he came at you faster. His punches kept coming, and you kept deflecting with your arms or slipping out of the way.
When he had you backed up against the lockers, you had nowhere left to go—his fist was inches from your face when you caught it, redirecting the strike and driving your own punch straight into his nose.
The impact snapped his head back, the sound sharp enough to cut through the noise. Flash staggered, stumbling a step before catching himself, one hand flying up instinctively.
The jock lowered his hand slowly—a thin line of red slipping past his fingers, his eyes wide with shock.
“Woah!”
“Flash got beaten up by Puny Wayne? Am I dreaming?”
You were grateful you’d managed to pull your punch at the last second, because you were sure he would’ve ended up with more than just a nosebleed if you hadn’t.
A migraine was already forming from how loud everything was. You could barely hear your own thoughts.
“HEY! BREAK IT UP!”
Now that, you could hear.
Teachers were pushing through the students now, the crowd parting reluctantly as phones dipped and whispers spiked.
“Move! Move!”
“Who started this?”
Flash straightened quickly, wiping under his nose, suddenly very aware of the attention around him. His sidekicks shifted too, loosening their grip on Harry as the situation changed—they hurried back to Flash’s side. At least they were loyal enough minions.
“I’m gonna need to call your parent—” The guidance counselor reached for the phone, but you immediately shook your head.
You cleared your throat. You hadn’t exactly been listening for the past ten minutes—just nodding along in agreement. All you caught was “something, something, behavioral issues, something,” frankly.
“Um, my dad’s busy, so if you could call my uncle and aunt instead?”
The counselor raised an eyebrow but let you punch in the numbers. Uncle Ben picked up the call—fortunately for you, or unfortunately, depending on how you looked at it, since you were the one who’d have to explain the situation.
The next thirty minutes, you stood outside the guidance counselor’s office, fiddling with your blazer.
The ride home was quiet in a suffocating way.
Uncle Ben didn’t say much at first. Just kept his eyes on the road, jaw set like he was trying to hold back every sentence he was already forming.
Aunt May kept glancing between you and him, like she was quietly hoping someone would say the right thing before it got worse.
You stared out the window the whole time. Streetlights smeared past in long streaks.
When you got home, no one rushed inside. Uncle Ben finally spoke the moment the door clicked shut behind you.
“Why did you humiliate that boy?” he started.
You scoffed. “I didn’t humiliate him.”
Flash is fine. He humiliated you half your high school years—he’ll be fine.
Aunt May’s eyes softened as she leaned by the wall near Uncle Ben. “Let’s ask the kid what happened first, Ben.”
Uncle Ben gestured for you to continue.
You crossed your arms, tapping your finger on your bicep. “The boy, he—he was gonna get beaten up by Flash and two other guys if I didn’t intervene.”
The older man nodded. “And you did that by?”
You furrowed your eyebrows, looking down at your shoes—you could see where you went wrong here, but… Flash deserved it.
“…I just stopped them,” you muttered. “I didn’t let them hurt him.”
Uncle Ben didn’t answer right away. That pause was worse than anything he could’ve said.
He sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose. “Look, kid, I’m glad you’re okay from that fight—but Flash wasn’t. That poor boy went home with a bleeding nose.”
His eyes softened. “I know things have been difficult, but—” his voice stayed gentle. “You don’t get to decide who deserves what just because you’re angry.”
You scoffed under your breath. “So what, I was supposed to just stand there?”
“No.” Ben’s voice was firmer now, but not raised. “You were supposed to think.”
Ben continued, “You’ve got a good heart, like your mother, I see that—”
“But I did think,” you snapped, cutting him off. “I thought about him getting roughed up. I thought about doing something instead of just watching it happen.”
“That’s not what I mean,” Ben said quickly, trying to hold onto you.
But you were already shaking your head.
“No, it is. You just don’t like how I did it.”
Aunt May’s voice came in softly from the side. “Sweetheart—”
“Everyone keeps talking like I messed something up,” you said, voice tightening. “I didn’t. I helped someone.”
Ben stepped forward slightly. “Kid, just listen—”
You turned your back sharply and stormed out, slamming the door so hard it came off its hinges behind you.
It was nighttime, so you carried yourself with more alertness than usual. Your emotions felt like a rollercoaster—anger, regret, and just general sadness.
You shouldn’t have talked to Uncle Ben that way—but hearing about your mother just set something off in you.
With a sigh, you buried your hands in your blazer pockets. A convenience store wasn’t far away, and you had a small amount of money on you.
Frustrating, depressing thoughts plagued your mind the entire walk, enough to show on your face and ward off any weirdos.
It didn’t help that you didn’t have any music to cheer you up.
The small bell above the door dinged as you pushed it open. The man working at the counter looked up for a moment before returning to whatever he was doing.
You headed to the refrigerated drinks section and grabbed one to your liking. Then you walked to the counter and set it down, placing two cents into the paper plate meant for tips.
“2.10, you’re short,” he said. You were exactly two cents short, so you reached back for the paper plate—before the cashier tutted.
You looked up at him with a questioning gaze. He replied, “Leave a penny, take a penny. Not the other way around. Pay an extra ten dollars if you wanna take it.”
You really weren’t having it, so you searched for words that didn’t make you sound like a total asshole.
“I—”
“Store policy, kid. Don’t have enough money for your milk? Go run back to your mommy. You’re holding up my line,” he mocked, raising his hands.
You scoffed, leaving your drink on the counter and shoving the rest of your money back into your pockets.
You were just about to leave when the guy behind you made his move—reaching into the register and grabbing the cash while the cashier fumbled for the loose change the man “accidentally” dropped.
You stared for a moment, then decided the cashier had it coming. Uncle Ben’s words faintly rang in the back of your head, but you ignored them.
The man grinned at you, a gold tooth glinting, and tossed your drink your way—you caught it without missing a beat.
He ran out the other exit, and the cashier finally noticed, chasing after him. You shrugged and walked the other way—ignoring his, “Aren’t ya gonna help, kid?!” as he grumbled and headed back into his shop.
Maybe if you weren’t such a jerk, I would—
A sharp gunshot cut through your thoughts.
You’ve never turned your back so fast—your body reacting before your mind could. The sound still rang in your ears.
A familiar hand, fingers slack, hit the gravel with a dull thud.
You slowly started approaching, before breaking into a full sprint. Your breath caught somewhere between your lungs and your throat.
“…Ben?” Your shoes scraped against the gravel as you dropped beside him.
“Hey—hey, no, no, no—” Your hands hovered over the wound, not knowing what to do. The bullet had torn into his abdomen, and with how much blood he was losing—
No, no—you could swing him to the hospital—but that wouldn’t work either. You might make it worse.
A frustrated sound tore out of you. You’ve never felt so utterly helpless.
“Uncle Ben?” your lips trembled as your hand gently clasped his.
“Uncle Ben, look at me,” your voice cracked, breaking halfway through. “Look at me, I’m right here.”
His chest rose unevenly, each breath thinner than the last. His eyes struggled to stay open, but they found you anyway—like they always did.
“…hey, kid,” he murmured, voice barely there.
“Don’t talk,” you shook your head quickly, tightening your grip on his hand. “You’re gonna be okay, alright? Just—just stay with me. I’m here.”
“You’re… a good kid,” he whispered.
Your vision blurred. “Ben, please—”
His fingers shifted weakly in yours, like he was trying to hold on even though he no longer had the strength.
“There’s… something…” He swallowed, wincing. “Something I should’ve told you more often…”
“Save it,” you said quickly, voice breaking. “You can tell me later, okay? When we get you help—”
You should’ve been looking around, calling for help, doing something—but you couldn’t. Your gaze stayed locked on him, fear tightening in your chest at the thought that these might be your last moments with him.
“With great power…” he started, slow and uneven. “…comes great responsibility.”
It sounded final.
Your breath hitched. “Ben—no, no, you’re not—don’t say it like that—” you whimpered, tears finally spilling.
His eyes softened, an apology flickering through them.
“Take care of… May…”
His hand tightened—just barely—before slipping from yours.
“Ben, please,” you choked out.
You held on tighter, clinging to it—the same hand that had rested on your shoulder in comfort whenever you were in trouble, the same hand that had always made you feel like things would be okay, even when they weren’t.
The same warm, steady hand you might never feel again for the rest of your life.
You broke into uncontrollable sobs—you didn’t even know when the police arrived, or when their blue and red lights began flickering, painting the scene around you.
All the sounds around you faded as they tried to separate you from him. Officers spoke gently, but it barely reached you.
One of them cut through your haze—“Yes, I saw a man with a gold tooth running earlier, holding a gun. We tried chasing him, but he got away,” he panted.
They finally separated you from Uncle Ben, guiding your trembling form to sit on the curb. One of them placed a jacket around your shoulders.
Memories flashed through your head—the man with the gold tooth. The same guy from the fight.
Your uncle was dead.
And it was your fault.
If only you had listened to Uncle Ben.
If only you hadn’t let that guy go, he would still be alive.
Alive—and then he would’ve found you and then he would’ve rubbed your back and scolded you and dragged you back to dinner with Aunt May, and then—
You clenched your fists.
You need to make this right.
A/N: Omg im so sorry this took so long 😭😭
divider: @uzmacchiato | master list
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