2: Distracted

"No, for real," Amy Woods says giddily, exuding so much energy she may as well have climbed through Gracie's earbuds and stuffed herself into the seat next to her. "The entire bridge will be out of service for at least a few more days."

She's not sure why that's cause for excitement, as it's also the current reason she's stuffed onto a subway she doesn't take, and crammed elbow to elbow with frustrated passengers who've likely had to rework their commute too.

"How does something like that even happen?" Claudia Wong, the second host of the Askews for the News podcast demands, appropriately less enthused. Out of the two, Gracie likes them best. Amy's always a bit too excited when contretemps arise. Especially when supers are involved. Which, sure, it's cool watching Iron Man catch a train and all, but to sound this delighted when disaster hits is weird.

"NASA released a few statements, and apparently there was some kind of malfunction in the shuttle. Like, the controls just stopped working." Amy says. "Links down below if you guys want to check them out," she directs this towards her listeners and Gracie tosses around the idea of checking them out. Maybe later. Reading on the subway makes her queasy, and with her nerves roiling in her stomach the way they are, getting sick is the last thing she needs.

Which is ironic, considering she's heading to work. Back in high school, she used to joke with her friends that doctors and nurses weren't allowed to get sick. They had to have the cheat-codes for such things. A school nurse isn't on par with hospital staff, but she can say, without a doubt, that the chances of getting sick are pretty high.

Well, she's not really a nurse. Despite being 22, she's only completed one semester of college, and none of it was in medical sciences. So technically, her position is "Nurse Assistant." If the school called her anything else, they'd get themselves in a heap of trouble.

The job doesn't require a nursing degree, as she is, in all technical terms, an assistant.

Just an assistant who'll be in charge of the school nurse department under the supervision of a district nurse with actual qualifications. Which is...fine. It's fine. It seemed more manageable when she first applied for the position, back when she thought the nurse would be there the whole time, but it's fine.

The subway rumbles beneath her and she closes her eyes, takes a deep breath to calm her agitated nerves, and turns the volume up.

"That's insane," Claudia says, and though they're not speaking to her, she appreciates the sentiment nonetheless.

"Right?" Amy agrees. "Can you imagine driving home from work, and there's just this giant, flaming, space-ship coming right at you?"

That would be terrifying. If anyone had been there. Gracie was a little busy being stressed about her new job, but she still tuned into the reports from time to time. The cops had done an emergency evacuation of the bridge as soon as they received word of what the astronaut was planning. It's a miracle no one got hurt, anyway.

It's been five days since the crash, and that's all anyone can talk about. Not even the Mayor turning into an alien got this much coverage.

Which makes sense on some level, Gracie supposes. Invasions aren't new, and it's not every day a shuttle breaks down and crashes into the city.

Space-ships, sure, but not NASA.

"You want to know what else is crazy?" Amy asks, her excitement bubbling again. "They think Spider-Man had something to do with it."

"Dude, shut up, there's no way," Claudia says.

"I'm serious," Amy laughs. "Someone took a picture of him by the shuttle after it landed and now there's people who actually think he did it."

"How could he have possibly done that?" Claudia demands.

"I don't know, I'm just the messenger." Amy is quiet for a moment. "But you've got to admit it's a little weird that he was there so fast."

Claudia scoffs.

"Come on, not even the Fantastic Four were that quick," Amy defends herself. "Don't they have, like, AI's and shit built into their stuff? I know they've gone to space before, so they had to have known."

"You know what? That's what I want to know," Claudia huffs. "Why didn't they do anything about it? Or the Avengers? Can't Thor lift, like, a bajillion tons? Couldn't he have just caught it on its way down?"

Huh. That's not a bad point. Gracie can't call herself an expert on supers, but didn't one of them have the power to prevent the crash?

"Do you know how much those things weigh?" Amy argues.

"What? He's a literal god!"

"Doesn't mean he can catch a - a however-ton shuttle plummeting out of orbit."

"It makes more sense than Spider-Man being involved."

Gracie opens her eyes as the train slows and grabs her bag, where she'd set it by her feet. She rises with the other patrons as the car comes to a complete stop and the doors open. Amy and Claudia are still babbling in her ear as she makes her way out of the subway, moving away from how much each of the Avengers can lift, to a discussion about Spider-Man's new suit.

"It's kind of out of left field," Claudia says. "I mean, why change it?"

"Uh, because it's fucking sexy," Amy states matter-of-factly, like her co-host is being ridiculous. "Have you seen it? It's so much better than the tacky red and blue."

"Hey, the red and blue is classic!"

"It looks like a kid designed it."

Gracie frowns. She hasn't been paying a lot of attention to the news, but since when did Spider-Man get a new look? She skimmed a few articles, but not all of them brought him up, and if they did, it was a quick mention. One alluded to a "darker" look, but the press typically paints him in a poor light, so she thought little of it.

She snorts to herself. Having only met Spider-Man once, she can't say she knows him, but "dark" and "menacing" isn't how she'd describe him. He'd saved her from being crushed under falling debris last year. There'd been a fight higher on the buildings, she doesn't even remember who was fighting who, but pieces of wall and rooftop started raining down. She was looking for cover, but stumbled, limbs seizing in fear, when she looked up to see a single, giant slab of concrete plummeting toward her.

Throwing her hands over her head, she'd thought that was it. No more tv binges with her little brother, no more walks with her dog in Tompkins Square, no more snowy Manhattan nights, or skating at Rockefeller. Her Heartz match would never know why she didn't show up for their date on Saturday.

She was going to die here, and there was no time to text her father "I love you" one last time. The shadow fell over her and she couldn't even scream.

But when she wasn't flattened to mulch, much to her surprise, she'd peered up to find a man in a red and blue leotard standing over her, bent under the massive weight of the concrete block he'd caught. She gaped, open-mouthed, her world-view limited to the massive, black wall of death and the single, brightly colored man holding it back. He looked astonishingly small against it and her brain derailed, unconvinced that he wouldn't crumple under it. Evidence of the contrary be damned.

"What a way to start the morning," he'd said, the reflective lenses of his mask giving her a clear view of her stunned expression. His tone was a little tight under the strain, but mostly amused. "Nothing like almost getting pancaked to really wake ya up, huh?"

With her tongue stuck to the top of her mouth, Gracie couldn't find the right motions to speak. Her brain had gone blank. But Spider-Man didn't seem to mind. He took a breath, rolled his shoulders, and shrugged the slab off like it was nothing but a minor inconvenience. It hit the sidewalk with a sickening crunch that spoke of what her body would've been had it achieved its descent.

He must've caught on to her general sense of dread and new found mortality, because his shoulders lifted, as if wincing, and he rubbed the back of his neck. "Sorry about that," he sounded sincere as he held out his hand. "I, uh—guess I'm a little more used to things like that happening to me. But you're okay. Not even a scratch. You're all good. And...and dandy....yeah."

His evolving awkwardness, and the overall strangeness of the situation, snapped her from her rising panic, and she shakily accepted the hand. He hefted her to her feet as if she were lighter than air, and brushed bits of concrete dust and gravel off her shoulder.

"So, uh, do you need anything?" he asked, hands hovering uncertaintly. "The paramedics will be on their way by now, so if you're hurt..."

"I - I'm okay," she said weakly. "I - uh, th-thank you."

"Aye, no problem. No problem at all," he walked backward, giving her a silly salute, and leapt into the air—the mechanics of it was more like a hop, but he rose at least eight feet, and it felt strange to reduce it to something so miniscule. "Have a good day, then!"

She's never interacted with him since, only saw him on TV or as he swung through the city, but overall, he seemed like a decent guy. Maybe a little weird, but fun. Full of energy, if awkward. Nothing like the violent, reckless menace the press makes him out to be.

It's all media exaggeration, she concludes, tuning the rest of the podcast out. The news thrives on it.

<><><><><><><><>

The front receptionist of Cobble Hill High buzzes her in with a bright smile that she fleetingly returns. He opens his mouth to speak, but she rushes past him, pretending not to notice, and only feeling a little bad about it. She's running late, and Samuel has a talent for trapping her and fellow co-workers into feed-back loops of conversation.

Fortunately, she'd missed the morning rush of students, and the ones trying to get out of school as early as possible. One thing the district nurse, Ali Juarez, hammered into her brain is that kids are going to try to shirk class by playing sick, and she mustn't fall for it.

She never considered herself naïve, or easily tricked, but the few times she watched Ali handle students pretending to have a fever, or claiming to be queasy from lunch, they had her convinced. But then Mr. Juarez gave them a tum, or took their temperature and recommended they drink water, and their charade dropped. He played these scenarios like a tennis match, refuting their ailments with the speed and efficiency of striking a ball over a net, until every student sulked back to class, leaving her deconstructing into an un-athletic newb who's never even seen a racket before.

At least, she tells herself, she has time to get her shit together before today's matches. Second period will have started by now, and most kids try their luck early on, or during lunch. Mr. Juarez's two-week nursing assistant boot-camp ebbed some of the worry, but this is her first week (day three) alone and she needs as much warm-up as she can. She's won the first few matches that have come her way, and she intends on keeping up that momentum.

But any good her pep-talk does is swept away as she approaches her office. She groans softly to herself. Jaime Trent, a disheveled sophomore and current thorn in her side, perks up when he sees her and straightens, pushing himself off the wall.

"Good morning, Ms. Chan," he greets her, moving aside so she can shove the key into the lock. "Why're you so late?"

Why're you so nosy, she retorts, ignoring the way Ms. Chan pokes at her brain like a blunted stick. God, she's only twenty-three. Is she really Ms. Chan to these kids? It was only yesterday she was slogging through classes and dragging her feet through halls, just like these. She doesn't feel like a Ms. Anything. That's a title for adults who don't have anxiety attacks over what antibiotic cream to apply to a skinned knee.

"Good morning," she says, pretending to not hear the last bit as she drops her bag onto the counter top and searches for her phone-charger, if just to give her hands something to do. "Uh, anything the matter?"

Jaime nods, already sitting on the mint-green recovery couch pushed against the wall, his backpack slumped on the ground by his long, gangly legs. "My head itches." He scratches the back of his head in emphasis.

Gracie blew a careful breath out through her nose. "Did you do what we talked about?"

He nods again. "Yeah, I washed my hair extra good last night, but it still itches."

Of course. Because things never get to be easy. "Well, what about allergies?" She tries. "It could be the shampoo you're using."

God, please don't be an allergic reaction, she begs, mentally racing through the cupboards to recall where the extra epipens were stored. Which end had the needle? She has to keep it in for thirty-seconds, right?

Jaime shrugs. "I don't think it is. Can you just make sure it's not lice?"

"I've already checked two times."

"I know, but can you check again? It really itches." He scratches his head again for further emphasis.

Sighing, Gracie yanks open one of the bottom drawers for a pair of latex gloves. "Fine. One more time. But if there's nothing there, you might need to see about getting a new shampoo. And try not to shower every day. It strips the oil from your scalp and makes it itch too."

"I will."

He bows his head so she can pick through his blonde hair, searching for signs of little bugs. The first time she'd done this, just a few days ago, she'd been terrified of actually finding an infestation. Her biggest childhood fear outside of quick-sand and the Elf on the Shelf was getting lice, and if it got on her, well, game over. There's only so much she can take.

But, there's nothing. Not then, and not now.

She opens her mouth to say as much, but it's interrupted by someone crashing through the wall in an explosion of wood, drywall, and brick. She and Jaime scream in tandem, scrambling backward. They plaster themselves against the opposite wall. The large scale next to her digs into her shoulder, but she barely notices as she stares, open-mouthed, at the figure nestled in the debris of what used to be her supply cabinets.

A man, in a black, somewhat glossy, skin tight, full-body costume, coughs once, brushing away a box of bandaids that had fallen into his lap as he looks around the room. There's a large, menacing white spider on his chest that's strange, yet....familiar.

"Sp-Spider-Man?" Jaime stutters, and Gracie glances at him in bewilderment.

"What?" she says, glancing back at the figure, and her heart jumps in her throat when she meets a pair of wide, pale splotches on a dark face that she belatedly realizes are eyes. Or lenses, technically. Lenses on a mask.

Was this the "new look" Amy and Claudia were talking about?

She rakes over it again to take it in and nearly shouts, blanching, as she notices the solid, splintered piece of wood embedded in Spider-Man's side; sticking straight out like the broken attachment to a toy. Her stomach rolls and she tears her eyes away, pressing the back of her hand against her mouth to hold her nausea at bay.

Jaime sees it too and his face whitens, mouth dropping, and eyes widen. His shoulders lurch up to his ears like a frightened turtle, a green flush being the only warning she got before he twists to the side, retching.

Unperturbed by this, Spider-Man turns away from them, using what little of the counter is left as hand-holds to pull himself up. Funnily enough, it's the short, pained grunt he makes that spurs Gracie into action and she peels off the wall, taking a cautious step towards him.

"Hey, are you okay?" She asked. His back is turned to her, and he doesn't make any indication to have heard, so she says, louder, "I-I'm a nurse assistant. I'm not a doctor, but I might be able to help." She looks at the piece of wood and her stomach churns again. Oh that's - that's really in there.

Of all the weeks for Mr. Juarez to leave.

It's unclear whether she's being ignored or if Spider-Man truly can't hear her, as he gets to his feet and continues looking around like neither of them are there. He slowly stops, head cocking, as if listening intently.

Gracie takes a breath to continue when his head suddenly snaps towards her. The next thing she knows there's a web knocking her backward, just as something sharp, green, and fast bursts through the wall, taking it and Spider-Man out of her office and into the faculty rooms beyond.

A second later, the fire alarm goes off, drowning the sounds of the fight in a shrill, piercing shriek. Heart pounding, she pulls at her arms, but they're stuck, glued to the wall by thick strands of webbing to her jacket sleeves. She yanks and tugs, heart-rate spiking higher when it doesn't budge.

"Jaime," she shouts, and he flinches, still frozen by the scale. "Help me with this." He doesn't move, and a wild, frantic feeling bubbles in her chest. "Jaime!"

He jerks like she'd slapped him, and finally crawls towards her to tug on her sleeve, trying to pry it off. When that fails, she nods at the zipper. "Just unzip it. Hurry!"

He does so, and she slips her arms out, freed. A crash echoes from beyond the office, and she jumps back.

"Ms. Chan, what do we do?" Jaime asks, frantic.

Fuck. Right. She's Ms. Chan. She's supposed to be the adult in this scenario.

Fuck.

"Uh," she whirls around, but their only viable exits are the gaping hole in the wall that leads to the fight outside the room, and the gaping hole in the wall that leads outside the building. Considering they are several floors up, neither are good options.

"In here." She ushers him to the side, opening the door to her "office within her office." A room barely fit as a storage closet, cramped with an old desk, a squeaky swivel chair, and a handful of filing cabinets. It's a tight squeeze, but she directs them both underneath the desk.

"It'll be alright," she says. "Spider-Man will take care of it. We'll be alright."

Jaime doesn't respond and she grimaces. What a bad time to go to the nurse's office. What a bad time to come into work. She should've just called in sick.

It's hard to tell how long the fight goes on, but it's very obvious when it stops. One minute, all she can hear is the crash, thuds, and muffled snippets between the two fighting, and the next, everything is completely silent. The fire alarm fills the empty space, but even that is put to an end with a growl of anger and another thud, and the alarm in her office cuts off with a wail.

Their breath is audible within the small space of their cover, but she tries to quiet hers as peers out, and jumps, knocking her temple against the leg when a head pops up in the doorway, white lenses spotting her instantly.

"It's okay to come out now," Spider-Man says, and disappears again.

Outside, he's dragging his assailant through the rubble by their ankle. The wings attached to their back follow, limp, broken, and scraping harshly against the dirtied linoleum floor. It's hard to see the person inside. A portion of the mask is broken, but all she makes out is a bleeding temple and wisps of salt and pepper hair.

"Sorry about your," Spider-Man gestures stiffly to the room as he drops the man's ankle. "Vulture has no manners whatsoever." He grabs one wing and tears it off with a metallic shriek. The movement has to be painful because the piece of wood is still sticking out of his side.

"I, uh -" Gracie swallows hard, sickness returning, but inches closer. "Are you okay? Do - do you need help with...that?"

But it's like Spider-Man can no longer hear her. He's mumbling softly to himself as he grabs the second wing and pulls it off, tossing it to the side with the other one. His suit is congealing around the wood, becoming tacky with blood, and Gracie frantically digs through the wreckage for a package of gauze and disinfectant wipes.

Her main priority should be getting Jaime out of here, but Jesus, that thing can't just stay in there. She'll wrap it until Spider-Man finds a proper doctor. It's the least she can do since he saved her life.

"Hey, uh, Spidey?" She calls louder, leaning forward to gingerly tap his shoulder, but before her finger makes contact, his hand shoots up, seizing her wrist.

His touch is freezing cold and as solid as a rock. For a long moment, he simply stares at her. Unmoving. Unbreathing. Like a statue carved from obsidian stone.

Then his fingers are gone and his shoulders soften. "Sorry, what was that?"

A chill weasels through her skin and Gracie holds her freed wrist close to her chest. "I - I'm...I was just asking if you were alright. There's a—" she looks down at his side and double-takes.

The wood is gone. His side is clean. The suit is unblemished.

"I - I swear there was a..." Her eyes jump around until she spots the piece of wood at Spider-Man's feet, splintered, jagged, and bare. There's no blood on it. She grips the bag of gauze. "I...I thought you..."

Spider-Man rolls his shoulders. "I'm fine. How are you guys?" He studies them quickly, assessing for injury, and Gracie does the same.

"I'm okay," she says, and looks at Jaime. "You?"

He nods numbly, half hidden behind the storage closet door frame and still gawking with wide eyes.

Spider-Man hums, but it's distracted. His head cants to the side, as if listening to something far away. Sirens are outside, so the police and fire-department are here, thank god. The rest of the school must've evacuated by now. The fire alarm in her office is nothing but broken pieces embedded into the wall, but the rest of them are still functional and echoing through the building, and seem to grow in the silence that grows.

The muscles in Spider-Man's shoulders and neck flex. Hardening, like he's slowly turning back into stone, and Gracie blurts, "Are you sure you're okay?" She's startled by her own urgency to stop this Medusa-effect from overtaking him.

Spider-Man jumps, like he'd forgotten she was there.

"Hm? Oh, yeah. Yeah, I'm good." He shakes his head and crouches, hefting Vulture over his shoulders with graceful ease. He steps towards the broken wall to leave, but pauses. "Heya doc...do you ever feel like your thoughts are too loud?" He asks without turning around.

"I guess," Gracie says, unsure of what else to say. "Sometimes?"

Spider-Man hums, distant and distracted, then fires a web and launches himself out of the building with Vulture in tow.

It feels warmer, suddenly. Like there'd been a vacuum of space sucking up all the heat, unnoticeable until it was gone, and she releases the breath she'd unintentionally trapped in her chest. Scrubbing her hands down her face, she turns and motions for Jaime to follow her as she picks through the debris and climbs out into the demolished rooms beyond.

"It pushed it out," he whispers behind her.

Gracie glances over her shoulder. "What?"

Jaime pries his eyes from his shoes. "His costume. It pushed the wood out."

The haunted mien in his expression makes Gracie's spine go cold.

They're silent the rest of the way outside.

She hands Jaime off to his teacher, who's close to tears as she ushers him into her flock of students, calling for a paramedic even as she begins assessing him herself.

"Dude, did you see?" A boy, probably one of Jaime's friends, gushes, ignoring his teacher's order to give him some distance. "Spider-Man showed up! He was fighting that freaky bird man. It was fucking sweet!" He cranes his neck, as if trying to catch another glimpse. "His new suit is so badass!"

Jaime doesn't respond, but his lips twitch, and glances back at her.

"His costume. It pushed the wood out."

She shudders, half listening to the paramedic directing her to a flashing van as she rubs the bruises around her wrist.

Hard disagree.

The old one is better.