Came Alive (The first time you called me baby)
James throws his keys into the little bowl by the door, reaching his arms above his head as he stretches, letting out a tiny sigh at the tension in his back. He doesn’t work sixteen hour shifts as often anymore, easing off of longer shifts for both his sleep schedule’s sake and also for school (going back to med school to get his doctorate and maintaining rent every month made it impossible to completely give up sixteen hour shifts, it just wouldn’t be feasible, especially during his year of residency).
His eyes flutter, stomach longingly trying to pull him towards the fridges as his sore feet shuffle over to his twin bed, stifling a yawn against his hand as he passes his window.
It’s not so much starlight that reflects through his window as it is building lights and leds, but the illuminating blue lighting gives the same calm effect all the same, even if the noise from outside is never fully off, a city that never sleeps.
He pulls off his slightly sweat crusted scrubs and slips into sweatpants and a hoodie (his heater gave out three weeks ago and the only guy that talked to him about fixing it had a starting charge rate of six months of rent, so he’ll go without for a little bit).
He just started eyeing his fridge, trying to work up enough energy to walk towards it, when there is a loud clang from outside his window, making him spin around, startled.
A vaguely human shape is wrapped around the safety bar of his fire escape, bending at the waist and unmoving even as James stares at it for an inordinately long amount of time.
He’s long settled into that odd stretch of wakefulness that usually signifies he should be knocked out in bed. Therefore, his brain power more resembles a worm than a human, seeing as worms are brainless.
Eventually, his brain starts working enough to understand things like: human shaped=human, and he rushes toward the window. Pulling it up as he slips through it, he steps closer cautiously as he scans the person, because it is obviously a person, for injuries.
“Hello?” James whispers, looking for some sort of response from the guy in front of him, hoping that it’s not really a corpse that just crash landed on his fire escape, calling the cops and dealing with the aftermath would be so time consuming to his sleep schedule.
The person groans in pain, a little croak that washes through James all the way to his toes, making him physically sag with relief. The guy is alive.
James puts a bracing hand on the guy’s back, trying to help him swing over to the safe side of the fire escape, the side with a floor to stand on, slightly mystified on how the guy managed to stay on the fire escape without his feet touching anything but air.
The guy is shorter than him, skinnier too, seeing as James can count his ribs through the skin tight suit he’s wearing, and he’s evidently hurt if he isn’t responding to sound. His clothing looks familiar, but the only light James has to work with is from the flickering street lamp across the road, and that on its own isn’t bright enough to see when you’re directly under it.
He feels each scratchy, ragged breath as if it’s dragging knives against his own lungs, but the guy doesn’t make any protest in pain when James leads him to the wall and leans him against it.
Instantly, James’s nurse mode takes over, running light fingertips against the guy’s ribs to make sure nothing it broken, grazing a soft palm across his head to check for a concussion, feeling the bones in the guy’s arms and legs to check for any major breaks, all of this made slightly odder than his usual patients by the complete covering of his skin tight suit from head to toe.
James is worried that the guy might have passed out, but he seems pretty responsive when James tries to lift the mask, pulling away and pushing James back as he breathes heavily with a suctioning sound that definitely points to some kind of punctured lung.
With distance between them, James can make out the pattern of interlocking lines against the guy’s skin, sketching out a web over his chest with a black spider in the middle of it, the top bent leg settling right over the guy’s heart.
The lenses over his eyes shift and move, getting larger and smaller as the guy focuses on the things around him, eyes darting about behind the lenses as they make soft whirring sounds.
James raises his hands above his head in peace, trying to be as placating as possible to hopefully not scare off the guy with multiple broken ribs and fucked up lungs, the last thing this kid needs to be doing right now is running away.
Suddenly, the costume, the context, connects in his nurse mode brain.
“Holy shit,” the guy flinches back slightly and James lowers his voice, “You’re the spider-dude?”
Spider-man curls inward, arms wrapping around his injured ribs, “Spider-man,” he corrects in a raspy voice, head still twitching around as he takes in his surroundings
This entire night is surreal, and James lets out a disbelieving chuckle as he stares at the guy, this doesn’t seem to help the Spider-themed kid’s nerves.
“I’m not gonna hurt you,” says every person with bad intentions ever, “I’m a nurse.”
The Spider-guy looks completely unconvinced by James’s riveting argument, inching closer to the edge of the fire escape as James looks on with mildly increasing panic.
“Please,” James tries, “You’re hurt, let me help you.”
The white eyes of the mask stare back at him silently as James holds his breath, counting to twenty in his head before the guy finally responds, asking tentatively, “My identity…?”
James nods empathetically, “I don’t even care, wouldn’t know enough people to tell, but I won’t even take a peek, I promise.”
Spider-man nods, still shifting his head around as if plotting out escape routes.
After a moment of this, he seems more sure of himself, sitting up taller as he says, “Okay, you can look me over I suppose,” as if it’s some great allowance he’s granting James with, some privilege that shouldn’t be expected or taken lightly.
Barely holding back a laugh, James stands to help the Spider-guy up, but Spider-man resolutely shakes his head, “Out here, you can look me over out here.”
James sighs, a touch too tired to have many bedside manners when his patient is being difficult, but agrees nonetheless, slipping back inside to grab the emergency first aid kit from his cabinet before coming back out to help the Spider-dude.
Spidey sits exactly where James has left him, head lolling down in a way that suggests he is slowly drifting off, but he perks back up when James pops his head out the window, looking around blearily before the white eyes of his mask settle on James.
James cracks a grin at the reaction, his lopsided, little too much teeth, tired grin that he never uses when on bedside manner duty, but he can’t help it, this feels more like looking Sirius over after a big chase than it does helping a patient. It’s more friendly than sterile, and he doesn’t even know the guy’s name or past medical history.
Straddling his window, James ducks back outside, one leg still hooked over the side of the window as he clumsily stumbles out, off balance and incorrect, staggering around his fire escape in an effort to find his footing again.
Spider-man lets out an amused huff and James glares playfully, “It’s not nice to laugh at people.”
Suddenly wide eyed and innocent, Spider-man looks up at him shocked, the lenses on his mask whirring as far open as possible as the guy gasps out, “I would never!”
James sits down next to him, huffing quietly in amused annoyance, “Yeah, sure.”
Finding the two problem ribs easily, James hesitates at the crease between the torso of the suit and the pants, “Could I lift this up to get better access to your ribs?”
Even though New York is never truly quiet, the hustle and bustle of the night city life seems to ease for a moment, the very earth waiting with bated breath as Spider-man freezes in hesitation and fear before slowly, ever so slowly, relaxing.
“Yeah okay,” even the two words sound strained and tense, pulled tight with pain, so James makes quick work of pulling the suit up, ignoring the concave of the guy’s stomach as he focuses on taping the guys ribs, listening to the shallow breathing as he presses against week old bruises that have new ones forming against them.
“Are you-”
“I heal fast,” James eyes the mottled watercolor of a mess on his torso before nodding unbelievably, “If you say so.”
He feels the eye roll more than sees it, though the guy’s shoulders shrug with the movement, “I’ll be fine I promise.”
James would doubt him, but the quality of his voice has improved over their three minute conversation, the slight suctioning of each breath has all but disappeared, something that should take days after puncturing a rib, and suddenly, James is much more inclined to believe him.
Sighing, James notices a dash of red against the guy’s stomach, “Are you cut up?”
Grazing his fingers against it earns him a flinch as Spidey curls in on himself to avoid more inspection, “Tis but a flesh wound.”
James bats at the guy’s arms until he can get a closer look at the wound, “It looks like a week old stab wound!”
Spidey shrugs, “It’ll be gone in a bit, you should have seen it thirty minutes ago.”
Nausea rolls in James’s gut, thick and heavy as images of a knife sticking out of Spider-man’s chest flicker like a film reel across his vision, “Either way,” he says, pushing back the revulsion he feels at the whole subject, “it needs to be cleaned.”
Spider-man groans, but agrees to let James look at the cut, sitting still as he pours antiseptic against the wound and wraps it in sticky bandages, not bothering with stitches seeing how shallow the wound is and how quickly it is healing right before his eyes.
James runs an awed hand through the air above the wound, hesitating over it as he glances up at Spidey.
Two wide white eyes stare back at him, headlights in the dark night as James makes eye contact, even with a mask and glass and whatever else in the way, James feels more seen by this random, slightly suicidal, stranger than he ever has in his entire life.
It terrifies him
Nodding, he watches Spider-man stand, balancing on the railing of his fire escape like he doesn’t have multiple broken ribs.
Before James can shake himself out of his daze to properly scold the guy into taking better care of himself, Spider-man jumps up higher than should be possible, body twisting in the air into a double front flip before falling limply as he shoots a web.
He is gone by the time James’s shout of surprise reaches his mouth.
That should be it.
James goes to work at his shitty fucking hospital, always counting down the days until his residency ends and he can become a real nurse, a real doctor, someone with a real sleep schedule.
Its days before he even hears a whisper of Spider-man, the front page of a newspaper whose stand he passes by on his way to work, James stops just long enough to see “picture taken by: Regulus Black” before he’s fielding an anxious call from his boss about some car crash on 135th and Roe.
He forgets all about the photo until later, after trudging into his apartment and mourning the days he actually has free time, face planting on his couch and landing on top of his best friend.
Sirius, the afromented best friend, jumps up indignantly, shouting roughly in surprise like a startled dog before spotting James.
As James stares blearily up at Sirius, he begins to rant, pacing back and forth as he runs a hand through his hair, gesturing aggressively at the coffee table.
Eventually, James’s post-work brain gets with the memo, gazing warily at the table where a black and white lump sits.
Spider-man stares back at him from the front page.
Panic thrums through him so aggressively that he thinks for a moment that he has slept for a full twelve hours, eyes shooting open from their consistent half lid as adrenaline carries him out of his seat and halfway across the room to Sirius before the words his friend’s saying actually register in his mind.
“-And now he’s suddenly taking pictures? How did he even get in with the Daily Prophet, he’s always loved superheroes and now he's taking photos for Skeeter? I knew he could suck up and endure conflicting morals but mum and dad wouldn’t even approve so what the hell is he trying to prove? I mean-“
“Sirius,” James interrupts, shaking his head to get rid of the lingering fear, “What are you talking about?”
He doesn’t exactly know why Sirius finding out about his late night with Spider-man the other day freaks him out, and he doesn’t particularly want to examine that specific emotion right now.
Sirius stops pacing, turning to face him fully, “Have you been listening at all?”
James blinks, shaking out of that train of thought as he gapes at Sirius, trying to think up an excuse as the post-panic adrenaline fades, leaving a tired, soggy, wilted sponge of a mind, “I- sorry Ri, I- medicine mind- I just got off a shift I-“
Sirius shakes his head, waving away James’s admittedly flimsy excuse, “It’s fine,” he points an accusing finger at the newspaper like it explains anything, “Regulus!”
Sirius says it oddly, mouth curling around the R and fading it into the vowels, the residue of a French upbringing, the slight edges of an accent that’s faded in time.
James and Sirius met in James’s senior year of highschool and were instantly best friends. Sirius had moved to America for his family’s business, and Sirius had been sent to James’s boarding school where they roomed together and continued that tradition into college as Sirius worked at becoming an American citizen.
Five years later and three inches taller, James can barely remember what Regulus looks like, though he has seen pictures of the boy, and sometimes Sirius cries about not being able to remember the sound of his voice.
Sirius ran away from home at eighteen, seeking bigger and better things than a rapidly expanding technology business (read: weapons), Regulus stayed, triple majoring in business, biology, and mechanical engineering at NYU before getting a PHD or three at MIT and talking with all the big minds, a shoe in as CEO at their parent’s company.
Sometimes Sirius rants and rages and hates him, most of the time Sirius tracks and watches his every move from afar, picking apart how much his parents influenced each one.
This particular instance isn’t completely uncommon, not when James remembers seeing the photo accredited to Regulus earlier, but it’s still sometimes hard to follow when Sirius gets like this, French accent getting soupy and thick in his anger, the only time James ever really hears it these days.
Sirius shakes his head, angry words finally slowing down, “Just…Why would he do it?”
James shrugged, far too tired to partake in the motives and intentions of Regulus Black’s mind, “I don’t know man, why are grapes green.”
“They’re purple.”
James doubletakes “I- No you’re just wrong. They’re green.”
“James grapes are purple and wine is red, what are you on?”
“Um, Davinchi? Ever heard of him? You tattooed prick. Painted green grapes?”
“Purple grapes, honestly James, what mandela effect are you taking part in?”
James splutters, “I am officially too tired for this conversation,” before collapsing back into the couch, bones sagging into the hard cushions as Sirius continues rambling, used to James’s exhaustion by now, needing an ear whether that ear truly listens or not.
James would feel bad, but he didn’t have the energy, instead gently fading back into his sleep, a precious commodity at this point.
A quick succession of rapping on his window brings him back to life, like his slightly decaying body is rising from the dead, pushing away the vines and brambles slithering through his ribs.
James sits up, breathing in sharply, lungs prickling with the movement in an entirely unhealthy move.
Squinting warily at the window, James rises slowly, feeling against the edge of the couch for one of the five bats he has hidden around the apartment (perks of playing baseball in highschool) and stands, shifting into a defensive position as he nears the window.
Spider-man stared through the glass unflinchingly, taking in a rumpled James with a baseball bat in politely contained amusement.
How anyone could tell through the mask is pure guesswork, but something in James just knew.
Lily said James had been part of the alien race sent down to infiltrate humans that could read emotions, James thinks she’s full of shit.
Feeling slightly chastened without having heard anything at all, James lowered the bat, coming closer to the window so he could unlock it.
Spidey stays firmly in place as James raises the window, fidgeting slightly with his grip on the handrails as he stares at James. Both boys stand in silence for a few beats before Spider-man thrusts his hand into the space between them, a small box in his hands.
“wh-”
“I got you another first aid kit.”
James stares at it for a moment, his brain barely able to make the right amount of connections to understand what Spidey is saying, “You…got me a first aid kit?”
“Because you used your own on me.”
James blinks, completely lost, “They aren’t one use only.”
The whites of Spidey’s mask honest to god blink in confusion, James would laugh if he could conjure up an emotion that hadn’t been smothered in exhaustion.
“They…aren’t?”
How has this man survived more than one night as a superhero, “Have you never bought one before.”
Spider-man shakes his head slowly, “I just have a basket of bandages at home.”
Oh look, an emotion that isn’t doused in exhaustion.
It’s like some hidden part of James switches on, mind flipping to doctor mode, his medicine mind, “Do you not clean your goddamn wounds before bandaging them?” James practically shouts, not caring that his words are echoing into the streets.
Spider-man’s jaw is so wide James can see the strain in the stretching fabric, “I- I heal really fast.”
“You should still clean your fucking open wounds!”
Maybe he should feel proud that he is one of the only people in the world that has made Spider-man, the known blabbermouth, speechless, but he could care less now, not when this stupid man has been risking infection for months, “That’s it, whenever you’re seriously injured you come here and I'll patch you up. Capiche?”
“I couldn’t-”
“You obviously fucking can and will if you know what’s good for you you little shit.”
“I’m not-”
“End of story. Period. Book ended. I will see you the next time you get so much as a papercut Mr. Spider, pleasure doing business with you.”
James shuts the window before Spider-man can get another word in and stumbles toward his bed, somehow clutching the new first aid kit that Spider-man got, a much more expensive version of James’s, he has a feeling it’ll come in handy.