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Spider-Man: Black and Blue (AU) Chapter 11: Leo and Chrissy
🕑 Added 2025-10-04 07:11:55 +0000 UTC[Third Person's PoV]
Damon returned home and stepped into his room with a quiet creak of the door. He didn’t bother turning on the lights. The dim afternoon glow filtering through the window was enough. His expression was distant, contemplative, as if his body had come home, but his mind remained lost somewhere far away—wandering through thoughts and memories he couldn’t quite escape.
He dropped his bag carelessly onto the bed and climbed in after it, burying his face into the softness of his pillow. The familiar scent of his room brought no comfort. His eyes closed, but there was no peace. Richard’s words played on repeat in his mind like an annoying song he couldn’t turn off.
‘A hero, huh?’ he thought bitterly, his brow furrowing. ‘God… just what the hell am I thinking? Stupid Richard and his dumb ideas about purpose…’
With a low grumble, Damon reached over to his nightstand and yanked open the drawer. From within, he pulled out a worn sketchbook—its corners frayed, its pages slightly warped from use and tears alike. He kicked off his shoes and shifted to sit up, leaning against the headboard, propped up by pillows.
As he flipped open the book, the first image that greeted him was a drawing of a woman—softly colored, beautifully detailed. Her auburn hair cascaded down in waves, her smile warm and gentle. Her eyes were drawn with a particular kind of care, filled with the kind of love that could only come from deep memory. Two small, unique birthmarks sat between the corner of her lips and her eye.
Damon’s fingers hovered over the image before gently brushing over it—particularly over the dry, stiffened patches where old tears had once fallen. The image wasn’t just a drawing. It was a memory, a keepsake from a time that was a lifetime entirely ago.
His sister.
Christine.
Her name was signed in his neat cursive below the drawing.
A soft smile tugged at Damon’s lips as he stared at the portrait, his gaze filled with longing and affection. He began flipping through the rest of the pages—dozens of sketches followed. Each captured a different moment, a different expression—some joyful, some serious, others whimsical or candid. Every one of them featured her.
He reached for his headphones, untangling the cord from inside his bag before plugging them in. Music filled his ears, drowning out the noise of the world and letting him fall deeper into the solace of memory.
His fingers paused on a particular sketch—Christine with an angry expression, her eyes blazing with fury. Damon let out a chuckle despite himself, remembering exactly what inspired that one.
---
[Flashback]
Damon had been ten years old back then—or rather, Leo, as he was known in his past life. Back then, he looked entirely different: wild auburn hair that matched Christine’s, and bright green eyes that used to light up with mischief before the world taught him to be wary.
Leo sat on the seat outside of the school's main office, his nose stuffed with bloody tissue, fresh bruises lining his cheek and arms, and bandaids haphazardly slapped across his scraped knees.
And then came Christine.
She burst out of the building like a storm in motion, her eyes burning with protective rage. The second she saw him, her voice boomed with disbelief and fury.
“Leo! What the hell—how could you have gotten into a fight?!”
Leo kept his eyes low, shoulders stiffening. He couldn’t bring himself to meet her gaze. His lips tightened, expression stubborn.
Christine stood with her hands on her hips, her breath sharp as she took in the sight of him. After a moment, her anger softened, replaced by concern. She knelt down in front of him, ruffling his hair gently.
“Come on, little bro,” she said, her voice quieter now, “talk to me. What happened?”
Leo hesitated. He peeked at her through his lashes, then looked away again, sighing. “It’s nothing,” he muttered. “Don’t worry about it…”
Christine shook her head, clearly not buying it. “I didn’t get out of work early just for nothing, Leo. And of course I’m worried. Look at you.”
She reached out, lifting his chin to examine his face, gently pushing his hand away from a fresh bruise. “Nothing’s broken, right?”
“No…” Leo murmured, his voice almost too quiet to hear.
“So,” she said patiently, “you wanna explain to me what happened?”
He stayed quiet for a long moment. Then, with frustration building in his voice, he admitted, “I told everyone I didn’t have a mom or a dad. Then they started calling me an orphan and making fun of me.”
Christine blinked. “What? Why would you tell them that?”
Leo looked at her, his eyes filled with hurt. “Because they’re never around. So what difference does it make if I say I don’t have parents?” he snapped, then turned his face away again, arms crossed.
Christine let out a heavy sigh and sat back on her heels. “Well, they’re very irresponsible, aren’t they?” she said softly, her voice laced with quiet anger. “So I can’t blame you for not wanting to claim them…”
“Come,” she said softly, extending her hand toward him. “Let’s go home… I’ll make your favorite.”
Leo looked at her hand, hesitant. “You… aren’t mad?” he asked as he slowly reached out, his small fingers curling around hers while stepping down from his seat.
“No,” Christine said, shaking her head gently. “I’m not mad.” She closed her eyes for a moment, inhaling deeply to calm the lingering frustration. “Just… worried.”
As they walked side by side out of the school grounds, Leo remained quiet, still holding her hand tightly like it was the only anchor he had in a drifting world.
“…”
“Chrissy?”
“Hm?” she responded, glancing down at him.
“Would you… ever leave me? Like they did?”
Christine froze for a second before her grip on his hand tightened protectively. “Of course not!”
“But why not?” Leo pressed, lifting his eyes to her with genuine confusion.
“Because I'm your big sister obviously” She said with a scoff.
“And they’re my parents… and that didn’t stop them.”
Christine let out a soft chuckle, although there was a hint of sorrow beneath it. “Yes, but like I said, they’re… very irresponsible. I, on the other hand, am your big sister. That means you’re my responsibility. You don’t have to worry about me leaving. Ever.”
Leo’s brows scrunched in thought. “Your responsibility?” he echoed, looking up again.
She nodded. “You’ll understand one day. Growing up, you learn that life is full of responsibilities, and being an adult means taking care of the people and things that matter—even when it’s hard.”
Leo batted his eyelashes in exaggerated innocence. “So… are you only looking after me because I’m your responsibility?”
“Ah! No—wait! Of course not!” Christine flailed slightly, waving her hands in panic. “I mean, yes—but no! I do love you, okay? That’s the real reason. I’m just… trying to teach you something meaningful here and—ugh, this is harder than I thought!” She ran a hand through her hair in exasperation.
Leo chuckled. “I’m messing with you, Chrissy. I know what you’re trying to say. Don’t worry, I’m not stupid.”
Christine blinked at him for a beat before laughing. “I suppose not,” she said, pulling him into her side and wrapping an arm around him as they walked. She ruffled his hair with affection. “I just want you to grow up into someone who doesn't run away from what matters. Someone who faces life, even when it’s scary or unfair. That’s what it means to grow up—doing what you have to do, even when you don’t want to. You get me?”
“I get ya,” Leo replied, his voice laced with a maturity beyond his years.
And just like that, the two of them burst into laughter, their steps lighter as they made their way home.
---
[End of Flashback]
---
Back in the present, Damon stared down at the same picture, a bittersweet smile playing on his lips. The emotions stirred by the memory welled up inside him.
His throat tightened. A lump formed. His vision blurred.
He reached out and gently ran his thumb across Christine’s drawn face, his touch was tender and filled with love.
“Sorry, Chrissy…” he whispered, voice cracking. “Looks like I was the one who left you first…”
He leaned back against the headboard, forcing himself to take deep breaths, calming the ache that pressed against his chest. A single tear slid down his cheek before he quickly wiped it away, exhaling sharply as if trying to shake the pain loose.
Then, slowly, he flipped to a blank page.
He stared at it for a while—empty, white, full of possibility yet so intimidating.
He reached for his pencil case, pulled out his utensils, and let the pencil roll between his fingers, twirling it rhythmically like a ritual.
“‘Growing up means doing what you have to… even when you don’t want to,’” he repeated aloud to himself, voice soft, firm, remembering her words.
“God… what the hell am I even thinking?” he muttered, but the pencil finally touched paper.
With the music blaring in his ears, he began sketching.
A large spider emblem took form on the page, bold, striking—symbolic.
He wasn’t the only one moving forward.
Elsewhere, in his own room, Richard sat at his desk flipping through a much older notebook. The pages were filled with fashion sketches and designs. His father had been a fashion designer, and for a time, Richard had considered following in those footsteps.
Art was one of the many things he and Damon had bonded over. Their shared passion for drawing had built the foundation of their friendship years ago, and now it was quietly guiding them both again—though neither knew it yet.
As Richard flipped through the book, the sketches changed. A figure—Damon—appeared in dynamic poses: standing tall between two buildings on a webline.
Another showed him leaping through the air with a toddler cradled in his arms,
Another showed him swinging with fluid motion between skyscrapers.
Another sketch depicted intricate webbing designs and stylized spiders.
Richard stared at those pages for a long time. Then, with a deep breath, he turned to a blank one.
He picked up his pencil and began sketching.
A mask took shape. Angular, wide eyes. Web patterns across the surface.
