Chapter Text
You swear your manager hates you. Either that, or she majorly overestimates your strength and abilities as a newby. Or perhaps this is some weird form of hazing. You're stood in the alley between the coffee shop where you work, and, in your opinion, the worst sandwich shop on the planet. Nothing could make you forget finding that fly taking his eternal sleep inside your once favorite lunch.
Laying at your feet are some boxes of syrup and other sickeningly sweet ingredients. You never liked any of those drinks, the ones stacked with foam or cream, and chock full of twenty different ways of what is essentially just sugar. Those needlessly complicated and lengthy recipes and impossible to recreate flavors. Who needs ten pumps of anything in their drink? It nauseates you to even think about. You don't even like coffee all that much, and it's not worth the yellow teeth. Not to mention the coffee breath.
The more you grumble about your job, the more you remember just how stupid you were to choose it. But it's not like you had an infinite list of places who were willing to take a two years former high school graduate. You were loose in New York, strapped for cash, and definitely not headed off to a fancy college in the near future. So coffee shop it was, though in this moment (and every other moment) you're wishing it wasn't. The impossibly heavy boxes still lay at your feet, taunting you with their stillness and devotion to gravity. You had already tried moving them a few times a minute ago, but to no avail, and it cost you one perfectly chewed on nail. It stings in your pocket, a dull reminder of your failures.
Bringing a different uneven nail to your teeth, you gnaw down, contemplating if it's worth quitting to get out of giving yourself a hernia over a box of nasty vanilla syrups. You aren't the biggest fan, but you indulge in the fantasy of Spiderman for a passing moment. If only he were here to carry these for you. He'd probably lift them in one hand with ease and make some off handed comment about how 'sweet' he is. You laugh through your nail between your teeth, rolling your eyes. Wouldn't that be something?
It's not as if you dislike the masked web-slinger, but you just can't get the hype. Every time his round, red, stupid head appears on the tv in your coffee shop you can't contain the exaggerated scoff that escapes you. After all, he's just some...guy! You can't explain it, but it irks you, the way hoards and hoards of people worship this stranger who won't even show his face. And it's especially infuriating that your last, spectacular fail of a relationship was with a major spider-fan. So now on top of an unjust disdain for the guy, everytime you see him, you see the remains of a flame you foolishly saw forever in.
But no amount of sulking is gonna move these damn boxes. You do it to yourself, yet again getting mad out of thin air. All it takes is another glance at the boxes and the image of Spider-sham's stupid round eyes in your head and you're moving. A flurry of anger pulses through you and you shout out in frustration, lowering to the crate and slapping your hands around it's sides. In one shaky motion, you shoot upwards, legs burning under the weight, accompanied by a dull ache at the low of your back. You wince at the pain pulsing through your body, forgetting you're solely responsible for the safety of the sticky contents in the box and suddenly it's on the floor in a loud crash.
The bottles burst upon impact, only a few lucky stragglers rolling away and deeper into the dirty alley. A string of curses hiss out from your clenched mouth, knowing you just cost yourself lunch that week. Or maybe your job as a whole. You snap your head down to get a good look at the damage, one eye glued shut for some illusion of denial. The sight is just about as devastating as the sound had been, your shoes covered in shiny liquid, and pants dotted by the same. Pools of syrup flood the ground, seeping into whatever grooves in the sidewalk are available, every inch they cover further solidifying your eventual termination.
You groan into your hands and sink to the floor, squatting just above the oozing puddle of sugar that burns your nostrils and spins your head with it's sweetness. There goes your job. And subsequently your apartment. Just when you think it can't get worse, in a blink you're on your ass, startled by an unexpected shouting. A disembodied voice echoes through the alley, bouncing off the brick walls. It's a deep voice, but a friendly one, smooth and bouncy, like whoever was speaking hadn't been cruelly beaten by the stick of life.
"Need a hand?" He asks, his words enveloping your shrunken frame from behind, echoing off the alley walls and into your ears. You're painfully aware of your vulnerability in the moment, your back to the unknown approacher, and a warm heat simmers under your skin, blossoming red on your cheeks. Whoever it is has caught you at an embarrassing low, ass cold and damp from the spill, arms and legs laid out across the sticky ground. Real dignified first impression.
You shove yourself up from the ground, trying to ignore the way the fabric of your jeans glues itself to your skin. When you swivel around to greet your knight in shining armor you're met with a wide grin. The cheesiest you've seen in a while, or maybe ever. A man, possibly not much older than you, has his hand outstretched for yours, a wide smile plastered on his face and hair brushed to the side. He's dressed like he just walked out of an Old Navy catelogue, but it's charming. In a 'boy next door' way.
"I think I'll live," you say, making a show of declining his hand. You've never been one for physical touch, let alone a stranger with a never ending smile whose name you don't know. He retracts it back to his pocket and nods, smile not so much as faltering for even a second.
"You sure?" He insists. "It would be no trouble." His eager demeanor shifts to something more insecure and he rocks back on his heels, "I uh, saw you drop those and thought maybe..."
You slowly come to the realization that this stranger is your only hope at moving these boxes and though it kills your ego, you know what you have to do. Reluctantly, you accept his offer with your head hanging. “Yeah, you thought correctly. Mind carrying these for me?”
All his confidence floods back in and the man smiles wide. “Sure thing! Where d’ya want them?” he asks, skipping over to the untouched crates, acrobat-like leaping over the spillage on the floor.
“Inside and on the first counter to your right if you don’t mind,” you say, curious eyes glued to his movements.
He seems capable enough, given the way his arms bulk through his flannel, but only one way to be sure. You stare him down with a critical eye as he bends and scoops a crate into each his hands with ease. A concerning amount of ease. The skepticism is wiped clean off your face and is replaced by pure astonishment. The way he saunters through the tiny door frame with two of, what was in your experience, the heaviest thing on earth, is downright inhuman. Even weirder, he hadn’t displayed a single sign of struggle, be it a grunt or whatnot. Just another tuesday for this asshole. Except he wasn’t an ass, he was doing you a favor. A huge favor. Which reminds you to blurt out a terribly rushed, “thank you!”
“No biggie!” he says, emerging from the door, wiping his hands together. “That all?”
You pause, browsing through your mind for any other chore you could have him do for you. Now knowing just how strong this guy is, might as well make use of his presence. But alas, you come up dry and flash him an awkward smile, your mouth forming a line. “That’s all.”
With a quick nod, the man smiles again, just as sickeningly sweet as before. And now you’re thinking about those stupid drinks, probably frowning involuntarily. “Alright, see you around…” he pauses, rolling his hands around, wordlessly asking your name.
“That’s classified,” you answer, curtly. When you realize he’s trying to sneak a peek at your nametag, you shoot a hand up to cover it and frown. It’s not to be rude, you just hate new people, and making friends in general, and especially strangers trying to weasel into your life. He seems nice enough, but that’s exactly it. You always hated overly nice people, they make you feel shitty. The way they flaunt their effortless niceties and smile like it’s breathing. Plus, he seemed easy to break, like if you spoke in just the wrong tone, now he’s shattered on the floor and you’re left to pick up the pieces. Never again, you swore. And this guy will not win you over with that big, dumb, toothy grin.
“Okay, message received,” he throws his hands up in mock surrender, taking a few steps back. “See you around ‘that’s classified.” As he starts to walk, he shoots you a shit eating grin, irritatingly proud of his little quip. And he’s gone, waving as he blends into the afternoon crowd.
His cheeks must hurt with all this smiling, you think. You spend the rest of your shift like normal, save for the fact that every time you enter the back room you try to lift the crates like he did only to fail spectacularly, nearly taking out an expensive piece of machinery with your flailing arms. Note to self, practice weightlifting syrup in a place that doesnt have things worth more than your existence.
When you’re back at the front, manning the coffee maker, you glance at the tv, something bright and obnoxious catching your eye. A live clip of spiderman plays, his small frame standing beneath a towering supervillain whose name you can’t seem to remember, but you never cared to try. You roll your eyes at the screen and return to pretending to care about the drink in your hands as you make it.
“I don’t understand what your deal is with Spiderman,” your coworker whines, splaying out over the counter next to you. She cranes her neck to watch the tv and smiles, making googoo eyes. “How could anyone not love him?”
“I’ll start liking Spiderman when pigs fly, or maybe when I start liking coffee and sugar,” you mutter, finishing off the drink with a yank of the handle on the machine.
Your coworker whistles, her eyes still locked on the screen, “We’ll see.”
“Yeah, we’ll see.”