Chapter Text
Beatrice toed through rain-slicked streets, dodging puddles and potholes as the sun dipped below the skyline. She barely registered the train passing overhead, the distant car horns and the scurrying of rats in the shadows—this part of Queens was familiar; it was home. She looked both ways before crossing the street, pulling her keys from her bag as she approached her building. Her hands trembled as she found the door handle, feeling suddenly queasy. Bea paused, barely meeting her own eyes in the dirty reflection. Don’t be a coward.
With a sharp breath and a shake of her head, she went inside. She took the stairs one step at a time, slowing as she got closer to the seventh floor. The shouting from apartment 712 was crystal clear. Beatrice winced; the drinking didn’t usually start until dinnertime. The poor neighbours. Of course, she’d never had the audacity to introduce herself—Beatrice was certain apartment 712 was the most hated of them all—but she knew her closest neighbours, the Parkers, knew, and she hated it.
Beatrice’s left shoulder instinctively twinged as she pushed the key into the lock and turned. She slipped into the apartment as quickly as she could to keep the argument from spilling into the hall, but the sight before her was enough to make her regret ever opening the door in the first place. Mom was on the kitchen floor, an arm outstretched to protect her face from Walter, screaming at the very top of his lungs. Beatrice spotted a bottle of something in one hand, the other poised to hit her mom. There was nothing Bea could do to stop the resounding smack. Her mom crumpled to the floor, cradling the new welt on her forearm, and Walter stood straight. With a sniff, he took a long swig of drink before announcing, “Going out. Clean yourself up, Nancy, for fuck’s sake.”
Mom whimpered, curling further into herself. Walter turned, his beady eyes finding Beatrice still at the door. She hated the satisfied gleam of them, the smirk on his lips. “And where’ve you been?”
“School,” she said. “Education comes first, right?”
“Are you sassing me, girl?”
Beatrice tilted her chin up. “Never, sir.”
He nodded, gaze dipping low enough to make her skin crawl, and shoved her aside. She didn’t let herself breathe until the door clicked shut behind him, and he was gone. Beatrice's legs turned to liquid and she fell to her knees. “Mom?” she whispered, crawling to her mother’s side. “Are you okay?”
It was a stupid question, but she’d tried ‘leave the bastard’ and ‘why do you put up with him?’ enough times to know it brought nothing but pain for both of them.
“Yes, baby,” her mom croaked. “I’m okay.”
Beatrice helped her sit up and stood to fetch her a glass of water. “Want to tell me what that was about?”
“Oh, you know,” she said. “This and that.”
The same roundabout answer Bea had always gotten. She took the water glass to her mom’s lips and helped her drink. In the light, Beatrice could see just how much worse her mom looked. Her cheek had begun to swell and bruise, and there was a small cut on her bottom lip. Growing up, Beatrice never stopped hearing just how much she looked like her mom. Their identical noses, big brown eyes that shone golden in the sunlight, untameable hair and temperaments to match—once upon a time, at least. The only difference between them was their skin. Her mother had a beautiful, dark complexion but Beatrice’s was a shade lighter—her oh-so-generous father’s only contribution. Of course, living with a man like Walter had its consequences. On nights like these, colour wasn’t the only difference in their skin because, more often than not, her mom was plagued with bruises, cuts and grazes. How could any woman live with a man like him?
Beatrice sighed. “When is this going to end, Mom? When will enough be enough?”
“Soon, honey,” she said, putting the glass down. “I promise this won’t be forever." Another promise, broken as soon as it’s made. Another glimpse of false hope. Fool’s gold. Her mom looked up at Beatrice, squinting at the kitchen lights, and forced a chuckle. “Any chance you could help me out?”
Beatrice paused, toying with her hands. “What’s gonna happen when I’m not here to patch you up anymore? When I’m at college and it’s just you and him? I can’t keep fixing this for you.” She stood, ignoring the sinking feeling in her stomach. “Maybe you need to actually see the consequences for it to sink in. Before it’s too late.”
She couldn’t have left fast enough. Her sneakers slipped on the linoleum more than once, but she couldn’t stand the look of betrayal in her mother’s eyes. Bea made sure to lock her bedroom door behind her before sinking to the floor. Her insides burned with the shame and guilt of it all. After everything, easing her mother’s pain was the least Beatrice could do, but … this was necessary. If she wanted anything to change … She was doing the right thing, wasn’t she?
The apartment was silent now, her bedroom slightly aglow with the light of the setting sun. Beatrice couldn’t tell if her mother had gotten up or if she was still on the kitchen floor, if she was hating Beatrice or if she thought, at last, my daughter has grown a backbone.
It took longer than usual for Beatrice to feel safe again. Knowing no one was going to come barging in, locked door or not, gave her a rare peace of mind. Slowly, she stood and slipped the backpack off her shoulders, collapsing on her bed. She was up to her eyes in homework and had missed messages from Celia, but she couldn’t even bring herself to talk to her best friend, let alone study. Instead, she pulled her earphones out of her bag and stared at her ceiling for a few hours, drowning out the world with some Fleetwood Mac. Bruises and scrapes seemed like nothing against the tortures of the mind. She used to meditate to work through her feelings, but not thinking at all was so much easier. Save it all for ‘one day’, she’d tell herself. In ten years’ time when she could afford real therapy.
She heard the clanging of pans on the stove thirty minutes before Walter’s dulcet tones, announcing his arrival as per usual. Beatrice pulled her headphones out and turned off her music. She didn’t dare make a sound as they sat down to whatever her mom had scraped together; for once there seemed to be no question of her whereabouts, no question of why her mother was still beaten and bruised. Beatrice knew it was only a matter of time, but for the moment, it was nice.
Bea sat up in bed. The sky had turned a darker shade of violet, the shadows in her room claiming every inch of space. Turning the light on had only ever been an invitation for Walter, so she waited for her eyes to adjust in the dark. At least now she had a real excuse to avoid her homework. Quietly, she unlaced her sneakers and placed them at the foot of her bed before changing out of her school clothes and into a too-large hoodie and sweatpants. She also opted for some fuzzy socks; very few problems in life couldn’t be fixed with some warm socks.
The TV clicked to life in the living room, and Beatrice knew it was going to be a long night. Sleep seemed further away than ever there in the darkness. She considered stuffing a towel under the door and turning on the light to do her homework, but would she be able to concentrate? Beatrice sighed defeatedly, sitting down on her bed once more. One day she’d leave. She’d go far away, further than anyone could follow, and she’d be allowed to be happy. To turn her light on at night without being afraid. To have good days and bad days and no consequences for either of them. To go out with friends, to watch a movie in the living room, to just wind down and read a book. Surely, one day.
Her thoughts were interrupted by a groaning noise outside her door. Her head snapped up, searching the light under the door for a sign of Walter, but … The sound came again, and Beatrice realised it wasn’t coming from the living room—it wasn’t coming from inside the apartment at all. A shadow crossed her window. Something was outside. Bea’s breath caught in her throat when a dark figure approached her seventh-storey window, opened it, and stumbled into her bedroom.
It was a man, definitely, and he seemed drunk. Beatrice slapped a hand over her mouth, standing and shuffling into the darkest corner of her room, praying it was enough to conceal her. How on earth did he get up here? Oh god. He’s—shit, concentrate. 5’9 maybe, strong, slim build, latex—is he wearing latex? He seemed confused, stumbling around the room, but he was coming closer. And closer. She didn’t have a choice. He turned and looked her dead in the eyes before her fist connected with his nose.
Her hands flew to her mouth as she realised what she’d done—and just how much noise she’d made doing it. The intruder had fallen to the floor with a loud thud, but that was when she realised—he wasn’t any regular intruder. She stood, frozen in place for almost a minute. Her aching fist throbbed with her racing heart as she strained her ears, waiting to hear Walter come stomping over, for the television to shut off, but nothing happened. Lady luck was on her side tonight. Beatrice worked quickly, stuffing a blanket at the bottom of her door so she could switch her lamp on, stealing more than a few glances at the unconscious superhero on her bedroom floor.
Spider-Man was bleeding on her floor.
But why had he come into her apartment? Her room? He was clearly injured—perhaps he just needed help. His skin-tight suit was discoloured and torn in places, and the longer she stood there, the worse it all became. Knowing entirely well she wasn’t strong enough to move him to the bed, she grabbed her pillow and placed it behind his head. She’d seen so many videos of the strange spider hero on YouTube, heard the rumours at school. Beatrice was in awe of him, the way he flew through the streets, stopping even the slightest inkling of crime in a heartbeat, all without breaking a sweat. Why, then, had one single punch from Beatrice knocked him out cold?
She got her answer when she pulled at a tear in the skin-tight suit, assessing the damage as best she could. She could see minor cuts and grazes littered across his torso, and a nasty puncture wound under another tear on his hip. Beatrice swore. She’d never seen injuries to this extent, even living with Walter. She clicked her tongue at the stupid man behind the mask. He needed to go to a hospital. He should be counting his lucky stars that he landed in Beatrice’s room, whether that had been intentional or not. She needed to help him. Her stomach growled, and her heart sank. She’d need something to eat if she was going to heal him properly. But the thought of facing Walter at this hour … No, she’d do what she could.
She stood to draw the curtains, before pulling her hoodie off and rubbing her hands together. The sharp, upturned eyes of his mask seemed to stare at her, but a couple of pokes to his torso confirmed he was still out. If she got caught doing this … She couldn’t even imagine the consequences. Bea kneeled beside him. Breathe in, breathe out. She cleared her mind of Walter, of Mom, of the distant television noise and the sirens outside. Breathe in, breathe out. In, and out.
The light came from deep inside her bones, and Beatrice watched as it shone from her hands, glowing red and gold through the skin on her fingers. Like sunlight, it warmed her but never burned, as small rays danced through her fingertips and out again. Beatrice loved watching it, but she needed to be quick if this was going to work. She pressed one palm right above his navel over the suit, having to actively ignore the firmness of his abdomen, and pushed the light into him. He winced against the pressure, but didn’t rouse. Beatrice focused her other palm mostly on his hip, willing the wound to close, for the flesh to bind back to itself. But there was more, she could sense it. More than scrapes and bruises and a busted hip—he’d been shot. That’s when she noticed the holes in his calf, and the blood dripping out of it. The bullet had gone straight through, at least, though she knew he’d been far from lucky. Her light was fading, her energy running thin, but she willed the last of it into her hands.
Hoping he wouldn’t mind having to heal the minor grazes on his own, she moved her palms down to the injured leg. “Come on,” she whispered, clenching her eyes shut. The light sank deep and began its work. She felt the warmth of his blood on her hands, but she forced herself to ignore it. Just a little more … But there was nothing left. She was worn out, empty. The light receded and Beatrice flinched at how cold the room was without it. She was cold, she was tired. It took the last of everything she had to yank a scarf off her closet door, tying it around the man’s leg as a makeshift bandage. The bleeding had stemmed and the wound had closed, but she was sure he’d feel it in the morning.
Sleep was a welcome escape, but it wasn’t restful. It felt as if barely minutes had passed since her eyes had closed when they opened again. The room was still dark, but the apartment was silent—Walter and Mom must have gone to bed. Beatrice jumped when she noticed Spider-Man, sitting up and looking right at her. “It wasn’t a dream, then,” she said, stupidly, wincing at the sharp ache in her temple.
“No,” he murmured. “I don’t think it was.” His voice sounded familiar, but she couldn’t place it. She was so shocked by the fact he was sitting up, and apparently without pain.
“Did you take my mask off?” he asked.
Beatrice shook her head. “No, sir. I figured you kept that secret for a reason.” She shuffled closer on the floor, slowly so as not to startle him. “Can I see?” she asked tentatively, gesturing to his hip. She still didn’t quite trust him, and it was clear the feeling was mutual. But he nodded, and leaned back to show a small scar where the wound had once been. “What on earth?” She grabbed his leg, pulling the scarf away to assess his bullet hole, but that wound was almost entirely gone too.
“I, uh,” he started, pulling his leg back. “I heal fast.”
“Yeah, no kidding.” Christ, if she’d known in the first place, she wouldn’t have wasted so much energy on him. At least her secret was safe. “Mind telling me what happened to you tonight?”
“I … Look, I’m sorry for barging in like that. Don’t get me wrong, I’m super grateful you didn’t call the cops on me, but I have to go.” He shot to his feet, stumbling slightly at the lingering pain.
“Wait,” Beatrice said, standing too. “You can’t go out looking like that. You’re all holey, you’ll freeze to death.” She rummaged around her closet and pulled out an old flannel shirt and a pair of Walter’s sweatpants she’d been told to mend. She fixed them months ago, but he’d forgotten all about them. “Here, put these on. They’re my stepfather’s.” He took the clothes with quiet gratitude, pulling them on over his suit. “Do you need any painkillers? I think I have some Advil in my backpack.”
“Thank you, ma’am. And, no, I’m alright.”
“Ma’am?” she laughed before she could stop herself. “I’m not a ma’am.”
“What’s your name, then?”
She hesitated. He was a complete stranger, but he’d trusted her tonight. She could at least return the favour. “Beatrice.”
“Good name,” he said. The flannel was a little small, but the sweatpants dwarfed his red figure. She only hoped he didn’t have far to go.
“Oh yeah? What’s your name, then?”
“Spider-Man.”
Beatrice quirked a brow and he scoffed, but she could see his smile under the mask. “Wouldn’t you like to know, Beatrice.” With that, he drew the curtains, pushed the window open and crawled out onto the ledge before swinging into the night.