menace to society-op81²
|| megalomaniacal, and harder than the rest.
SUMMARY You've turned to a life of petty crime. Or not really 'turned' to it, considering it's all you know. But suddenly, your heists have a lot more importance, and cocky Spiderman is a serious pain in your ass. Also, to make matters worse, you can't ignore your roommate, Oscar Piastri's presence anymore, and you've got some feelings to navigate.
CONTENT secret identities, 'and they were roommates', enemies to ?, friends to ?, fluff/ angst, spidey!osc x blackcat!reader, violence, (lots of) swearing, death/injury, lando mentioned, mj name drop, marvel/comics inconsistencies. reader is referred to as she/her. implied stuff, but nothing actually happens. panic attack!! graphic descriptions of injury/death. read at your own risk ! emotional cheating? kind of? flirting is a survival tactic here. reader is kinda all over the place and so messy but we love her. oscars stupid and lovesick and embarrasing and i hope he explodes.
WORD COUNT 7.4k of 15.6k
AUTHORS NOTE this was not meant to be two parts, im so sorry!!!! genuinely, curse the dumb block limit. anyway, have this angst, but hold out some hope for the end, okay? i think part one is better, so i hope you're not TOO disappointed. @2reverse love you!
MASTERLIST | PLAYLIST
PART TWO OF TWO. <- part one
They contact you that night, with a video from your father.
‘Don’t, don’t do it. Don’t be like me. I’m sorry, I should’ve told you I was alive, but I figured it was better this way. You deserve to live a life free of thievery. Be beautiful, be happy. Do not follow in my ugly footsteps, be better than I was. You always were better than I ever could be. Please, leave me here. It is simply what I deserve. Hate me, as I bet you do, and keep on pretending I am dead.’
It’s him. It’s really him. And he’s right- you do hate him. But still, that’s your fucking dad. And you’re going to save him.
It’s a hefty price, as you expected, but you don’t care. You have means.
The only thing you don’t need is a spider in your way.
You pack a couple essentials into a rucksack, before bursting through your bedroom door.
Oscar is sitting lamely on the couch, huddled to himself.
It’s slightly ridiculous, because he’s so big, but you’re focused on his reddened eyes.
Something softer in you wilts, and you have to stop yourself from running at him.
“I’m going to stay at Gwen’s for a bit.” you lie, daring him to reply.
But to him, it’s not a dare.
“What? First off, who’s Gwen? And secondly, don’t be absurd. Look, if it's really me, I can stay at Lando’s. Just, just don’t leave. Please don’t leave.”
You hesitate, hand around the doorknob.
“We work together. You’d like her, I think she studies Physics too. And I’m coming back, okay? I just need to cool off. I don’t want to do something stupid now, because I’m angry.”
As you open the door, your name falls from his lips like some sort of mangled prayer.
But it’s too late, because his desperate ‘Please don’t leave’ has morphed into your father’s even more desperate ‘Please leave me here.’
As the door closes, and he descends into a stunned silence, something erupts in his chest.
He’d felt grief before- he knew the pain of losing someone well.
But they had never filled him with a guilt; a sinking sort of feeling. He almost felt a little like he was drowning in your departure, in the careless slam of the door.
It wasn’t his fault, when his uncle died. It wasn’t his fault, when he couldn’t save him. He did everything.
But this? Losing you?
That was his fault. And he could rectify it, by showing you who he was.
You throw your bag on the tiled floor, infuriated. Nervous.
To call this a lair makes you seem rather malicious, but you’re not sure how else to describe it.
It had been your fathers. He never mentioned it in his will, but it was unspoken, passed down to you.
You clicked the laptop awake, watching the screens flash on.
His systems flickered to life, lists upon lists of the nearest things to aim to take. Their security, how to get in and out.
Where to hide, where to disappear.
You didn’t need it, as such. You knew every escape, every shadow in the city. But, there was a different pressure now.
You knew Spiderman wouldn’t be merciful forever, especially when he stopped seeing your signature pseudonym in the donations page in the paper.
Soon, you’d go from something fascinating, to something he should be wary of. Something he had to catch.
No matter how confident you came across, you didn’t think it would be easy.
Your target this evening is another piece of jewellery. It is gorgeous; a huge sapphire pendant.
With a quick scan of the floorplan, you have concepts of a plan, and that is all you need.
Cats could think on their feet.
The streets of the city seem lighter than usual. Great.
Still, you don’t mind.
Your feet hit the tarmac of the roofs with a newfound determination, the skyline blurring in your peripheral. With a calculated leap, you’re out from the more abandoned district to the richer one, the houses stretching for miles with old-fashioned architecture and overly elaborate front lawns.
You hate them all. You hate how they can live like this, while kids a couple metres away starve.
You hate the police, for protecting them first. Spiderman too.
And, as if summoned, you see him.
He gives you a meek wave. You keep running.
“Don’t want to talk today? ‘Cause y’know, I’d like to have a chat.” he shouts earnestly, and you hiss.
The drawer he promised to keep locked rattles aggressively, daring to burst open. Daring to accuse you.
He tells himself it’s because you’re the only thing on his mind right now.
“Spiderman, shut up. Don’t wake these people up.”
‘Shut up.’ God, that wounds Oscar.
“You haven’t been around in a while. I’ve been checking.”
You grimace.
“I’m flattered. Truly. Now, are you going to fuck off, or can I finally slit your throat?”
Spiderman steps back, faltering. There’s no joking tone there, no casual tease.
It’s a tone he doesn’t recognise.
You never spoke to him like that, at home. So either, you hate him. Truly, undoubtedly, you hate Spiderman. And then, he can’t tell you.
Because that means losing you again.
But if he doesn’t tell you, you stay lost.
He’s damned either way.
Or, it’s not you. The girl in front of him, teeth bared, isn’t you.
‘God, Oscar. I know you.’ You’d said it so readily. Even though you didn’t know where he was, and it was eating you up, you still knew him. And maybe, he could convince himself he knew you too. And this wasn’t you. Isn’t.
Still, he decides to let two things exist at once- this isn’t you, but he can pretend it is, so he misses you less. So he feels like this is all one, huge elaborate joke. And you’re teasing him as usual, just with a mask between you, and some scarily long claws.
He hates that he has to do this.
Please, why couldn’t he just get what he wanted?
Everytime, he’d get close, it went wrong.
He couldn’t let it go wrong now. He almost had you.
“Spiderman? What’s going on?” you ask, giving him a confused glare.
“Nothing.” he mutters, and then he fires a clumsy web at your boot, distracted.
With barely a side-step, you shift out of the way.
“That was poor.” you criticise, and he nods.
“Out of it, today.” he admits, and you shrug.
With that, you leap down the side of the building, claws hanging to the irregularities in the brick.
You land by the side-gate of the house, all the lights off.
The necklace lives in a drawer in the spare dressing room, on the west wing. There’s a window in the bathroom beside it, and that’s your target.
With a calculated aim, you latch to the window and shimmy up, unlocking it with a determined twist of a tool.
The click is louder than you’d like, but it works.
The bathroom is too clean, too posh, and you almost choke on the overwhelming smell of air freshener.
By the time you’re in the dressing room, you want to rip apart every shred of overpriced fabric, but that’s not the goal.
You fumble around for a while, rummaging through cabinets and draws, until you see it.
Gleaming at you, a taunt.
You stuff it into your pocket, and retreat back through the window.
You barely make it back onto the neighbouring roof before he aims, and this time, he doesn’t miss.
“Taking family heirlooms, now?” Spiderman asks, tilting his head inquisitively, and you shrug.
“Taking what pays.”
“It’s barely been a month, and you’ve already switched up on me. Thought we could pair up, y’know?” he jokes, but it’s closer to sad than funny.
“I work best alone.”
“I doubt that’s true.”
“And I doubt you give a shit. You’re stalling, ‘cause you don’t want to fight.” you accuse, flashing him something more sinister than a smile, and he laughs.
“You underestimate me.”
“Maybe.” With a determined swipe, you sever the web keeping you stuck on the ground, and leap at him.
It’s not particularly graceful. If anything, it’s a little barbaric.
“Easy.” he spits, as a claw scrapes a rip into his suit by his forearm.
“Keep up.” you counter, giving a satisfying tug as you feel more fabric under your nails.
He grins, but he doesn’t swing.
It’s infuriating, his aimless dodging.
“Why aren’t you fighting back?” you snarl, your voice wavering with frustration.
“I don’t want to hurt you.” he grumbles, and you cackle.
“You’re pathetic.”
He notices something snake from your glove, and he goes to grab your wrist.
But with a crackle, it shocks him, and he drops your hand instantly.
“What was that?” he yells, nursing his fizzling arm, and you shrug.
“Family heirloom.”
With that, you swing away, gripping the grappling hook, leaving a butt-hurt Spiderman outlined by the rising moon.
When you click your key into the lock, two days later, you’re unsurprised when you see Oscar hovering by the couch.
He moves, as if to hug you, but you give him a cold stare.
“Don’t.”
His face pales, and it hurts.
“Not yet.” you amend, and his expression softens a little.
“Okay. That’s okay.”
You want to nod, but it isn’t. It’s not really okay.
It’s different with him. It’s deeper.
You’d dated other people, but it had felt superficial. Like something to fill time, someone new to argue with.
Sometimes you’d find a new song you’d liked, or a new food to try.
It had never hurt like this, and you weren’t even with him. It was insane.
And yet, you came back. And you told him it’s okay, when it’s not.
And you know, you’re going to let it be okay.
He notices it, as soon as you walk in. Hair pulled back, half-done makeup. Eyes, too pale for crying, too red to be fine.
Something is gnawing at you, something exhausting. Something painful.
“You don’t look-”
You fold your arms, daring him to continue.
“I’ll shut up.” he shifts, giving you a gentle smile, but you can’t return it.
“Good idea.”
It’s like that for a while. Broken grins, awkward whispers by torchlight.
His room is tidier. You don’t know, because you don’t cross that threshold.
You return a sweater to him with a tight-lipped expression, and he has to stop himself from insisting you keep it, because he knows that’s stupid.
Days break into nights. You’re both out each evening, air beneath your feet.
Claws, never retracted. Webs, now better aimed.
Somewhere, it gets easier to hate Spiderman as you can’t keep hating Oscar.
Oscar drowns in something that isn’t quite guilt, but it’s worse.
He’s disgusted in himself, for even imagining that Black Cat might be you.
That he’s so desperate to make you something you’re not, someone he has a chance with, that he can’t even think straight.
That’s how you decide to take on the title of a villain. Of an enemy.
Nights become battle fields, and you both come home with scratches that you wouldn’t be able to explain.
But there’s no one washing your cheek now, asking if you need a plaster.
It’s just a hum of wanting, of needing, that lives in the walls.
And it builds, and deafens you, until you can both scream into the night’s air, before going at each other's throats.
It’s over a month before you have even nearly enough for the exchange.
Your father would never be worth this much.
Curse your sentimentality.
Still, it’s just not quite enough.
And you’re battered, and frayed, and you can’t even tell anyone.
It’s an isolation no one else will understand.
Except maybe the boy in the mask, but all you can do is despise him with your very being, to keep pushing.
If you hate your father, you’ll give up.
You can’t hate Oscar, not anymore. Even when you come home, and he’s still not back, no matter how that hurts more than the graze on your arm.
And you sure as hell aren’t about to start hating yourself.
You’re surprised to see the light on, when you make it home. Oscar’s rarely back before you.
His bedroom door is closed, as usual, and you consider starting a row about electricity consumption, but you’re too tired.
Your arm is throbbing, and you massage it carefully, but that does shit.
Then, you hear it. A shallow, barely audible whisper of your name.
You turn to your left, and Oscar is slumped against the wall, almost wheezing.
“Oscar?”
You hurry over to him, dropping to your knees in front of him.
“Hey, hey. What’s going on?”
His eyes are wide, breaths shallow, and he grips your hand with some fervency.
“Can you talk to me? Talk to me.” you correct, rubbing the back of his hand.
“I’m, I’m okay.” he mutters, forcing the sound out of his throat, and you shake your head.
You press your free hand over his heart, and you can feel it beating ridiculously fast.
“Are you having a heart attack? That’s not normal.” you frown.
His other hand keeps yours in place, a look of desperation flitting over his face, and you inhale.
“Breathe with me, okay? I think you’re panicking.”
You take his hand and place it over your own heart, breathing in as deeply as you can, and you wait for him to copy you.
Several minutes later, his chest rises and falls in time with yours, and he’s loosened his grip on your hand, his knuckles turning pink again.
He leans forward, pressing his head against yours, and you don’t move away. Not yet.
“I’m sorry.” he whispers, eyes closed.
“For what?” you whisper back.
“Everything.”
You pull away from him now, but his hand stays firm on your chest, feeling the steady beat of your heart.
“You really can’t tell me, can you?”
He nods.
“It’s killing me.”
“I can tell.”
There’s a careful silence in the air now. He waits.
“It’s okay.” you mutter finally, but this time, you mean it.
You can see it. You can see that this might be the one thing he really can never tell anyone, but it’s not that he doesn’t want you. And you can see that letting whatever it is be what breaks you both, might actually ruin him.
Maybe the ache in your stomach is a worthy sacrifice. Maybe you’re not such a villain after all.
You press your lips to the corner of his mouth, and he doesn’t even register the familiarity of it.
“I can be honest about everything else. I will be.” he promises, clutching at you like you’re about to disappear again.
“Oscar-” you begin, but you’re not totally sure why you’re speaking.
“-it’s okay?” he finishes for you, and you nod.
“Yeah.”
You slump down beside him, resting your head on his shoulder, hands still intertwined.
“It’s okay. It’s going to be okay.”
The air is cold, whipping your face with little mercy. The goggles offer no comfort, but at least your trench coat is keeping your arms from freezing.
“We know who you are, cat.” spits the smaller of the two men, his accent barely understandable.
“Safer to be out at night with claws.” you reply casually, and the other one straightens.
“You have enough?”
You shrug.
“Sure. I know you know how much I’ve got.”
The taller one laughs.
“Yeah, we know you have enough. Can you hold it somewhere for the next two months?”
“Two fucking months? Are you joking?” you snarl, holding yourself back from leaping at them.
“Spiderman’s my nemesis, I’m on every headline, and you’re expecting me to hide millions up my ass?” you continue, your throating aching with the strength of your scream, but they shrug.
“The earliest we can exchange is in two months. We’re pulling some strings for some other deals, so it’s slow.” “I don’t give a shit! Make it fucking faster, you idiots.” you hiss, but you know they don’t care.
“Careful, or we’ll raise the price. It’s an expensive business, holding prisoners for ransom.” “You’re twats.”
“You’re a thief. You’re no better than us.” “You’re cowards. We’re not even on the same level.” you spit.
“Wait for details. And naturally, if you get caught? Deals off.”
You want to scream at them, that you’re barely an adult, and you need your dad.
But you know they’ll never care enough to see you as anything more than a possible source of income.
You can’t expect them to. The man you’re trying to save barely saw you as more than that growing up.
Still, you have to stop yourself from heaving as you walk home, placing one painful step in front of the other, willing your knees not to buckle.
Willing yourself to hold on to some scrap of strength, even though you feel weaker each time you slip the suit on, slip into being someone else.
You don’t expect to hear from them before the allotted time, but about a month later, there’s a slip of paper on the windowsill.
‘Your spider friend is poking around at all our recent activity. Sort him out, or we’re going to push it back.’
You let out an exasperated scream into your pillow, but it barely relieves you.
You know you can’t beat him. The blossoming bruises down your legs, the flaking skin by your ankles proved it.
The exhaustion in each exhale was killing you. The sleepless nights made thinking fuzzy.
You shake your head, rubbing your eyes, before walking out into the kitchen.
Oscar, his back facing you, turns.
He scans your face, and his eyebrows knot in something that resembles worry.
“Oscar-” you start, but your voice wobbles.
He’s there before the tears fall, holding you into him so tightly you almost can’t inhale.
You let yourself breathe, ignoring how his shirt is beginning to dampen.
He places a gentle kiss on your forehead, and you wipe your eyes as you turn to look up at him.
“What’s up?”
You want to tell him, but you know that’s not an option.
‘Yeah, I steal shit and sell it on the black market so I can afford the ransom for my criminal dad who’s not actually dead, haha.’
You know how that’ll go. You also know he deserves to be told.
But you can’t.
“Nothing. Just tired. Stressed. Y’know.”
He frowns again.
“You can tell me. I mean, I might be hopeless, but I can try.”
You swallow.
“I want to, but I can't.”
The phrase slams into him, practically knocking the air from his lungs.
He can’t argue with it, can’t dispute it.
But he realises now, how much it sucks. Why you were so mad.
Because when you want nothing more than to know every inch of a person, the inner workings of their mind, being told you can’t find out something is enough to make you question your sanity.
And it hurts more, because he can tell you do want to.
It’s those secrets, the ones that you wish you could share, that really weigh on you.
With a slightly more contented sigh, you bring a hand to his cheek, and those doubts melt a little.
That evening, he falls asleep to the sound of your heavy breaths and slow heart, and he finds it the most calming thing.
He doesn’t worry about the Cat stalking the rooftops, or the Thing you can’t tell him, or Spiderman.
He doesn’t worry at all. But he does realise he has something he needs to tell you when he wakes up.
You can’t say the same.
It’s still dark outside when you wake up, and you’re cold.
The only real warmth is the half-kicked off duvet, and Oscar’s arms around you.
You don’t wake him, but you know you have no chance of falling back asleep.
‘Your spider friend is poking around at all our recent activity. Sort him out, or we’re going to push it back.’
The words swirl in your head endlessly, and you think of your father’s lifeless body on the floor.
Obviously, this isn’t the first time you’ve imagined it. But you can see it now; those two men standing over you, your money in hand, getting ready to run.
Spiderman, watching you cling to his corpse, your hands painted red.
And so you’re in jail, your father is even more dead than before, and those men are free, like they always are.
Maybe the rich aren’t the only evil.
‘Sort him out.’
You can’t win. But you have enough. Maybe you can just keep him distracted.
At the end of the day, he’s just a guy under there.
It’s a horrible idea. It’s the only one you have. You have a month to get Spidey off your back.
If that means more flirting and less fighting, you could do it. The only person it isn’t fair on is Oscar.
By the time his eyes open, your nails are chewed and bloody, and you look just as bad as you did when he’d dragged you to sleep, his arms never leaving you.
“Mornin’” he says quietly, hair matted, and you give it an affectionate ruffle.
It makes what you need to do so much harder.
“I think I’m falling in love with you.”
He says it so calmly, so surely, that you have no idea how to reply.
“Are you being serious?”
He smiles, and he looks so much younger. Like a boy again.
“Unfortunately so. Deadly.”
He doesn’t know what he was expecting, but your stony stare definitely wasn't up there.
“Take it back, Oscar. Please.” you beg, the words mangled, and he shakes his head.
“I can’t.”
“You keep telling me you can’t. You have to. Please.”
He can hear the sadness in your tone. He can feel your heart shattering, but he doesn’t understand why.
“You don’t have to say anything. I just wanted you to know. I promised I'd tell you everything else.” “Well, then it’s my turn to say I can’t. I can’t do this. There's something else that I need to focus on, and I just can’t.”
He sits up.
“What are you talking about?”
“You know what I’m talking about.”
He kisses his teeth, his jaw slacking.
“Right. Yesterday.”
“You understand it. You have to understand it.”
He mutters your name under his breath, and it sounds like a curse.
“No, I don’t. So yeah, I missed a couple nights, but fucking hell, I am trying! And you just leave me out to dry, every time. You just can’t see how badly I want you, how much I care about you, do you?”
“Oscar. Don’t bullshit me. If whatever you’ve got going on becomes so, like, huge, that you have no option, I know you’d pick it over me. And I don’t blame you. At first, I did. But I get it now. Whatever it is. You don’t have to tell me, but I need you to promise me that you understand. It’s not about you.”
“It never was.”
You inhale, and it's sharp.
“Hey, hey, that’s not fair. This is bigger than me, bigger than us. It’s something I have to do. There’s no choice. There never was.”
He pauses, his anger subsiding into something closer to grief.
“Tell me you don’t love me. Or that you think you never will. Tell me something, anything, so I don’t wait for you. Because I will, until you can tell me what’s going on. Or until it’s over.”
“What if it never is?”
“Then I keep waiting. I’m not going to give up on you-”
“-Oscar, that’s insane.” “Tell me not to. Tell me you don’t think you can love me.”
“Do you want me to lie to you?”
“Fuck.”
When his lips crash into yours, it’s so desperate that you almost push away.
He’s asking you to stay, and saying goodbye, all at once.
You tell him you might just love him too as your hands snake around his neck, and he’s telling you that’s far too cruel as he caresses the side of your face.
With a shaky exhale, you apologise.
It will never be enough.
“Hi, Spidey.” you call, giving him a sly salute, and he scowls.
“That zapper thing hurt. And that hook. And your gloves, holy shit.”
“All’s fair in love and war?” you suggest, extending your palm.
“How do I know you’re not going to claw my hand?”
You shrug. “You don’t.”
He takes it. Of course he takes it.
“What am I going to fail to stop you from taking this time?”
“Nothing. I’m done. Got bored of petty theft.”
Spiderman laughs.
“I don’t believe you.”
“I’m not asking you to. Doesn’t mean it’s not the truth.”
After giving his hand a firm shake, you shift beside him, until you’re both leaning against the ledge of a cool, brick bridge.
“So, you’re just out for a stroll?” he questions, visibly suspicious.
“Yeah, pretty much. Twas a bit lonely, then I saw you. Thought I’d start over, as my new, theft-free self. What about you?”
“Patrol. Some gang I thought was gone seems to be back. I saw a goon I recognised talking to a friend of mine, and it clicked. You know, I thought you might be related to them for a bit, but that doesn’t make sense.”
“Like I said, I work alone.”
“So why are you here?”
“‘Cause I don’t work anymore.”
He chuckles.
“Careful, Kitty. Sounds like you want my company.”
“What if I did? What’s that thing, about hating someone ‘cause you’re into them? It’s not a new concept.”
Spiderman tilts his head inquisitively.
“You got a girlfriend? Or boyfriend, whatever.”
He clenches his jaw.
“No.”
“So why do you look so nervous?”
“I’m not.” he replies adamantly, and you shrug.
“Alright, Webs. See you tomorrow?” you ask, turning, enjoying the crunch of your heel on the gravel.
As you begin to walk away, you hear him call out.
“Kitty, you fucking with me? What are you doing?”
“I don’t really know.”
You and Oscar co-exist again. It’s polite. It’s sad.
Still, he disappears back into someone you can almost forget is on the other side of the wall, if you focus enough.
And that’s what you need. You need focus, and discipline, and you need to stay hidden.
Soon, days blur to weeks, and weeks to a month.
“Hello?” you mumble into your phone, holding it precariously by your ear.
“Tommorow night. Good job on keeping the Wonderboy out of it. You guys seem rather cozy, don’t you think?”
“He shouldn’t be an issue. Where and when?”
“By the river, the warehouse. One-fifteen. Don’t be fucking late.”
You hang up after that, trying to ignore the steady shake of your hands.
Still, you stay nervous through dinner. You can barely chew, and when you do, you bite the edge of your lip, or your cheek.
You don’t notice your mouth is actually bleeding until you dab a napkin to your lips, and it comes back red.
It doesn’t even phase you. You don’t even feel the pain, the sting of each scrape against the fork.
The next day, you’re just as mindless.
Each heartbeat, each breath takes you closer to nightfall, to your father, to everything else.
When it comes, you pull your gloves on and crawl out of the window, duffel bag secured on your back.
You know where they mean. After the flood a couple decades ago, all the industrial buildings by the river had been abandoned.
Most people heard rumours of gangs working there. Apparently, the river runs red up there, from the murders that no one bothered to investigate.
It was like a ghost-town, and no one living came back.
You’d be the first, and you’d bring back some to life too.
There's a gaggle of people when you arrive, and it’s easy to tell the prisoners from the jailers.
Your father stands amongst the former, hands tied behind his back.
He looks sallow, and exhausted, but it’s still him.
Living, breathing, a shred of pride in there somewhere.
You really do have his eyes.
You notice other people too, crouched between chimneys and behind pillars.
The same stare on their face, the fear and anticipation and exhaustion from some great sacrifice.
And each of them have their eyes trained on someone else with constraints and a pale tinge, but it doesn’t even matter.
One of the men grips the shoulder of a woman, throwing her forward. There’s no words, just the sound of her knees hitting the tarmac, and then someone darts forward.
He’s a weasel-like fellow, with a strange nose. They look somewhat similar, and you figure he’s a relative. A brother, maybe.
He throws a backpack at them, dragging her to her feet, as they scan the contents.
With a definitive nod, they disappear into a side-alley, and you almost admire the efficiency of it all.
For a second, you have a spark of hope that this might go right.
One by one, as the clock ticks, you watch people be re-united. If you were softer, you’d probably cry.
It’s actually 01:17, when your father shuffles forward. You can tell that he’s hoping you’re not coming.
When you step into the light, his face crumples, but you ignore it.
You throw the duffel bag at them, moving to your father’s side, but before you can reach, there’s a loud bang from the right of the warehouse.
The men look up, nose scrunching at the smell of smoke.
They look between the flames licking the side of the building, you and your father, and the bag between you.
You reach for it simultaneously, and you sink your teeth into the hand grabbing it.
The other man is now dragging your father away. With a curdled scream, you turn towards the burning building.
There’s two people fighting beside it, but you only recognise one from the flash of red.
“You said you sorted it out.” murmurs the burlier man, his fist narrowly missing your jaw in an attempt to snatch the money back.
“Oh, this isn’t my fault that one of your idiots brought their catfight out here.” you protest, scraping the side of his arm with undiluted force.
He yelps, drawing away from you, as his blood splatters to the floor.
“He’s not with us. And I know the Spider is.”
“You’re not getting this if I don’t get my dad.” you hiss, through gritted teeth, as his boot kicks your straight in the shin.
“Fine. But his price has just gone up.”
With that, he runs.
You begin to pelt after him, heart hammering in your ears, but you hear a shout.
Smoke is beginning to settle in your lungs, but you stop and turn anyway.
Spiderman is lying on the ground, his assailant standing squarely on his arm.
He’s yelling in pain, and you can hear it echoing. His head shifts on the ground, and his eyes meet yours.
He doesn’t ask for help. He doesn’t alert the guy on top of him that you’re still here.
Instead, the hand closest to you twitches, his two fingers making a running motion.
So, you run, like he says.
But not into the dark. You run at him, right as the shrouded figure raises something that looks a bit like a mallet.
With a shove, you knock him off balance, and the mallet lands on the side of Spiderman’s arm.
He screams, rolling onto it, but you didn’t hear a crack, so you know you helped.
“Tombstone, leave her alone.” he splutters, trying to shift himself upwards, but ‘Tombstone’ ignores him.
His fist connects with your jaw, and you recoil slightly, before drilling the heel of your boot straight into the side of his leg, and he hisses.
It’s a blur of limbs and kicks, and you’re swaying slightly with each hit, but you don’t care.
“Didn’t realise you had any friends, Spidey.” he murmurs, but he doesn't tear his eyes away from you, preempting your next jab.
Spiderman stands now, clutching his right forearm. The smog is suffocating now, and you’re all trying to hold back coughs.
Still, it’s relentless, and there’s no respite from his hammering fists, until he’s covered in web.
“Are you just going to leave him here?” you cough, voice weak, and Spiderman shakes his head.
“I’ll figure it out. Go, before you choke.”
You shake your head.
“If he gets out, he’ll kill you. Your arm is screwed, mate. Come on.” “I’ll kill him if I don’t move him.” he protests, but you wheeze in response, grabbing his good hand.
Your grip is firm, as you drag him along, until the air has cleared.
As you let him go, you feel your claw snag on his palm, and he winces.
“You don’t get to decide if they die!” he shouts, as soon as he can breathe normally, and you scowl.
“I risked my neck to save you, have some gratitude.”
His head drops into his hands, and you hear him wince at the rotation of his shoulder.
“Sorry. Thank you.”
It’s sombre, for a while.
“What were you doing there? I thought you said you were done. What’s in the bag?”
“It’s a long story, and I’m going home.” you reply dismissively, and he hasn’t got the strength to argue back.
It’s a struggle to even make it up the stairs to your apartment. You can feel the bruises sprouting under your long sleeves, and the scab growing by the corner of your mouth.
The bag feels heavier than it did when you left, like it’s weighed down by bitter disappointment.
You collapse onto your bed, throwing the bag under your bed, and you try not to feel.
It’s hard, but you’re quickly distracted by quiet cursing coming from the kitchen.
It’s Oscar, you presume. But something sounds off.
Like he’s in serious pain.
A groan accompanies each shuffle and clatter of cabinet doors, and you slowly get up and open the door.
He jumps, when you materialise in the doorway, and even that hurts.
“What’s wrong?” you ask, leaning against the frame to try and mask your exhaustion.
“Nothing.” he lies, with a determined head shake, and you raise an eyebrow.
“Doesn’t look like nothing. Let me see.”
He obliges as you get closer, peeling his shirt off with a pained expression, and you have to stop yourself from gasping.
His right arm is painted a deep purple, and you can almost feel it throbbing.
“Holy shit.”
He gives you a non-committal shrug.
“It’ll heal. It always does.”
“What does that mean? How often does this happen?”
“Nothing. It’s nothing, ignore me.” he mumbles, and your eyes drift to his other arm.
It looks fine, except for his hand, which is curled into a fist.
You reach for it, unfurling it, and you see the scratch.
It all clicks into place with a momentous shatter, and the world collapses.
The evenings away. The way he caught that glass. When he heard MJ, before she’d made it to the door. The panicking, the pressure, the way he knew something had happened outside the pharmacy.
Oscar Piastri and Spiderman must be one and the same.
You almost shout, but you bite your tongue. Instead, you just give him a worried glance, and fetch some ice from the freezer, sealing it in a bag and pressing it on his arm.
If he can see something deeper brewing in your expression, he stays silent. He just takes it gratefully, his hand brushing yours, and disappears into his room.
“I have time for a story, now.” shouts Spiderman, catching you by the half-burnt warehouse.
“He got out.” you spit, and he nods.
“I know. I’ll find him.”
Now that you know, you wonder how you couldn’t see it before. He’s actually the same, just a little too cocky for your liking, with an overly practiced accent.
“I don’t need to tell you anything, by the way.” you mutter, and he hesitates.
You expect an argument, but instead, he says your name.
It’s meant to be a question, but it sounds more like an oath.
“Who’s that, your girlfriend?” you ask, thinking back to when he’d said just that.
He stares at you, like he’s testing if you’re serious. If you’re really not her, not you.
You wonder if he hopes you are, or if he hopes you aren’t. You can’t dare to ask.
“A little more than that, but a whole lot less.” he replies, and it’s bitter.
“That makes no sense.”
“Tell me about it.” he complains, and you tilt your head to the side.
“How’s the arm?”
“I’ll live.” The conversation is brittle. You’re waiting for a sign of life, and you catch one, below.
The same guy who you’d bitten yesterday. You could almost still taste his blood on your tongue.
Without saying goodbye, your hook is latched forward, and you’re swinging away.
You grab him by the collar of his shirt as you go past, and he struggles beneath you.
You wonder if this is what cats feel like, when they have a bird in their mouth.
“Make it tomorrow. Same place, same time. Don’t be fucking late.” you hiss.
“Or what?”
“I drop you.”
You’re hanging him over the river, and it’s fast up here. Good for discarding corpses. Or for turning people into one.
“Alright.”
You’re less nervous this time. You’re angry.
Your claws drum on the now half-ruined roof, waiting to see him again.
When they appear, you drop down.
“Hand him over first, this time.” you whisper. The bag is at your feet, and you position your foot to kick it over.
With a grunt, your father is thrown at you, struggling to stay sure-footed.
“You shouldn’t have come.” he urges, but you just shrug, kicking the money towards them.
“You shouldn’t have gotten caught.” you counter, but he shakes his head.
“They’re going to kill you.”
At that, you see the blinking lights hidden in grates, and behind blackened beams that have fallen on themselves.
They’re going to blow you up.
It makes sense. Your father had always been a problem. And they would’ve shot him, if you hadn’t started rearing your ugly head.
You slice through the rope tying his hands.
You hand him your grappling hook. His hook, that fits in both your palms.
“I’ll run. You go.” you order, shoving him forward.
Maybe, if he was a better father, he’d place it back in yours, and that would be it.
But he doesn’t.
He doesn’t.
Whether he’s convinced you’ll make it or not, you don’t know. But what you do know, is you might be about to die, saving his life.
You’d die his daughter, and your mother would never know, and that would be it. And he’d slink away somewhere, and maybe he’d mourn you. Maybe he’d regret it. You hope he will.
You think it might be easier to climb, than to run. You don’t know how long you have.
So you scamper towards the river bank, and up the fire-escape stairs, to the more robust half of the warehouse.
You plant your feet, and wait for the world to shake.
It doesn’t just shake, it erupts.
You’re knocked back, toppling to the edge, and you know this is it.
You wait for the water to contort your back, to clog your throat.
You wait for the splash, and the inevitable sink.
It never comes.
Oscar, Spiderman, is gripping on to your extended arm, his heels grounded on the loose tile.
“I’m not letting go.” he mutters, through gritted teeth, and you give him a wicked smile.
“Never said you were going to.”
But you can see it; the searing pain coming from his arm. You imagine the bruises, the way they spread across to his shoulder.
The ache comes in white flashes, and he’s convinced his arm is about to fall off, but he just can’t let go.
There’s many reasons as to why he’s biting through the pain.
One: he does not want you to die. No matter what you’ve done, how you lied. No matter the blood on his hand that came from your claw.
Two: you may be his only friend. There’s something so painful in the loneliness of it all. And maybe the insults you spat at him, and the way you hated him, was better than how it had been before.
Three: some part of you will forever, no matter how irrational, remind him of the girl back home.
So he endures. He suffers, and does not complain, he just pulls, and pulls. And you’re trying, you’re really trying, but you can’t heave yourself forward.
For a moment, the tension on his arm subsides, and he figures you have pushed yourself onto the tile, and it’ll be okay.
But instead, you’ve stumbled.
And just like that, he suffers no more.
Instead, you fall, and this time you know the water is coming to welcome you.
It will not cushion your blow.
You do not deserve a soft exit. You do not deserve anything at all, you conclude.
And so, the Black Cat does not land on her feet. She lands on her back instead, and she is dead. Not from curiosity, not from a clumsy tenth attempt at something greater.
From something much harder to name.
Maybe something honourable, if you’re feeling generous.
Oscar returns home with something heavy in his chest.
He almost expects you not to be there. He almost expects to hear the news of your body floating into the main port a few days later, and he’ll hope his arm rots.
“Oscar.” you whisper, squeezing your hair into a towel.
“You’re, you’re here!” he exclaims, and his laugh makes you a little dizzy.
“I live here, so. Yeah.”
With a few excited strides, he tugs you towards him, and the pain doesn’t even register.
“I thought-” he begins, trailing off.
“-dangerous thing to do, that.” you finish, giving him a lazy grin, and he laughs again.
He’s so elated, it makes your heart jump.
Then he suddenly looks almost feverish, from the way he’s fiddling with his hands and the smile that’s beginning to crack.
“I have to tell you something.”
“Floor’s yours, Piastri.”
“The thing. I still can’t tell you, but I’m going to anyway. And I know you’ve got your own shit going on, but I want this to be like, I don’t know. A vow, or something.”
His ears turn pink when he realises what he’s just said.
“Do I get a ring, too? Where’s the officiant?” you respond, and he realises it’s you. You’re back.
“I’m Spiderman. Like, the swinging, blundering idiot. Me.”
He sounds proud and embarrassed simultaneously.
“I had a suspicion.” you begin, giving him a knowing nod, and he startles.
“You’re serious?”
You giggle.
“No, I had no idea. None, really. Thought you were too much of a dork for that. Consider me impressed, Piastri.”
It’s not enough, for such big news, but you’re not sure how else to react. And he’s grateful, because it’s so you, and so perfect.
He looks hopeful, like it might be enough. Like it might be enough to get you back.
He doesn’t ask you if you can tell him what was keeping you away. It doesn’t even cross his mind.
You realise you wouldn’t tell him anyway, and that settles in your gut.
“I’m not expecting this to change your mind about us, or to put me first, or whatever. I just need you to understand that I’ll give you all of me, always. Even the parts I keep hidden from everyone else.”
“Even Lando?”
He groans, rolling his eyes.
“Even Lando.”
You break out into a stupid, lovesick, grin.
“You like me more than Lando. Hah! I’d love to see his reaction to that.”
Oscar frowns.
“You know you can’t tell anyone, right? I probably should’ve clarified that. Like, this is top secret information. And even if I fuck it up, which I will, eventually, can you please not tell-” he rambles, clearly panicking a little, and you huff.
“Oscar?”
“Yeah?”
“Shut up.”
🕷ꨄ︎
