Work Text:
Nothing interesting ever happened during one of her shifts.
There would be times, during a particularly dull lull in motion, when she would allow herself to doze off at her desk. The bright monitor illuminated her glasses and reflected its contents back towards itself, blurred as her mind focused on some imagined tragic event taking place only a few blocks away from the hospital where she worked.
There would be a sudden massive increase of noise, a shock to the system, as paramedics flooded the emergency room with dozens of patients, and she would jump into action and help anyway she could. She always wanted to be a doctor- she applied to medical school three times before settling for some first aid training, as well as some general education courses at the community college five minutes from her house and a secretarial job at her local hospital.
It wasn’t the same, but she could sit there and dream while she waited to receive her coveted letter of acceptance. Honestly- her life sucked, she hated being stuck in the in between of post teenagedom and pre adulthood.
So she sat, and she waited, and she dreamed.
(Not that she wanted people to get hurt, it was all a self-serving fantasy, kind of like what you did as a child, imagining saving your crush from an armed robber at nine, or surviving a plane crash at twelve. Of course, you'd also have saved the motley crew of endangered animals that just so happen to be transported on the budget airline your parents picked.)
Mundane, repetitive. Do some paperwork, make a coffee, check people in, send them to be triaged, wrap a patient identification band around so-and so's wrist-
A kid walks into the room, he seems disoriented, he stands facing the west side wall, his face covered by the shadow caused by the broken light above him.
(Do some more paperwork, call maintenance again about the damn lights, get the same response- “we’ll be down shortly.” They never come, it’s all the same. We thrive in repetitive actions. There’s a tv in the corner that’s been permanently muted, a glitch, playing some biased news station- not that she ever paid enough attention to take note on what side of the political spectrum it fell under)
She doesn’t make a move to call him over, not yet. There are multiple signs around the waiting room that tell you what you need to do to be seen- pull a card, wait for your number, present your information at the desk- wait for your name to be called by a nurse. It’s all the same, ever since you were a kid with a broken wrist from your first peewee hockey game.
The boy continues to stare.
(It’s unnerving, there are only three other people here at this hour. A man clutching his arm close to his chest, a woman with her kid, sleeping against her shoulder- all following the rules, and there’s nothing she can do but sit and wait and watch.)
Finally, she calls him over.
“Hey kid-” she says, the moniker feels weird falling from her lips, they seem to be about the same age, but it’s way too late to take it back, and besides, she’s not a mind reader, she doesn’t know his name.
He doesn’t move.
“Sir,” she tries, and then immediately cringes at how awkward she feels, how uncomfortable she currently is.
He’s looking at her now, looking confused and bewildered.
“Me?”
“Yes, you- are you looking for the emergency room?”
Slowly, as to finally eliminate the need to project their voices and disturb the ambience of the room, the boy finally makes his way towards the desk, leaning forward so that his face is positioned in front of the microphone placed on the glass wall separating the two of them.
“I think so.”
“You think so?”
“I- yes, yes I am.”
“Alright,” she pulled up the screen on her computer in order to check him in, “your name?”
A pause, the low hum of the AC above her filling the empty air.
(It was too cold for her liking, but maintenance refused to budge. The amount of times she called was borderline insane, because who kept the AC on in February, but no, not enough hours in the day. Instead, she relied on her coffee, always finishing it before it could even turn warm- a constant burn on her tongue so her insides could stay toasty warm.)
She looked up from her screen, the boy was shaking his head.
“I need your name to process you.”
“I don’t- I don’t know.”
“You don’t know your name?” She raised her eyebrow, not fully sure how to proceed.
“I- no, I don’t know.”
“Did you hit your head?” She finally took the time to look at him, really look at him, not just as some anomaly existing in her space, but as a person. His clothes were baggy, his hair matted- not with blood, thank goodness, but with dirt and oil. His face was gaunt with lack of food and sleep, and if it was not for the almost pristine condition of his bag, which was haphazardly thrown over his right shoulder, she would have guessed the kid was homeless.
“I don’t think I’m hurt, I can’t remember.”
“Ok- alright.” Amnesia, got it- so what to do now? She could get a nurse, but this also could just be some weak attempt at swindling some pills to sell for some cash on the street.
(“You saved us!” Your crush would cry, a panda clutched in his arms, the wreckage of the plane scattered around them. The air smelled of fuel, the soil soaking in it- and yet you’ve never felt more alive.)
She did what she wasn’t supposed to do, exit the room behind the glass protector and lead him to a chair, in a corner away from the others. She knelt in front of him, giving him a few feet of space and the higher ground so he didn’t feel hovered over.
She could figure this out- and besides, the kid looked like a stiff breeze could push him over, she could definitely take him in a fight if needed. No, she would talk to him, use the skills she gained in the journalism club she was a part of in high school, it was simple- really.
“Do you have a phone on you?”
He nodded once, reaching in his pocket and mindlessly handing it to her.
Well, that was easy
The phone didn’t have a passcode, even easier. She quickly made her way towards the contact list, hoping to find someone labeled “Mom” or “Baby” or anything really- someone she could call to find out what was going on.
Nothing.
The list was completely empty, there were no text threads, and the call history was wiped.
A dead end, so she placed the phone carefully on the chair next to him.
She focused on the bag instead.
“Do you maybe think we could take a look and see if you have anything in your bag with your name on it?”
He still looked confused, or maybe the right word was overwhelmed, before slowly nodding. The bag was in his lap now, clutched against his chest, and instead of trying to pry it off she went for one of the front pockets, hoping to find some ID.
It was with a sigh of relief she found a wallet almost immediately. Smiling, she opened it and found some loose change, a half punched card for a donut shop- and a single piece of photo ID that matched the face sitting in front of her.
“Alright Peter Parker,” she started, looking for any hint of recognition on his face in response-
Nothing.
“I’m going to punch your name into the system, see what we can do for you-”
Suddenly the volume on the television screen right across from them blares on, shattering the (frankly one sided) repertoire between her and the boy. He jumps, startled, similarly to how a dog might cower at the sound of fireworks.
“- and it's been months since that menace Spider-Man has shown his face in public, remaining in the shadows as he plans his next move. Some big event that will no doubt terrorize the citizens of New York.”
The screen is filled with clips of the mask vigilante, New York’s own. She recognizes him of course, almost everyone who lived in New York had their own personal Spider-Man story, and she was no exception. She felt particularly warm towards the hero, maybe because he saved her life when she was a teenager, and his absence saddened her.
(The little girl was awake now, pointing at the screen, her mother whispering something in her ear in response. Spider-Man had a way with the kids, always waving, definitely smiling underneath the mask. The people’s hero.)
The report moved on, circling through the list of Earth's Mightiest Heroes- she could tell from the corner of her eye that the boy was watching too, a 1940's war hero, a god of thunder, a man forged in Iron-
The boy- Peter, suddenly looked more distressed, jumping out of his seat and bolting, bag dragged behind him. It was so sudden that she could do nothing but watch as the kid pushed past the exit doors and ran, the card left in her hand, the phone still resting on the plastic orange seat, abandoned.
She felt frozen, looking around to see if anyone was watching- but it was as if the last few minutes never happened. If it was not for what remained in front of her she would have assumed she dreamed the whole thing up.
With nothing left to do, she stood back up, dusting herself off and dragging herself back to her desk, leaving the phone and card in the pile with all the other lost items left in the waiting room.
Her shift was almost over, she could hear her replacement shuffling in the back, she almost didn’t want to leave, hoping (against all odds) Peter would come back.
There was something about him, she couldn’t quite place it- it was on the tip of her tongue-
“Morning Betty,” her colleague said from behind her, way too happy for how early it was, “you ready to change over?”
“Sure,” she replied, shaking her head. The thought was there, but as quickly as it came, it was gone.
“Anything interesting happen?”
Repetition- the same question every time.
“Nothing out of the ordinary.” She answered as always, she hadn’t even moved from her seat since her break four hours ago.
Oddly, she didn’t feel the need to stretch out as dramatically as she usually did after an eight hour shift sitting in the same chair. Grabbing all of her stuff she finally made her way out through the back door, a styrofoam cup clutched in her right hand.
The coffee was cold.