Maknae line / Spiderman AU

[notlettuce]

Chan as Peter, Vernon and Seungkwan as hybrid mixes of Ned and MJ (bestie vibes only)

Written as part of a broader SVT/MCU crossover which has Seokmin as Steve Rogers, Soonyoung as Bucky and Jeonghan as Natasha.

(G / 1909 words)

Chan’s foot catches on the windowsill when he swings back into the dorm and he yelps, taking the lamp down with him as he crashes onto the rug.

 

Hansol pushes one side of his headphones back. “Hey man,” he says, eyes on his computer.

 

“Hey,” Chan says from the floor.

 

“Anything interesting tonight?”

 

“No,” Chan pouts and sits up, yanking his mask off and letting his hair stick out in funny directions. The most exciting thing that happened in the past three hours was when he overshot mid-swing and almost tumbled into the middle of traffic. He was saved by a street lamp and two frantic steps along the roof of a semi-trailer. Other than that… “The old lady down the road lost her cat again.”

 

Hansol whines sadly.

 

“It’s okay, I found her.” Chan squints. “Why are you sitting in the dark?” 

 

Hansol taps something on his launchpad and the colours play out under his chin. He shrugs. “Helps me concentrate. Hey, listen to this.” He pulls the cord of his headphones out and lets a beat play out around them, mellow and heavy and spacious, like it’s waiting for a voice. 

 

“Nice,” Chan says.

 

“Thanks. You hungry? I haven’t had dinner yet.”

 

“I could eat.”

 

“What’ll it be, Spiderman?” Hansol spins around dramatically, stroking an imaginary cat. “Choose carefully.”

 

Chan closes his eyes and slings a web at the takeout menus pinned to the back of the door. It lands on the brochure for their favourite Thai place.

 

Hansol hums leaning forward, fingers steepled against his mouth. After a long pause, he says, “I accept. I’ll inform my associate.”

 

 

🕷️

 

 

Seungkwan beats them to the restaurant. He doesn’t look up from his laptop when they take their seats. His corner of the table is strewn with papers and there’s a pen between his teeth. 

 

“Hello,” he says around the plastic, “Sit down. I already ordered.”

 

“You can’t take a break for ten minutes? C’mon, hyung, we’re eating,” Chan says, pouring everyone a glass of water from the bright pink jug. 

 

“Not yet, we’re not.” Seungkwan frowns at something on his screen and scribbles several numbers in the margins of the notebook closest to him. “I have to finish this presentation tonight.”

 

Hansol hooks his chin over Seungkwan’s shoulder and asks, “Isn’t this a group project? Why are you doing it by yourself?”

 

“The people in that class are idiots,” Seungkwan scoffs.

 

“I’m in that class,” Chan points out. Seungkwan looks over his lens-less glasses and says nothing. Chan huffs and crosses his arms. “Whatever, I was just going to wing it. It’s easy enough.”

 

“Okay, mister rocket science,” Seungkwan rolls his eyes. “Some of us understand the value of being prepared.”

 

“Some of us don’t need to be,” Chan smirks. 

 

Seungkwan holds his pen like a dagger and tenses like he’s going to commit assault at the dinner table, but Chan is saved by the waitress arriving with two steaming plates in her hands and a bright smile. 

 

“Always the same thing,” she says, expertly setting the food down around the mess of science notes. “Don’t you boys want to try something else on the menu?”

 

“But these are our favourite,” Seungkwan coos, “and you always make them perfectly.”

 

“Flatterer,” she laughs and pats his shoulder. “Enjoy.”

 

“Thank you!” they all chorus.

 

Seungkwan’s murderous eyes are back the second she leaves. “You’re so annoying,” he tells Chan, even as he passes him the biggest serving of noodles.

 

Chan accepts the plate with a kissy noise. “Love you.”

 

“Yeah, whatever,” Seungkwan says, smiling. “Vernonie, pass me your plate.”

 

They eat in relative quiet for a few minutes. Chan focuses on getting the perfect mouthful each time and Seungkwan focuses on his homework. The restaurant is only big enough for six tables and they’re the only patrons aside from a young couple near the door. The restaurant owner’s son is sitting at the cash register, watching television with the sound turned down low.

 

This is an easy part of their weekday routine. It feels homey, here. Chan always swings past this street on his patrols. Most of the businesses are family-owned--small places that are already struggling to make profit as it is--so Chan likes to make sure they don’t have to face any more trouble.

 

Something on the television catches Hansol’s attention and he taps Chan’s plate with his spoon, “Hey, check it out.”

 

Chan looks over his shoulder to see a news update playing across the small screen. Something about the incident in Hanoi two weeks ago. Four people are still in the ICU. The government is demanding funding from S.H.I.E.L.D. for the structural damage caused. Mobile video footage of the event plays on loop. 

 

It’s still weird to see people he knows on the news. Granted, they’re all dressed in their suits and masks, but that doesn’t make them anonymous. If anything, it does the opposite. Chan could tell the whole school that he knows the Avengers and it wouldn’t raise an ounce of suspicion. A small, private part of him wishes it would--wishes that he didn’t have to hold Lee Chan and Spiderman so far apart. But it’s what keeps him safe. It’s what makes the normal parts of his life possible, and that might be better than any kind of fame. Tempting as it may be.

 

The newsreader says something inaudible and the footage switches to Seokmin speaking live at a press conference, shield strapped to his back, helmet obscuring the top half of his face. He looks comically out of place amongst the journalists. Jeonghan is standing behind him in civilian clothing, looking bored behind his sunglasses.

 

“Ew,” Seungkwan says, “That colour combo really washes him out. Can they hire someone with eyes to design his next uniform?”

 

Hansol snorts. “Are you volunteering?”

 

“Yes, actually. I have several suggestions. Number one: no headgear.”

 

“It’s functional,” Hansol argues, just to be annoying. 

 

Seungkwan takes the bait. “He can bench press a car and like, dodge bullets. What’s that stupid little hat going to do?”

 

Chan stays quiet as they bicker. He doesn’t know what S.H.I.E.L.D. was looking for in Vietnam, or if they found it. They haven’t contacted him since it happened beyond an impersonal call from Momo telling him to stay in the city and out of trouble. 

 

Frustrating is an understatement. It’s been months since he was picked up by S.H.I.E.L.D. and he’s still not considered important enough to help. He tries not to take it personally.

 

The news switches to a commercial break and he turns back to face the table. 

 

“You gonna finish that?” Hansol asks. Chan shakes his head. He’s lost his appetite. Hansol happily takes his plate and clears off the rest. 

 

Seungkwan catches his eye across the table. 

 

He must notice the way Chan’s shoulders are drooping, but doesn’t comment on it. Instead, he sighs, all loud and put-upon, and says, “Channie, this equation is too hard. You do it for me.”

 

“Ah, hyung. So lazy,” Chan says, but he can’t help but smile when he takes the notebook.

 

 

🕷️

 

 

Chan is eating a sandwich on the rooftop of a building, feet swinging, when he gets a call. Seungkwan’s name and contact photo--an ugly selca he took when he got drunk at Halloween--pop up in his peripherals. 

 

“Hyung!” he answers brightly. “What’s up?”

 

“Where are you right now?” Seugnkwan asks.

 

“Emotionally or physically?”

 

“Don’t be annoying.”

 

Chan laughs around his mouthful and lists off the address of the building he’s been perched on for the past hour, listening to police scanners. “You won’t be able to get up here, though. I think it’s a private office complex.”

 

“See you soon,” Seungkwan says sweetly, and hangs up. 

 

Twenty minutes later the door opens and Seungkwan walks out onto the rooftop with his sunglasses pushed up into his hair and an iced coffee in each hand.

 

Chan swings himself off the ledge and takes the one with milk. “How the hell did you get in?” he laughs, incredulous.

 

“I pretended to be someone’s son, I don’t know. Adults are stupid.” Seungkwan sits cross legged on the concrete and rummages around in his backpack. Chan joins him, mask pushed up to his hairline. 

 

“Okay.” Seungkwan pulls out an old Nokia and holds it between them with serious eyes. “On a scale of one to ten, how opposed are you to spying on people?”

 

“Whose phone is that?” Chan asks cautiously.

 

“I’ll take that as a generous… six. And it’s nobody’s phone. However,” Seungkwan pulls something else out of his bag. It looks like a radio transmitter. “It could be. Remember that group hitting convenience stores in the university district?”

 

 

🕷️

 

 

“It’s just annoying,” Chan is saying as Hansol re-loads his slingshot, “They ask for my help one time and then it’s like I don’t exist.” 

 

“Maybe there’s nothing going on right now,” Hansol suggests. He shoots the rock into the air and Chan catches it easily despite the sun shining in his eyes. Hansol made him take his mask off to make it harder, but Chan still hasn’t missed a single shot. 

 

They used to come out to this field to practise when Chan was still getting used to his web-shooters. It’s hidden by a copse of trees, and technically private property, but nobody has ever come to chase them off so they come back every now and then: Hansol slingshots random objects into the sky and Chan shoots webs to catch them. 

 

Seungkwan comes with, sometimes, if only to observe and rate Chan’s technique. Like he could do any better.

 

The rock flies back into Chan’s palm and he studies the way it shines, covered in webs. 

 

“Or they just don’t take me seriously,” he says.

 

Hansol shakes his head with a smile. “Or they recognise that you’re a senior in high school, and not in a position to be flying off to fight crazy super-villains on the weekend.”

 

“But that sounds so much better than doing homework,” Chan whines. 

 

“I know, man, but it’s…” Hansol looks around the field. His expression turns serious. “Why are you so hellbent on working for them, anyway?”

 

Chan laughs, incredulous. What kind of question is that? He’s wanted to be part of something bigger since way before he got his powers--he wants to be helpful, to be recognised. In science or in keeping people safe. Chan chases the feeling like a drug. Hansol knows this. 

 

“I want to help,” Chan says. It’s the most simple, boiled-down iteration of himself. 

 

Hansol turns to him, sunshine melting his eyes to gold. “There’s a difference between helping and being reckless.”

 

“Hyung…”

 

“I just. I just want you to think about yourself.”  

 

“But it’s not about me,” Chan says, defensive. “I have these abilities for a reason. If I don’t use them then--”

 

“Then what?” Chan’s mouth clamps shut. Hansol never interrupts him. He must really be worked up about this. “Then you live long enough to graduate high school and have a normal life? What’s so bad about that?”

 

“Hyung,” Chan laughs nervously, “I’m not going to die. You’re being ridiculous.”

 

“Am I?” 

Chan realises with horror that Hansol’s eyes are shining, tears collecting but not falling. He closes the space between them and takes Hansol’s hand in his. “Hey, I’m sorry, I didn’t…” He flounders. “It’s fine. I’ll be fine.”