Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Hello! This is just the pre-amble to the fic where I address some things I consider important to know.

1. This fic will have evental NSFW, at which point I'll move it to the Explicit tag.

2. This fic is on an AU Timeline. The two main changes are that Dr. Octavius is in action a lot longer than in the movie, given that a fusion reactor capable of creating and holding a miniature sun would take some time for a single man to build. The other change is that Rosie passed away 3 years earlier in an accident unrelated to the fusion incident.

3. Since this is a Reader insert, I leave 90% of the Reader's appearance ambiguous with one exception: This Reader is fat. She's chubby. I'm putting this out there because it's both an actual relevant plot point, and because chubby ladies deserve fic catered to them. There is ZERO fatphobia in this fic as well. Just good ol fluff and body worship.

4. This will probably be obvious from the second you start reading but I truly know fuckall about New York City. I did my best. Pls be forgiving OTL

I think that's everything currently. Please enjoy and don't forget to give feedback! Current update schedule is Sundays! On a hiatus! I plan on returning to weekly updates sometime in February.

Chapter Text

"MAGNETIC MISTRESS ATTRACTS NYPD INVESTIGATION"

Oh wow, page 4 today. You were working your way to the front page faster than you expected. Was that a bad thing? Nobody had come to speak to you yet, there was no lingering sensation of heat down your back. You scanned the blurb--a nice quarter of the page--over a cup of sweet cold brew.

"The sightings of this metal menace reached double digits over the weekend when two passerby on W Broadway witnessed the Iron Belle robbing a local department store. She sucked the store's collection of precious metals towards her hands like a vacuum, running off with over twenty thousand dollars in stolen merchandise. While her motives appear to be strictly financial, it is only a matter of time before someone gets hurt in the process of her crime spree. Law enforcement officials are relying on the public to call the tip hotline if they have any information that could uncover the identity of the rogue, and are offering a cash reward for any tips that lead to an arrest."

Well, they were mostly correct. Gold and silver were two metals that actually weren't magnetic; you used your powers to weed out the fake junk so you could scoop up the good stuff quickly. On top of that, for “twenty thousand dollars of merchandise” you only managed to snag about 5k at the pawn shop. You weren’t sure how much of that was the store overcharging and how much was Julian shorting you, but either way you were feeling pretty cheated.

As for the nickname, you certainly found what the Bugle coined for you appealing. You had never thought too hard about your own alter ego, and when you did the best thing you had come up with was “Madame Metal,” something that sounded both far too ambitious and too formal for the kind of shit you pulled. The Iron Belle, on the other hand, seemed a bit more fitting. If anything it even made you feel kind of cute being referred to as a Belle. You were just thankful that you were more lucky when it came to your name than, say, the Green Goblin. 

Besides your own fifteen minutes of fame, you weren't interested in the rest of what the Bugle had to offer. After all, for the last year or so it had been nothing but stories about Spider-Man. You folded the paper and dropped it on top of your garbage pile of mail, slated for an eventual journey to your paper shredder, whenever you decided to clean and dust it.

Damn, you were a mess.

You wished you had time to clean, but what was far more important was looking clean. You could easily make a good living through crime if you made it your full time job, but the Tax Man was not nearly as lazy as New York cops. That meant you paid practically every penny of your meager barista earnings towards rent and utilities, and used the dirty money for...the extras. Things you could explain away as gifts or second-hand buys. After all, this was a temporary arrangement. Once you had everything you wanted, everything paid off, you'd give up the whole crime thing. In the meantime though?

You slid open your closet doors. On one hook hung a folded pair of black work pants and a black polo, your choice for the day. You closed the closet and began to get dressed, fluffing out your hair and trying to dry it as much as possible before tying it back into a loose knot. Working a coffee shop in New York was a fantastic way to lose your sanity in record time, but you had long ago developed a system: Your large and in-charge coworker handled the counter, the scrawny girl did dishes, and you focused solely on the drinks.

Those two angels were the only things making this schedule doable. It wasn't the most robust crew but with the three of you together the shop closed on time every night, and your boss had nothing to complain about. You set out down the steps of your little apartment building, enjoying your blissfully short walk to the street corner while you mulled over your Bugle feature.

Temporary gig. You'd be done before they even begin to suspect you.

The shop was bustling when you walked in, but where most of the chairs were taken the counter was barren for the moment. With a quick wave you stepped into the backroom, pulling your apron off the hook. A punch on the time clock, a sigh and an aggravated nibble on your thumbnail. Another day.

"You missed some action," Jackie was saying before you were even through the door, leaning a broad hip against the counter. “Louise’s boyfriend showed up right as she was leaving and they got into a scuh-REAMING match in front of the shop.” 

“Sheesh,” you sneered, looking out the glass storefront. “She’s so pretty, I don’t know what she’s doing putting up with the shit she does.”

“They live together,” the smaller girl chipped in. Wynonna was a tiny thing, 110 pounds soaking wet. Despite this she managed to drop scathing comments about customers that you only wished your mind was creative enough to come up with on the fly. “No way she can afford to live by herself in this city.”

You sighed. If only there was a way to change that. Things had changed since you picked up your little hobby, you were able to be a lot more generous with the homeless on the street or the charity drives when they stopped by. Even now though you couldn’t be too flashy with your money, lest you attract unwanted attention. If you could get Louise out and away from her boyfriend, or house the stray dogs and cats in this city, or do anything that was more than a $10 in a tip jar, you would. Instead, you only offered a grim “I feel so bad for her.”

“She had an apartment for 800$ a month in Michigan,” Jackie said, readjusting her hair band. “But that wasn’t good enough for her, she needed to live in the city of opportunity. Now she’s stuck with no opportunities.” 

“Oh she’s barely 20,” you retorted, nodding towards the customer approaching the counter. You all slowly moved to your battle stations. “She shouldn’t be completely screwed because of choices she made right after she became an adult.” 

Jackie shrugged and began to take the customer's order. You sighed, and Wynonna chipped in: “Life isn’t fair. Louise is just one example of that. So--”

She cut herself off and moved back to the prep counter, but you knew what she meant to say: So are you. You wiped the bad taste from your mouth and went about making caramel latte after pumpkin cold brew after honey oat steamer, running the drill you performed 5 days a week. You were in the midst of a 5 drink order, steaming a mocha when the screaming started outside.

Funny enough, New York in danger was almost a feature of the city at this point. People turned to look curiously rather than run for cover, watching as the civilians outside began to pick up speed. They all looked at something to the far left, something that was banging, screeching, and pounding against the pavement outside. The ground began to shake, and you shared a look with the girls.

“Get away from the windows!” Jackie yelled, commanding everyone’s attention and having them pull back from the massive panes of glass that faced the street. The rumbling drew closer, cars shaking on their suspensions when they weren’t sliding across the asphalt. You and the others crouched behind the counter and peeked over top.

Then came Spider-Man.

He hit the ground hard, somehow managing to recover from what would have broken anyone elses spine in a half of a second. He pulled himself to a crouch, breathing heavy, preparing for the next swing. You thought Spider-Man was a blowhard when he was chasing down petty thieves, but whoever he was fighting now was a whole other level of strong. 

You felt your fingers twitch along with the shaking of the ground. You wanted to help. You didn’t know why, you certainly hadn’t made any effort to help anyone before. But cowering here, surrounded by mugs rattling on pegs and New Yorkers crying in fear had you feeling powerless, and you were far from powerless. 

You pulled yourself up a bit, until your chin was over the counter. What Spider-Man was waiting for finally struck; a thick metal tentacle swiping along the street and towards his side. He glanced that one off, dodged another, sliding his body lithely between the appendages as a third and fourth entered the foray. Then, finally, the man they were attached to stepped into view.

You straightened up a little more, eyes focalizing on what was obviously the villain in this fight. He stood tall and broad, concentration twisting his face into a scowl as his metal arms swiped and stabbed at Spider-Man. Wait, metal arms? You could pin this guy right into place! 

This revelation made you shoot up, but you froze as soon as you were standing up straight. If anyone saw you using your metal powers and made the connection between you and the Iron Belle, you were done for. It wasn’t like you had any obligation to save Spider-Man or this city. Jackie and Wynonna were grabbing at your pants, trying to pull you back behind the counter. They were getting more convincing by the second.

All until the bigger man pinned Spider-Man to the ground. 

You hopped over the counter, ignoring the calls from your coworkers. You swung the cracked glass door open and stepped out on the sidewalk, mere meters away from where the man was unsheathing a knife from his tentacles to stab the superhero with. Stepping out of view of the cafe’s windows, you channeled your focus and raised your arms towards the half-metal man. 

“Come on,” you whispered, trying to focus on the familiar sense of connection and control that in your mind was magnetism…and coming up blank. His arms should have felt like solid objects in whatever sense it was that allowed you to harness your powers. Instead all you were feeling was the little metal frames of his sunglasses. You tested a magnetic pull and sure enough, the glasses flew off his face and into your hands while his arms remained unperturbed.

Mouth agape, you were snapped out of your confusion when the villain turned his attention to you. 

And you were actually powerless this time.

The man took the time to toss Spider-Man into an alley-way before turning and approaching you. You took a few steps back, suppressing the urge to run the best you could. Running would make this so, so much worse for you. Metal limbs crunched into a sidewalk, the man hovering in front of you with an expectant look.

"I believe you have something of mine," he commented, flicking his eyes down towards your hand. Shaking like a leaf in the wind, you raised the glasses up for him to take.

"What are your tentacles made of?" you asked, without much thought behind it. He plucked the shades from your fingers.

"Titanium-Steel alloy." Huh. You didn’t actually expect an answer. He slid the glasses back on his face. "Let me guess, you have some form of magnet powers?"

Fuck, he was quick. With perfect timing to save you from this moment, Spider-Man emerged from the alley, wrapping his web around a mailbox to chuck it at the villain. The metal-man caught it without so much as glancing back at the superhero.

"These arms--called actuators --are impervious to, among many other things, magnetism." He caught a metal trash bin, this time winging it back in the direction it came. "I suppose that makes you pretty helpless against me."

You looked to his right, through his intertwined actuators and eyeballing the line of cars on the street behind him. Your eyes flicked back up to his, and you shrugged. "I guess it does."

You outstretched your arms and pulled with everything you had. Whirling around, he tried to catch the car the same as the smaller projectiles but the momentum sent both him and the vehicle flying, narrowly missing you as he slammed down the street. You stared after the carnage, amazed with your own actions.

"Hey, thanks!" you heard from above you. You looked up just in time to see a red and blue flash soar overhead, chasing after the metal-armed man to put an end to things. So Spider-Man had seen you use your powers. Also not good. You raced back to the coffee shop before anyone else could get eyes on you here and play connect the dots. The glass had gone from cracked to shattered completely, and all the people still inside were panicky messes as you made your way back behind the counter.

"See what you wanted to see?" Jackie hissed, utterly amazed that you had made it back in one piece. You sighed, trying to forget that there were now not one but two people with the pieces needed to put your secret identity together.

“Nah, it was kind of boring,” you joked.  

“Are you kidding me? Spider-Man threw a car!”

Chapter Text

After the shitshow on Monday, your life had been very quiet in comparison. The coffee shop was closed yesterday to clean up and repair the windows, and to avoid any complaining your boss forwarded everyone a check for the days the shop was closed. It was this check you were on your way to deposit now, walking to your bank in Union Square.

You still weren't sure why you got involved in that fight. You supposed it was just a call to action--two superpowered humans were going toe-to-toe and having powers yourself made you feel like you had to be a part of the action. Or maybe, despite the fact you didn’t really like or dislike Spider-Man, you couldn’t stand to see a hero get squished like…well, a bug. All you knew was that it had gotten you a ton of grief. Now if Spider-Man happened to try and stop you during one of your crimes he'd probably recognize you instantly, and the other guy...well, you hoped you'd never have to answer for the car you flung at him. The only comfort was that none of the people in the shop had put together that you had anything to do with the flying automobile.

You turned the corner, eying the sign for your bank a few stores ahead. Today was your last day off before you got back to work tomorrow, so you hoped you could use the time to get your apartment in order for once. You weren't necessarily a slob, but you only used the kitchen, bed, and your one spot on the couch, leaving most of the other surfaces to get cluttered and dusty. You used to joke that you could never make do with one of the shoe-box apartments New York was so well known for, but now it felt like that was all you needed.

The moment you stepped in front of the bank's double doors they slammed open, a screaming crowd pouring onto the sidewalk. You retreated, back pressed against the window of a juice shop next door as you watched the people run out into the streets. Of course your bank would be getting robbed today, right now. Just your luck. Without Spider-Man there you had no motivation to try and help this time, deciding instead you'd just go back home and cash your check before work tomorrow.

The rushing of people was all you heard at first. Yet as you absconded with the crowd you became aware of a heavy rumble, metal clunks growing louder in an unnatural cadence akin to a four-legged animal. You whipped around in time to watch the doors blow off their hinges entirely, the supervillain from earlier in the week emerging from the bank with duffel bags lining his metal arms--pardon, actuators.

Then, to your horror, he locked eyes with you just as he did last time. His mouth split in a grin so sinister your palms began to sweat. “Ah, Miss Magnet!” 

Absolutely not. You bolted in the opposite direction, rounding the corner and trying to ignore the pounding against the concrete behind you. Where were you going to run? You tried to blend into the crowd of people fleeing while you used your head start of a few precious seconds to try and form a plan. 

Fighting wasn’t an option; he certainly wouldn’t underestimate you again. Your best bet was to try and lose him, keep him occupied long enough for cops to show up and distract him. With that in mind you ducked into an alley to your right, small enough that you could reach both walls with the palms of your hands. You raced towards the next street, and as expected you heard bricks crumbling behind you. 

He was growling, trying and failing to maneuver both himself and his arms through the tight space. Perfect. You kept running to the next street over, your face paling when you turned back around and saw him scaling up the building instead. You had bought yourself another ten seconds at best. 

Better use them efficiently. You took a left as soon as you got on the street, then another left, putting you on the opposite side of the building you were just running beside. This alley was bisected by a fence, one with thin metal that you reached forward to tear apart. What happened instead was a different sensation, where not only could you pull at the metal, but the metal was also pulling at you.

Unfamiliar as it felt, you weren’t willing to slow down. Panicked screams from the street behind you spurring you forward, you jumped at the fence with hands outstretched to wrap your fingers through the chain links. Instead your body lifted, an invisible force pressing against your front side like a full-bodied hug that carried you up and over the 7-foot fence. You turned around and stared, bewildered, at the fence you had managed to…levitate over? Since when could you do that without your kit?

You didn’t have long to wonder. On the opposite side of the fence you watched the man step into view, this time with more than enough leg room to pursue you. You turned and sprinted once more, pulling your hood up and tightening the strings as much as you could. Not the best disguise. In fact, you’d probably have to trash this hoodie after you got home, but you needed an escape plan, and the only way to do that was busting out the powers. 

With an outstretched hand you summoned a stop sign towards you, catching it and weaving it between your legs. You lifted the sign off the ground and pressed your chest against the octagonal plate, trying desperately to keep your balance as you soared up towards the tops of the buildings. You didn’t dare look down, not for your pursuer or anything else, until your toes were scraping against the roof of the corner building. Only then did you peek over the edge.

He was still in pursuit, metal arms sending debris tumbling to the sidewalk below as he climbed the face of the building. Christ, was he that angry? All you did was throw one single car at him, and he obviously wasn’t even that hurt! You backed away from the edge and ran, re-assuming your position on your makeshift magic broomstick. You hopped off the opposite edge and flew down another street, hoping you’d gain enough distance to make the resolute bastard lose interest. 

That wound up taking longer than you expected. You were both keeping ahead of the cops judging on the sirens, and every time you stopped to catch your breath, the sound of crunching concrete wasn’t far behind. You were starting to get tired of running, but the longer he dedicated to chasing you, the more you were convinced you wanted nothing to do with what he had in mind for you. 

You had managed to make your way to the riverside, your balance on the stop sign wobbly as you tried to speed up again. You glanced over at the murky waters, and back over your shoulder at the villain in pursuit.  He couldn’t chase you with nothing to cling to. For just a moment, you needed to swallow all your fears and insecurities, and with a huge gulp of breath you broke away from the streets, flying out over the wide expanse of the East River.

You didn’t dare look down, but you knew just from the sudden lack of noise from every direction how dangerously you were playing. The bustle of New York surrounded you from every direction so persistently that the relative quiet of being just hundreds of feet away was stark, and terrifying. How easy it would be to lose your balance and slide off your little hover board, you could feel your grip around the sign’s handle getting slippery at just the thought. Trying desperately to keep your shakes in check, you glanced back towards the city. 

There he was, perched on the roof of a hotel and staring out after you. Watching to see where you went, you assumed. He had something in his hand, but it was much too distant for you to figure out what it was. Regardless, you were out of reach, and that was where you wanted to be. 

You slid up and pressed your chest more firmly against the sign, re-affirming your grip and taking off across the river towards Williamsburg. After a long wait for a pursuit that never came, you ran out of the alleys and caught a taxi cab back home. Only when you were finally decompressing in the cab’s back seat did a stray thought hit you, hands subconsciously flying over your body to search your pockets.

What happened to your check?

Otto stared after the woman as she flew away, teetering from side to side as she tried to stay upright on a skinny metal pole. He wasn’t going to follow her across the bridge--the cops had been pursuing them for some time now and he needed to get them off his scent--but damn if that wasn’t an exhilarating chase.

He lifted the slip of paper he had snagged after you had taken off from the street, running his thumb over the business name in the upper left corner: “The Bean Machine.” Wasn’t that the same cafe that he and Spider-Man had fought outside of just days ago? And hell, now that he was thinking about it, weren’t you wearing an apron when he saw you that day?

A smile cracked, fingers deftly folding the check in half and sliding it in his pocket.

Chapter Text

    After everything that had happened this week, you should have been more hesitant to work your "weekend job." Unfortunately, the bills didn't wait. You had spent most of what you made in last week’s jewelry haul on paying off debt, and what was left covered your weekly expenses since you never managed to cash your damn check. You couldn't afford not to score tonight, even if it was just a few hundred. That much would buy your groceries and fix the flickering bulb in your bathroom.

The problem with small heists was that you absolutely refused to rob normal people. They were much easier targets, yes. They didn't have nearly the same protection as the stores, were more likely to be ignored by the cops, but it wasn't your style to take from the people whose desperation you had tasted first hand. Businesses, conversely, were free-game, and if you ever got the opportunity to break into the penthouse of some rich New York asshole and take the lot, you'd be more than willing to do that too. But you weren’t there yet. For now, your comfort level was somewhere between the jewelry stores, and armored trucks like the one you were surveying now.

You had seen it make rounds at businesses near your apartment. You didn't believe in shitting where you ate, so you followed it out of East Village where it made a drop off and switched shifts. Two new guards climbed into the cab, and the new route began with them driving into the Lower East Side.

It was here that you struck, lying in wait until the truck pulled up outside of a chain gas station. One guard went in, the other stayed in the cab. From the shadows you approached, sticking just outside of the station's fluorescent lights and raising your arms. You could sense the lock on the back, could bend it to your will with just a flick of your fingers. With a bit of magnetic finesse you had the doors slowly swing open, darting forward to shove as much of the cash as you could into your backpack.

You got three plastic bags full of stacked bills before you heard the other guard throw his door open. Three was enough for you. You took off towards the shadows, slinging the bag over your shoulders and ignoring the shouting behind you.

Once you crossed into the alley you leapt into the air, focusing your attention on your arms and legs. Thick metal cuffs lifted your wrists in front of you, and your custom steel-toed boots carried your legs behind. By the time the armed guard turned around the corner, you were safely on the roof of the apartment building, listening to him curse after you before he ran back to the truck.

Phew. You sat and pulled your gaiter down to your neck to take deep, timed breaths. Even small-scale crimes like yours were still utterly panic-inducing for you. Every little heist you managed to pull off was the equivalent of swiping the Hope Diamond as far as you were concerned. In reality, no matter how big it felt like you were going, there was always some super villain's grand scheme taking the public’s attention by the next morning. The beauty of New York.

Once you were able to get your breathing under control you stood back up, assessing your escape routes. You wanted to stay away from the main roads, confusing enough that nobody could trace you back home but concise enough that you’d get there quickly. You decided to stick west, flying low near Columbia street and taking the back alleys once you were in East Village. With your route planned, you re-activated your makeshift flight suit and lifted yourself in the air.

The sensation of flight was rather uncomfortable, at least the way you had to do it. Two thick bracelets and the metal on your feet were all you had to carry your weight, and managing the feat didn’t make it enjoyable. You wanted a more appropriate suit, perhaps with some form of metal mesh to help support yourself, but you figured the less incriminating evidence you kept at your address, the better. Besides, being a known super-villain with a “look” and all wasn’t your desire. You wanted to fade into obscurity when you were done with this entire mess, the final nail in the Iron Belle’s coffin being a detective slapping a folder shut and filing it away. A case that fizzled into nothing before it was ever worth solving. 

Despite that, you couldn’t help but dream about what “The Iron Belle” might have the potential to look like. You could easily manage something that looked more casual. Maybe not the whole spandex suit thing Spider-Man had going on, but a hoodie with something sewn into the back? Maybe even a collection of inconspicuous pins? Then again, being carried around by a hundred dinky pins on your back didn’t sound too fun either. So wrapped up in your fashion designer dream, you barely processed the sound of whirring metal before something smashed into your chest and dragged you down into one of New York’s many scummy alleys.

The thing let go last second, throwing you belly-first on the concrete. Pain rocked your body, a shocked gasp pulled out of your throat. Fuck, you weren’t like those other super-powered freaks that could take a hit. This shit hurt.  

“I don’t believe we’ve introduced ourselves.”

Had you broken a mirror? Walked under a ladder? You tried to comb your mind for some horrible crime you had committed lately (besides grand larceny) that awarded you such a shit batch of karma and came back blank. You pushed yourself to your hands and knees, looking up at the source of the all-too-familiar voice. The only source of light in this alley was behind him, making it impossible to read his face. All you could see was the burning red cherry of a thick cigar. 

“Hi, listen, I’m sorry.” You pushed yourself to stand, trying to ignore the various pains overtaking your limbs. Nothing worse than a few bruises. Massive, quickly-forming bruises. “I shouldn’t have gotten involved with you and Spider-Man.” 

He plucked the cigar from his lips with a human hand. “You threw a car at me.”

You had to admit: He had a point. You sputtered, pointing an accusing finger at him. “You were looking at me all threatening and shit! I took your glasses which--THAT was a total accident, by the way, just so you know. Then you’re like ‘Ohhh, I guess you’re powerless huh?’ Like…who asks that except people that are about to murder you?”

He stepped forward. Without his sunglasses you could see the streetlight reflected in his eyes, the dim yellow illuminating his devious grin. “To your point, we did intend to murder you.”

“See!” You threw your hands in the air. “So, self defense.” 

“You could say that,” he replied coolly, taking a puff of his cigar. You got the sudden sense that this might have been about more than the car.

“Cool,” you drawled, unnerved by his sudden calm. He didn’t react immediately, so you took a quick step back. “So, later then.”

You had barely managed to turn around before a titanium claw affixed to your ankle, tugging your leg behind you. You fell forward and caught yourself on your forearms, wincing as you were pulled back towards him. “Fuck!” 

“I said,” his voice was stern, but held an air of playfulness that told you he was in complete control and knew it well, “I don’t believe we’ve introduced ourselves.”

You winced, slower to pick yourself back up this time. Your arms were starting to strain from the effort of holding up your body. “I’m the Iron Belle. Not ‘Miss Magnet,’ by the way.”

He ignored your snooty comment. “I’m not asking for your tabloid moniker, I want your name.” 

“Wilma.” You stood back up and turned around, snorting at his curious head tilt. “Wilma dick fit in your mouth?” 

You threw your arms protectively in front of your chest, barely managing to protect your vital organs from getting smashed into with a ton of metal. Arms sandwiched tight, he shoved you against the brick wall and began to slowly squeeze the air out of your chest.

“I’m Dr. Otto Octavius,” he introduced himself, ignoring the frantic wheeze of your lungs being pressed flat, “and despite your smartass mouth, you could prove to be of great use to us.”

He loosened his hold and you took a huge gulp of breath. “I’m not looking to be anyone’s sidekick.” 

“Do you have much of a choice?” Otto asked with a smirk.

“Look, I just want to take my money home and pay my bills.” You tried to pry the arm away from you, with no luck. The thing was so damn sturdy you might as well have been pinned between a building and a semi truck. “I’m not into the whole super villain scene just because I have powers and do…morally questionable things!”

“I’m not a super villain. Quite the opposite, what I’m working on is an innovation that will help millions around the globe.” So not only was he mad, he was in denial about it. You wondered if you should inform him that non-super villains usually don’t chase people down, but you had suffered enough blows tonight.

“Sounds incredible. Much too important for an amateur like me to be getting my hands on.” You began to glance around the alley for something you could throw at him, and his claw re-tightened around your arms and chest. You gritted your teeth and hissed: “Fuck, man!”

“I acted too aggressively,” Otto lamented, gesturing with his cigar as he paced back and forth in front of you. You had to scoff at that. “The implications of your powers didn’t hit me until later that day, and ever since we’ve been eager to see you again.”

“Aw, are you calling me attractive?” You expected him to have a witty comeback to your banter, and instead received a blank stare. It was hard to tell in this light, but he might have even been blushing. You quickly rushed to cover your tracks. “It’s uh, a magnet joke. Attracting, that is.”

“A magnet joke,” he repeated flatly. 

“That’s what we do, is we make one-liners based off of like, our powers?” He didn’t seem to be catching on. “You would say stuff like…um.” You tilted your head back and forth nervously. “ The Doc is in! Or…I don’t know, actually. But…that’s what the other guys do, so…”

Just when your explanation started to fizzle into an exasperated wheeze, Otto chuckled and nodded. “I see.” 

The actuator released you without warning, leaving you barely able to catch yourself from falling on your face. You stumbled forward, nearly into him --when he caught you by your upper arms and forced you to stand up straight.

“Look. Jokes aside, I need you to help me.” The sudden sincerity that came over his voice, his eyes, his entire being was enough to make you gulp. He had even dropped his mostly intact cigar to the ground in his intensity. “The last time I tried to do this myself, I turned myself into…”

He glanced over to one of his actuators, and you could have sworn you saw the tentacle looking back, almost as though there was sentient thought behind it. Now that you looked around, the actuators did seem to move on their own accord. When Otto wasn’t using them to beat the shit out of people, that is.

“So you need my powers to keep your experiment from…mutating you? Again?” you questioned, trying not to let the obvious stress on his face sway you into feeling pity for him. You didn’t owe this criminal anything. “Sounds like you shouldn’t be doing it instead of relying on me.”

“This is my life’s work.” Otto gripped your arms tighter, eyebrows knit together as his voice betrayed his silent desperation. “I have spent decades trying to do good on the largest scale possible and all that I need to complete that goal is you. Isn’t that what you want?”

It is. The thought spawns in your mind before you can think better of it. How many nights had you spent dreaming of putting good in the world, more good than any one person could accomplish alone? Some of you said to hear him out, to consider playing a part in his grand scheme. Most of you however, lucid and cautious, reminded yourself that this was a bad guy and there was no guarantee his plan was actually for the greater good of mankind. Keeping your head down and not associating with known super villains, that was what you needed to do.

You took the briefest of glances over his head, eying the fire escape of the building behind him. Just 3 floors, not a lot of metal. Small enough for you to move? You’d have to find out. “Sorry, Doc. I don’t get in cahoots with guys I don’t know.” 

Hands closed into fists, you inhaled and clenched the muscles all the way up your arm. The old metal groaned as screws popped loose and the thin supports gave way, bringing the structure crumbling down towards you both. Otto sent his actuators upward, catching the metal lattice without letting his grip on you falter. For that, you drove your steel-toe into his foot. He winced, and you broke off running to the mouth of the alley the second he let you go.

 “Wait!”

You re-activated your cuffs, lifting yourself back up in the air. Metal struck like a harpoon slicing through water, and you cried out as a claw grabbed the cuff on your left arm and ripped it right off your wrist. You pulled hard on the metal you had remaining on your body, nearly ripping your other arm out of its socket trying to pull out of his range before he could take anything else. 

The sound of screeching metal getting farther in the distance, you took yourself as far away from the alley as possible, slower without your full kit, yet never stopping until you were safely on the roof of your apartment building. You collapsed on your knees, wincing as you finally began to realize just how many parts of you hurt. That was…a lot. Too much, even. Tears began to form in the corners of your eyes as you realized just how far in over your head you were with this superpower stuff.

Slowly, you slid your little backpack off your arms and pulled it in front of you, observing your small haul once again. Hard as it was to admit, you needed this money to survive. Life in New York was expensive enough without all the extra debt you were lugging around. You sighed, swinging your arms around to work out some of the ache that came from flying unevenly.

At least you had another day to defuse before you had to go back to work.

Chapter Text

Otto Octavius was a hell of a figure.

Given that you only scanned the newspaper for your own stories, it was easy to see how you had missed all the news detailing his crime spree around New York City. The villainous "Doctor Octopus" born from a disgraced scientist after some nondescript experiment gone awry. That sounded like what he was talking about Saturday night, the same experiment that had somehow fused the actuators to his body.

You huffed and folded the newspaper in half, swiping your coffee off the counter and taking a sip. Whatever it was he was building in his lab, the fact that it altered his body so severely told you that you wanted to be nowhere near it. You wondered why he would ever re-build something that nearly killed him, but that only skewed you further towards believing he was truly mad. Nothing he said made sense. He was robbing banks and fighting superheroes, for a project that was supposed to help the public good, except the first test ruined his life? Pure lunacy. You were so glad you didn't get swept up in those intense, enchanting eyes--

You froze mid-step, taking a large gulp of coffee and using it to mentally wash your last thought out of your mind.

With no desire to learn anything more about Dr. Octavius, you made your way to work with a long sleeve turtleneck to cover your nasty spread of bruises. The routine was the same as always, monotonous and comfortable, with the exception that you couldn't stop thinking about your encounter that weekend. You clocked in and stepped behind the counter, looking out onto the street where you had caught the attention of one of New York's most prolific super villains.

"Neil wants to know why you haven't cashed your check yet," Jackie interrupted your train of thought, tapping her acrylic nails on the counter top. You winced; you really didn't want to tell them that you had lost it. You shrugged casually.

"My bank was getting robbed when I went to cash it. So..." you trailed off, watching as Jackie's eyes lit up.

"Oh shit, did you see the robber?" she asked.

"That's the crazy thing! It was the same guy Spider-Man was fighting last week!" Jackie's jaw dropped, and you even managed to tear Wynnona's attention away from the sink.

"No way, Doctor Octopus?" Obviously Jackie was more caught up on the news than you were. "I still can't believe you went out there and didn't get crushed. Oh, how can I help you?"

You blinked, surprised that you didn’t notice the customer standing at the counter. An awkward college kid with a chunky camera hanging on a strap around his neck and a notebook in his hands, yet moved in complete silence. He made eye contact with you, and you gave him a small smile. "Jackie will take your order."

"Actually, I'm with the Daily Bugle," he said, raising his notebook up as if to prove his words. "Peter Parker. I was looking for an interview with the barista who witnessed Spider-Man and Doc Ock's fight last week."

You felt the other girl's eyes on you, but you could only stare at Peter, a bead of sweat instantly forming on your brow. Who else had witnessed you there? Shit, who was telling the Bugle you were there? You smiled again, more tight-lipped, and gave a little wave of your hand. "That'd be me."

"Do you mind if I steal you away for a second?" You gave a questioning look to Jackie, who waved you off.

"Just come back if it gets busy." With a nod you pulled your apron over your head, laying it on the swinging door and stepping out into the lobby. Peter joined you at one of the cafe’s booths, his notebook and camera set up in front of him. He pulled a pen out of his shirt pocket, and flashed you a smile.

"Sooo…do you want to know what I saw?" you questioned, trying to make the interview seem more like a minor inconvenience and not a panic-inducing nightmare come true. Peter shrugged, flipping the pen around in his fingers.

"Not really. I'm more interested in what you did." You felt the color drain from your face, and Peter leaned in and lowered his voice. "Will you answer a question if I tell you a secret?"

"...Okay?" you replied, every drop of moisture leaving your mouth. Peter held your gaze, searching you for the barest whiff of deceit.

"Did you throw the car?" You pressed your lips together. He was wearing a wire. That had to be it, right? That's why he was leaning in? That's why he was asking you this?

"Huh?" you answered, putting on the most compelling display of bewilderment you could manage. "Me? Of course not, that was Spider-Man."

Peter shook his head. "I know for a fact that wasn't Spider-Man."

You gulped, the force of the secret lying just behind your lips almost too much for you to bear. "How would you know?"

"Because I'm Spider-Man."

You froze. Now you were searching his eyes for signs of a lie, and all you got was bare-faced sincerity. You tried to recall the fight, that single thanks you had gotten from Spider-Man. That voice...did sound a lot like Parker, now that you were listening to him. But that would mean that this scrawny photographer dork was Spider-Man, and that seemed...like a perfect alter ego for a superhero to have, actually. Unassuming, quiet. Just like you.

"You're shitting me."

"I can prove it," he assured you, glancing around for any eavesdropping patrons before he continued. “Can you fly?”

“Do I look like fucking Superman to you?” You held your arms up, jiggling your bat wings for emphasis. Peter poorly tried to hide a burst of laughter in a sudden cough. “I can actually, but my flight kit just got, uh, decommissioned. I can fix it though.”

“How soon?” he asked, once he got through the choked fit. Well, you figured you could hit a clothing store and find a decent enough metal bracelet to right your balance after work. That, or you could figure out another way to get creative with flying, since you seemed to be so good at that lately. 

“Tonight,” you affirmed. He smiled and clicked his pen, scribbling something in his little notebook. 

“Alright, meet me on top of this building at 8:30 tonight,” he instructed you, tearing off the paper and handing it to you. The address was somewhere in Midtown that you couldn’t remember off the top of your head, but you pocketed it nonetheless. 

“Make it 9,” you told him, sliding out of the booth. “At least give me time to shower after work.” 

“9 it is,” he mirrored your motions, offering you his hand as you both stood up. “I don’t mind the smell of coffee, by the way.”

You smiled and gave his hand a firm shake. “But I’ll bet you’ll mind the smell of dish water.”

Chapter Text

    Peter had left the shop for all of about 30 seconds before you launched into a complete internal breakdown. What the fuck were you thinking? He drops a line about being Spider-Man, most likely a lie, and you all but confess to him? A kid like him could do a lot with the reward money for turning you in, and you can’t help but imagine cops bursting into the shop any second to take you away. Your shoulders were tense for the rest of your shift, constantly kicking yourself in the ass for throwing caution to the wind at the simplest of cues. 

When 8 pm finally rolled around you were at a crossroads. You weren’t sure if you should trust Peter, but on the other hand, you’d never know unless you attended his little meeting. If you didn’t, he might show up at the shop again, and this could spiral into a second mess that you didn’t want to deal with. If things looked fishy from a distance, you could always turn tail and fly back home. So, you hung up your apron the second the doors locked and looked at the two girls.

“Got a proposition for you ladies,” you caught their attention, trying your best not to let all the stress show on your face. “I let you two take all the tips and you let me bail out of here early.” 

“That’s fine,” Wynonna started, and was instantly cut off by Jackie.

“Ahht!” she squinted at you, leaning around the counter and checking the tip jar. When she deemed the amount inside satisfactory, she waved you off. “Go ahead, but you owe us one!”

“Of course!” You waved and walked into the back room, pulling your black peacoat off the rack and slipping it on. This way you’d have some time to shower, change, maybe grab a bite to eat before you threw yourself in the fire. The side entrance put you in a small alley, and you walked back to the front of the cafe and started down the quiet East Village sidewalk.

Very rarely was there a street in New York that was completely empty, but the scene surrounding you was about as close as it got. Everybody in the vicinity was already where they were going, whether that was home from work or tucked in a bar, and only the stragglers like you remained. Calm enough that you could take your time walking home without feeling rushed by the flow of foot traffic. Quiet enough that you could hear the shouting from a street or two over, the cars driving by on 1st Avenue, the distant whir of metal—

You whirled around, eyes frantically searching for movement. A woman sitting on the stoop of her building, a man walking two dogs across the street from you. Nothing out of the ordinary, except for your paranoia. You shook your head and continued to walk, burying your face in your hands and aggressively rubbing the panic off with a groan. It was nothing, you were sure of it, just the events of the last few days getting to you. Yet, when your building came up on your walk, you couldn’t bring yourself to step inside. 

You walked past without a second glance hoping that, if Dr. Octavius was actually stalking you, he wouldn’t figure out where you lived. But as you got further down 6th, you started to realize that you couldn’t exactly…not go home. You needed to change out of your uniform, get ready for your meeting with Peter. So you slow to a stop, ready to turn around and stop acting foolish—only this time you definitely hear metal thumps on the rooftops above you. 

You get back up to pace, asking yourself in a slowly mounting panic what you could do. Call the police and report a Doc Ock sighting? That was closer to the heat than you wanted to be. You couldn’t go back home and you were only racking up the reasons to get your ass kicked every time you saw him, so your only option was to try and avoid him. But how?

You slowed as you eyed the businesses you walked beside, trying to find one you could enter without being too suspicious. After passing by a few closed shops and apartment buildings you stepped in front of a pair of bright red doors, above which a neon sign hung proudly declaring the place “Comediacana.”

Horrendous name, but probably a decent spot to lay low until the danger passed. Without a second thought you pulled open one of the doors and stepped inside. 

The inside was rather unassuming: a standard bar, collection of tables and chairs, and a small stage with a brick backdrop. For a Monday night you were surprised to see every other chair filled, and with few options you chose a table close to the door. There was no comedian on-stage, just a din of top 50s pop music that was nearly drowned out by the sound of conversation throughout the venue. After a few tense seconds of watching the door and seeing nobody enter, you buried your face in your hands.

You had no idea what to think at first, but once you had a second to breathe you realized it made perfect sense for him to find you here. You had been wearing your work uniform when you first crossed paths, now he was going to lurk around your workplace waiting to see where you went after your shift. Considering you lived right down the street from your job, it wasn’t like it would take a genius to connect the dots. And to make matters worse, the man you were dealing with was a genius.

You sighed, dropping your hands and pulling the sleeve of your jacket back. Your wrist was still bruised as ever, angry purple crawling over your wrist bone and along the meat of your thumb. He could’ve hurt you a lot worse. If you weren’t important to his little experiment, he would have. Even knowing that, though, it wasn’t an insurance policy that inspired a lot of comfort. If he ever decided you were in his way, there’d be very little you could do to stop him from crushing you on the spot. 

You pulled your sleeve down and picked your head back up, staring at the empty stage. You just wished you could go back in time, before you had succumbed to that stupid heroic impulse, and let Spider-Man fight his own battles. You’d still be a petty burglar and not a target. You wouldn’t be hiding from a mad scientist in a comedy club, or going to meet a super hero after the fact. You’d just be at home, probably watching TV or reading. Or sulking. 

Well. When you put it like that, this certainly sounded a bit more exciting. You sneered, pressing the thumb of your right hand on the bruised flesh of the left. Reminding yourself with a stab of pain how dangerously close to the fire you were. You hissed through your teeth and closed your eyes, trying to form a plan to get out and back home. There had to be a back door somewhere, right? You looked over your shoulder, eying the front door and making a slow scan around the walls. You didn’t get far though, not before you realized you weren’t alone at your table.

"Oh shit," you breathed. Otto hadn’t made a noise while you had your head down, even managing to get a bottle on the table in front of you in complete silence. You were ready to jump to your feet, but something about the look on his face froze you to the spot. He held up his hands, showing as gently as possible he was unarmed. Speaking of unarmed... "Where are your...you know?"

"Hidden, obviously." He tugged lightly on the overcoat he had on. You squinted, trying to figure out how he was hiding 4 massive actuators beneath it. He answered your unspoken question with something of a proud grin. "They can flatten themselves. To excellent effect, I might add."

"Cool," you started, folding your hands together awkwardly in your lap. This was the first time you had seen Dr. Octavius that he wasn’t actively chasing you down or crushing your ribcage, so it was safe to say you had no idea how to proceed. "So what do you want now?"

"To talk about my project. With less, ah...distractions this time." You sneered, finally picking up the drink he had brought over for you. You didn’t miss how he grabbed a bottle so you wouldn’t suspect him of drugging you, silently grateful to have one less thing to worry about.

"Violence, you mean?" He opened his mouth to defend himself and you cut him off. "No, look, you don't need to apologize, or justify yourself, whatever. I consider us even now. I threw a car at you, you roughed me up a bit, we're even.” 

“You think those little love-taps hurt as much as a car?” Otto asked, cracking a smile. Your chest seized, his word choice sending your mind into a miniature frenzy. You cracked the bottle and took a swig of the fruity drink, trying once again to wash the thoughts out of your mouth like a bad aftertaste.

“Probably not,” you admitted, wiping drops of alcohol off your lips with your thumb. “But whatever. I'm not helping you with your thermodynamics project.”

He straightened his back, obviously surprised. "So you've been studying me in your free time?" You rolled your eyes.

"Hard not to know about you when you're on the front page of the newspapers every other day," you said, artfully avoiding the question he actually asked. "I don't know about this project of yours, but I do know your PhD is in nuclear physics. I also know that I couldn't tell you the first thing about nuclear physics."

"You don't need to know any nuclear physics to be helpful," he said, leaning forward. He was really gunning hard for you to change your mind. "I'm trying to create a nuclear reaction, something that could power the entire world if it works. The trouble is that the magnetic fields it creates--"

You both sat up straight as a couple squeezed by your table, having the good sense not to discuss in their earshot. Once they passed by, Otto continued in a quieter voice. "The magnetic fields created by the reaction destabilize it. If you can manipulate those fields, contain them, it will be able to grow past the unstable first phase into a self-sustaining energy source."

Well, he certainly did a good job of putting it into terms you could understand. You wondered what unstable magnetic fields had to do with his arms being fused to his body, but you figured that might have less to do with the "physics" and more the "nuclear" part of his job. On that note, who was to say this reaction couldn't mutilate you the same way it had done to him? Otto was convincing, but not enough to take you over your wall of doubt.

"And if I can't contain them?" you asked, trying to visualize what this could possibly look like, and only able to picture some sort of Hadron Collider on steroids. "It's not like I can move buildings with ease, doc. I've got a limit to how much magnetizing I can do."

“We won’t know unless we try!” he said, clenching his hands in front of his chest with a smile. You found his confidence strange, how much faith he put behind his work even after the first attempt went so wrong. Then again, was it so hard to believe that radiation might’ve cooked his brain too?

“Look--” The lights dimmed overhead, drawing your attention to the stage. Oh, right. Comedy club. A young man stepped up on the stage, holding a beer in one hand and taking the microphone in the other. 

“Welcome, everyone! So glad to see you all.” A short burst of applause followed, and you turned and glanced at the door longingly.  “I hope you’re ready for a hoot, because we’ve got three sets from three local comedians that are sure to keep the laughs coming. Please give a warm welcome to our first comedian of the night, hailing from Brooklyn, Ed Mauzeen!” 

He gave way on the stage for a stout man in a bootleg Simpsons t-shirt, and in the interim of clapping you leaned over the table within earshot of Otto. “You’ll have to figure something else out, doc.”

“Will you please--”

“Sh.” The applause died down, and you watched the comedian take the microphone.

“Hi everyone, thanks for clapping before you heard a word out of my mouth. Creates a wonderful sense of pressure.” The crowd chuckled. “Nobody said performing on a Monday night would be easy.”

A tug on your peacoat dragged your attention away from the stage, and you peeked beneath the table. A dim white light stared back at you, one of Otto’s actuators slowly waving back and forth like a snake sizing you up. At a complete loss for what to do, you took one of its fingers and shook it as though it were nothing more than an oddly shaped hand. 

“Hi how are ya,” you whispered to yourself, trying to shake off the absurdity of the whole situation. The same guy that beat the shit out of you this weekend was sitting beside you in a comedy bar, jabbing at you with his extra limbs under the table. Just normal things for super-people, you supposed. Was this your life now? You hoped not.

“See, the Monday night crowd is the next level. People on the weekends, they’re fucked up, they’re happy, I could talk about my cat for ten minutes and some guy in the audience would be like ‘Fuck yeah! I have a cat!’   It’s so exciting for him.”

Ignoring the pokes and prodding against your legs, you slid your cell phone out of your pocket and flipped it open. You had about 25 minutes to get out of here and meet Spider-Man. Or a police sting. Either or, and the anticipation was doing such wonderful things for your physical and mental well-being.  What an eventful night, you thought to yourself, knowing full well it was only halfway over.

“You guys, though. Whole other ball game. You’re drinking in moderation, for one, which is already a huge buzz-kill. If you enter the night counting your beers, you’ve already made the decision that you will not be having a good time.”

This joke earned the first big laugh from the audience, and you were finally able to use the commotion to slide out of your chair and towards the entrance. You weren’t exactly subtle in your exit, so you tried not to be too surprised when you felt a hand on your shoulder the second you pushed the door open. 

“I told you--” you started.

“Call me Otto,” he cut you off, turning you around to face him. “ Doc is…impersonal, and a bit irritating if I’m honest.”

The tight space between the door and the crowds of people walking had you nearly touching chests, and in the small gap that separated you he took your hand in his and pushed something into your palm. When he let go your cuff was there, along with a folded piece of paper in the middle. You plucked it out and inspected it, looking up at Otto with wide eyes.

“You stole my check?”

“You dropped your check,” he corrected you, arching a thick brow. “You’re welcome.”

Another realization hit you a second later, this one making you grimace. “So you already know my real name.”

Otto shrugged. “Wilma something-or-other.”

You snorted, looking back at the small gifts in your hand. Things he didn’t have to return, yet did. A peace offering? A genuine act of kindness? Your eyes flickered back and forth between the cuff and Otto, unsure which you were more comfortable believing. He smiled, patiently waiting for an answer.

You opened your mouth to thank him, and instead blurted out: “Quit trying to follow me home.”

He laughed, scratching the back of his neck sheepishly. “Of course.”

He stepped to his left without warning, blending seamlessly into the sidewalk traffic. You stared after him, wondering how the same guy you saw tear up a street could manage stealth so effectively. That, and wondering why the sound of his laugh sent your heart rate through the roof.

Chapter Text

You booked it in the opposite direction, pocketing your cuff and your check. Butterflies in your stomach or not, you didn't trust the bastard as far as you could throw him, and you had already sent him flying once. There were no heavy pounds or mechanical whirs behind you, but that didn't mean he had stayed true to his word, especially now that you knew he could hide his arms.

You decided to divert off your path back home, circling the streets and trying to find a good alley to disappear from. It was much busier than it had been just minutes ago; East Village was teeming with the hipster crowd pouring out of the swanky bars and clubs that made up the area. Eventually though, you managed to find an alley without any prying eyes just long enough to grab a metal trash can lid and lift yourself up to the nearest roof.

Now there was no way for Dr. Octavius (Otto, you reminded yourself) to follow you without giving himself away, a fact that helped finally lower your heart rate from your...encounter. Not a date. You could hardly call what happened a date. At the same time, it wasn't like your heart rate was necessarily the result of fear alone.

You shook your head, pressing the heels of your palms against your tired eyes. You couldn't think about this now. This was all getting so convoluted; you never had intentions to get to know the heroes or the villains in this city and somehow you were getting well acquainted with both. All because you couldn't be a good little bystander and watch Spider Man get crushed. Now you were stuck between a super hero playing journalist, and a super villain playing talent scout.

You looked up, taking in what you could of the New York skyline. You longed for simpler times. You had only moved here for one person, someone no longer in your life. You had simply never been able to scrape together enough to move away, but that could be so easily changed with your powers and a busy weekend. You weren't sure why you stayed here trying to make this life work. Maybe because it was what he wanted.

No. Goddammit, you didn't have time for this. You had a meeting.

Carefully, unsure if you could manage it again, you attempted to channel what you felt before, during your first escape from Otto. A push and pull in the magnetic field, where the push affected the metal, but the pull affected you. One bracelet wasn’t enough to lift you, but you weren't focused on controlling metal. If what you had felt was correct, if your senses could be trusted, what you had done was lift your body as though it was magnetic itself.

It took a few seconds, unable to recreate the same sensation. But it came, a vibration pressing against every inch of skin, levitating you several inches off the rooftop. You focused on the side of the building right beside the one you were on, latching onto the energy it radiated and pulling yourself towards it. Flying without your kit. Your ability to alter magnetic fields was getting more skilled, perhaps. More precise. Maybe you were unlocking potential.

Maybe you could do more with that potential.

You tucked your body in and pushed against nothing but the air and the unique energy you felt around you. You expected to stay in place, or maybe latch to the building face. Instead, you took off into the air, a scream erupting from your throat as your little test sent you hundreds of feet above the street level. "Ohhh! Oh fuck me, ohh…shit."

You were hovering again, not moving any direction except in frantic circles as you tried to figure out what you were doing. Few rooftops in the East Village were this tall; any point of landing beneath you was at least 3 stories down. As seconds passed and you didn't plummet to your death, you tried to extend your senses, get a feel for what exactly was propping you up in the air.

And the answer was everything . Every building around you, every car, every street sign and subway track creating a metaphorical rope for you to swing on. Indistinguishable from one another unless you focused but once you did, you could begin to feel the magnetic pulls from miles around, each creating its own little string in an all-encompassing web you could use to theoretically go anywhere in the city.

"Woah..." you whispered, taking in the skyline once again now that you had a better view. So familiar, something you looked at all the time. Never like this though. Nervously you pushed, and found the pulses surrounding you almost like water. Not enough for a solid take off, but enough that you could maneuver your body through it and gain speed. You used this speed to move forward, lifting yourself further from the rooftops and above everything below.

You floated almost dreamily towards Midtown, taking in the sights below you with wide, disbelieving eyes. Flying before was tedious, a simultaneous pull on all four of your limbs dragging you from place to place. Now it was more a lift, a force that commanded your entire body above the air without tugging you where it wanted you to go. Even though you had seen these sights before, it had never been so relaxed, where you could actually focus on the sight of life happening below. A view of New York so few saw. Not miles above in a plane or walking along the streets but right in between, where you could see the big and the small pictures, the happenings on the street and the thousands of lights illuminating the night sky.

The address, as it turned out, was the Salesforce tower, a 41-floor high rise that shone a brilliant teal from the glass faces. You spotted a red figure standing on the roof, scanning quickly for any hidden back up before you kicked your legs in front of you and came in for a landing.

“Woah,” you heard as you came down, the voice coming through the mask now easily recognizable as Peter. “When you said flight kit, I thought you meant something more…wing-like.”

“Funny story,” you said dismissively, sticking your hands in your coat pockets and running your fingers along the inside of your cuff. “I stopped needing my flight kit as of, oh, 20 minutes ago?”

“Huh.” Peter tilted his head. “Should I ask?”

“Would rather keep this quick. I’ve had a long night.” You elected not to tell him about your encounter with Ock, lest he get antsy and want to hunt the other man down. 

“I just wanted to…” he trailed off, seemingly changing his mind and switching angles. “You’re the Iron Belle, right?”

“You’re not a cop, right?” you shot right back. Peter put his hands on his chest.

“The cops hate me too. Don’t worry, I’m not trying to rat you out, I’m just wondering why you helped me.”

You shrugged, slightly annoyed with yourself that you didn’t have a clear answer for him. “I’ve been asking myself the same thing.”

“Well, I thought you were a villain,” he said. You rolled your eyes and shrugged again.

“I mean, depends on your definition? Like, all these other villains are out for revenge or chaos or anarchy, that kind of stuff. I just steal things, dude.”

You watched his head shift ever so slightly as he looked you up and down. Whatever thoughts he was having, they were enough to make him slide his mask off. Peter Parker in his complete glory, face to face with you. 

“You’re obviously not a bad person,” he observed, awkwardly fiddling with his mask in his hands. “So why steal and get lumped in with the rest of those guys when you could be a hero?”

“Does super hero-ing pay your rent?” you questioned. His face went long, and he suddenly averted his eyes. You pressed forth: “Do people pay you when you save them? Is being Spider-Man your full-time job?”

“No,” he finally admitted. “I do it because it’s the right thing to do.”

“And that’s a great reason!” Your sudden support seemed to come as a surprise to Peter, looking back at you with wide eyes. “It’s great you want to help people, Parker. Obviously I do too, so I help myself.”

He smirked, gesturing towards you. “That’s not really hero-like.”

“I don’t claim to be a hero or a villain. I just developed powers and instead of getting,” you gestured back at him, “a costume and a catchphrase or whatever, I stole a bit of jewelry to help pay bills. We don’t all want to be Spider-Man, Spider-Man.”

He looked at you again, really looked at you, and it was difficult to discern the thoughts that went on in his head. There was no judgment on his face, even though he obviously didn’t share your feelings on thievery. No respect and understanding for your viewpoint either. Just a confused look and a clumsy, overworked mind trying to put together the next sentence out of his mouth.

“At least you’re less destructive than most of the bad guys around here,” Peter finally relented, running his fingers through his short hair. Your answer seemed to frustrate him, and you watched amused as he tried hard not to voice that emotion. 

“Pacifist, if I can help it,” you added. He nodded. 

“Well…” He slid his mask back on, slowly circling around you to the edge of the building. “I just wanted to thank you for your help with Doc Ock.”

“Oh, it was no trouble at all,” you lied. He looked over his shoulder at you, face unreadable behind his mask. 

“Hey, wanna know something?” He held his hands up, mimicking the Doctor’s tentacles. “That guy has thrown so many cars at me. It’s like his thing, so seeing him getting a car thrown at him for a change was some pretty sweet karma.”

You laughed, half at Peter’s perspective and half at Otto’s little vengeance against you for exactly what Peter described. Talk about a hypocrite. 

“ Anyways,” Peter continued, shrugging his shoulders. “If you ever change your mind, well, I could always use the help.” 

With that send-off, Peter leapt off the side of the building, the sound of shooting web following him as he plummeted down towards the street, and back up in a swing arc that sent him flying down the avenue. You watched his escape from the roof’s edge for a while, thinking on his words as he swung out of sight. Poor kid. He was even younger than you, and trying to save an entire city by himself. No wonder he wanted help, even if that meant accepting it from someone like you.

Carefully, you lifted yourself up on your electromagnetic “grid,” trying to focus on how the magnetic pulses felt as they carried you gracefully back to your home in the East Village. As you collapsed happily in your bed, however, you found yourself no closer to understanding your powers. Just very, very tired. 

Chapter Text

The next morning hit you like a freight train going at max speed. You had gotten to bed earlier than usual, but all the extra sleep had done for you was give your body more time to process just how completely overwhelmed you were. You rolled on your back and groaned, rubbing your eyes aggressively. 

All things considered, last night was a huge positive. You had opened and closed the case with Peter, finding both a tentative ally and a huge sigh of relief knowing he wouldn’t rat you out. Where you stood with Otto was a bit more ambiguous, but at least he had stopped trying to kill you for the time you spent together. That was an improvement in your book. So why were you laying here feeling like something was horribly wrong?

You took your time to bitch and moan in the comfort of your bed before you stood up to face the day, both stretching and yowling like an aggravated house cat. You rubbed your eyes as you made your way out into the hallway, about to step into the bathroom when a mechanical chirp made your entire body stiffen. 

That fuck. 

Carefully you turned, tip-toeing down the hallway towards the rest of your apartment. A wide-open space (the NYC apartment definition of wide open, at least) with your kitchen to your left and your living room to the right. You paused at the mouth of the hallway, silent, listening. Another trill went off to your right. You lifted your hand and took hold of a massive iron vase from across the room, flinging it towards your couch.

You stepped out into the open, sighing when you saw your makeshift projectile safely cradled in two actuators. Otto had completely made himself at home. His coat was hanging by your door, his legs crossed and his arm slung over the back of the couch like he owned the thing. He perked an eyebrow, covering an obvious smile with his other gloved hand. “Is this your home security system?”

“Don’t make fucking…jokes like--I told you not to follow me home, creep!” You were beyond being surprised at this point; things like this might as well happen. You should have been much more upset by having your house broken into, but the only emotion you could muster up in the face of this pest was annoyance. Otto moved the vase back to its perch by your front door, pushing his glasses up his nose. 

“I didn’t need to. I followed you after our encounter on Saturday,” he explained, as if that made it any better. “I figured you needed space to think, figured…you might come around to the idea.”

“You’re not doing a great job of convincing me,” you deadpanned. He grinned, rubbing the back of his neck.

“I’m awfully pushy, aren’t I?” You threw your arms in the air and turned your back on him to enter the kitchen. Amazing that a super villain breaking into your house wasn’t enough to put your morning routine on pause; you needed to be at work soon. 

“You’re in my house trying to recruit me for a science project doc, so you tell me.”

“Otto,” he reminded you, his tone taking a sudden gentleness that froze you in place. You jerked your hand forward to open the fridge and ducked down so he wouldn’t see the heat rising to your cheeks. 

“I’m not helping you.” You grabbed a plastic jug full of your homemade cold brew, listening to Otto stand and make his way over to you.  You shut the fridge door fully expecting him to be standing there and yet still jumped when you found yourself in the shadow of his figure. 

“Can you at least tell me why?” he asked. You slowly edged around him, trying to put together your morning coffee in a cramped kitchen with four metal arms surrounding you.  

“I cannot stress enough that you are in my house. ” You realized quickly that you couldn’t be vague about your anger; not until you laid out the fucked up nature of this situation in completely explicit terms would this man understand. Hell, you weren’t sure if the absurdity of it had fully hit you yet. You whirled around and stared deep into his sunglasses. “You stalking me and showing up just…uninvited is not getting you on my good side!” 

“I…” his lip twitched, and you could tell from his expression that he was completely lost how to argue your point. You grabbed your vanilla syrup from the cabinet and continued. 

“You keep telling me you’re trying to do something good but every single action you have taken, from kicking my ass to following me home, has made me think otherwise.” You sighed, because you knew you were trying to convince yourself more than him. “Hell, you even admitted the only reason I’m alive right now was because of my powers.” 

“The only reason I noticed you was because of your powers,” he retorted. “Normal people aren’t usually brave enough to get in the middle of a fight between two…enhanced humans, for lack of a better term.”

You pumped vanilla into your glass in silence, a bit irritated that he had a point. You had technically started it, even if the only reason you had done so was because you thought it would be the easiest thing in the world. Just pin the guy to the ground. Just your luck that that wouldn’t happen, because now he was following you around like a lost puppy.

“What makes you think I would want to help you?” you questioned, lowering the glass to the counter.

“Because you chose to be a hero that day,” he answered you in that same delicate tone from earlier, the one that did something inexplicable to your heart. “You chose to help Spider-Man because you wanted to do the right thing.” 

“I acted on an impulse more than anything,” you admitted, filling your glass to just below the brim. 

“Your impulse to do the right thing,” Otto repeated. You watched out of the corner of your eye as he clenched his hands to fists, crossed and uncrossed his arms, did everything he could not to grab you like he had in the alley and still barely restraining himself. “The difference between you and Spider-Man is that his idea of doing good is too constrained, too narrow-minded. Just wasting time thwarting bank robberies instead of bringing any real change.” 

“Not really,” you scoffed, stirring your coffee and turning to face him fully. “The difference between me and Spider-Man is that Spider-Man wants to save a city, and I want to steal things on the weekends.”

Otto scratched his chin. “No aspirations whatsoever?”

“No,” you groaned, pinching the bridge of your nose. “My plans got thrown out the window a couple years ago and I’ve been free-styling ever since.”

“Then what do you have to lose?” 

You didn’t want to listen to him talk anymore. He was starting to convince you, and that wasn’t a good sign. “I have to get ready for work.” 

“Mm, Fine,” he relented, moving his actuators out of the way so you could get to the rest of your apartment. “May I ask you something, then?” 

This guy couldn’t take a hint for shit. You sighed and sipped your coffee. “Sure.” 

“What was your original plan?”

You grit your teeth, wiping away the first images that came to mind in favor of the more logical, the less painful. Your answer came out sarcastic and offhanded. “English Major. Thought I’d be the next T. S. Eliot before I realized poets don’t make any money.”

You circled around him without looking for his reaction, setting your coffee on the counter as you went. You heard nothing out of him until you rounded the corner, pausing to listen to his actuators whir, moving to grab his coat and open the kitchen window. Underneath all that noise you could just barely make out a strained chuckle.

“No, they really don’t,” he muttered, certainly to himself. More shuffling followed, and you waited for the pounding noises to fade into the distance before you shut the window and went to the bathroom. Asshole. 

Chapter Text

You made sure to close all the blinds in your apartment before settling in for the evening. Not that you really expected him to come peeping around for no reason, but you could only relax once you knew for a fact he couldn’t. You didn’t need him in your thoughts any more than he already was. 

Which was quite a lot.

You thought of the alleyway, your bruised wrist, your aching chest. You thought of the comedy club, the curious nature of his tentacles, your check delivered right to your hands. You thought of the heart-pounding chase through the streets and over the rooftops, him breaking into your apartment, how the reasons not to trust Otto kept piling up but they somehow weren’t outweighing his strange moments of clemency. You should fear and hate the man. Instead, you find a twinge of enjoyment in even the sour moments, drawn to him for reasons you hated to admit. It would have been so simple to write it off as something selfless: That you saw the good within him or that you wanted to heal his broken mind. In truth, you were fairly certain you just liked the attention.

You pressed on your bruised palm to chastise yourself, but the pain was fading every day along with the lesson it taught. Being in a super-powered rivalry was tense, life-and-death business. Then you escape, and your mind falls back to yourself pinned against the wall while Otto smoked and taunted you, conveniently stripping the terror from the memory. Were you enjoying this? Were you going insane? 

Or maybe you just needed to eat.

Even knowing exactly what was inside you still opened the fridge, gazing over your staples and leftovers in hopes you’d have a eureka moment and craft an amazing dinner out of butter and granola. The challenge might distract you, but you didn’t really have the energy for it at this hour. You snagged a box of takeout from the middle shelf, in the midst of giving it the smell test when everything on the shelf rattled in front of you. You blinked, shutting the door and walking over to the kitchen window. You had only just brought down the dusty green curtains, and you gladly stuffed them back up in the rack before opening your window. The second your hands left the glass you heard it again; a boom from somewhere on 1st Avenue. Distant screams followed, and you chewed your lip. Not your job. You shook your head and started to close the window. Not your job. This was a job for—

A job for Peter. An overworked, under-appreciated college kid who was probably out right now trying to help innocent people from some other disaster. The screams were getting closer to you, away from whatever was tearing up 1st Ave, something you suspected of being super-villain territory. A job for somebody like Peter…or you.

“…. Fuck,” you muttered beneath your breath, wrenching the window back open. After grabbing your slippers and a lounge hoodie you brought yourself to a hover in the alley beside your apartment building, hoping the darkness and your fluffy hood would be enough to conceal your identity. All you had to do was stay above the rooftops and out of sight. Throw a car, buy people time, let Spider-Man come in to handle it. Your specialty.

You landed on the roof of the corner building, peeking through the fence at the scene below you. Everybody had cleared out of the area, but the only thing you saw amiss was an upturned taxi cab in the middle of the intersection amid a pile of broken glass.

Had it…really just been a car accident? No way. Why would all those people run and scream? Where was the other car? You did another hard once-over of the street, noticing a distinct lack of life and not much else. Whatever had done the damage had moved on by now, and though it was mostly silent you heard no more thuds in the distance nor felt any tremors beneath your feet. 

Well. You tried.

 You hopped over the fence, deciding you’d do the bare minimum hero thing and check the taxi for anyone stuck inside before heading home. After glancing up and down the street you descended beneath the gloom and landed beside the yellow cab, crouching to look inside the cabin. Nothing. Just an empty, completely upside-down car. New York. 

With a tired sigh, you stood up in time to catch a candy red glint out of the corner of your eye. You turned and raised your hands before you could even register what it was, crying out in shock as the deafening crunch of crushed metal came from every direction. The vehicle curled around you like liquid, the front and rear ends bending to either side of you as though it had hit a forcefield in front of your face. Judging from the tingling sensation on your outstretched palms and the way your feet slid backwards on the asphalt, it very well might have. Curled into a jagged half circle, the car groaned in midair for a second before finally falling to the ground in front of you, flattened enough to reveal the smiling figure that stood behind it.

“ Now we’re even.”

You wished you knew what an aneurysm felt like, because the sudden headache that bloomed at the sound of that voice certainly felt like one. All at once you were so overwhelmed by anger, shaking so violently, that the first time you opened your mouth you nearly retched.

“Are we GOOD or NOT?!” you shouted at him.

Otto shrugged, his actuators moving independent of one another but their red lights all focused on you. “Of course we are.”

“Really?” You realized that your hood had been blown off by the force of the car, so you pulled it back up and tightened the strings a bit before gesturing to the pancaked vehicle in front of you. “Because I thought we were done with this!”

“Not until you agree to work with us,” was his simple reply. He sounded different, more austere than you had ever heard before, but you had no idea what could have set him off. Didn’t really care, either.

“I’m NOT helping you!” You were trying to contain your anger, wondering why you were somehow convinced that you liked this prick. Whatever wild train of thought you had going before you came out here was long gone. Otto sighed and cracked his knuckles lazily.

“I reduced myself to begging once, sweetheart.” One by one the claws surrounding him curled, poised and ready to attack. Then he removed his glasses, letting you see the darkness that had seeped into his eyes. “It won’t happen again.”

You swallowed and readied yourself for a full blown assault. The bottom right tentacle launched towards you, and you held your hands over a manhole cover and pulled. The heavy metal disk flew into your hands just in time, barely grazing your fingers before it caught the actuator and the force of the blow sent you flying down the road. Your pajamas did little to save your skin when you hit the asphalt, wincing and shaking as you pushed yourself back to your hands and knees. This wasn’t what you came out here to do. This wasn’t what you wanted to do.

Otto was closing distance fast. You took mental hold of a small bicycle rack and threw it towards him, watching his tentacles blow it off like water. Again with a motorcycle, and he tossed it aside similarly. 

“Do you know why I’m doing this?” he asked you, stopping only a few meters away from where you trembled on the ground. You met his intense stare with teeth bared.

“You’re insane,” you answered. He growled.

“I’m doing this to prove a point to you.” One of his actuators arched over you, pushing down on your back and pinning your chest to the road, then lifting you up in the air while you wheezed. “Why did you come outside when you heard the screaming?”

“To see if anyone was hurt!” you grunted out, trying and failing to pry the claw off your torso.

“To save people,” he insisted, clenching his fist in front of him. “You can say you’re not a hero all you like, but you coming out here to face us proves that you are.”

You had been far too forgiving in how wild your life had become in the last 2 weeks, and all the silent seething you had done in regards to the insanity finally bubbled to the surface in a massive snap.

“Can you FUCK OFF?!” you screamed, pushing his fist out of the way and jabbing your finger in his face. “I didn’t come out here to prove SHIT to you! I don’t NEED to help with your stupid project to prove I’m a good person, okay?!” 

Otto’s lip twitched, and you saw a hint of conflict cross his face before it twisted again in fury and he flung you over his shoulder. This time he threw you high enough in the air to react, reaching your hands out and suspending yourself mere inches before you hit the ground. You flipped around until you were right-side up, lowering your feet to the road. You stood now on two opposite sides of the intersection, the lights above flashing red and green for cars that weren’t coming. 

“You said you had a limit to how much magnetizing you could do,” he called out to you, arms snaking to his sides and taking hold of two more vehicles parked on the street. “Shall we test those limits?”

Rather than use your powers to defend you launched up into the air, dodging a cargo van entirely as he flung it in your direction. You grabbed onto the traffic pole and perched your slippered feet on it. 

“Did you not just hear what I said?” you shouted. “I don’t want to fight you!”

“Then don’t!” he shouted right back, slamming the other car on the ground. “Help me instead!”

If you were thinking more sensibly, you might have just bit the bullet and agreed. See what he wants, contain his stupid reaction, go about your life. But fueled by spite as you were, you threw both your middle fingers up and spit on the road below instead. “Make me!” 

You pushed up into the air again, taking off far above the street level of 1st Avenue. You watched Otto throw himself towards the corner building, scaling it in seconds and looking up again once he was on the roof. When he realized he was still at least 4 stories below you he let out a strangled yell, ripping the fencing right off the roofs edges.

“Get down here!” he screamed, crushing the chain links into a ball and winging it at you. You dodged it mid-air with ease, slowly floating backwards and away from him. Sirens were finally wailing in the distance, closing in on your location.

“Calm down first and maybe I will!” you yelled back. Otto did the exact opposite.

“Y/N!” he screamed as you floated away, so loud and ferocious you could hear his voice begin to crack. He stepped forward and grabbed the edges of the roof with his human hands, glaring at you as you hovered above him. All four of his actuators reached out for you, and when they came up short he hunched over the roofs edge and howled. “HELP ME!” 

Your chest seized. 

Otto’s cry fell silent, his actuators retreating to surround him in a pseudo-embrace and leaving you the perfect chance to escape, which you took without hesitation. Yet still, when the cops showed up at the intersection to put an end to things, you checked to make sure Otto had gotten away before sliding back into your apartment and shutting the window.

Chapter Text

You nearly slept in the next morning without the sunlight peeping through your windows and in your eyes. You sat up, already annoyed at the paranoia creeping up your spine, urging you to check every corner of the dark room for Otto. You thought you had insurance, that you had some sort of protection granted to you by your usefulness, but it obviously didn’t stop him from trying to turn you into a stain on 1st Avenue. You cracked the blinds beside your bed, lighting the room enough for you to pick out a change of clothes to take to the bathroom.

The shower dragged on much longer than usual, with cooler water so you wouldn’t irritate the road rash. You took time to truly put a bit of extra care into yourself, partially a treat for your stress, mostly to keep from facing the outside world and all the danger that now came with it. Being a barista almost felt like a novelty now, how you relished the normalcy of your shift compared to everything else going on in your life. You thought you had put this thing to rest and instead now you had to find a way to get in contact with Peter again and ask for his help. You figure he owes you one. 

You no longer had any idea what to expect. You only knew Otto would show up again to try and convince you, either by apologizing or by escalating his violence. He wasn’t going to give up as long as you rejected his plans, so you needed to put a stop to him for good if you wanted to go back to normal. That was never your intention, but he was the one that brought it to this point, and he had only himself to blame.

Despite that fact, you couldn’t help but think back to that one moment just before you escaped, the rattle of Otto’s voice as he screamed for help. You knew from the sound of it alone that it had nothing to do with the project, and you couldn’t have been sure he was even addressing you. It was a howl to the heavens, a desperate cry meant for anyone that would hear it, a pained roar from a wounded animal. You knew what it was like to scream that way. Despite everything the man had done to you last night, your heart still seized for him, for that moment. Maybe he had a point when he said your instinct was to be a hero, because after everything all you wanted was to help.

Hoping you had a day with no further interruptions (yet somehow knowing it wouldn’t be so) you stepped out of the shower squeaky clean and toweled off. Once in your uniform you stepped into your kitchen and prepared to make your morning coffee. You had only just grabbed a glass out of your cabinet when skittering outside caught your attention. You realized in that instant the sunlight that draped over the kitchen floor, coming from the window you had uncovered last night. You spun around, a growl erupting from your throat as you saw a closed claw reach up and knock on the glass.  Furiously you latched onto the metal fastenings of the window and wrenched it open. 

“What?!” you yelled, popping your head out and catching Otto moving in front of your window. He froze at the sound of your voice. 

“Shh!” he hissed, glancing back and forth for prying eyes. When he deemed the space empty enough he looked back at you. “I came to apologize.”

His voice was a far cry from the malevolent snarl he used the night before, but it didn’t placate you at all, because this is exactly what you had predicted and you were angry to be proven right. “Not accepted.”

“But—“

“Bye.”

“Please!” he begged, grabbing either side of the window but smart enough not to try and force his way in. “You don’t have to accept it but please listen!” 

You nearly blew your lid, holding up your forearms for him to see the rashes that ran down your skin. “Why the fuck should I listen to you after you did this?”

He went stiff looking at your wounds, eyebrows drawn together in obvious guilt, something you weren’t used to seeing on his face. Now that you thought about it, Otto hadn’t apologized for a single thing since you met him, and you were suddenly very curious to know how that would play out.

“…Make it quick before I shut the window on your ass,” you relented, dropping your arms. Otto took a deep breath, pulling himself back and clutching his hands together in front of him.

“Thank you. Last night, I was not myself,” he said, his change in tone between the two sentences an obvious sign of him rehearsing this apology beforehand. “My actuators each have their own individual AI, all of them linked to coordinate with my own intelligence. Sometimes, however…they take over.”

“…So you’re blaming your tentacles, is what you’re saying?” you clarified. His lip twitched. 

“I’m saying they’re angry about your refusal to help with the project, and when they act on it I can’t stop them.” You threw a hand up dismissively.

“I seem to recall a lot of words coming out of your mouth last night, Doc.” He bristled at the sound of his unwanted nickname, or you calling him out, one of the two. “You’re telling me they control your mouth too?”

“They…influence my thoughts.” His eye contact was shaky, uncertain, just like his voice. “We work in tandem, with an ebb and flow, one that does not always sway in my favor.”

Every word was as insincere and awkward as you imagined it would be. You rolled your eyes and walked away from the window, refusing to stop for his either his superfluous wordplay or the frantic sputtering that followed. Excuses didn’t fly in your world. “If you can’t take responsibility for your own actions then I have nothing to say to you.”

It was silent for a few moments, but you heard no crushing so you knew he hadn’t left. You kept your back turned anyways, opting to making your entire coffee on the far counter. You couldn’t keep getting caught up in this while you were trying to get ready for work, lest you ruin the stability in the one normal thing left in your life.

“…Iasngry.” 

“What?” you asked, turning to look over your shoulder. Otto, frustrated and desperate, pressed his hand to his chest.

“I was angry!” 

He ripped his sunglasses off and met your eyes. “I’m the one that’s angry! I lashed out and I—when they told me to teach you the hard way, I listened because I was angry! I’ve worked so hard for this and I can’t seem to convince you of how much it means to me!” 

He calmed suddenly, his outburst blowing away like the wind that whisted in the alley but the aggravation still very much there. You were frozen, unsure how to react and subconsciously aware of every metal object in your vicinity. Wondering if either of you would mention last night. Otto huffed and looked at his own reflection in his sunglasses. “But…why should it mean anything to you?”

You said nothing, only kept your muscles tense and ready for him to lash out again. It never happened. He only took one more quick glance at you before sliding his sunglasses back on his face. “So sorry to disturb your morning.”

He disappeared from your window, and by the time you poked your head out to look he had vanished.

Chapter Text

Last Monday had finally come to bite you in the ass. Feet screaming in protest, you watched your two co-workers clock out moments after close with an uneasy smile. “Both of you?” 

“I’ve got a hot date to get ready for,” Jackie purred, though you would guess from the twinkle in her eye she was probably more excited about the restaurant. With how many numbers she collected on her shift, you wouldn’t be surprised if man-funded food made up half her diet.

Wynonna didn’t offer up her reason for leaving early, simply exchanging her apron for a coat and walking towards the door with Jackie. “You can keep the tips!” 

You leaned around the counter, eying the pitiful few bills and the pinch of change while the two walked out the side entrance. Thanks, guys. Left with little choice, you pushed forward into your long night of cleaning, starting with dumping the black coffee. Soak the coffee urns, measure out tomorrow’s roast, disassemble and clean the machines. Prep, stock, wipe everything down, sweep and mop, dishes last. Oh, and the trash. 

In an instant your will to work had been churned to dust. You propped your elbows on the counter and sighed, trying to will yourself mentally to tackle your massive laundry list and instead thinking about anything but your job. You had finally gotten close to a week of peace since your last encounter with Otto, but you were far from well rested. Instead you were more on edge than ever, waiting anxiously for his next attack to come. Maybe he was over it now, but sooner or later one of his actuators would get inside his head and convince him it’d be a good idea to hunt you down all over again, and you needed to be prepared. It didn’t help that you hadn’t seen Peter since it all went down.

You jumped at the sound of the side entrance opening before realizing with a sigh that it was probably one of the girls. You called out to whoever it was, audibly irritated. “Change your mind about the tips?”

The door swung open, but the silhouette that stepped into your peripheral vision was far larger than either of your co-workers. You shot straight up as Otto turned to face you, realizing with a gulp what a horrifying frame he cut in the dim lighting with his actuators akimbo around his body. A moment passed, and once he realized you weren’t going to speak he took the hat off his head and placed it on the end of the counter.

“Why didn’t you fight back that night?” His voice was soft, non-threatening, defeated. But he wasn’t lowering your guard that easy. 

“I didn’t want to encourage you.” Unlike him your voice came out hard, exhausted in a whole other form. “I hate this rivalry shit, I didn’t ask for it, I don’t like fighting.”

Otto sighed, taking another step forward. “You deserve a genuine apology.”

“I deserve a lot more than that,” you answered.  

“Yes. For the fight, but also everything before that as well. The harassment, the stalking, all those things I did for my own gain.” He rubbed his hands together anxiously. “I have been nothing but a burden to you since we first crossed paths, even in my better moments, and that is nobody’s fault but mine.”

Something about his candor, the sincerity in his voice where none was present before, immediately softened you, your shoulders loosening and your caution giving way for an amused smirk. “Well, I don’t know. I thought the comedy club was okay.”

Otto dropped the self pity for a moment to scoff. “I thought that place was kind of crummy.”

“I meant—“ you stopped yourself short, unwilling to admit anything even close to enjoying this mans company. Jeez, maybe tricking you into letting your guard down was that simple. “Look, I need to clean, okay? I’m already gonna get out of here super late and I’m not spending even more time on my feet just to have a chat with you.”

You started to fill the coffee urn with hot water and cleaning powder, listening to his actuators click and chirp as they looked around the shop. You were starting to realize that the whirs and purrs coming from the actuators was not a result of their very function, but rather conscious noises they made. The difference between the violent hissing from your fights and the calm trill of their curiosity was evidence that they were every bit as smart as Otto claimed them to be. After you put the lid back on top of the urn, you turned and saw Otto had found the cabinet where you kept your extra cups stored and was restocking the piles next to your espresso machines. You snorted. “That’s illegal, you’re not on the clock.”

“Oh, please ,” Otto groaned, rolling his eyes. “Heaven forbid I do something illegal.”  

“Uh huh. I don’t associate with criminals,” you told him, putting the urn back up on the counter. Otto chuckled, intrigued. 

“Of course you don’t. Who would ever suspect you of mingling with ne’er-do-wells?” You grabbed a rag out of the sanitizer bucket and squeezed out the excess water.

“Well there’s this one ne’er-do-well who keeps fucking showing up.” You smiled bitterly and turned to wipe off the coffee counter. “He seems to think I have nothing better to do than do…ne’er-well with him. But I am not a ne’er-do-well, I am in fact a do-well-er!” 

Otto laughed under his breath before letting out a dramatic sigh. “I’m done asking for your help.”

This caught your attention. You turned and leaned one arm on the counter, looking him over. “Why?”

“Because you’ve already given me an answer, and I’m respecting that answer.” Two of his actuators turned, opening and chirping pointedly at him. Otto sneered and turned to the one hovering over his right shoulder. “Oh, shut up.”

You watched the actuators jolt back, seemingly offended at his snappy remark. The lights centered in their claws flickered red for a second before fading to white under Otto’s intense stare, slowly retreating behind his back. The pieces clicked in your head, and you let out a noise of realization. “Oh, that makes sense. Red’s a bad color.”

Otto turned to you. “Pardon?”

“Your actuators turn red when they’re angry and white when they’re normal,” you pointed out. 

“Not quite,” he corrected you. “They turn red when they’re in control and white when they’re under control.”

Your mind flickered back to the fight on 1st Avenue, the angry red glow of his actuators as he attacked you. The same red glow that you had seen in the alley way, contrasted by the white glow in your apartment and in the comedy club. The two different, unpredictable sides of Otto Octavius that suddenly made a lot more sense. You squinted. “So you were being honest about them controlling you.”

He grimaced and rubbed the back of his neck. “It would be easy for me to let them take the blame, but…like I’ve already told you, I was the one that allowed it to happen.”

“Uh huh.” You turned back to your work on the counter, mentally planning out how many batches of coffee beans you would need to weigh out for the morning crew. You knew you had no obligation to forgive him but, for the moment, you were too tired and focused to hold a grudge. “So you’re done attacking me?”

“Yes, I swear.” You pursed your lips and walked over to the scale.

“So I’ll never see you again?” Otto hesitated a bit on this answer, his hands coming together in front of him and fumbling uneasily.

“I…would like to continue seeing you,” he eventually answered. You shot him a dirty look as you pulled out the containers you needed.

“Why?” you asked. “I thought you only cared about my magnet powers.”

“What? No, no.” He shook his head, but froze as though a realization hit him. “I…suppose you have every reason to think that, don’t you?”

You gave him a joyless hum in response and started towards the back room for the bags of coffee beans. As you tried to slide past him Otto grabbed your arm, fixing you with a pleading stare.

“Please sit,” he asked you. “Let them do the work.”

“Let—“ his words clicked in your brain, watching the actuators slowly creep around the bar and begin wiping down surfaces, sweeping coffee grounds off of the floor, and restocking the cups and lids. When you noticed the fourth hovering uncertainly in the air, you pointed directly at it. “You!”

It turned towards you, the claw popping open. You stared right into its little white eye and put your hands on your hips. “I need 6 batches each of a light and a dark roast. Each one needs to weigh 208 grams exactly. Can you do that for me please?”

The claw opened and shut a few times, cheeping in a way that felt alarmingly organic. You couldn’t help the smile that slipped on your face. “Thank you.”

It zipped off to complete it’s assigned task, and you turned to Otto, reeling a bit at his dumbfounded face. “What?”

“They listen to you like they listen to me,” he muttered.

“It’s because I said the magic words,” you told him confidently. He rolled his eyes, and together you both sat at one of the cafe’s tables, you in a refurnished armchair while Otto dragged over a regular wooden chair to sit on backwards. 

“I think,” he started, pressing his gloved fingers together, “beyond my horrid behavior these last few weeks, we have quite a bit in common.”

“Oh, is that a fact?” you asked incredulously, crossing your legs and leaning back in your chair. He answered your sarcasm with a reserved smile. 

“Well, we both do ‘ morally questionable’ things, have to hide from the authorities, we both have an affinity for poetry,” he prattled off before clasping his hands together and shrugging. “I doubt you have anyone to talk to about your secret life as a criminal. I could be that person.”

“To what end?” you asked, narrowing your eyes. Now that the actuators were handling the work, you could expend a little energy towards being pissed. “Why, after I threw a car at you, then you threw a car at me, would you want to be my friend?”

Otto shrugged again, this time with a melancholy smile. “The life of a super-villain is also lonely.”

You snorted and shook your head. “I just think it’s funny, that you need a friend and you’re like ‘ Hm, there is that chick I tried to beat the shit out of a couple times. Maybe she’ll want to hang out.’” 

“And I can always fall back on the same excuse,” Otto told you with a smirk of his own. “You started it.”

“That is the reasoning of a child,” you pointed out. Otto smiled wider, and though you still resented him for making this last month hell, you couldn’t deny it made your heart do a little flip in your chest.  In the same breath you wanted to take it out of your body and stomp on it. “Why me, though?”

He pressed his fingers together, deep in thought for a few moments before he gave you his answer. “I find you…interesting. Your powers, yes, but your personality, your…jokes, for lack of a better term—“

“Fuck you.”

“—and—noted—your intellect are all very unique.”

“ Intellect,” you repeated sarcastically. 

“I’m serious,” Otto insisted. “You’re quick-witted, incredible when it comes to thinking on the fly. Creative when it comes to utilizing your powers as well.”

“That’s just survival instinct,” you dismissed, earning a roll of the eyes from your guest. 

“Funny how your instincts are always impressive in one way or another,” he jeered. 

Part of you wanted to fish for more compliments just to see what else he’d say, but curiosity about something he said earlier ultimately won over. “Affinity for poetry, huh?”

Otto nodded, clearing his throat and thinking for a second before plucking a quote from his mind’s library. “And the lost heart stiffens and rejoices in the lost lilac and the lost sea voices.”

Ash Wednesday, T. S. Eliot. Eyebrow piqued, you accuse him: “You looked that up to impress me.”

“I’m quite familiar with Eliot’s work, actually,” he replied. You weren’t sure whether or not you believed him, but you supposed it didn’t matter; the fact that he thought to say it at all showed he was trying to connect with you on some level, and that soothed you a bit. You nodded wordlessly and listened for a few moments to the whir of his tentacles tidying up the coffee bar, almost nodding off and forgetting you were in a conversation. 

“I’m curious about yours,” he said suddenly. You blinked back into focus.

“My what?”

“Your poetry.”

“Oh…” Eye contact suddenly became difficult, your gaze falling down to your battered work shoes. You’d have to replace those soon. “I haven’t written…in a very long time.”

Otto hummed. “How long?”

“2 and a half years now.” This conversation was skirting towards dangerous territory, and you could see the next question coming out of Otto’s mouth from a mile away. 

“And, why did you stop?” Your mouth ran dry.

“The last thing I wrote was for a funeral,” you told him. His brow furrowed, and after a beat he nodded solemnly.

“I’m sorry to hear,” he said, fidgeting with his hands. You hummed, eyes still trained on the floor in front of you. A minute passes, and Otto speaks up again, drawing your attention. “Sometimes…grief inspires, other times it suffocates.”

You tried to laugh, but it just came out as a painful huff. “I promise you nobody is walking around inspired by their spouse’s death.”

He stiffened, his face hardening into something unreadable. “You don’t think so?”

“I mean, I suppose, but…I think people feel guilty when their loved ones die, and that’s what inspires them.” Your own words shocked you. Tiredness and pain had ripped away your filter, and as he pushed you closer and closer towards your pain you found thoughts coming to life that you had never once said aloud. Nevertheless you continued, too exhausted to think of stopping now. “I think seeing someone you love die, it convinces you that you need to experience two lifetimes of experiences and achieve two lifetimes worth of accomplishments for their sake. I think it drills into your mind harder than anything that life is finite and that your clock is ticking. I think…you know, I think people get inspired because it’s easier to work your grief away than work through it.”

The coffee shop went silent. Otto’s actuators slowed to a stop mid-clean, each turning to face their master. Your stare never wavered, simply too fatigued to be discouraged by his clenched jaw and frigid eyes. If he wasn’t helping you clean, he was just holding you up from getting back in your bed, and you didn’t have patience for that. “Speaking of work, I need to get back to it.”

“Mm.” With no more formality than that, Otto stood and made his way to the door, his actuators following him through the back room and out the side entrance. You waited for the click of the door shutting before you finally stood, making your way back over to the coffee bar. He had gotten a fair chunk of your closing work done before leaving. Hell, at some point during your conversation, he had even slipped a handful of 20’s in the tip jar.

“Thanks, Otto,” you muttered to the empty shop as the sound of thumping faded into the distance.

Chapter Text

At once upon opening your eyes the next morning, you realized exactly how poorly you had handled that entire conversation. Without the tired fog dragging you down the pieces fell together almost instantly: why Otto was so hellbent on getting his fusion to work, why he seemed so troubled when you questioned the work ethic of widows. It bothered you day and night, your tactlessness, your complete lack of comprehension, compounded with the fact that you let slip the one horrible, pitiful fact about yourself you hated sharing.

You were torn up inside, bouncing back and forth wildly between extremes. I hope I didn’t hurt his feelings. What do I care about his feelings? This is just another scheme to trick me into helping. I should be more understanding to his cause. Wait, I don’t owe him understanding. He’s just trying to be civil, maybe I should…no, he doesn’t deserve my civility! 

Ad infinitum.

You hadn’t heard anything since that night, either from Otto or through the newspapers detailing his crimes. He had gone quiet, something that shouldn’t have concerned you like it did. Radio silence was what you wanted, or so you had thought. Instead, just like before, it was putting you on edge. You were sitting on your couch after work, trying to read a novel but letting your mind get carried away with every other noise outside your window. Somewhat hoping one would be the crunching of bricks, a tap on your window.

Or for once, a knock on your door.

You blinked, slowly lowering your book and turning on your overhead light with a flick of your hand. You stood from your couch, trying to piece together who could be knocking at this hour on a Thursday night. Seeing Otto on the other side of the door was so unexpected that you forgot for a moment how your last conversation ended, but the amnesia faded quickly. “…Hi.”

“Hello,” he mumbled, hands tucked deep into his coat pockets. All the words you had prepared for this moment scattered in the air like dust, and you were left frozen in the doorway with no idea how to continue. Otto must have seen that, because he was quick to take the reigns. “May I?”

“Since you asked for once.” You stepped to the side, and for the first time Otto entered your apartment invited. He felt predictably out of place in the living room, silent as he meandered around for a moment, looking as unsure as you felt. You shut and locked the door as he reached out and picked up your open book.

“The Da Vinci Code,” he read aloud, as though he was genuinely interested. Even his four actuators positioned themselves around his head to look over the cover. You hummed and circled around him to sit on the couch.

“Yes, I…read.” Otto was thoughtful enough to grab a receipt off the pile of papers on your end table and mark your page before shutting It.

“I had no doubt,” he said. The awkwardness in the room was already palpable and you were starting to regret hoping for this. You watched as he gave your living room another once over, yet not making any effort to move from where he stood. You realized what was happening with a tired groan.

“Otto…” You pinched the bridge of your nose. “You’re not an animal, you can have a seat.”

He clasped his hands together in front of his stomach. “I don’t want to impose.”

“After everything, you don’t want to sit on my couch—the very same couch you have already sat on—without permission?!” you questioned.

“Well, you’re already on it,” he said. You groaned louder.  It felt like you were in the middle of a slow motion train wreck.

“You are a guest in my apartment. Don’t be weird, just sit on the fucking couch.” He hesitated, but before long he was bringing himself to a seat on the couch opposite of you. To his credit, the two of you on your modest couch left little in the way of personal space, knees almost bumping against one another. He turned to face you, pulling his glasses off and setting them on top of your book. Just you, him, and his four sentient metal tentacles. 

“I wanted…” he stopped himself, clenching his eyes shut. “First, I’m sorry for walking out the other night without saying anything.”

You blinked, somewhat shocked that was the first thing out of his mouth. “That’s…fine, uh. What was with the $200 in the tip jar?”

“A peace offering, since I ruined the sanctity of the first one,” he said with a sigh. You pursed your lips.

“What, my bracelet and my check? Giving me back things that I already owned is not a peace offering,” you argued. 

“Did it convey the intention of peace?” Otto questioned. You thought back to that moment, and sure enough you were fairly certain a peace offering was your first go-to assumption. The look on your face must have said all, because Otto gave a confident ‘ well-there-you-go’ gesture. “I rest my case.”

“Whatever,” you breathed, tucking your hair behind your ear. The temptation to stick to this tone was strong. Keep the mood light and funny, crack jokes for a bit before kicking him out. But that wasn’t what he came here for, and you knew that. “I was going to apologize to you too.”

He tilted his head. “For what?”

“I kind of just…snapped because I was tired and started saying a bunch of things I normally wouldn’t say,” you explained, playing idly with a strand of loose hair. “I don’t like getting that way in front of people.”

“I forgive you,” he said without hesitation. “More than that, I want to thank you, because the things you said that night, brutally honest as they were, were things I needed to hear.”

You straightened your back. “Really?”

Otto sat back, crossing his arms. His gaze fell to the couch cushions, and after a moment of intense thought he closed them entirely. "I...lost my better half as well."

"I had a feeling,” you told him. Otto looked back up immediately, eyebrows furrowed.

“What do you mean?” he asked.

“That scream, the other night. I know that sound.” You swallowed the choking sensation crawling up your throat. “I know that pain.”

He relaxed, fingernails digging into the leather of his trench coat. “Of course you do.”

Here, you hit a rock. Two widows on opposite sides of a couch, both closed off and guarded, both looking each other down wondering who was going to bridge the gap. You stared at Otto, his crossed arms, the closed claws on his actuators, every possible point of entry shut and guarded. The walls you had both built were high, and the river that split between you and Otto was deep and treacherous. It rushed before you now, and you wondered if it was worth it to try and cross.

Tentatively, you extended a branch over the dark rapids.

"How long ago?"

Enough beats passed that you were almost certain Otto wouldn’t answer. Right when you were about to give up and change the subject, he spoke up.

"Three years." He reached up to his chest, and you watched him pull out a thin chain necklace from beneath his shirt, a golden wedding band centered in the middle. He clutched it in his fist. "She was right behind me, supporting me every step of the way towards my dream even after she got sick. When she passed I...I could do nothing but continue. Fulfill the dream. Make it all worth something in the end."

“That’s why your project means so much to you,” you observed. “And why you refused to take no for an answer.”

Otto cringed, refusing to meet your eye as he tucked the ring away. “I suppose, yes. Again, I’m sorry. My…personal debts aren’t something worth attacking you over. They never were.”

You gave him a weak shrug. “Hey, that’s a genuine apology. I can forgive that.”

“Thank you,” he said, sincere conviction in his words. You could feel the rapids soothing, quieting with every word. You extended another branch, further and further from your self-concocted fortress of solitude and closer to his.

"I grew up in a shitty house." Your old wedding ring was sitting in a little box in your dresser, so you visualized it on your hand instead. "Poor, loud, dirty, bad parents. Then here comes this man. He sees me, he sees the conditions I live in, and instead of running away like all the others he...grabs my things and moves me a thousand miles away from everything and everyone that had ever done me wrong. Promises me I'll never have to go back to that. Then, well..."

“You’re still here,” Otto pointed out gently. You sighed and clenched your fist.

“I’m stuck here because I’m still paying off tens of thousands of dollars for medicine that didn’t even save him,” you spat, heart twisting in your chest. You rubbed tears away aggressively with the heel of your palm, trying your damnedest to bury the feelings that were inexplicably bubbling to the surface despite yourself. When you finally looked at Otto again, you noticed his fingers twitching. 

"It’s just...” you started, trying to channel your anger and grief and frustration into words, “…so hard when you’re so set on a person that you begin building your life around them."

"Then when they're gone," Otto picked up, his voice weak, "you're completely lost."

You nodded, hugging your knees close to your chest."Every single thing you got used to doing together, you're doing alone again."

"And you still find yourself doing things for them out of habit."

You smiled feebly, a tear dropping over your cheek. "Like grabbing their favorite snack at the corner store."

Otto’s smile mirrored yours, soft and pained. "Or starting a pot of decaf."

Once the dam broke the tears kept coming, bubbling over and leaving two distinct trails over your round cheeks. "You find them guiding your hand in things years after they're gone."

“Still worried you’ll disappoint them.”

“Wanting to do right by them, to make up for the fact that…” you sniffled, swallowing the lump in your throat before you continued, “…you’re here and they’re not.”

Otto’s voice hardened, but you saw the tears brimming at the corners of his eyes as well, the ones he blinked back with ferocity. "You tell yourself you're going to honor their memory if it's the last thing you do."

Foolhardy as you always were, you extended the final branch that brought you to his shore, sitting forward and putting your hand on his knee. He tensed but made no move to push you away. "But sometimes…you get confused between honoring their memory, and letting their memory control you."

His eyes flickered from your hand back up to your face, deep in thought. He seemed to be at a loss for words, so when the silence became too much for you to bear you spoke once more."That’s when you’ve gotta ask yourself: when am I going to start living for me and not them?"

Your final words hung in the air, the residual burn it left stinging you both. You started to pull your hand back, but to your shock Otto’s snapped up and grabbed it instead. His thumb pressed into the soft flesh of your palm, running over your heart line.

"When I was in college,” Otto started, staring at your hand instead of you. “My wife came across this slob spending all his free time in his dorm room, surrounded by books and take out containers. What she saw in that kid I'll never know, but suddenly she was bringing me home-cooked food after class, and I was smitten." A fond smile was beginning to form on his face, but it faded into a scowl as reality set in once more. "I could never make life that good for myself."

"My husband used to sneak into my room when I was distracted, and he said I was always sad until I noticed him. I never smiled. Then when we moved in together…” That fond smile, the very same one, found its way to your lips. “Just, non-stop smiling. Even when I was doing nothing I was smiling. I smiled so much that I got dimples on my cheeks." 

And just as quickly, it faded. "They're probably gone now."

Otto gently pulled his hand from yours and brought it up to your chin, tilting your head up ever slightly. He scrutinized your face for a moment before the corner of his lips quirked upward. "Faint, but there."

You scoffed, letting out a chuckle as you reached up to rub away the tears. Otto grinned. “Oh yeah, they’re definitely still there.”

“Shut up.” You leaned away, covering your mouth with your hand to hide the smile that despite your best efforts remained stubbornly in place. “I didn’t ask you.”

“Didn’t you?” The weight in the air dissipated, and you could feel the anguish your soul had been steeping in for the last three years dissolve just the littlest bit. This was nice. Not venting to co-workers, not outpouring to a grief counselor, but genuinely connecting through something that had brought you nothing but misery in the past. It was still miserable now, of course, but you were told misery loved company.

“So, um,” you said eventually, holding out your hand to Otto. “I never actually introduced myself, so. I’m Y/N.” 

Otto sat up straight, eyes lighting up. “Does this mean we’re…?”

You brought the hand to your neck and made a cut-throat motion. “ Aht. We are not friends yet , but…” you slowly re-extended your arm. “I am willing to start over.”

“I’ll take it.” Otto grabbed and shook your hand eagerly, all of his actuators wriggling and letting out chirps of their own. You watched the display with a chuckle, picturing in your mind a peacock dancing with tail feathers swaying this way and that. The visual in front of you wasn’t too much different. 

Somewhere inside of you, the foundation of your walls began to crack.

Chapter Text

After everything that had happened, it was nice to finally wake up rested for once. You sat up before you were even fully awake, ready to get the last day of your work week out of the way. Reality set in before long, reminding you that you were just a barista in East Village, but even that didn’t bother you as much as it did most days. You showered, your made your coffee, you got through your morning routine with unfamiliar ease. If it wasn’t for the dusty mirror hanging beside your door, you wouldn’t have even noticed that you were smiling.

You grabbed both of your cheeks and dragged your fingers down, physically wiping it off your face before stepping out into the hallway. Right then. Reality. The word had a much different meaning for you than it did most people, but it would be returning to normal soon. Full time job, bit of villainy on the weekends, the occasional visit from your eight-limbed acquaintance. You hadn’t fixed all your problems last night, just made things the same as they were before.

Well, okay. Maybe a bit better. And maybe that little bit was cause for a smile.

You did a couple quick stretches before you stepped out onto the front steps to your apartment building, preparing for your brief walk to work. Your mood was so blissful that you practically ignored the first shake of the ground. The second time though, when you could hear glass shattering in the distance, you started to realize something was up. You slowed to a stop, stepping between two cars to avoid the sudden onslaught of people turning heel and running in the opposite direction. 

Finally, two familiar faces threw themselves into view. Peter and Otto were engaged in a heated fist fight, Otto’s actuators trying to make distance and Peter not giving him any quarter. You froze, watching the duo trade blows in the middle of the intersection without relenting, two incredible displays of force you didn’t feel you had any business trying to contend with. 

And even if you did, whose side would you be on?

Peter landed a particularly rough dropkick, sending Otto flying up the street. His claws dug into the asphalt to retain his balance, until he came to a stop on the street right beside you. You watched him glance over, double-take, and finally smile when he realized it was you. You stumbled backwards, but not nearly fast enough to dodge the actuator coiling around your waist like a snake. Otto dragged you close, brandishing you dangerously between him and Spider-Man while you flailed.

“Need a hostage,” he said, soft enough that only you would hear. “Play along.”

“Oh, sure,” you spat. Not even 24 hours and you were back to this horse shit. Otto muttered his gratitude and looked over your shoulder.

“Back off or the lady gets it!” he shouted at Spider-Man. The protests you had begun to form died off in your throat when his tentacle gave you a squeeze. 

“This is between you and me, Doc!” Peter shouted at his nemesis. You were completely over the entire affair, arms crossed and a scowl on your face. Pissed because you should’ve known better, pissed because he was already using you, pissed because you were gonna be so late to work. 

Otto wasn’t in the mood for banter. “Don’t follow me.”

And like that, you were off on another super-adventure. Otto tucked you close to him while the other three actuators worked in tandem to escape, first across the street then scrambling up the side of an apartment building. You reached up to grab his coat once you got off the ground, trying to steady at least your upper half when you realized—

“Where is your shirt?!” 

“I’m focusing,” he dismissed, eyes focused solely on the edge of the roof he was trying to reach. You stared despite yourself, forgetting for a moment even your wild situation. His strong build first made you wheeze, then the radiation burns that surrounded his metal girdle made you gasp, squinting as you tried to discern where the metal ended and the flesh began. So this was what the papers meant by “mutation” then? 

The actuator that held you turned suddenly, putting you nearly upside down as Doc crested over the roof’s edge and onto the gravel. You let out a weak moan, slapping your hand over your mouth in case your light-headed gags took a turn for the worse. Otto flipped you back over, slowly, giving you a moment to catch your breath while he weighed which way he would go next. “This sucks.” 

“I think the lady doth protest too much,” he teased, a humorless smile on his face as he decided to push west. He began to approach the edge of the roof in the same moment you happened to catch a glimpse of red out of the corner of your eye.

“Otto—!” 

Spider-Man tackled Otto from the side, sending all three of you skidding across the rooftop. The force uncurled the actuator and you hit the roof, throwing your hands out to catch yourself before sliding to a stop. Your palms burned, the tender beginnings of a friction burn forming while you clenched your hands to your chest and tried to calm yourself down. All the while, your two acquaintances were exchanging words and fists on the rooftop beside you.

“Watch where you’re swinging those things!”

“Rrgh—“

“Not up to talking, Doc?”

“You don’t know when to quit!”

You pushed yourself to stand, ducking away from the two as they fought. Frantically you searched around you, eyes catching a water tank hooked up on the far corner of the building. You latched onto the metal and telepathically pulled, the entire structure creaking forward before finally bursting open. The small wave of water split the two apart, and Otto took the opportunity to push away and grab you again. Notably, this time, with his own two arms instead of his metal ones. 

“Hang on!” he warned you, gripping you close to his chest and diving off the side of the roof. He dug two actuators into the side of the building to stop his descent, then recoiled and launched himself across the street, gripping onto another building. You clutched onto his jacket and lolled your head back. 

“How do you do this?” you whined. Even flying with your wristbands wasn’t as nauseating at this, and you didn’t even want to think about how Spider-Man got around. It was better than being wrapped up in his actuator; certainly no less dizzying, but somehow you felt more secure being held close to his body. Probably because he was more likely to protect you while he protected himself.

Yeah. Definitely the reason.

You peeked over Otto’s shoulder, watching Spider-Man leap off the building after you.  He crossed over to the building adjacent to you and Otto, and you leaned close to Otto’s ear. “To our right.”

“I see.” His actuators moved faster, and you kept a keen eye on Peter as he searched for a way to stop Ock in his tracks. Sirens began to ring out below, and you glanced down to see a fire engine rolling out from the station and down the busy street. Next you heard the sound of web-slinging, and when you looked back up, Peter had taken off down the street after the engine.

“Oh wow, really?” you muttered.

“Finally,” Otto sighed, circling around to the other side of the building.

“He really just abandoned me,” you continued aloud, feigning disbelief. You had already talked to him about being stretched too thin, but leaving a hostage situation for a fire? That boy did not have his priorities in order. You crossed your arms as Otto brought you to the ground in an alleyway below,  gingerly lowering you from his grasp.

“He’s given up, it seems,” Otto huffed, still catching his breath from the fight. Then, to your shock, he took one of your wrists and looked over your reddened skin. “Are you okay?” 

You blinked, not expecting the question. “I mean, I’m shaken, but yeah.”

“And this?” He brushed his thumb over the muscle of your thumb and you winced. Otto frowned. “You’re hurt.”

“It’s just road rash,” you brushed him off, pulling your hand away from his and rubbing the tender skin yourself. “You’ve done worse.”

Otto froze, and for a moment you regretted letting the words slip out of your mouth. But then the moment passed, and suddenly you realized how hypocritical his concern really was. “Kinda funny that the guy who smashed me against a wall cares about a little boo-boo.”

“I…” Otto pinched the bridge of his nose. “I’m…trying to start over, you know. Hearing you bring up the old things makes that difficult.”

“Tough!” you spat, not giving an ounce of sympathy to his cause. “First off, it’s not ‘old,’ that happened like a month ago. Second, maybe if you showed me through actions that you were really sorry about that stuff instead of using me as a human shield, then maybe I’d stop bringing it up!”

He nodded, covering his mouth and glancing off to the side. You sighed, gazing back out to the street. You weren’t too far from work, and it was probably smarter for you to walk there rather than fly. You started on your way out the alley when metal clasped around your arm and lightly tugged you back in the direction you came. You turned around, anger right on the tip of your tongue, only for it to disintegrate as you laid your eyes on Otto’s kneeling form, his forehead nearly touching the pavement.

“I’m sorry,” he said, clenching his hands into fists. “I’m so sorry for everything—“

“Otto.” You raced forward, grabbing his shoulders and pulling him away from the ground. “Please, dude, you don’t know where this sidewalk has been.”

He broke his remorseful look for a second to retort with a snarky, “Right here, if I had to guess.”

“I meant—Fuck you.” Otto smiled then, and you felt your heart jump a little before you stood up. “I was just trying to keep you from getting diseases, my bad. I have to go to work—oh, uh, what time is it?”

Otto slid his sleeve back to check his watch. “2:12.”

“ Shit. ”