You will still be here tomorrow, but your dreams may not

by Tupacase

Summary:

Frank Castle tries his best to avoid other vigilantes, but apparently just staying out of Manhattan isn't good enough anymore. When he has a run-in with a child calling himself "Spider-Man" right in the middle of a gang's headquarters, he affirms to himself that it's none of his goddamn business.

Then the kid's aunt doesn't make it out.

Fucking brilliant.

Chapter 1: The Things We Leave Behind

To say Frank was surprised when his phone rang with the number of none other than David “Micro” Lieberman himself would be an understatement.

It’s not like they parted on bad terms. The opposite, in fact. But once their mission was behind the both of them, David wanted to be a family man again, and Frank—well. Any sensible family man would want to keep him at arm’s length and then some. He gets that. So he saved David the trouble of asking and kept his distance, something David seemed to appreciate by the zero contact Frank received from him afterward. Of course, Frank prides himself on being a hard man to pin down, but it's David, so he knows that's never been the issue.

He almost thinks it's accidental when his phone shows David's number, but he picks it up when it keeps ringing without any idea what the hell this is about.

Turns out some creep in a white van had been hanging around his daughter's school. According to David, he'd hang out in the parking lot with the parents waiting for pick-up, but no kid had ever climbed in. While that was enough to raise David’s suspicions, the line was crossed when the guy started taking pictures of Leo and her friends as they walked down the sidewalk. So David had reported it and when the guy was still there throughout the following week, he took matters into his own hands and ran the plates.

Creep has an impressive criminal record, isn't allowed in a school zone, and is a member of some gang on the edge of Queens bordering Manhattan that allegedly deals in human trafficking. David made sure to emphasize that he wouldn't have called Frank if it were anything else, but these are his kids he's worried about. Frank gets that too.

So David scouted out an abandoned warehouse outside of Queens and they set up shop. He digs around and finds out that their creep’s a crony of a man named Mac Gargan who recently got out of prison and is trying to cement himself as some kind of big shot. David equips Frank with the address of a headquarters and another one of those needle-pens that he jabbed Frank with when they first met. He said he’d appreciate it if Frank brought the creep back alive so he could ensure all the photos of Leo were properly erased, though he didn't sound too picky about it.

It's a cockroach nest when Frank arrives. They're all playing cards around a table, their laughter grating in Frank's ears. They don't even realize they're under attack until half of them are on the floor, and half of those guys can't draw quick enough before they're dead on the ground too. Frank has to hide behind a cement pillar to avoid return fire, and he leaves only two left when they have to stop and reload.

It's all pretty routine until he sees red and blue spandex pressed into the corner of the ceiling.

Frank ducks behind the post just in time to avoid a sticky white glob to the face. The remaining gang members aren't so lucky; he hears gunshots and shouts and thwips before the gunfire ceases altogether.

Frank lines his spine up against the post and takes a breath to reassess. 

Spider-Man. He remembers the guy from news segments and YouTube videos and some impassioned articles from the Daily Bugle. A cocky little shit that taunted criminals as he gift-wrapped them for the police without throwing a single punch, even more theatrical than Red with the way he went about it. Perhaps Frank should've anticipated another vigilante for a gang gathering as big as this, but he’s never factored in vigilantes unless he's around Hell's Kitchen. A habit to break, then.

“Shouldn't you be in prison?” Spider-Man calls from his perch on the wall. “Not that I was invested, but I distinctly remember a guilty verdict for your trial of the century. Was prison not enough of a goldmine for you?”

Oh yeah, Spider-Man’s chatty. Frank almost forgot that bit. He doesn't grace him with a response, but he hopes the cocking of his gun is loud enough to get the message across.

“Are you gonna shoot me?” Spider-Man asks immediately.

Direct. Frank can appreciate that. “Not if you walk out now.”

Spider-Man doesn't reply at first, so Frank braces himself for a Red-style lecture on the bodies he’s littered on the floor. Instead, he says in a slightly wavering voice, “They've got hostages downstairs. At least six.”

This is new. A bluff, maybe, but it doesn’t match what he knows of Spider-Man’s style. Frank makes a gut decision, stuffing his pistol in his belt and emptying the bullets from his automatic before he drops it to the floor. He holds out his hands, open palms on either side of the pillar. There’s a swoosh and a thud as Spider-Man lands behind the post, so Frank steps out to meet him.

The top of Spider-Man's head barely goes above Frank's chin, and he's standing ramrod-straight. His figure is lithe, more of a gymnast than a fighter. He sidesteps to block Frank from the two breathing guys he webbed up, yet when his head starts to turn toward the bloodbath on the ground he jerks it back to Frank and his white eyes grow wide. He looks Frank over, sizing him up, gaze lingering on the white skull on his chest. 

Finally, he clears his throat and says, “How about instead of buffing your kill count you up your save count? Only save counts give XP, you know.”

Frank doesn't see why it has to be an either-or situation, but he can prioritize. “Take me to them.”

“Glad we’re on the same page.” With a curt nod, Spider-Man takes off.

He rounds a corner and half runs, half swings down a small staircase with Frank hot on his tail. It opens to a dimly lit hallway with grime on the walls and the reek of mold heavy in the air. Each side door is closed, but Spider-Man takes only a moment to do that distinct head-swivel thing that Red does before dashing to the second door on the left. He twists at the handle without an ounce of hesitation.

It doesn't open, so Frank reaches for his gun to shoot out the lock once Spider-Man gives a frustrated grunt. It proves unnecessary when Spider-Man takes a few tiny steps back and kicks out at the door with a single thrust. The door—the metal door—is blasted off its hinges and flies inward with a force that lets Frank know shit, they weren’t playing up the guy’s super strength.

High, frightened screams come from inside. Spider-Man swiftly steps in and rushes out, “Woah, hey, guys! It's me, your friendly neighborhood Spider-Man! This is a rescue!” He pauses a moment to gag dramatically and waft his hand in front of his face. “Phew, it's stinky! What do ya say we get out of here?”

It's honestly amazing how fast the screams morph into giggles. A strange mixture of pissed and impressed churn together in his chest at the situation before him. Frank’s not surprised it’s kids—not even out of elementary school by the sound of them—but it only cements his certainty that he can’t allow those two webbed guys to walk out of here alive.

Spider-Man glances back at him and says, “This is my big, scary friend. He's bigger and scarier than all of the guys who put you here, so he’ll keep you safe from them.”

Frank takes this as his cue to enter the room. It's probably the best introduction he could've asked for because only half the kids flinch when six pairs of eyes look up at him. His heart twists in righteous fury, but he gives them his best disarming wave that’s met by a few relieved smiles. Spider-Man swoops down and picks up two of them, one with each arm, and carefully transfers them to Frank.

It's been years since he’s held a kid this young and he can't help but flash back to his Lisa and Frank Jr. But now’s not the time, so he shoves those memories back.

Aside from the six first to third-graders, there’s one woman in the room. She stands in the corner, hands curled protectively on the shoulders of two of the four kids huddled around her. Her hair is long and brown and Frank puts her around her mid-forties. He thinks teacher at first, but there's something about her smile as she stares at Spider-Man that says something other than relief. He'd label it pride if he didn’t know any better. 

And shit, maybe he doesn’t. Spider-Man approaches her and catches Frank off guard again when instead of the kids, he reaches for her. 

The lady reaches right back. It’s a brief embrace and the strained way they release each other tells Frank that it’d be longer if they didn’t have their priorities straight. But it’s enough time for her eyes to meet his over Spider-Man’s shoulder—she recognizes the Punisher, too. Must have something to say about it, what with her mouth moving by Spider-Man’s ear, to which Spider-Man just gives a small shake of his head.

She knows Spider-Man. Really knows. Frank makes a note of it and clears his throat. “This everyone?”

The woman dips her head and scoops up two of the kids. “Yes, this is everyone.”

That’s all Frank needs to hear. Spider-Man gets the final two and with everybody accounted for, he marches out of the room for the staircase.

Frank stops at the bottom, shifting each kid in his grasp until they both look to his face. “Close your eyes,” he says, because he wouldn't have done it like this if he'd known kids would see it. They blink up at him with mirrored expressions of confusion, so he repeats in a voice that doesn't leave room for questions. “You close your eyes and don't open them until I tell you.”

It works. Their eyelids snap shut, and the youngest one—barely a first grader with one of those bead ponytail holders Lisa used to complain about—wraps her arm around his neck and buries her face into his shoulder. He catches Spider-Man and the lady repeating the order, both on his heels as he makes it up the stairs.

He’s about halfway across the room when he sees Spider-Man freeze in his periphery. 

It's too late when he notices the remote clasped in one of the webbed guy's hands and it's too late when Spider-Man shouts out a desperate, “RUN!”

There's a deafening BANG and an earthquake beneath his feet. The children scream in his hold and clutch onto him with all the strength in their tiny arms as he careens to the side to avoid a large chunk of ceiling that nearly takes out all three of them. He doesn't look back before he breaks for the exit, making it just outside before depositing the kids on the pavement.

“Don't move,” he snaps, and makes sure to get their jerky nods before he runs back in.

The building is collapsing. 

Explosives planted around the corners, he wagers. The guy who set it off has to be crushed under a large portion of ceiling, but he must've deemed it worth bringing two vigilantes with him. Well, joke’s on him. Spider-Man is still standing, staring up at the sky through where the roof used to be as dust rains around him. His arms are raised at his sides and he's poised for defense with the four children clustered around him.

Frank rushes down and picks up two of them, frozen in terror, and somehow Spider-Man seems to be in the same state. “Shit,” Frank says under his breath. “Hey!”

He steps into Spider-Man's space and knees him in the hip. Spider-Man jolts. 

“Get your ass in gear and grab them!”

That snaps Spider-Man out of it. He snatches the final two kids and races after Frank for the exit. 

They make it right before a wall gives way, but Spider-Man doesn't seem to appreciate the solid ground. The instant the kids are out, he spins on his heel and bolts back into the building right before the door frame crumbles behind him.

Nothing comes of Frank’s warning shout. Cursing, he all but throws the last two kids on the ground and sprints after the vigilante. 

The building is falling apart around him and he can barely see past the flying plaster and dust, but Spider-Man's red and blue sticks out like a sore thumb. He's near the leftmost, still-standing wall, and he's heaving and struggling to lift a massive piece of roof.

He spares a glance to Frank and cries, “Help me!”

Frank has to stop in his tracks. Spider-Man's voice is high and panicked and it cracks in the way a teenager’s does. This guy—Spider-Man—is a goddamn kid. The realization hits Frank hard enough that he hardly registers a chunk of roof that clips his shoulder.

Frank has to force himself to refocus and rushes back to Spider-Man's side. He’s about to demand what the fuck this kid thinks he's doing when he sees the figure on the ground in front of him.

It's the lady. Her arms are splayed out at her sides and her hair is spread around her head like a halo. Her legs are trapped underneath a fallen wall, but it doesn’t make a difference. Her chest isn't moving and a thin line of blood trickles from the corner of her mouth. Frank's seen enough death to know she's gone after only a second of looking at her. It doesn’t stop the kid from trying to hoist the wall off her legs.

Frank swallows and puts a hand on Spider-Man's shoulder. “We gotta go. The floor already caved on the other side.”

He might as well haven’t spoken. Spider-Man groans and strains at the wall and grits out, “I've got you, May. I'm gonna save you, I promise I'm gonna save you, just- just a little more-”

Frank clenches his jaw as a crack in the floor makes its way closer. “Spider-Man, listen to me-”

He gives the kid's upper arm a harsh tug and doesn't see the blow coming. Spider-Man hits him back with a single hand, sending him flying back on a near-collision course with the post barely keeping what remains of the roof above their heads.

He pushes himself to his feet with a wheeze and pauses a good yard away from the kid, still trying to pry off that wall. Frank grits his teeth and lunges, ducking under the next hit to grab the kid around the shoulders and haul him back. Spider-Man yells out as he's dragged across the floor. For a second Frank thinks he's going to make it, but then Spider-Man plants his heels into the ground and suddenly he's immovable.

“GET OFF ME!” he shrieks, elbowing Frank aside. The jab’s harsh enough to let him squirm free.

Shit. They've got maybe thirty seconds before they find out if it’s the floor or the walls that’ll cave in first. Spider-Man's not going to leave without a fight. He's one stubborn son of a bitch, but he’s not special there.

Frank searches his pocket for the syringe-pen David supplied him with. He'd loaded it with a paralytic—best for scaring the scumbag once Frank had him stuffed in his van, keeping him entirely aware of what he had coming for him and entirely helpless to do anything about it. Something about poetic justice.

There’s no justice in this.

He catches the kid from behind in a chokehold. Frank kicks out at his knee to knock off his balance and shove up the back of Spider-Man’s mask, exposing pale skin at the base of his neck. He clicks the pen and jams the needle into the side of the kid's neck. What starts as a yelp of pain turns into something full of terror and fury as the kid shakes him off. Frank stumbles, but he's back on his feet before Spider-Man is.

Spider-Man totters to the side and meets the ground with his knees. Frank crouches to pick him up and the kid lets out another infuriated shout as he shirks away from Frank's grasp. His chest collides against the floor with a thud that resolves in a whimper.

“Sorry, kid,” Frank grunts as he grabs him by the legs, draping his upper body over Frank's shoulder. He can feel the kid's heart pounding against his back and hear the quick, frantic pants from his nose. Frank ignores both in favor of securing the kid and booking it to the door.

He bursts out with a second to spare before the building falls to rubble behind him. Frank uses his free hand to wipe the dust and sweat from his forehead as he tries to catch his breath.

“Is Spider-Man okay?” a small, hesitant voice asks.

Frank turns his attention to the little kids, huddled together in the cold November air, and offers up a short nod. “He’s gonna be fine. Just passed out.”

Spider-Man scoffs.

“What about May?” another one wonders.

“She'll be all right. She made it out the back,” he lies, because they’re kids. Doesn't stop the flash of guilt when Spider-Man's breathing falters at his words.

That's when a siren wails in the distance, so he ushers the children under a lamppost by the road. “Tell the officer what happened. Shout to get his attention and stay put till he gets here. I've got to go.”

There's not a single protest; the most he gets are scattered grave nods. It tugs at something in his chest, but it’s the answer he needs, so it’s the answer he’ll take. Long as they’re all getting home to their folks in one piece. 

Frank adjusts his grip on Spider-Man's dead weight and leaves for his van parked around back. Taking the kid to their base is a risk, but if he’s as young as Frank thinks he is—and Christ, he better not be—it’s nothing next to the risk of the police finding him here. 

He says another “I’m sorry” once the kids are well out of earshot, as if it has any more meaning than it did the first time. “She was gone, kid. She was dead.”

Spider-Man can't respond, so Frank's not sure why he pauses like he expects him to. Once they get to his van, Frank opens the passenger door and slumps Spider-Man on the seat. He almost takes a nosedive for the dashboard, so Frank has to catch him and prop him up as he buckles him in. He tilts back the seat so Spider-Man can rest his head instead of having it loll over his chest. 

Frank tightens his jaw as he studies the kid. Red had been relieved when Frank didn’t take off his mask. Odds are this kid would feel the same. At least Red had the lower half of his face exposed so Frank could read something. That mask of Spider-Man’s can’t make breathing any easier, either. Slowly, Frank reaches for the edge of the cloth underneath the kid’s chin. 

“Just gonna pull it up to your nose. No higher,” he says.

The lower half of the kid's face is blank, save for two identical wet streaks that go down to his upper lip.

Frank looks him over, his gaze settling on a long, deep cut on Spider-Man's calf. There's another gash between the kid’s hip and his ribs that’s getting bloodier by the minute. “Gonna need to stitch those up. Probably hurts like a bitch,” he comments, because the paralytic wouldn’t do shit to stop him from feeling all of it. Kid’s in for a world of pain once the adrenaline fades. “I'll check if I've got anything for it.”

Frank closes the door. He opens the back and scans it with a tight brow. He isn't big on painkillers; the most he has is a half-empty bottle of ibuprofen in his first aid kit and the kid’s in no state to take any. He follows a hazy memory and zips open the outside pocket of a duffle bag. He lets out a short hum when he spots the tiny glass bottle inside. Nabbed it off some nurse who moonlighted as a drug dealer, he's pretty sure. He picks up the bottle and turns it over in his fingers to better study the label. He skims for anything along the lines of pain reliever and mutters a quick “dammit ” when nothing comes up. 

It’s some kind of sedative, by the looks of it. The thought crosses his mind that he has no idea how long the paralytic will last, especially with whatever enhancements Spider-Man's got going for him. More importantly, he has no idea how the kid’ll react once it passes. Whoever May was, they were close, and Frank knows more than most how watching your family die around you can fuck you up. He can handle a crying Spider-Man or a numb-to-the-world Spider-Man, but the kid’s got super strength. Not a whole lot he can do if the kid acts up.

Hell, a knocked-out Spider-Man would be easier on the both of them. He makes his decision when he determines he’d rather not chance the kid memorizing the route to their warehouse set-up and trying something stupid. He stuffs the bottle in his pocket and grabs a roll of bandages, rubbing alcohol, gauze, and some medical tape before he shuts the back and returns to the passenger door.

“Not gonna let you bleed all over my car,” Frank says, wrapping the bandage around the kid's leg. He follows up by placing a pad of gauze between the slash in the kid's suit and the wound by his stomach and taping it down.

He pulls out the rubbing alcohol and another gauze pad and pours a small amount over the cotton. He finds a tear in the suit on Spider-Man’s upper arm, so he pushes up the spandex and cleans a patch of skin. A forceful exhale comes from the kid's nose, drawing Frank's attention to his face.

The pulse point on his neck below the corner of his jaw is hammering at a pace Frank’s used to seeing on shitbags with the barrel of his gun at their temple. This kid—kid—is terrified out of his wits. Spider-Man or not, he’s a child getting manhandled into a van by the guy he watched put bullets in half a dozen men, right after witnessing a woman who might be his mother get killed in front of him. And he's paralyzed and unable to do a thing about it. Of course he’s freaking the fuck out.

“I'm cleaning up your arm,” Frank narrates as he swabs away the grime. “I'm not gonna kill you, kid. Not gonna hurt you either. I'm leaving your mask on, so don't flip out on me about your identity. I'm gonna take you somewhere I can stitch you up proper.”

Frank already has him where he wants him, so he hopes Spider-Man grasps that Frank would find no point in saying it unless he means it. But the kid's pulse doesn't slow. Frank sets down the swab to reach for the syringe-pen and empties the cartridge to replace it. Once he starts to extract the sedative from the bottle, the kid takes a sharp breath.

“Relax,” Frank says. “This is just gonna make the ride a little smoother and help with the pain.”

If his nostrils flaring and the small grunt coming from the back of his throat is anything to go by, Spider-Man’s not assured. Frank doesn't blame him. But he doesn't have time for this, so he squeezes the kid's bicep and presses the needle into the cleaned skin. 

He ducks through the door into the driver's seat when he notices a squad car through the buildings a few blocks over. He twists the key in the ignition and backs out, taking off in the opposite direction of the squad car on account of the vigilante in his front seat. He spends a minute or two weaving through the back alleys and allows himself a breath of relief once he’s on the main road.

He sets on course to the warehouse and splits his attention between Spider-Man and the street when the kid sniffs. Spider-Man’s jaw shifts and a short noise escapes through his mouth. “You tryin' to talk?” Frank guesses. “Believe me, kid, we're gonna have a long talk later. So save it.”

Frank turns on the radio to drive the point home. He messes with the volume dial until it's just loud enough to pick out the lyrics over the bustle of traffic around them. He checks in on Spider-Man out of the corner of his eye until the kid’s breaths are deep and even.

For all the shit Red put him through, Frank can’t say he’d pass it up for the leg-up he’s got now. It takes a special type of crazy to don a mask to take on New York's criminal underbelly, and Frank wouldn’t have opted to familiarize himself with it through the guy who shoots webs out of his hands. As long as he’s not about to find out Red’s crazy is the tip of the iceberg for his sort, it might finally be worth those concussions and bruised ribs.

After a good five minutes, once Frank’s certain the kid’s not faking and his own pulse is back down, he fishes his phone out of his pocket and dials David’s number.

“Was he there?” David says immediately.

“Probably. Check the casualty list once it comes up.”

“Probably?” David echoes. “You didn't take him, then? But you did see him? You remember what he looks li-”

“The building collapsed before I could do a headcount. Every one of those bastards bit it, I can tell you that.” Frank pauses, glancing at Spider-Man beside him. “Still ended up using that pen, though.”

David takes a second to process this. “Who's with you?”

“Remember that red and blue spider guy?”

A slightly strangled noise comes from the receiver. “Hold on- Frank, did you- Are you telling me you kidnapped Spider-Man?”

“I didn't kidna-” he starts, but quickly cuts himself off, because whether or not he set out to do it doesn't change what went down. “Look, he was there when I showed up. Told me they had some hostages in the basement—a bunch of elementary schoolers. So we busted them out, but the building was rigged. We got all the kids, but one hostage was middle-aged; I'd ballpark her around forty-five. She didn't make it out of the wreckage. Must've been Spider-Man's mom or something with how hysterical he got trying to free her. She was already dead, David. I had to dose him to drag him out of there so he didn't get himself killed.”

“So Spider-Man's, what, a teenager?” David says after a beat. “And you just dragged him away from his mom's dead body?”

Frank takes a small breath. “Yeah.”

“Shit. We- We gotta find his dad or something.”

“He's banged up. I'm bringing him to the warehouse to stitch him up first.”

“So he's paralyzed and bleeding out in your van right now? Jesus, Frank, he's probably scared shitless-”

“He’s clocked out. Found a sedative in the back.”

“Of course you did,” David mutters. “Wait, sorry, that's hypocritical of me. I might have a reversal in here somewhere. ETA?”

Frank glances at the dashboard. “Thirty.”

“Good luck.” With that, David ends the call.

Frank casts another look at Spider-Man, at the steady rise and fall of his chest. His face is slack and Frank would even call it peaceful if he didn't know any better. He lets out a small sigh with a shake of his head. “You’re gonna need all that luck, kid.”

Chapter 2: SNAFU

Notes:

I'm still a bit inexperienced with tagging, so if y'all think I'm missing any, feel free to let me know!

The sun is almost beyond the horizon by the time Frank arrives at their warehouse. He parks his van outside and wastes no time rounding for the passenger door.

Spider-Man doesn't react when Frank opens it, but when Frank unbuckles him and his head is no longer supported by the seatbelt, the kid manages to correct himself from slumping over. Frank watches for a moment, yet he makes no attempt to move again. So he slides an arm under the kid’s knees and supports his back as he hoists him into his arms, but all he gets are a few steps before Spider-Man stirs. He shifts in Frank's grasp and exhales slowly, and Frank adjusts his grip in preparation for him to lash out. 

It's a false alarm; Spider-Man grows still and Frank makes it to the door without trouble.

David opens it for him before he can even reach for the handle, his gaze immediately falling on Spider-Man as he takes a sharp breath. “Jesus, Frank.”

“You got the kit?” Frank asks as he maneuvers past him.

“By the couch,” David confirms, following Frank with his eyes as he places the kid on the sofa.

He settles by Spider-Man's side and repositions him onto his back. No zipper. Frank frowns and tugs at the suit near the base of his neck, but it's skin-tight and won't budge. He rolls him back to his front and scans him over with a critical eye. 

“The damn suit won’t come off.”

“Let me take a look,” David says, peering down at the kid over the back of the couch only to put on a frown that mirrors Frank's. Frank’s about to suggest they just cut it off when David places a hand on the spider emblem in the center of his chest. “Maybe if I just-”

Well, shit. The suit’s a lot fancier than it looks. With a hiss and a rush of air, it expands and rests loose around his skin like it's some kind of vacuum seal.

That gets Spider-Man’s attention. He groans as he props himself up against the pillow, drawing in a deep breath. Before Frank can react, David holds out a palm to signal for him to back up as he shifts around to the front of the couch. He crouches down to get on the kid’s level and rushes out, “Hey, hey, you’re safe. We’re trying to help you. Lie back.”

Either Spider-Man’s wholly out of it or there’s some common sense rattling around in there, because he stays down when David pushes his shoulder back into the pillow. Frank gets to work assembling the needle and thread while David pries off the suit before he snatches Frank's attention with a loud inhale through his teeth. 

“Frank, this doesn’t look too good.”

Banged up is about right. With Spider-Man in his boxers, it doesn’t take Frank more than a glance to note how none of his limbs escaped bruising and the paste of blood and plaster on his torso. The cut on his calf appears deeper than Frank thought, but it’s an inch shy of an artery, so he’ll take his luck where he gets it.

Frank places a firm hand around Spider-Man's leg. “This ain’t gonna be fun, but I need you to stay still. You got that?”

Spider-Man gives no indication that he hears, and for his sake, Frank hopes he doesn’t. He flinches when the peroxide flows over his calf and grits his teeth when Frank starts on the sutures, though the rest of him stays put. Meds or not, kid’s a trooper.

“You're doin' good, kid,” Frank encourages, pausing before following with, “How ‘bout you tell me about May, yeah? Who w- Who is May?”

“May?” Spider-Man mumbles it, though his attention is visibly piqued.

“Yeah, May. She your mom?” he tries.

Spider-Man works his jaw, the corner of his mouth twitching whenever Frank goes in with the needle. “M' aunt,” he finally utters.

“You two close?”

Spider-Man hums an affirmative.

“Bet she was pissed when she found out you were Spider-Man,” Frank says with a snort, gauging Spider-Man’s reaction.

The kid cringes and Frank has a feeling he can’t only chalk it up to the stitching.

Frank closes his eyes, bringing an image of the woman to the forefront of his memory. Had she—? Yes, Frank does remember a wedding ring. So he asks, “Was your uncle pissed too?”

Frank must’ve found a sore spot, and he doubts it’s where the needle’s half-stabbed in the kid’s leg. For a second, Spider-Man’s whole body goes tense. He flattens his palm against the cushion like he’s about to push himself up, and it’s all Frank can do to return the kid’s wrist to his side while keeping him from fucking up his sutures.

“Hey. Easy,” he warns.

The warning takes. It takes a minute, but Spider-Man settles back down.

There’s something with the uncle; he catches David’s eye over the back of the couch, and he knows he sees it, too. But pressing it won’t get Frank anywhere productive. He ties off his stitches and moves up to the kid's abdomen. He fishes for a distracting question as he readies the peroxide over the wound. “How many people know you’re Spider-Man?”

The kid’s nose wrinkles. “'M not… Spider-Man,” he manages.

Frank lets out a huff. One of the many reasons he never bothered with a secret identity. He tilts the bottle to pour the peroxide on the gash and says, “Yeah? Then who am I talkin’ to?”

“Pe-” Spider-Man only gets out one syllable before he cuts himself off, which is about what Frank expected. His jaw opens and closes a couple times and he tilts up his head in the most obvious attempt to come up with a lie Frank has ever seen in his life. He’s halfway done with the sutures by the time the kid decides, “Perry.”

“Perry?” Frank raises an eyebrow.

“Perry,” affirms definitely-not-Perry.

“Okay,” Frank concedes, then clears his throat and ties off the final stitch. “Where else hurts?”

The kid bends his knee up to point at his foot, then swivels his ankle with a grimace. It’s red and swollen; sprained, by the looks of it. Judging by how he moved, though, nothing’s broken. Not much Frank could do for it beyond trying to convince Spider-Man to stay off it. 

“Right. Is that it?”

The only response he gets is a weak half-shrug. Frank supposes it’s his own fault for asking; odds are there isn’t much of him that doesn’t smart.

“You want the reversal?” David pipes up as soon as Frank wipes the blood from his hands.

Frank holds out an expectant palm and David passes him a small syringe. He picks a spot on Spider-Man’s arm and the kid winces at the injection, rubbing at it once the needle’s out.

Without warning, David goes stiff and hurries off to his computer set-up, returning with a blanket a few seconds later. He unfolds it over the kid—a good call, given his crumpled suit beside him.

Frank’s about to ask when it’ll kick in when Spider-Man goes rigid. He folds his legs against his chest under the blanket and yanks his mask all the way down his face. His head shifts between Frank and David, and all at once, his breathing’s rapid. 

“Where am I?” 

David holds out his hands in a placating gesture. “You’re safe. No one-”

“Who are you?” Spider-Man yelps. What follows is a noise that starts as a gasp and morphs into a hiss as he retracts his legs from his chest. His elbow juts out from under the blanket, and from the angle of it, Frank would guess his hand’s on his torso wound. He lets out a shuddering breath.

David rifles through the first aid kit for a moment before pulling out another syringe. “Painkiller,” he explains as he steps toward the couch.

Spider-Man jerks back violently and shakes his head. “No- I don't trust- I can't remember, you gave me something-”

“And we just gave you the antidote for it,” Frank cuts him off with a growl. “If we wanted you out, you'd be out. So either suck it up and don't whine about it, or take the goddamn painkiller.”

Spider-Man goes still and drops his gaze. After a moment, Frank's cold logic must sink in because he gives a tiny nod and holds out his arm toward David. He keeps staring at his lap as David administers the painkiller, though his body grows looser a couple moments later. 

“Why’re you doing this?” he asks quietly. “I never wanted to see your- your Punisher torture dungeon- lair- warehouse? Whatever. I never asked for your- this help, you should've just left-”

“Left you there to die?” Frank challenges. “Mm, sorry to disappoint. So.” He grabs a chair behind him and pulls it forward to face the couch before he sits, leaning against the back with crossed arms. David slinks behind him and sits back into his swivel chair, crouched forward with a fist balled in front of his mouth. “First thing's first. You got some crazy healing powers or some shit? Or some, I dunno, spider-themed allergies to anything?”

Spider-Man gives a half-hearted shrug. “I heal faster than normal. Nothing crazy, but maybe superhuman, I guess.”

Frank’s got no idea what faster than normal means, but he’ll take it over normal any day of the week. “Good. Next; either it's a hell of a coincidence the only adult those shitbags captured was your aunt, or they know your secret identity and were trying to draw you out.” He gives Spider-Man a level stare.

The kid's gaze darts around. “How do you know she's my—?”

“You told me,” Frank says. “Didn’t tell me anything else, though.”

Spider-Man looks relieved at that. “I, uh, got in a tussle with a Mac Gargan a while back.” He pauses when Frank straightens at the familiar name. “Scar above his eye, scorpion tattoo on his neck?”

Frank nods. “Head of some kind of gang, yeah.”

“I may have given him that scar. Not on purpose. I'm not a hundred percent on how he got my identity, but I've got a couple guesses. I got a message from one of his underlings saying to show up at x location at y time for my aunt, but I thought that was stupid so I scouted ahead at the places I knew they frequented. That's where I ran into you. My best hunch is they were planning to pull some kind of 'save either your loved one or these schoolchildren' thing that the villains do in movies.” His tone is overly casual, bordering on chipper. A show, if Frank’s ever seen one.

“Was Gargan there?”

“I don't think so, I didn't see him.”

“Mmm. So if your aunt knew, do your parents know?”

Spider-Man swallows. “Sure, my parents know. About Spider-Man.”

Frank can smell the bullshit right as the kid spouts it. He fishes his burner out of his pocket and tosses it to Spider-Man. The paralytic still must be in his system, because Spider-Man swipes for the phone, misses by half a foot, and it thuds off his chest into his lap. “Call them. I'll give you an address for them to pick you up at.”

Spider-Man fiddles with the phone in his hands, folding it over again and again. “I’d rather be dropped off at the nearest hospital. Or a hospital in Queens, if that's not where we are. I want to check up on my aunt. She would've been taken there.”

Frank presses his lips in a thin line and turns back to David, who gives a tiny shake of his head. Frank lets out a long breath and stares the kid right in his masked eyes. “Kid, your aunt's dead.”

“You're wrong,” Spider-Man snaps. “The police would've freed her from the rubble. She's gotta be injured real bad, though. I need to see her.”

Frank remembers a dog a buddy of his used to have in the marines. It was the best of the best, a bomb-sniffer, and followed orders better than most of the soldiers. Frank hadn't been there, but he heard about how the dog was there when their squad got ambushed. His buddy took a bullet and the dog had to be dragged away by its leash. 

They tried to quickly transfer him to a new owner, but it was already a different dog. It would snarl at everyone who passed by and wouldn't take a single command, and even Frank, who had built a friendship with the dog before, couldn't get close. It was only when they let the dog sniff and sit with his former owner's corpse a week later did it finally stop snapping at everyone that tried to come near. It even went back to taking orders and sniffing bombs, but it never went back to the dog it was before.

Frank wasn't sure how Spider-Man would break if he saw his aunt's dead body. So he tries again. “She wasn't breathing. If she wasn't dead then, she was once the building went down. I’m sorry, kid. Call your parents.”

Spider-Man doesn't reply. He throws the blanket off of him and pulls on his suit, pressing the spider emblem to activate the vacuum seal. He then shoots up to a standing position and drops the phone on the couch. “Thanks for the first aid. Appreciate it. I'm leaving.”

Frank stands to meet him. “Sit your ass back down.”

“I'm leaving.” He makes a step for the door, so Frank snaps out a hand to catch him around the wrist. Spider-Man uses his free hand to grab Frank's arm and shove him off. It sends Frank stumbling back, because shit, this is super strength. The kid can kick a metal door off its hinges and Frank’s just meat and bone. If he’s not smart about this—

Frank makes it around David’s computer set-up just in time to intercept Spider-Man from the door. The kid skids to a stop and clenches his fists at his sides as he glances around Frank. Frank squares his shoulders, silently daring the kid to come closer.

After a moment wavering on his feet, Spider-Man attempts to dart around him. The kid's quick, Frank can give him that, yet he sees the move a mile away. He lunges for Spider-Man and drives his shoulder into his hip as he cups his hands behind his knees. Frank lifts up, slamming the kid's back into the cold concrete floor. It dazes him a couple seconds, seconds Frank uses to roll him over on his stomach and grab his forearm to twist it behind his back.

He stops just short of wrenching it out of his socket and eases up a bit when the kid yelps. But he doesn’t release him, using the painful hold to keep the kid in place. Out of the corner of his eye, Frank spots David digging through a drawer.

“LET ME GO!” Spider-Man shouts. He makes an attempt to writhe free and gasps when the movement strains his arm. “Let go of me! You're a monster! You killed them all and if you had just kept out of it May would- she'd be fine!”

He leans down until the kid flinches from Frank's breath on his ear. “You know what's going on?” he starts quietly. The kid turns to face away from him and shakes his head. “I've seen it before. See, your brain's in fight-or-flight right now. You’ve got all this adrenaline pumping through you faster and faster and gettin' you ready to lash out, because as long as you're in fight-or-flight, all the other shit can be put at bay. As long as you fight me, you don't have to think about how your aunt died right in front of your eyes and there was nothing you could do about it.”

“Shut up!” Spider-Man kicks out at him and his foot misses entirely.

Frank clenches his hand tighter around Spider-Man's arm, prompting a hiss. “That grief's brewing up in your head like a storm and it's gonna mess you up when it hits. So come on, keep trying to hit me if you think it'll make you feel better. But I'm not your enemy and you know it.”

“THEN GET OFF ME!”

A wad of webbing ricochets off the side of Frank's temple from the kid's wrist. It catches Frank off guard just enough to loosen his grip, allowing Spider-Man to yank his arm free. They both push up to their feet at the same time, Frank while staring at where the webbing had exploded against the wall. “Christ, tell me this doesn't come out of you.”

Spider-Man responds by leaping straight up in the air, grabbing the ceiling’s scaffolding with his hands and kicking out toward Frank's face. The kick lands, sending Frank back into the doorframe and driving his teeth into his lip. He spits blood onto the ground. Frank grits his teeth and reaches for the kid's leg, catching the kid's sprained ankle and digging his thumb into it. That drops him with a shriek, but he uses Frank as support to keep himself from crashing into the ground.

No way he has an ounce of training, but his powers and experience almost make up for it. Almost. Frank drives him into the wall, forcing all the air from his chest. It's when he has to pause to catch his breath that Frank sidesteps enough to give David an opening.

Spider-Man clocks the syringe in David's hand and ducks away, so Frank traps his neck between his forearm and the wall. The kid struggles for a breath and goes to dislodge Frank's hold when David jabs the needle in his shoulder.

“No NO!” Spider-Man knees Frank in the stomach and wrenches the needle out of David's hand to chuck it across the floor. He makes a break for the door as soon as he's free.

Frank huffs and gives chase. Spider-Man bursts out of the warehouse and slows once he's blasted with the cold breeze, caught off guard and trying as quick as he can to take in the unfamiliar setting. There's no frequented buildings nearby, David made sure of it. No tall buildings either that Spider-Man was accustomed to swinging from. Just a large, empty parking lot save for Frank’s van and David’s car, surrounded by pines with suburban lights barely visible between them.

After a moment of hesitation, Spider-Man runs for the trees. Frank puts on a burst of speed to catch up to him, but the kid shoots a web to a high-up branch and uses it to propel himself forward. He gets further into the woods and fires a second webline, though this one doesn't stick. It misses the trees and gets carried off by the wind. 

Frank notices how Spider-Man's sprint is lopsided and slowing, heavily favoring his sprained ankle. Frank switches to a jog, gaining on the kid as he stumbles through the pines. He finally leans back against a trunk and slides down it to the ground, his legs splayed out in front of him while his chest heaves.

Frank slows to a stop in front of him and Spider-Man just shakes his head. “Get back,” he bites out. “I don't want your help.”

Frank grabs him by the arm and hauls him up, ignoring the swatting at his grip. “I know.”

Despite his protests, when Frank slings his arm over his shoulder and starts walking back, Spider-Man trudges along as if his feet aren't aligned with his mouth's objections. “I wan’… take me back,” he insists, his chin dropping to his chest.

Frank scoops Spider-Man up from under the knees when the kid starts tripping over his own feet. He lets out a grunt when his head falls against Frank's shoulder.

“Need’a see May,” the kid whines into Frank's vest. “May.”

A rare flash of pity twists at Frank's chest. Goddamnit, the kid doesn't deserve this. He lets out a small sigh and says, “Yeah, I hear ya, kid.”

Frank pulls open the warehouse door and closes it behind him. David's hands are in his pockets and his shoulders slump as he once again takes in the sight of Spider-Man in Frank's arms. He grabs the blanket off the floor and adds a pillow to the couch. Frank carefully sets the kid down with his head up against the pillows. Spider-Man's hand swipes at where Frank's face was a few seconds prior and proceeds to dangle lifelessly against the floor.

When David bends down to tuck his arm back at his side, Spider-Man doesn't move it again. 

“Poor kid,” David murmurs. “Were you also picking up on his parents being out of the picture?”

Frank nods. “Dead uncle, too. The aunt had a wedding ring.”

David pauses, taking this in. “He could've called anyone when you gave him the phone and you would've been none the wiser.”

“But he didn't.”

Christ, if that isn't heavy.

Frank wraps his fingers around the cloth of the top of the kid's mask. He had told Red he didn't give a shit about who he was, and that was true. But he knew right off the bat that Red was a grown-ass man, and obviously had the training to take care of himself and the years to make an informed decision to become a vigilante—a stupid decision, sure, but an informed one. Does this kid have any idea what he's doing? Frank hadn't cared about his identity, not at first, but now… He pulls off the mask completely this time.

Spider-Man blinks up at him with bleary brown eyes. They're squinting to better take in the light and he purses his lips while a tight line appears in the middle of his forehead. His gaze shifts between Frank and David, but the wide pupils and the glaze over them tells Frank that he's not really seeing them. His lightly freckled face doesn't take long to smooth out, and he looks between sixteen and fourteen without the tension. 

“Jesus Christ,” David breathes.

“Try to run facial recognition. See if you can match him. We need his age and any close family,” Frank decides.

David rocks back on his heels. “I don’t know, Frank. With just his face and the little we know… It’s not much to go off of.”

It’s not playing fair, he knows, but Frank shakes the kid's shoulder and says, “Hey, look at me. What's your name?”

Spider-Man turns to him with half-lidded eyes. He clicks his tongue against the roof of his mouth as if he's about to speak, but nothing comes out this time.

Frank lets out a short sigh and reaches for the blanket, splaying it over the kid. Frustration and anger well up inside him, but he can't aim it at the kid. He’s a victim just as much as—maybe even more than—his aunt was. Frank can even acknowledge that he was right, that there’s a chance his aunt would be alive right now if Frank hadn't intervened. To some degree, Frank had helped create this mess, and damn him if he wasn't going to clean it up. And the person who has to pay for it is on the outside, going by the name Mac Gargan. 

The first step of clean up becomes exceedingly clear.

The kid's blinking in uneven intervals of slow and rapid as if there's still some part of him fighting to stay up. Frank gives a small shake of his head and rests his fingertips on the kid's forehead, running them down his face to guide his eyelids closed. He sets his hand over the kid's eyes for a couple seconds before removing it, and when he does, Spider-Man doesn't open them again. 

“I'm gonna pick up some food and some clothes for him,” Frank says after a moment of studying his still form. He walks to the door before pausing to ask, “Want anything?”

“Nah, I’m not hungry,” David says. That's how Frank knows it's bad. David’s never turned down the offer. “So the drug's supposed to last anywhere between one and six hours. What do I do if he starts to wake up?”

“Put him back under,” Frank says bluntly. “And confiscate those web things.”

David blinks, but if he’s put off by this, he doesn't argue. He looks to his feet with pursed lips and makes a vague waving gesture as he turns back to the computers. “I'll see what I can dig up.”

Armed with a mission, Frank gives David a nod and leaves for the door.

Notes:

We're getting Peter's perspective next chapter!

Chapter 3: Close Quarters

One second Peter’s running through an unfamiliar forest, trying to resist the invisible weights tugging at his limbs that grow heavier and heavier with each step. He tries pushing past the exhaustion threatening to overtake him with the assurance that all he has to do is shake the Punisher off his tail before he can hunker down to let whatever they had injected him with run its course. But his body rapidly betrays him, forcing him to collapse against a tree to avoid face-planting on the ground. He remembers looking up at the Punisher and begging him to leave.

The next second Peter is back on the couch, head propped up on a small stack of pillows. A blanket rests on top of him, heavy and warm against the cold warehouse air. There’s a dip in the cushions where he lays as if he’s been there for a while, but it feels no different than if he’d just teleported here from outside.

His confusion shifts to panic when he realizes his vision is unfiltered by his lenses. He jolts up, his heart flipping in his chest as he fumbles a hand down his face and notes his web-shooters are missing, too. The realization comes sluggishly, a fog hanging over his mind that’s much slower to leave than his usual sleep-muddled thoughts. Unfortunately, the burning in his chest, his wounds, and his stinging ankle are unfiltered. He curls in on himself for a moment, wincing from the pain.

Before he can decide on a course of action, there’s a creak and a rolling sound as a guy in a swivel chair wheels out from behind a set-up of computers. 

His messy hair goes down to his neck and is parted on the side, framing his face in a mane with his medium-length beard. He’s got Tupperware in his lap with some kind of rice dish, his mouth paused mid-chew. He’s wearing jeans and a button-down under a faded jacket, looking more like the embodiment of stress than anyone with time for malicious intent. But Peter recognizes him from before as the guy who gave him both the painkiller and whatever knock-out drug that was, so he’s clearly in cahoots with the Punisher. The Punisher's Guy in the Chair, probably. Yet after how his Spider Sense raged in the Punisher's presence, the silence in his head around this guy is a relief.

The Punisher. Peter scans the room for the man, but he is nowhere to be found. “Where's the Punisher?” he demands in a voice he hopes is more intimidating than he feels.

Swivel Chair Guy’s eyebrows shoot up. “Oh, you’re awake.”

He says it like an observation, not a problem, so Peter supposes that's something. He doesn't look very intimidated, though. If anything, Peter's the one more unnerved. Had Peter seemed awake earlier? Had he said anything? God, he hasn't told them his identity, has he? He takes a breath and tries not to think about the gaping black hole in his memory. “Where is he?” Peter tries again.

“Supply run. We're on the outskirts of Hempstead, by the way. And I'm David. Or Micro, if you're into those codenames. You asked earlier.”

Peter's thrown by how readily he offers the information and his relaxed demeanor. There has to be a catch. But there is no latch on the warehouse door or shackles on his feet to keep him in place. There doesn't appear to be anything stopping Peter from getting up and leaving right now.

His confusion must be visible because David clears his throat and scoots toward him. “Frank wanted to keep you out. I, ah…” He lets out a small huff and shakes his head. “My son’s a huge Spider-Man fan. Out of all the crazy costumed guys out there, you’re his favorite. You're my daughter's second favorite. Second to Black Widow, so I wouldn't take it personally.”

Normally Peter finds himself glowing upon hearing a kid liked him more than Iron Man or even Thor, yet the information leaves him feeling oddly hollow. He hopes that’s due to the drugs and not something else.

“Rock and a hard place, right? I can’t side against Spider-Man. I’d never hear the end of it.” David takes another bite and continues before he’s finished chewing. “How are you feeling?” His tone remains casual, but there’s something too sharp in his blue-eyed stare.

“How long was I out?” Peter says in lieu of an answer.

David glances over at the monitors. “About four hours. It's half past nine. Can't say why Frank's not back yet. Four hours is usually more than enough time for me to do my thing, though. But nope; not with you. I tried matching your face with criminal records, local high school sports teams, scoured over videos of you on YouTube, even skimmed through the leaked SHIELD files—nothing. I guess I should commend you for a clean record, but it makes my job more difficult, so.”

Peter’s jaw falls open and he traces a hand along his maskless face. He takes a moment to process David's admission and, for once in his life, be silently grateful he missed out on the Decathlon victory photo. “You- You're trying to get my identity?”

“Mmm. Zach is always talking about how smart you must be. A smart person trying to hide their identity as a vigilante would keep a low profile. Or maybe being Spider-Man cuts down on the extracurriculars. Whatever the case, four hours of research and I didn’t get very far.” He stands with a small shrug, lidding up the Tupperware before stretching his arms out in front of him. “I gave up. Moved on to that Mac Gargan guy. Soda?”

Is he serious? What's stopping Peter from walking out the door right then and there? Out of the corner of his eye, he sees David stroll back to the computers and bend down to open a mini-fridge by the desk, putting Peter out of his line of sight as he rummages inside. Peter gets to his feet, holding back a wince as he puts weight on his ankle which he’s sure is sprained while stepping for the door. He needs to get out of here, to get away from New York City’s most morally dubious crime duo and back to his apartment with- with- 

Peter freezes in his tracks and swallows. Check the hospital for May, a voice in the back of his mind urges. It’s what he said he was going to do, after all. But a part of him he doesn’t want to acknowledge is terrified of what he’ll find, of what he won't find, if May-

He squeezes his eyes shut and shakes his head. He spies his mask sitting on a table next to a monitor, so he snatches it before David can see. Maybe Karen could give him some insight. But when he peers inside the mask, he notices a crack on the edge of one of the lenses and some kind of wiring sticking through, snapped in half. A tear stretches along the seams from the forehead to the ear. Broken. Very broken. Karen’s offline.

“I've got Coke and Mountain Dew. And water, if you're a water guy. What'll it be?” David asks, poking his head up from the fridge.

“I…” Peter should refuse. He knows that. That would be the smart thing to do. To run out of here while he has the chance before the Punisher returns. To run out of here and go… somewhere. Somewhere he would be left alone with his thoughts, which… Peter swallows, bringing attention to just how dry his mouth is. Maybe being subject to David’s chatter isn’t so bad. “Coke.”

The fridge closes a second later and David approaches with two Cokes in one hand and the swivel chair rolling behind him with the other. If he thinks anything of Peter standing closer to the door, he doesn't comment. He just passes Peter the Coke then moves the chair by the couch and sits.

After a moment of hesitation, Peter numbly follows and slumps back down. He has to shift the Coke to his other hand to keep it from getting too cold, yet he's grateful for it when he pops it open to take a sip. The soda fizzes in his mouth and bubbles down his throat and it dawns on Peter how thirsty he is. 

“You know, my kids were having an argument about you last week. My son thinks you were born with your abilities. Some kind of crazy mutation or something. My girl thinks it’s alien-related, and I'm team Hulk-style radiation accident.” David eyes Peter over the rim of his soda as he takes a swig.

Peter can't see the harm in responding, so he mumbles, “Radioactive spider bite.”

“Seriously? That's way cooler than what we came up with. But this had to be at a lab or something, yeah? You weren’t just at the laundromat and found a radioactive spider in your pants? C'mon kid, I'm gonna be paranoid,” David prods.

Peter can see the danger of that answer. If he tells him where it happened, David might be able to match the time around when he became Spider-Man to the group of students visiting the labs. So he takes his time downing half his soda before he gets out, “Do you really expect me to fall for your Good Cop, Bad Cop routine?”

David lets out a dry chuckle. “Let me guess: I’m Bad Cop, right?” There’s no humor in his smile. “No, uh, routine implies an element of rehearsal, and this—” he gestures between Peter and everything else “—wasn’t the plan.”

Is that a hint of resentment in David’s voice? Possibly, but whether it’s aimed at the Punisher or the situation he complicated by bringing Peter here, he can’t say. Either way, if Peter’s not imagining it, maybe leaving really is as simple as walking out the door.

A ringing from David's pocket distracts him before he can weigh the prospect. David purses his lips and fishes out his phone—a burner, Peter notes—before opening and holding it to his ear.

“Hey, honey,” David says. “Yeah, Frank… Yeah. But there's been a complication. Keep them out of school for the next few days, okay?” David pauses, his mouth twisting to a frown. "Ah, shit. He threw up?… Yeah, yeah, you told me he shouldn't have gone to Dylan’s.” He sighs, shaking his head. “A hundred? Sounds like the stomach flu to me. Good thing we're keeping them out anyway… I'll see if I can come home for the night.” The corner of his mouth tugs upwards into a grin. “G'night. Love you.”

“Your son's sick?” Peter surmises.

David closes the phone and shoves it back in his pocket, dragging a hand down his face. “It's my turn on vomit duty.” He takes another sip of the soda and presses his lips in a thin line, his expression quickly growing grim. “One of Mac Gargan's guys has been creeping around the school my kids go to. He's been taking pictures of my daughter and her friends, and I found out he deals in human trafficking when I dug into him and the police weren't doing anything about it. Look, I'm not a subscriber to Frank's philosophy. Killing isn't my go-to answer for all my problems. But the guy was after my daughter.”

Peter meets David's gaze and when he sees the mixture of anguish, determination, and fury, he thinks he gets it. He doesn’t agree with it, but he gets it.

Despite his Spider Sense’s warning, Peter still jumps and sets his drink aside when the warehouse door grates open. He jerks around to find the Punisher standing in the entryway, a duffle bag in one hand and a few grocery bags in the other. He goes stiff when his eyes land on Peter and his knuckles go white around the bags.

“Hey, Frank. Spider-Man here was just telling me that he got his powers from a radioactive spider bite. How weird is that?” David says, shooting the Punisher a look Peter can't read.

The Punisher’s grip loosens and he steps into the room, then kicks the door shut behind him. He sets down the duffle and the bags next to the couch prior to straightening to his full height, narrowed eyes shifting between Peter and David until they settle on David.

“Bad news,” David starts, standing to get eye level with the Punisher. “Sarah called. Zach's down with the stomach flu.”

Peter waits for the Punisher to scoff and order David to get back to work or yell at him about his clear failure to do anything right regarding Peter. Instead, they have a brief, wordless conversation that includes a few darted glances in Peter’s direction and ends with the corner of the Punisher’s mouth twitching and a tiny shake of his head. “Tell 'em I said hi. Can you be back tomorrow morning?”

“I’m on vomit duty. That’s for Zach’s stomach to decide.” David gives a helpless shrug and isn't stopped when he strides past the Punisher to the door. He pauses just before swinging it open to turn to Peter. “Your web things are in the leftmost drawers, third from the top in a folder. See you tomorrow. Maybe.”

He has to resist the urge to ask David to come back as he slips out through the door, leaving Peter alone with one of the contenders for top spot on the FBI’s Most Wanted list. Perhaps now would be a good time to make a break for it. Before he can act on it, the Punisher bends down to rifle through his duffle, and Peter tenses in anticipation for him to emerge with a gun. But when he stands, he's holding an armful of folded clothes.

He dumps them on the cushion next to Peter. “You can change into these. Your suit reeks.”

Peter's initial response is to cross his arms and refuse before he sniffs and realizes that yeah, his suit does reek. Dust and plaster coat him from head to toe and the blue on his side and leg where he’d been cut is a lot redder than it’s supposed to be. He prepares to ask where the bathroom is before he recalls the Punisher had previously stripped him of his suit. So he gets off the couch and faces away from the man as he deactivates the vacuum seal to pull the suit off.

He grabs a pair of sweatpants but the Punisher speaks before he can move to put them on. “Hold up. Let me look over those wounds.”

Peter takes a second to recognize that would be another dumb thing to refuse. He faces the Punisher and sits back on the couch, studying the gashes on his leg and torso for the first time. He doesn't remember getting them stitched up, though he's kind of thankful for that part. Now that he cares to pay attention to them, the pain that pinged his consciousness earlier dials up to a throbbing.

The Punisher squats down next to him, staring them over with a critical eye. “Mm. Yeah, that's some freaky healing shit right there.” Peter furrows his brow. The wounds look pretty nasty to him now. What did they look like before? “I'll be able to remove the stitches in two days at this rate. But you opened the one on your stomach, so I'm gonna need to close it.”

Peter barely processes the second part. Two days? The Punisher assumes Peter would stick around for two days? Peter opens his mouth to correct him before slowly closing it. He doesn't particularly want to think about where he should be in two days. 

The Punisher takes his silence as an agreement, so he picks up the first aid kit resting by the couch and unlatches the lid. Peter pulls on the sweatpants as the Punisher rifles through the kit. But instead of reaching for the needle and thread, the first thing his fingers wrap around is a pill bottle with a handwritten label. He’s uncapping it when Peter shirks away to the further cushion. “I'm not taking those.”

He shakes two horse pills onto his palm without sparing Peter as much as a glance. “They’re antibiotics.”

“I don’t need them. I heal fast.”

“Sure you do.” The Punisher caps the bottle. “But healin’ fast and healin’ right ain't the same thing.”

Peter tightens his jaw. David told him the Punisher had wanted to keep him sedated. “I've healed right before. I'll be fine.”

For the first time since David left, the Punisher looks at him—really looks at him. Peter tries not to squirm once he registers the scrutiny is only going one way. The man's face is wholly impassive, and Peter's not confident he’s managing the same. His face feels naked without his mask, and for a second he’s back in the back seat beside Liz, pinned by the stare of her father in the rear-view mirror. 

“Nothing I can do for you here if that gets infected. First sign of it, I’m dragging your ass to the ER and it’s on you to bullshit how you got it. You good with that?”

Peter bounces his good foot against the floor. That’s far from the type of threat he’s accustomed to, and honestly, much more effective. Even if he managed to get a doctor to fix him up without giving his name or any ID, the hospital would track him down eventually. Then that’s a record potentially connecting him to Spider-Man on top of a massive bill. Sure, he's pretty certain he has yet to get a notable infection post-spider bite, but even after his clash with the Vulture on Coney Island, he hasn't had any gashes this deep.

He eyes the tablets in the Punisher’s hand. “Those are antibiotics?”

“Jesus Christ,” the man mutters, then pops one into his mouth and washes it down with the canteen clipped to his belt. “We good?”

Peter shifts back to where he sat prior. He holds out his hand and fishes out two of the pills once the Punisher passes him the bottle, downing them with a chaser of Coke.

“You want any painkiller? Or do I have to take that, too?” 

Peter shoots him a tight-lipped smile.

“Your call.” The Punisher turns his attention to threading the needle. “Long as I don't have to hear any bitching about it. You’re gonna have to lie down for this.”

Peter grits his teeth as he lies back against the pillows, exposing his stomach to the Punisher. There's a distant thrum from his Spider Sense, protesting against such a vulnerable position, yet logic overrides it and tells him the Punisher wouldn't have spent his time stitching Peter up if he intended to negate that effort later. Peter looks away as the man gets started and bites back a hiss as the needle digs into his skin. Though it's far from the worst pain he's dealt with today, the anticipation does nothing for the stinging. 

“Why are you doing this?” Peter wonders aloud. “Wouldn't it have been easier if you had just dropped me off at a hospital?"

“Easier, yeah. Would’ve screwed you over, though. Your identity would be in the headlines by now,” the Punisher replies, not looking up from his work.

Peter knows this already, so he clarifies. “But why do you care? Why go this far out-” He breaks off with a wince as the needle jabs into a nerve.

“Almost done.”

“Why go this far out of your way for me?”

“Because you're a kid.” He says it simply and with finality, as if that's supposed to be enough for Peter or make any sense. He must be able to feel Peter's stare, because he continues, “A stupid-ass kid, but a kid. And somehow, you got superpowers. Radioactive spider bite or not, I don't give a shit. But if I had gotten super strength, wall-climbing, or whatever other shit you've got going for you when I was your age…” He trails off, shaking his head with a small chuckle. “I picked fights all the time. I liked to hurt people. I wouldn't have been going around the city trying to help people out. I don't think most kids would.”

Peter blinks, not sure how to take such a candid answer. That a notorious serial killer is tending to his wounds and keeping him out of police custody because he thinks Peter is a good person. That is… not how Peter thought the Punisher worked. More punishing, less altruism.

Nope, nope, don't think like that, Peter chides himself. He's a mass murderer. He drugged you and brought you to a secondary location. The only reason you're not running away right now is because he provides free healthcare. Stockholm Syndrome bad.

The Punisher ties off the final stitch and gives a satisfied nod. Peter grabs a plain folded t-shirt and pulls it over his head as the Punisher doubles back to the plastic bags, picks one up, and presents to Peter two sandwiches wrapped in paper. 

“Turkey or ham?”

“I'm not hungry,” Peter says, more to be contrary than truthful. The sandwiches smell good.

The Punisher is unfazed. He walks to the mini-fridge and puts one of the sandwiches inside before returning with a bottle of water and his sandwich in hand. He sits back on the swivel chair and unwraps his sandwich, taking large bites without a second glance at Peter. Peter nurses his Coke, trying to reel in his thoughts.

Any other day, he would’ve webbed up the Punisher and left him for the police. But he was an extra pair of arms and there were little kids in danger who needed to get out of it, so Peter asked for his assistance out of necessity and everything devolved from there. Calling the police on him now after everything he’d done for Peter, albeit unwarranted, feels like a dick move. Judging by how the Punisher briefly provided him with a phone, he seems confident of this too. Still, the Punisher isn't a good guy. Peter knows that. May definitely wouldn’t want him in Peter’s company. May would-

Peter closes his eyes and the soda can creaks in his grasp.

“So Mac Gargan knows your identity. How many people would he have told? A select few or his whole gang?” the Punisher asks between bites.

Peter’s silently relieved by the distraction. “I dunno. Never got the pleasure to know the guy.”

The Punisher swallows a mouthful and leans in, fixing Peter with a hooded gaze. “Based off what you do know, I need you to think about this very carefully: does he want to kill you?”

Peter presses his lips in a tight line. “I- I think he does,” he answers quietly. “Especially after-” Peter clamps his mouth shut before he can say especially after he ran out of ways to hurt me. Because that isn’t true. Ned’s his friend, MJ might be, and Peter knows he’d be more than upset if either of them got hurt. But Mac Gargan probably can't figure out who his friends are. Probably. Besides, May is still- she has to be-

“So you’ve got a target on your back,” the Punisher states.

Peter's not positive he likes where this is going. “That makes it sound like there are bounty hunters after me. And even if there were, I could handle it. Spider powers, 'n all.”

He forces a grin, yet the Punisher’s expression remains the same. “Okay,” the man begins, clasping his hands together and resting the sandwich on his lap. “I'm Mac Gargan. I want to kill Spider-Man, even more so after he and Frank Castle killed off a dozen of my guys. But-”

“I didn't kill anyone,” Peter corrects quickly.

“No, but Gargan doesn't know that,” the Punisher points out, impatience flashing across his face. “Until all the bodies get dug up and the causes of death are determined, all he’s got are the eyewitness accounts of a bunch of elementary schoolers. And whether you like it or not, those kids are gonna tell it like we buddied up for this. 'This is my big, scary friend,' remember?”

Peter swallows. As much as he hates to admit it, the Punisher's got a point. “So what are you saying?”

“That the only thing keeping them from tracking you down or offing anyone else you've ever talked to is they think you’ve got a big, scary friend.” A smirk flashes across his face.

Offing anyone else? “May's not dead,” Peter says reflexively. The Punisher takes a breath, so Peter barrels on, “Besides, I don't want to associate with you.”

“Then don't,” the Punisher replies bluntly. “But until the autopsy results point to me, Gargan won't wait to ask you for clarification. If he or any of his guys see you swingin' around, they're not gonna want to give you a chance to explain yourself before taking the shot. And they know who you are. They'll be watching for you at your school, and if you show up it becomes a warzone. Do everyone a favor and lie low.”

Peter doesn't like it, but the Punisher is right. A part of him wishes he remembered Happy's number so he could've dialed it earlier, while another part of him is glad for the excuse. He's not sure he could handle talking to such a familiar voice, and that's if Happy even picked up in the first place. And then it would all get funneled to Mr. Stark—Peter can’t begin to guess how he would react if he found out Peter had let himself get kidnapped. Would he be mad? Would he take away Peter's suit again? Would he even care?

It's not like he's ever there when it matters.

“So- So I’m just supposed to sit here and twiddle my thumbs with you?”

“I don't plan on hangin' around, but yeah,” the Punisher says, finishing off his sandwich.

“How long till the autopsy results are released?”

The Punisher shrugs. “Preliminary results can be released within twenty-four hours. But they're gonna have a lot of autopsies to do.” Peter's face must reflect his dismay because the Punisher raises his brow and leans forward. “I know you don't like it, but I'm not gonna let you get yourself or anyone else killed if you're stupid enough to think you can handle yourself against these guys. So are you going to cooperate or are you gonna be difficult?”

Peter narrows his eyes. The Punisher says it like he's asking a five-year-old, fully expecting a negative answer but asking anyway so whatever happens next, the fallout is on Peter. It's frustrating and it makes Peter want to be difficult even more based on pure principle, though a quick cost-benefit analysis tells him 'difficult' would be the wrong answer here. Besides, he’s not sure he would have much of a say anyway if he took the difficult route. He doesn't like the prospect of getting sedated again, and with David gone, he doesn't know how much time he'd end up losing.

Still, 'cooperated with the Punisher' isn't something he wants on his resume. So he sets his jaw and takes an even breath, giving the Punisher his best glare.

The Punisher huffs. “Smart choice.” With that, he gets to his feet and starts making his way toward the door. “You're eating something in the morning. Bathroom's in the corner if you wanna piss or freshen yourself up. No shower, but I'll get you one by tomorrow,” he says, not bothering to face Peter. He locks the door before flicking the light switch and the warehouse goes dark all at once. Peter’s eyes adjust quickly to the light provided by the monitors, enough to enable him to track the Punisher as he makes his way to a cot assembled against the wall.

He pulls back a single blanket and unceremoniously settles on his side with his back to Peter. His arm is partially under the pillow, and Peter would be surprised if he isn't clutching a gun in his hand. The abruptness of it all leaves Peter a bit flustered, and he lets out a small cough once thirty seconds of nothing passes between them.

“What?” the Punisher snaps, more like a demand than a question.

“Are you-?” Peter cuts himself off before are you sleeping can escape his mouth.

“Not all of us have superpowers, kid. You gonna tell me you're nocturnal too?” he growls, though his form remains perfectly still.

Peter shrugs and rests his head back on the pillows. “Spiders don't sleep.”

The Punisher sighs. “Then you gonna try to crawl in my mouth or something?”

Is that a joke? He said it in the same gravelly, threatening tone he says everything else in and Peter can't see his face to get any clues. Drowsiness is beginning to itch at the edge of his mind, making the question too hard to ponder for long. “That's a myth. Spiders don't do that.”

“Spiders don't talk either.”

A quip rises on Peter's tongue before he swallows it back. He could sneak out of here once the Punisher is asleep. The thought is almost immediately countered with a should I? He doesn't exactly have any safe houses to go to. And like the man pointed out, he can't stay with anyone without endangering them as well. Besides, keep your friends close, but keep your enemies closer, right? The Punisher can't kill anyone as long as he is here with Peter. And he doesn't seem to have any desire to harm Peter either. This is pretty much as close to a safe house he’s gonna get. No one in Gargan’s crew would be suicidal enough to try tracking down the Punisher.

Peter grabs the blanket and brings it up to his chin. A part of him wonders at how he's tired after getting knocked out for a chunk of the day, especially considering how he should be geared up for the danger he knows he’s in now. But exhaustion forms a heavy weight against his chest, pushing down at his eyelids until the urge to sink into the warm blanket becomes overwhelming. A distant voice in his brain warns him that this is just the leftover drugs in his system talking, but Peter can't bring himself to argue against it.

He lets his eyes fall closed and his mind drift away.

Notes:

Peter is f i n e :)

I'm not sure how evenly the chapter's perspectives will be divided, but I think it'll favor Peter in the long run. That being said, Frank gets the next chapter. Thanks for reading!

Chapter 4: The Kids Are Not Alright

Frank’s not sure what wakes him, but his first instinct after brushing off the last echoes of Maria’s voice is to look for the kid.

He rolls over in a sharp movement, years of training snapping his mind awake in an instant. He blinks until his eyes adjust to the dark and shoots to a sitting position when all he can make out on the couch is a rumpled blanket and piled pillows. Frank does a quick scan of the warehouse, but Spider-Man’s nowhere to be seen.

“Goddammit.” He pounds a fist against the metal of his cot. He’d weighed the prospect of giving the kid another dose of the sedative once he dozed off, but opted against it. Frank had been under the impression he’d talked at least enough sense into him to have him stay put. Serves him right for being naïve enough to believe they’d come to an understanding.

He gets to his feet and reminds himself that he needs to check the ceiling with this one as he takes the pistol from under his pillow.

“Kid!” he tests, using his I’ll go easy on you if you make this easy voice. When no response comes, Frank mutters a curse and strides to the door, grabbing his duffle on the way to find it—

Still locked.

Frank furrows his brow and looks to the single window by the back wall that doesn’t open. The glass panes are intact. He sweeps the room again, his gaze drifting to a light glowing from under the bathroom door that slipped past his notice.

He shoves his gun back in his belt and makes his way to the corner bathroom, keeping his footsteps light before electing to discard stealth and announce his presence. As he gets closer, his gait falters when he swears he hears a strangled sob.

Frank slows to a stop at the door and raps on it twice. “Hey, kid. You good in there?” Odds are he already has the answer, but he waits for confirmation.

“Go away.” The kid bangs on the door with a force that makes it shudder.

Frank straightens. There it is. Kid is out of reasons to take Frank for an immediate threat. So the fight-or-flight ebbed out and the storm finally hit. He knew it was coming, saw the clouds on the horizon a mile away, and a mile away he would’ve seen fit to go back to bed and let Spider-Man’s grief play itself out. 

Here, outside the rusty bathroom door, his gut tells him that’s not the right call. So he knocks again, harder this time, and softens his tone to say, “Open up, kid.”

“LEAVE ME ALONE!” the kid shouts. At the same time, something inside the bathroom shatters.

Frank immediately tries the doorknob, but it won’t budge. “Open the goddamn door.”

A reply comes in the form of more shattering against the floor.

“Okay,” Frank mutters. He pulls out his pistol and studies the crack under the door, using the shadow to pinpoint where the kid is standing. He aims at the lock and pulls the trigger, kicking in the door the moment following the gunshot and the kid’s yelp.

There’s a long overhead light on the high ceiling, but it’s the bulb above the sink and the mirror that catches his attention. There’s a single lit bulb and two slots to its left where bulbs should be. They weren't screwed out of their sockets; they were yanked. Thin, curved glass pieces coat the tile floor, serrated enough they’d probably warrant Frank keep outside if it weren't for his combat boots. The wall—the concrete wall—has fissures concentrated around a small crater the same size as the kid’s fist.

Then there’s Spider-Man himself. He’s barefoot and perched on the toilet tank in the corner of the bathroom, his spine straight along the corner and his fingers pressed against two adjacent walls. The knuckles on his right hand are cracked and bloody and when he moves to secure his stance, Frank spots his burnt and angry palm. No doubt from grabbing incandescent bulbs and smashing them on the tiling, and the dumbass did it twice.

His face is worst of all. There are bags under his eyes and his lips are curled back in a grimace. His eyes are red and misty, half-welled with water that’s somehow still dammed up. His hair is bedraggled and his face is pink, and he gives Frank the most anguished look in the world while simultaneously challenging him to say a word.

For once in his life, Frank’s close to reconsidering his mission and walking away. He doesn’t need to be here for this—hell, his mug is close to the last one the kid wants to see about now.

All the same, there’s no one else here. So he pockets his gun and steps into the bathroom, glass crunching under his boots. “Shit, kid,” he muses, taking it all in. “You done?”

Spider-Man lunges forward and grabs the third and final light. Frank hears it starting to crack in his hand prior to him finishing it off on the floor. “I said go away!” he hisses, scrambling higher up the wall.

“You tryin’ to make a minefield or a mess?” Frank says, scuffing the glass shards with the steel-toed end of his shoe. “Now get down from there.”

The kid just heaves a breath, staring down at him as he inches higher.

“Cute,” he comments with a raised brow. “Yeah, you showed me, didn’t you? I bet your burnt hands feel real great.”

“Shut up,” the kid grits out. “You don’t understand. She- May is- was-” The kid cuts himself off with a yell and swings his fist to the side, slamming it into the mirror. He keens and crouches back to the top of the toilet as large sections of the mirror shatter down into the sink and onto the tiles.

“I think I get it, kid,” Frank says. He means it, too. “Just come back to the couch, yeah?” He takes a slow step toward the kid and the kid shoots back up. He darts out a hand and sticks his fingers against what remains of the mirror to pry off a pointed shard, gripping it in his scalded palm in a way that has to sting. His wince confirms it as he angles the sharp edge to Frank.

“I told you to leave.”

Frank pauses for a moment before taking another gradual step forward. The kid brandishes the shard in front of Frank’s face like a dagger.

“I will use this, I swear!”

“Okay,” Frank says, taking another step closer to him.

The kid thrusts the shard forward. “I mean it. I’ll use this!”

Frank locks his eyes on the kid’s, giving him a slow nod as he approaches. “I’m sure you will.”

He’s in range of a cut to the cheek, a good gash to the nose, even one to the throat that could finish him off. Spider-Man angles back his shoulder and bends his elbow by the tiniest amount, just enough to keep Frank out of his reach. That tells Frank more than anything that comes out of his mouth. “Don’t take a single step closer, I’m warning you.”

“Yeah. Okay. You do what you gotta do, kid,” Frank says in an undertone. He takes another step.

Before Frank’s foot can hit the ground, the kid’s arm flies forward and the sharp edge of a mirror presses against Frank’s throat. He freezes in his tracks and slowly opens his palms at his sides, letting the kid know he’s the one in control. He doesn’t move his gaze away from the kid’s, though. Stares him dead in the eyes as his expression shifts and waits to see what stares back at him.

Spider-Man swallows. “This is your last chance to leave.”

“Okay,” Frank says, his voice almost a whisper. Keeping the motion slow, he starts to reach up for Spider-Man’s fist.

The kid breaks his gaze. His eyes flicker between Frank’s face and his hand as the mirror shard begins trembling against his neck. Frank pauses when his hand is barely an inch away from the kid’s, close enough to strike and disarm him before he’d know what hit him. But despite everything, the kid hasn’t hurt him yet, and Frank can see in his face that he’s debating whether or not he has to. A sudden movement could set him off and they’d be back to square one. 

So Frank lightly brushes the back of the kid’s hand with his own. The makeshift shiv remains pressed against his neck and the kid goes still. There’s a conflict raging in his eyes, though Frank’s throat is still in one piece.

“That’s it,” Frank breathes. He gingerly curls his fingers over the fist the kid formed until he manages to get an equal grip on the piece of mirror. “That’s it.” 

The kid’s breathing heavily, his chest trembling as it expands. Frank gives his clenched forefinger an experimental nudge away from the shard, and even though the kid takes a sharp inhale through his nose, his grasp loosens.

“There we go,” Frank encourages, his voice barely above a whisper. After a bit of slow, careful prying at his fingers, the kid’s hand is empty. Frank drops his hand at his side and opens it, letting the shard fall. Spider-Man follows the motion with his head, which hangs against his chest when the shard clatters to the floor.

Just as slowly, Frank wraps his fingers around the kid’s wrist in a lax grip. He notes the kid’s bare feet and the glass strewn across the floor before he moves his arm across the back of the kid’s shoulders with a quiet, “C’mon.” Spider-Man loosens his legs and extends them out in front of him as far as the top of the toilet will allow, creating a gap under his previously tightly bent knees.

It’s as good an invitation as Frank’s gonna get. He reaches under his knees and hoists him up, feeling the kid shivering against his chest as he carries him out of the bathroom. He maneuvers through the dimly lit room to drop the kid off on the couch and takes a seat beside him. Spider-Man just sniffs, the storm in his head still shaking the rest of him as his eyes fix on the ground. 

Frank puts his palm on the kid’s back and the kid lets it stay there.

“Go on, kid,” he says. “Let it out.”

Just like that, as if permission was all he was waiting for, the kid breaks. A violent shudder courses through his body as he folds forward, letting out a noise that starts as a yelp and warps into a caterwaul. Frank shushes him as he whimpers and wails and tries to keep the kid from falling apart. He moves his hand up to the back of the kid’s neck to bring his head against Frank’s shoulder, and the next thing he knows the kid’s clinging to him with a super-strength grip. 

“Okay, okay, okay,” he murmurs, steadying the base of the kid’s skull. He starts pressing circles between the kid’s shoulders, and before he knows what he’s doing there’s something too goddamn familiar about this.

“Sh-She took c-c-care of me,” he sputters, struggling to catch his breath. “It’s just been- been her n’ me. Ever since Ben- He- He got shot and I coulda- I coulda stopped it. But I didn’t. They raised me and now—” he breaks off, making a strangled noise and swallowing frantically “—I got them both killed. May-”

“Don’t give me that bullshit,” Frank growls. He puts his hands on the kid’s upper arms and pushes him back until he can meet his eyes. The kid’s lip is quivering and a floodgate opens whenever he blinks. “Hey. Look at me.”

The kid glances up at him for a second before looking back down. 

Frank returns his hand to the nape of his neck and angles back the kid’s head. “Look at me.”

The kid drags up his gaze.

“I was there. Your aunt’s death is not your fault.” Frank says it like an order, yet still feels him softly shake his head and let out a sob. “No. You’re going to say it. Say your aunt’s death isn’t your fault.”

“Your aunt’s death isn’t your fault,” the kid says verbatim, still a little shit through his tears.

“Hey. Don’t be a smartass right now. Tell me you know your aunt’s death isn’t your fault.”

The first thing the kid does is drop his stare again, so Frank lowers his head to return his eyes to him. “My aunt’s de- What happened is not…” He trails off, working his jaw. Frank nudges his knee, spurring the kid back into action. “What happened to my aunt isn’t- it isn’t my fault.” He takes a shuddering breath and can’t meet Frank’s gaze.

“Okay,” Frank relents, drawing the kid’s forehead back into his shoulder. “We’ll get there.” For now, he lets the kid cry into his shirt and doesn’t let himself dwell on the fact the kid’s desperate enough to do it. 

The kid was raised by his aunt. It’s exactly what Frank suspected and exactly what he feared. Either his parents are dead or there’s a damn good reason why he didn’t end up in their custody. Whatever the case, it means this is going to get a hell of a lot messier than Frank figured when he took off for his base with the kid in his van. 

After everything that went down with Amy, it’s his own fault for anticipating anything other than the worst-case scenario. If this kid doesn’t have a pair of billionaires hunting him down, then Frank’ll take it as a fucking miracle.

It takes fifteen minutes of tears and ragged breaths for the kid to get something of a hold on himself again. Or he’s just wearing himself out, what with the shaking getting weaker and weaker as more time passes between each full-body sob. It’s a relief either way, as Frank can finally withdraw his wearied arm from the kid’s back.

The kid shifts and all of a sudden he mumbles, “I’m Peter.”

It’s not surprise that courses through Frank—not exactly. Doesn’t take a genius to put together why the kid tells him now. Only now, the admission feels less of a breakthrough and closer to a heavy weight that settles on his shoulders. 

Peter doesn’t give a last name and Frank doesn’t ask for one. Save for the occasional sniffles and the hiccups he’s developed, Peter’s partway composed. It must be half past five about now, as the limited light coming through the far window is enough to let Frank properly survey the room and regard the tear stains on Peter’s cheeks. The kid has a different kind of tension than before, the kind that has him looking anywhere but Frank’s face. 

“I’m gonna take a look at your hands now, Peter,” Frank decides, dragging the first aid kit closer with his foot as Peter retreats to the other cushion. Peter drops his arms and folds his hands inside his lap, concealing his damaged palms.

“I- I think they’ll heal by themselves,” Peter sniffs, yet doesn’t protest when Frank takes his wrist and inspects his hand. The skin is red and angry across his palm, peeling in some spots, though it’s no worse than Frank expected. 

“There’s stuff for your burns in the kit. Other hand,” he says pointedly, staring at Peter’s split knuckles with a raised brow. 

Peter holds out his hand with a wince. That spider bite must’ve been a hell of a thing, because the concrete came out more scathed than he did. His knuckles are all bruised and blood seeps out of two open cuts, but as far as Frank can tell, every bone is in one piece. 

He opens the first aid kit and rifles around until he spots the burn ointment, twisting off the lid before passing it to Peter. The kid applies the salve wordlessly as Frank retrieves a roll of gauze and holds his hand back out once he’s finished. 

“Can you look at my ankle too?” Peter asks quietly as Frank wraps his hand. “I think it’s sprained. It hurts more now.”

“That’s what happens when you walk on it.”

Peter seems to acknowledge this with his chin dropping to his chest. Frank reaches for the kid’s calf and props it on his lap. He pushes up the pant leg, relieved to find the stitches all intact, then moves his attention down to the ankle. It’s more swollen than Frank remembers and warm to the touch, but there’s not a whole lot Frank can do beyond driving home to the kid that he has to keep off of it.

Frank returns Peter’s foot to the floor. “It looks like it hurts more. All I can do is give you something for the pain.”

When Peter doesn’t object, Frank searches the first aid kit for anything stronger than ibuprofen. He grabs a syringe once he recognizes the same painkiller David gave the kid earlier and extracts another dose. He had to undergo a whole round of questioning the last time he tried to get meds in the kid, but this time, when he faces him with the needle in hand, the kid just gives Frank his arm and looks away. Maybe it’s trust. Or maybe this time, the kid can’t bring himself to care. 

Peter rubs the spot on his arm while Frank goes about returning the supplies to the kit. Right as he latches the lid shut, the kid clears his throat and asks, “What happens now?”

The kid’s gaze is wide and earnest, his chin tucked in and his head ducked down when he meets Frank’s eyes. Any traces of scorn or a challenge are gone from his voice. Frank’s seen that look before—seen it on scared privates running to him for orders as they ready the return shots of an unexpected firefight. Peter’s looking for directives, for something to follow blindly, because anything’s better than facing his new reality himself.

“Same thing I said was gonna happen.” Frank pushes himself up to move from the couch to the swivel chair. “You’re gonna stay here for however long it takes you to get back on your feet. Okay?”

Though Peter nods, Frank gets the sense it wasn’t the answer he was looking for. Frank can all but hear the ‘Then what?’ trapped in the kid’s mouth, yet he keeps his jaw locked tight. The kid chews on it for a moment, mulling over if it’s really something he wants answered, and what finally gets out is, “My friends, he’s gonna- Gargan’s gonna go after my friends, I have to-”

“Hey, hey,” Frank interrupts when the panic starts to slip in. “He’s not going after your friends.”

“You- You don’t know that.” Peter’s voice cracks. “What if he- What happened with May, he’ll try it with them-”

“Gargan’s not going after any of your friends. Lie back,” he adds right as the kid shifts his weight as though he’s deciding just how much he cares about fucking up his ankle.

The kid actually listens. His disbelieving stare bores into the side of Frank’s head, but he lets Frank push him down into the remaining pillow once he takes the other to place at the kid’s feet. The kid elevates his sprained ankle before Frank needs to ask.

“Gargan wants you dead. He doesn’t need you dead,” Frank lays out. He returns to the swivel chair and clasps his hands between his knees. “This guy knows what I do, and now he knows he’s on my radar. Long as you don’t do something to change his mind, I’m the one he needs dead.”

The kid goes still. A muscle pops in his jaw and Frank remembers exactly who he’s talking to. Spider-Man knows what he does, too. As spent as Peter is, as amenable as he was a second ago, the kid’s still of Red’s ilk, and Red’s ilk would take a bullet to stop Frank from putting one in someone who deserved it. 

Save for one time. Red had said his last to his girl after a blade drained the lifeblood out of her, and just like that he was all too ready to take advantage of Frank’s headshots from the neighboring roof. He’ll throw a fit when Frank puts down rapists and murderers but as soon as it’s somebody important to him on the other end of it, letting someone else pull the trigger doesn’t seem so bad.

As to Spider-Man having a one time, Frank’s about to find out. The kid’s throat bobs as he swallows. 

“I… I can’t let you kill people for me.”

So that’s how it’s gonna be. 

At least Frank gets the courtesy of a heads-up. Looking at the kid now, all the bruised and battered hundred and twenty pounds of him, Frank would have half a mind to shrug off the warning if he hadn’t removed the mask himself. 

“Not killing them for you. Guys that know you’re a kid and still want you dead don’t deserve to be walking.”

Peter shakes his head, but the protest lags behind. His eyelids get heavier after each blink and the pillow’s doing more than his neck to keep his head up. The painkiller must’ve kicked in—it’s why Frank won’t touch the stuff if he can help it. On top of the injuries and waterworks, it’s a wonder the kid has it in him to pick a fight.

It comes out as a shaky exhale. “I can’t let you kill anyone.” 

Frank gets to his feet with a low hum. Try as he might, it’s not a fight the kid needs right now. Frank grabs the crumpled blanket and tosses it over him. “Get some rest, kid.”

The kid doesn’t know what to do with that. He starts with a glare, but he can only meet Frank’s gaze for a few seconds before he drops it. Exhaustion must win out because the rest of his protests stay in his head when Frank turns back for his cot. He'll clean up the bathroom once he gets a few more hours of sleep. After everything the kid let spill, chances are he’s gonna need them.

Out of his periphery, he sees the kid turn his cheek into the pillow. It’s not long before his breathing evens out.

The kid. Peter.

Frank rests his elbows on his knees and notes the wet patch on his sleeve. His aunt raised him, he’d said. Known about Spider-Man, too. Known long enough that she could keep her shit together when her nephew busted down the door with the Punisher on his six. It doesn’t make a difference now, but it itches at Frank all the same, the pride on her face when Peter gathered up those kids. Stuffed in the basement of a building rigged to blow—pride would be the last thing on his mind if Lisa or Frankie came to join him. 

Maybe the terror was there, buried under a mask of her own. The elementary schoolers weren't the only kids the lady had to be brave for.

Frank knows what a corpse looks like, can tell at a glance when someone’s alive and when someone isn’t, but he’s been wrong before. A part of Frank hopes the kid was right. That there really was still some awareness left in her when the building went down, when Frank dragged Peter away kicking and screaming.

At least she’d have gone knowing they got her instead of her kid.

Notes:

I have no idea how long this frequent updating streak is going to last but guys am I on a ROLL

Chapter 5: Clean Up on Aisle Five

Notes:

Big thanks to my beta, candlesneedflame! Go check them out for more wholesome and angsty Spider-Man and friends content! They're great!

It's not Maria Frank wakes from this time, but Lisa and Frankie. He doesn't remember how long it's been since he's dreamt about them.

When he shifts to look for Peter, the kid’s gone again. Before he can spit out a curse, he hears a pair of uneven footsteps coming from the middle of the room and the sound of something heavy dragging across the floor.

Frank pushes himself up to find Peter walking to the center of the warehouse, hauling a full trash bag behind him. He’s favoring his sprained ankle, but it’s not slowing him down by much. He notices Frank before Frank can demand what he's doing and pushes the trash bag out in front of him.

“I, uh, cleaned up the bathroom,” he announces quietly.

Frank can only blink. “You what?”

“It's fine, I triple-bagged it so the glass wouldn’t cut through.” He nudges the bag with his foot to prove his point. “I threw away the rest of the mirror shards still on the wall. And I replaced two of the lights. I couldn't find a third.”

Frank just stares, trying to wrap his head around whatever this is.

Peter clears his throat and kicks the bag again. “Where do you want the glass?”

“When did you get up?”

“About an hour ago. It's a quarter 'til nine. Should I… Should I have woken you up?” Peter asks, uncertain.

An hour ago? He’d imagined the kid would be out for longer than that. How quickly did the painkiller burn through his system? And why the hell is he cleaning? And with the injured hands and a sprained ankle too? “What're you doin', kid?”

Peter shrugs and drops his gaze to the garbage bag. “I made a mess. Didn't want you cleaning up after me.” The last part comes out a mumble.

After a beat, Frank shakes his head. “No. You- Sit down, you should be resting. I'll be cleaning up after that ankle if you keep walking on it.”

His words must come out harsher than he meant them, evident by the way Peter swallows and gives a single nod. He limps over to the couch without protest and lowers himself onto the cushion. 

“Sorry, sir,” he utters. “But my ankle's already way better. I'm only keeping off it so I don't mess anything up.”

Frank raises his eyebrows. “Sir?” he echoes with a huff. That’s a new one. These one-eighties are gonna give him whiplash.

"Is there anything else I can do?" Peter asks instead of responding. There's a hint of desperation in his voice that seems to translate to please give me something to do. It quickly clicks for Frank. As long as he's busy, he doesn't have to focus on the shitstorm his life has turned into.

Frank considers his reply. He gets off the cot and grabs the bag of glass to deposit it by the entrance. He feels Peter's gaze on him as he moves back to the fridge and pulls out the sandwich he bought for Peter last night. He strides back to the couch and drops it on the kid's lap. "Eat up."

Peter's face falls. "I'm not hungry."

"Yeah, doesn't look as good now," Frank says with a shrug. "What do you want?" He finishes his question with a look that lets Peter know that he knew damn well what he meant but isn't going to take it for an answer.

"I dunno," Peter replies. It's a passive response, one that's deliberately crafted to avoid conflict yet still firmly cements Peter's position.

"You don't wanna eat? Then let's talk." Frank grabs the swivel chair and sits back, noting the nervousness that flits across the kid's face. "You gonna give me a full name?"

Peter swallows. His tongue flicks over his lips before he mutters a quiet, "No, sir."

Frank debates whether or not to push it before deciding against it. "Got any grandparents?"

"No," Peter repeats, furrowing his brow.

"Who do you have that you can go to?" 

Peter opens and closes his mouth for a moment and nothing comes out. "I… I've got parents. Like I told you, they know about Spider-Man."

"Yeah? Then why didn't you call them?" 

"They would probably freak out about my injuries and ground me."

"They're freaking out a lot more right now, I can promise you that," Frank retorts, narrowing his eyes ever so slightly.

"Like you said, there are people after me," Peter says after a beat. "If I go home, I put them in danger."

Frank lets out a hum. If it weren't for his stuttered, tearful babbling last night, there's a chance Frank would actually believe him. As to why Peter's lying to him about it, Frank has a couple guesses. Maybe it's a secret identity thing. Or maybe he doesn't want Frank knowing the extent he's at the end of his rope. 

Frank gives a humorless chuckle and looks away to shake his head before focusing back on the kid. "Cut the bullshit."

Peter stiffens. "I'm not- I-It's true."

So the kid is gonna stick with it. Frank thinks he could get it out of him given enough time, but it's not worth it. He wouldn't gain much, especially if he wants the kid to stay until he heals anyway. By the time that happens, he won’t have an excuse to cling to. So Frank briefly raises his hands with his palms open, signalling to Peter that he's backing off. He doesn't miss the look of relief that passes over Peter's face.

Though he's given up on trying to pry more information out of the kid for the time being, it doesn't mean he's given up on everything else. Hungry or not, Peter hasn't eaten since at least yesterday afternoon and he has an enhanced metabolism to support. So Frank stands and forms a quick plan, pulling out his car keys from his pocket. He pointedly holds up the keys and gestures with his head toward the warehouse exit. "C'mon."

Peter opens his mouth as if he's about to speak, then closes it and frowns with a tight brow. When Frank turns to the door, Peter hurries to his side. "Where—?"

"There's a gas station about five miles out. Nothing fancy, but it's got good coffee. You like coffee, Pete?"

Peter shakes his head, keeping pace with Frank to the door. "Uh, no, not really."

"Then you're picking out something you do like," Frank says in a tone that leaves little room for argument. 

He grabs Peter's arm and puts it over his shoulders, bracing him as he walks out to the parking lot with his duffle in his other hand. He half expects the kid to bolt the second he unlocks the warehouse door and makes it outside, but Peter just lets Frank support him and quietly limps along to his van. 

When Frank opens the passenger door, Peter follows his wordless cue and uses his good leg to boost himself up to the seat. He immediately buckles himself in and watches Frank make his way around to the driver's seat. Frank presses his mouth in a tight line as he tries to pinpoint what exactly prompted this shift. Just yesterday Peter was making a break for it into the woods, the only thing stopping him being the sedative that David had been lucky enough to get him with. Now not only is he willingly going where Frank wants him to go, but he isn't making a fuss about any of it either.

He isn't like Amy, that much is certain. Amy was like a feral kitten, something unassuming with sharp claws that came to him for scraps then ran away whenever he tried to get close. Something that thought it was old enough to be independent and fend for itself, with walls that took Frank weeks and patience he didn't know he possessed to get past.

Peter's more of a duckling. A duckling that just lost its parent, so it's latching onto and putting its trust in the nearest person that gives it any semblance of protection, indifferent to if said person is of the same species or not. A part of Frank wonders how long that would last. Peter's too different from Amy to make any sort of prediction. Amy's past made her of tougher stuff; her whole life was a shitstorm. For Peter, it just all came crashing down.

Frank twists the keys into the ignition, roaring the engine to life. He turns on the radio to fill the silence when Peter doesn't, though it's clear the kid wants to if the way he wrings his hands together in his lap is anything to go by. 

"What?" Frank asks once they pull out of the parking lot.

Peter bites his lip. "It's just, uh- I had homecoming, not too long ago. And I was gonna go with this girl I really liked, at the time." The kid pauses and Frank can't help a chuckle. School dances and girls. That's what he should be thinking about at his age. Frank's relieved that Peter still has it in him, but then the kid continues. 

"But when I went to her house, her dad was- he was a bad guy. Like, he threw me—Spider-Man—in a lake before. And he tried to kill me another time on a ferry that got lasered in half, if- if you've heard of that." It sounds vaguely familiar to Frank, but he focuses more on repressing a sigh. Of course this can't be a normal high school story. Not with this kid.

"That's some shitty luck right there," Frank comments when the kid takes a long breath.

Peter huffs. "Yeah. And he figured out my identity on the car ride to the dance. He told me that if I came after him instead of going to homecoming, he'd- he'd kill me."

"So you went after him," Frank guesses. He still isn't sure where this story is going, so he gives Peter a curious look after he turns into town.

"I had to," Peter says. "He, um—" the kid swallows, taking a deep breath "—he dropped a building on me."

Frank goes still at this. Suddenly, Peter frozen in fear at the collapsing building makes more than enough sense. Did Gargan know this? If he planned the collapsing building specifically for the kid… Frank tightens his grip on the wheel.

"And he tried to kill me some more. He had this big, freaky winged robot suit. I won, sent him to jail, but zero out of ten on homecoming 'n all. Basically…" Peter inhales slowly through his nose before speaking. "I knew he was the bad guy. He thought he was the good guy. It's like that, a lot. Every villain is the hero of their own story, you know? I guess my guy thought he could be the hero even if he dropped buildings on people."

Frank thinks he can see where this is going now.

Peter turns to face him and says, "Mr. Castle… what do you think you are?"

The kid sounds genuinely curious and he's looking up at him with those big doe-eyes again. Frank drums his fingers along the steering wheel. It almost feels like the kind of question Red would ask. "I'm the guy that kills the bad guys. What do you think that makes me?" 

Peter stares back out the windshield. He parts his lips and draws in a breath, but nothing comes of it.

Frank decides that the kid would benefit from a long talk with Red. Hell, maybe even the other way around. He'd try to send Peter Red's way when all this is over, because if it was a philosophical debate Peter wanted, Red would be more than happy to oblige. And if he's lucky, maybe Red's Catholic guilt would lead to him keeping an eye out for the kid. Or ear—however the hell he worked.

Peter quietly clears his throat. "Mac Gargan and his guys—are you gonna kill them?"

"Yeah," Frank says after a beat. He turns to Peter for a moment, narrowing his eyes on the kid. "Are you gonna try and stop me?"

Peter takes a shuddering breath and looks down at his lap. He doesn't respond, and at first Frank thinks it's because he knew Frank wouldn't like it. Then Frank concludes that the kid simply doesn't have an answer.

---

For Peter, the ride to the gas station passes in a blur.

He makes an effort to take note of the street signs and mile markers as they drive by and mentally catalog all the turns, but it isn't long before it all gets jumbled together in his head. Maybe he should care, but Peter finds himself unable to. It's not like he's thinking about escaping—not anymore. He's not even sure if he's still a prisoner, or if he ever was.

Peter hadn't been Spider-Man when the Punisher trial gripped the nation, but he'd still paid attention. May had friends that were working in the hospital when he attacked, and Peter remembers her commenting how relieved she was that he was off the streets. She hadn't wished the death penalty for him—she wouldn't wish that on anyone—but she'd been unwavering in her opinion that a life in prison was what he deserved. Though when it was reported that the Punisher was killed, she didn't seem all that distraught.

It was a few months back when the Punisher was spotted active again. Peter would never forget how May had sat him down and made him promise to stick to Queens and stay far away from that man. Peter had tried to argue that the Punisher's MO was that he only hurt criminals, but he had been quickly shut down when May countered that she didn't want Peter anywhere near the criminals that the Punisher brought it upon himself to kill either. Also vigilantism is a crime, Peter. He'd considered trying to bring it up to Mr. Stark, but decided against it when he concluded that he'd get the same response he got with Toomes: below the Avengers' paygrade, but still far above yours.

It was after Ned came to him and said, with genuine concern, "You're not going after the Punisher, right?" that Peter finally meant it when he agreed.

Now, he's sitting in the passenger seat in Mr. Castle's van—because the Punisher doesn't feel right anymore—pulling into the parking lot of the convenience store. There's at least four times as many guns in the van as Toomes had in his car when he threatened him, and he knows the man at the wheel is more dangerous, yet his Spider Sense is silent. Maybe his instincts are wrong, but when he looks over at Mr. Castle, it's hard to see the man from the TV or the man May warned him to keep his distance from. He sees the man who held him as he cried in the same way Ben and May would and told him that May's death wasn't his fault.

Maybe that's a problem. Or maybe the media was wrong.

Mr. Castle shifts the car into park and Peter automatically moves to grab the handle, but stops when Mr. Castle holds out a hand. "There's one camera in there that's angled to the check-out counter. Don't face it directly. You got it?"

Peter meets Mr. Castle's eyes and nods. 

"Good." With that, Mr. Castle opens the door and steps out of the van. Peter follows suit and hears the click of the locks once he shuts the door behind him. He trails after Mr. Castle into the store.

The lady at the counter is quick to glance over when the bell chimes to announce their presence. Her eyes narrow on Mr. Castle for a moment, but when her gaze shifts to Peter hanging by his side, she turns back to her phone with an air of disinterest. The only other customer is one who looks to be an old trucker, reading over the packaging on a wound-up cable. Mr. Castle seems to pay no mind to either of them as he strides over to the coffee machines in the corner. When he stops to grab a cup, Peter stops and takes a couple steps back.

"Thought you said you didn't like coffee," Mr. Castle comments, not bothering to look over to Peter as he places the cup under the black coffee dispenser.

Peter frowns. "I don't."

"Then why're you by the coffee machines?"

Oh. Peter can take a hint. His stomach churns uncomfortably at the thought of eating, but Mr. Castle's insistent and he knows he'll have to eventually. He turns in the direction of the pastries and absently picks out a package of cinnamon bagels. A glass bottle of lemonade in a fridge catches his eye on his way back, and he finds that the prospect of drinking doesn't seem so bad. By the time he has what he wants in hand, Mr. Castle's waiting for him behind the trucker, who's taking his time to decide which brand of cigarettes he wants to add to the counter.

The Punisher's buying you bagels. Ned'll get a kick out of that. Peter holds back a huff. Ned would beg him to go over everything Punisher in excruciating detail when- when- Peter falters. He has second period with Ned in less than five minutes. Ned will notice he's gone, and he will text him, and Peter won’t answer because his phone's back at his apartment- 

Peter squeezes his eyes shut and forces Ned and school from his mind. He's reminding himself to keep his head down and away from the camera when a sharp tingle runs down his neck and prompts him to snap his head around to the parking lot. Two midsize cars, a silver and a black, drive into the gas station. Neither of them stop at the gas pumps. They slowly pull up to the parking spots directly outside the store and park side-by-side.

Peter doesn't realize how tense he's gotten until a hand on his shoulder makes him jump. "It's okay. It's okay," Mr. Castle murmurs. A quick glance confirms that he's followed Peter's gaze, his expression impossible to read.

"Mr. Ca-" Peter breaks off as Mr. Castle shifts him to his opposite side, placing himself firmly between Peter and the door. Peter cranes his neck in an attempt to see around him, but Mr. Castle counters him by tightening his hold on his shoulder and tugging it back. 

Car doors slam closed outside, immediately followed by low voices. His Spider Sense thrums again as the old trucker leaves the counter with his grocery bag, and Peter feels his heart pounding behind his ribcage as the man walks closer and closer to the door. His finger twitches for his web-shooter and his blood runs cold when all he feels is his bare wrist. Something bad is coming, he can feel it crawling under his skin-

"Walk to the bathroom. Don't look back. Walk," Mr. Castle orders in undertone. 

Peter shakes his head. "I can hel-"

"No. You wanna keep a secret identity? You stay there 'til I get you." He supplements the command with a shove toward the back of the store. 

Fear keeps Peter's feet moving, his eyes fixed on the bathroom ahead even when he wants nothing more than to glance behind him. He ducks through the door and pulls it closed just as the bell rings back at the front.

He hears nothing for a long moment and almost breathes a sigh of relief. He's just being paranoid. How could Gargan have found him anyway? He doesn’t have his phone or his suit on him, and-

"We don't want any trouble with you, Castle. Just give us the kid."

Peter's breath catches in his throat and he freezes himself against the wall. The words weren't loud and they were muffled by the door, but his enhanced hearing hones in on it to make it as clear as day. His pulse thunders in his eardrums, almost drowning out the response.

"'Don't want any trouble.' That so?"

There's a long beat before the reply. "Gargan's willing to forgive you if you hand the kid over."

Peter scrunches his eyes shut and presses his forehead against the cold tile wall, frantically trying to take back control of his breathing. It feels like there's a hammering in his chest, going faster and faster and making his body tremble with it. Mr. Castle wouldn't. He wouldn't. Would he? There's no windows in the bathroom, and it's a single stall. There's nowhere he can hide, nowhere he can run, and his web-shooters and suit are miles away. Please, please, please…

He has to strain to hear the response that comes after Mr. Castle's scoff. "Well ain't that nice of him."

The distinctive clicking of guns' safeties being switched off follows. "You don't have to have any part in-"

Whatever Mr. Castle doesn't have to have a part in is interrupted by a bang. Peter jolts and compacts himself into the corner, ducking his head and covering his ears and failing not to wince with every subsequent gunshot. The sudden movement reminds him of the pain in his chest, but his attention is quick to shift away from it. A crash is followed by a pained shout that's cut off by a harsh thud, then comes the sound of blows landing that Peter's all too familiar with.

A shattering explosion and the sound of glass skidding across the floor tells him that one of the shelves lining the aisles must've toppled over, yet he finds himself automatically looking to the lights above the mirror. An infuriated shout from Mr. Castle precedes a howl from someone else, a howl that goes silent after another bang.

Peter's heart does something funny in his chest when he processes just what that silence means.

He's killing them.

Peter's holed away in the bathroom and Frank Castle's killing them.

What are you supposed to do?! a voice shouts from the back of his mind. You don't have your suit! Peter swallows and shakes his head, gritting his teeth together when the snap of bone sends a shudder down his spine. If he's nothing without the suit, he shouldn't have it, right? Suit or not, he knows he couldn't live with himself if he hid here and did nothing.

Shakily, he pushes himself to his feet and tries to ignore the pale, shivering teenager in the mirror across from him. He's Spider-Man. He's fought Captain America. What're some goons to a crime boss in a gas station? Gathering his resolve, Peter wraps his fingers around the doorknob and twists it open. When his Spider Sense tells him that the coast is clear, he slips outside.

There are three bodies on the ground.

Peter tears his gaze away, trying to quell the wave of nausea that washes over him when the smell hits. Peter can't say that he's never drawn blood in a fight before, but this- this is next level. Crimson smears stain the floor and splatter against the walls and the windows like a Jackson Pollock painting. The center shelf is lying on its side, candies and chip bags scattered and opened on the floor like the aftermath of some violent piñata. A display case of greeting cards leans against the wall with a plethora of bloodstained cards decorating the floor.

A cough snaps Peter back to the present. Instinct has him ducking behind an aisle and directs his gaze to the corner of the store. Mr. Castle is rammed up against the wall, two men holding him in place. He's bleeding under his eye and there's droplets of blood spattered unevenly on his face. At first Peter thinks this explains the red color, but then he notices the thick power cable being pressed against his windpipe and the jerky movements of his limbs as he kicks and punches against the men. When the third man taps a wooden baseball bat against the ground as he approaches Mr. Castle, pace slow and gloating, Peter's heart skips a beat.

Peter lunges for the lemonade bottle still on the counter and sends it sailing for the man on Mr. Castle's right. He stumbles when the bottle collides with the back of his head and shatters on the ground, but he doesn't collapse. Instead, they all go still as every pair of eyes in the store shifts toward Peter.

His Spider Sense screams at him to run, and Peter tries, but his feet remain frozen to the floor.

Mr. Castle's the first one to move. With the man on his right dazed, he ducks out of the power cable and grabs it on the way down. He swiftly straightens the cord in his hands until he gets a grip on the two-pronged end. Peter doesn't register what he's doing, and the dazed man must not either because he looks shocked when Mr. Castle stabs the prongs into his throat.

Holy shit.

Peter can feel the blood draining from his face as he falters back, dropping down behind the shelf but unable to keep himself from hearing the horrible, gurgled choking noises as the man's lifeblood spills out of him onto the tiles. Peter has to swallow back the bile rising in his throat and his hand feels numb when he runs it down his face. The ground is spinning under his feet, so maybe that's why he doesn't heed his Spider Sense's warning and duck out of the way before a barrel of a gun prods against his temple.

"Get up," a voice orders above him. 

Peter's not sure how.

"Get up," it snaps, and somehow Peter manages to get to his feet.

He meets the eyes of Mr. Castle from a neighboring aisle and a wet hand clenches tight to his upper arm, the heat of a body behind him. Mr. Castle's chest is heaving and he's now holding the wooden bat, way more red than it was before. His expression is terrifying in its impassiveness, contrasting with how his knuckles are white on the handle of the bat.

"Let him go."

The man steps back and yanks Peter with him, jabbing the gun into Peter's hair. His breath is hot and quick against Peter's ear and although his pants don't come from more than a foot away, they sound like they're echoing to him from a long tunnel. He barely feels the next step the man forces upon him, only aware of the shock that shoot up his foot after it lands. "You take one step closer and it's his brains on the wall."

"Nah. Bullshit," Mr. Castle dismisses, striding closer. The man scrambles back with Peter. "See, you got the gun. Nothing's stopping you from putting a round in him and pointing it back at me. Nothing except your boss wanting him alive."

Mr. Castle takes another step, his guess confirmed when the man reacts again by jerking back and painfully tightening his clasp on Peter's arm. After a moment of hesitation, he steps out from behind Peter and aims the gun at Mr. Castle's head. Something shouts at Peter to disarm him, to go on the offensive while he's out of the line of fire, but his limbs feel strangely disconnected. All he can do is desperately try to regain control over his breaths that seem to come in faster and faster and his lungs that can't quite expand all the way.

Mr. Castle drops the bat as he darts forward and wrenches the gun out of the way, slamming his elbow into the crook of the man's to get it to bend and enable him to snatch the gun for himself. His foot flies at the man's thigh, knocking him to the ground. Mr. Castle stands over him, pressing his boot into his chest and aiming the gun at his head.

"The kid," he growls, "what do you know about him?"

Instead of replying, the man spits up at Mr. Castle's face.

"Okay." Mr. Castle shifts his weight onto the man's chest. A crack from the side of his ribcage is audible over his scream.

"Nothing!" he cries out. "We didn't ask why Gargan wanted the kid! He just gave us his name and said he was with you. That's it, I swear!" 

Mr. Castle studies him for a long moment before giving a slow nod. He removes his foot from his chest and the man lets out a relieved gasp. His gun remains angled down at the man as he steps around him, closer to Peter. Peter finds himself shrinking back, ducking away from the imposing figure.

"Hey. Easy, kid," Mr. Castle says, holding up his empty hand. "Easy." Peter swallows back a shuddering breath and fights the urge to recoil from his outstretched hand and bloodied face. But when his palm makes contact with Peter's shoulder, it's nothing like the restraining hold the other man had on him. His grip is careful and when he constricts it, Peter knows that it's meant to ground him, not to be taken as a threat.

Peter shifts his eyes up to Mr. Castle and can't help a sharp breath when they linger over a motionless form of what used to be a person slumped against the wall. His head is turned at an angle that heads aren't supposed to turn and two thin streams of red pour out of his nostrils. His mouth's open, almost as if he'd been in the middle of saying something when-

"No, no, no. Eyes on me. Eyes on me, Pete." Mr. Castle stoops down and blocks Peter's line of sight, his dark gaze flicking over Peter's face. 

Peter chokes back the lump rising in his throat but fails to suppress the cold shudder that travels down his spine. "You- th-they're all-"

"Hey, I can't have you losing your shit on me now, okay?" His voice is barely above a whisper, requiring Peter to focus to pick up the words. "We gotta move. Cashier slipped out with her phone. The police won't be long. You with me?"

It takes a moment to register that Mr. Castle asked him a question, but when it does, Peter forces a nod.

"Good. Stay with me." Mr. Castle pulls him closer and maneuvers him in front, keeping a steadying hand on Peter's shoulder as he steers him to the door. He stops just before it, and out of the corner of his eye Peter watches him fire two quick, consecutive shots, one at the camera and the other at the floor behind him.

When Peter tries to turn and see what he shot, Mr. Castle pushes his face back to the door before he gets the chance. The next step he takes is more forceful as he kicks open the door, giving Peter more of a shove than a nudge to get him outside. But it's just enough time for Peter to realize that he can no longer hear the quick breaths of the man that held him at gunpoint. Peter freezes in his tracks.

They're all dead. Mr. Castle just killed six people. He just killed six people and he's trading his gun for his keys like it's a motion that he's used to. Peter knows he's made it more than clear to Mr. Castle how he feels about killing, and he knows that he shouldn't just keep walking with the man who could do things like that. But he also knows that deep down, tangled together with the shock and horror, is a sliver of relief. It makes his stomach lurch, the fact that the death of six men makes him feel relieved, but he's almost dizzy with the feelings that come with the knowledge that those men won't be hunting him down ever again.

The hand on his shoulder urges him onward, accompanied by a quiet, "C'mon, Pete. Keep going, you're okay." 

That's a lie, but it's spoken in a tone that makes him want to believe it. Peter lets himself get ushered into the passenger's seat and tries not to tremble as Mr. Castle twists the keys in the ignition.

Notes:

Frank: I've only had Peter for a day and a half but if anything happened to him I would kill everyone in this room and then myself.

Oh, and I have a tumblr: @tupacaze, with a z because the s was taken. Feel free to message me if you want to freak out about my boys!

Chapter 6: At Sixes and Sevens

Notes:

Candlesneedflame is an amazing writer and beta pls check them out

Frank knows what shock looks like when he sees it.

He'd seen more than his fair share of it during his time in the marines, especially early on with the soldiers who weren't ready for the real shit of war. Their eyes would get wide, pupils growing to take in everything and nothing at once. Orders would take longer to process if they processed at all. They'd freeze if it wasn't fight or flight, and the ones that froze didn't last long on the battlefield.

Frank didn't expect Spider-Man to be a freezer. Scratch that; Frank didn't expect him to go into shock at all. The kid's clearly been through some shit before and he held himself together when Frank gunned down the gang when they first met. There're even fewer bodies this time. Maybe it's the brutality or the fact that he's out of his mask, or maybe he just couldn't handle it after everything that built up to the attack. Whatever the reason, Peter's never been this quiet and his hands aren't supposed to tremble like that. He's staring blankly out the windshield, taking in rapid breaths through his nose and wincing whenever his chest expands too much. He looks to be on the verge of shutting down if Frank doesn't do anything about it.

Damn kid should've stayed in the bathroom.

Frank reaches for the radio and turns it on, making an effort to distract the kid. "I need you to talk to me, Pete," he says, risking taking his eyes off the road.

Peter doesn't talk. He just leans forward as a muscle pops in his jaw. Frank waits a few beats, but the kid remains silent. Shit.

"Hey, Peter—look at me, kid." 

Peter's head barely moves, though his eyes flicker over to meet Frank's face. It's a moment delayed, but he's responsive, so Frank's not complaining.

"You gotta say something, kid. I'm pullin' over if you don't say something." Frank's not sure what he'd do if it came to that. Luckily, it's not something he has to ponder.

"You didn't have to d-do that," Peter bites out after a deep breath, a tremor in his voice. "He was unarmed. He was on the- on the ground and he wasn't gonna chase a-after us. You didn't have to- to kill him."

It's Frank's turn to go silent. It's more of a mouthful than he was expecting, and he can't say he never expected Peter to try to bring it up. But now—attempting to pick an argument with the one guy trying to help him while he barely has a hold on himself—Frank's not sure if he should be exasperated or impressed. Red would be proud; it's the exact kind of shit he would pull.

Peter's still staring at him, so Frank spares the kid a measured look. Peter knows who he's talking to. He knows what Frank is. The only thing Frank would change is the fact that the kid had to see it. Frank would be lying if he said he didn't consider the possibility that they could be tracked to the store, but it would confirm if there was a hit out for his van, something he'd much rather find out under his own terms. Must be a pretty big one too, considering how quickly they converged on him. And with the information he got from the shitbag who thought he could hold the kid at gunpoint, hindsight changed nothing.

Peter's not ready to hear it, but the fact that Gargan told his men that he wants the kid, not Spider-Man, is a game-changer. Gargan's keeping his identity for himself. Which means that either Gargan's an idiot, or he knows that knowledge is power, and that he doesn't have power if everyone has said knowledge. What Gargan plans to do with it, Frank's less sure, especially since he wants Peter alive. Blackmail, maybe. Maybe he wants to keep Spider-Man's identity secret so none of the kid's other enemies could get to him first, giving him the satisfaction of killing Peter himself. Frank doesn't like not knowing.

He does know that the hit on his van means it would be stupid to go back to their warehouse. He's made himself learn where the traffic cameras are, and there's no way he's getting back without giving away their position.

A sniffle from his right cuts off his train of thought. Peter's arms are crossed, his hands clutched tight to each opposite bicep to the point where his nails digging into his arms had to be painful. His back is hunched, and his breathing is slow and measured, too deliberate. He's all keyed up and Frank can't say what'll happen if he's forced to stay that way. 

So he makes a call and changes course onto a side street. Peter stiffens in his seat and twists around to stare back out the window, a sharp breath escaping him as he tries to follow the movement. 

"No, no, no," Peter protests, pressing his hand flat against the window before turning back to Frank with wide eyes. "You have to go back, my suit's back there, and my web-shooters- I can't lose them- please, you can't make me leave them-" Peter reaches out to pull at Frank's wrist. His palm is cold and clammy.

"Hey, hey!" Frank snaps as he swats at Peter's hand, because Christ, he's driving and the kid should know better. But when Peter jumps and retracts his arm like he's been burned, Frank can't help but feel a modicum of guilt. Frank takes a long breath as he reaffirms his grip on the wheel, making sure to soften his voice. "You'll get your suit. But those guys after you? They've got an eye out for my van, and there's traffic cams on the way back. You want them to track us down again? Is that what you want?"

Peter looks away and shakes his head, biting back his lip when it starts quivering. 

Frank pretends not to notice. "We're going to a motel. It's not far. You're gonna go to the front desk and buy us a room. Can you do that?"

He gets a single nod as a response. The kid's clammed up again, so he'll take what he can get. 

Frank presses on the gas and drives on.

---

The déjà vu that comes as Frank walks in the motel room, kid in tow, is almost overwhelming. This place is seedier, with torn curtains and scuff marks on the corner of the dresser, but at least he doesn't have a bullet in his ass this time. Frank drops his duffle on the bed closest to the door before closing it behind him, noting Peter wavering in the center of the room on the edge of his vision. 

The kid's still pale and shaky, scanning the room up and down with darting eyes. His arms are folded tight in front of him to form a barrier. He's fidgeting, shifting his weight from foot to foot as if standing still proves a challenge. He only relaxes a miniscule amount after he peers out the window for a couple of seconds and must come to the conclusion that there's no one outside.

Frank unzips the duffle, pulling out some of the clothes he bought for Peter last night and tossing it in the kid's direction. "Go take a shower," he says at Peter's puzzled glance between him and the clothes. 

Peter's brow only grows tighter as he looks Frank over, his gaze settling on his bloodied face. "Uh, you can have it first, if you- if you want."

Frank huffs. He doesn't doubt that he has to wash up more than the kid does, but Peter needs to settle down. To take time to breathe without looking over his shoulder and let the adrenaline rush subside.

"Go take a shower," Frank repeats as he moves to the old sleeper sofa crammed in the corner. He sits back with a long exhale through his nose, tilting his head back against the cushions as he closes his eyes to emphasize the end of the conversation. It's not long before he hears the creaking of the bathroom door. 

It's only after the click of the lock that he leans forward and runs his hands down his face. "Goddamnit," he hisses under his breath. Frank doesn't know what point he ended up harboring gang-targeted teens, but he's sure that both he and Peter don't want this to last as long as Amy's stay with him did. Frank gets the sense that Peter can't handle this life, not for long. Unlike Amy, the kid's used to routine, to stability—waking up at the same time every day for school, seeing his friends, homework, and Spider-Man when he gets home. Hell, this kid probably still had a curfew. Take away all that and add the grief of losing someone, who for all intents and purposes, was his mother… If they keep this up, it's not a question of if he'll snap. It's a question of when.

He never thought he'd be wishing for the simplicity of Amy's situation, because the Spider-Man factor adds a whole other layer of shit Frank isn't sure how to deal with.

Frank pulls his burner from his pocket once the spray of the showerhead sounds from behind the bathroom door. He goes to David's number and dials it, tapping his finger against the seat as he waits for him to pick up. 

"Frank?" David answers on the fourth ring, his voice heavy to the point where Frank wouldn't be surprised if he had just woken up.

He cuts right to the chase. "His name's Peter."

"Wait, how- Did-" A brief rustling comes from the receiver, rustling that Frank hopes isn't the sound of him getting out of bed. "And he told you this?"

Frank scoffs at David's unspoken question. "Yeah, he told me. Told me a lot, actually. His aunt and uncle raised him, and his uncle got shot about a year ago. You were right about his parents being out of the picture, but he won't admit it. That enough to get his last name?"

"Uh, yeah. Should be." A beat, then, "I'm surprised he didn't just tell you at this point."

"He might. Had a busy morning. I took 'im to the convenience store to grab breakfast and some of Gargan's men tracked the van. Found out from one of 'em that Gargan wants Peter alive."

There's a brief silence as David pieces it all together. "So where are you now?"

"A motel. Kid's in the shower." Frank doesn't tell him where and David's smart enough not to ask.

David takes a deep breath. "Just so we're on the same page—" David lowers his voice to a whisper, letting Frank know his wife or kids must be nearby "—Spider-Man is an orphan who's being hunted down by an entire gang. Oh, and you're getting a different car."

"Sounds about right."

David chuckles humorlessly. "How are we- I mean, we can't keep him."

Frank's aware of this much. But it'd be nice if the alternatives were more obvious. "We can't send him home. He can't fend for himself, not now. And if Social Services aren't trying to deal with him now, they will."

"We could take him to the police. As Peter, not Spider-Man," David quickly clarifies. "They could protect him and, you know, do their jobs."

Frank snorts. "And how's the kid supposed to explain he's got a gang after him? 'Sides, they'd funnel him into the system, you know it. Even if we pretend that it's not even more shitty for teenagers, he'd be lucky to land a foster home in NYC. He's got a school and a life here, and he's goddamn Spider-Man." He can't imagine Peter willingly staying in a suburb like this, away from buildings to swing from and people to help. And he couldn't ship him off to Florida to live his life without a price on his head like he did with Amy. It'd be like trying to pry Red away from Hell's Kitchen—his lifeblood is that city. Frank frowns, toying with an idea in his head when David speaks up.

"Well, we can't send him to school without Social Services being notified or risking Gargan getting to him. You sure the kid doesn't have anyone? A family friend, maybe?"

"No one that he wouldn't put in danger by going to," Frank says. It what the kid insists on, at least. "I've got something. He stays with me until he's healed up and I've killed every bastard that knows his identity. Then I'm gonna make a call—I know a guy that can help him." After all, an orphan vigilante kid? It'd tug at Red's Catholic side and his Daredevil side. He wouldn't be able to resist.

David makes a noise that sounds like the beginnings of a protest before he cuts himself off. "Sounds like a plan, then. I've got nothing better, at least."

A plan. Frank can work with a plan. "Hey, David," he pauses a moment to make sure the man's listening, "the sooner you get me the names of Gargan's guys and where they're gonna be, the better. You find them before you focus on Peter."

"Yeah, yeah. I'm on it," David affirms.

Frank ends the call and stuffs the phone back in his pocket. If he's lucky, Gargan'll continue keeping Peter's identity to himself and make Frank's job a whole lot easier. But even if that plays out, it won’t fix however Gargan found out in the first place. He remembers Peter saying he has a few guesses on that front. Frank’ll start there. 

Of course, getting the kid to open up will probably prove easier if Frank doesn't look like he stumbled out of a horror movie. He goes to the sink outside the bathroom and runs a rag under the faucet, wiping it down his face and checking it in the mirror after wringing out orange-tinted water in the sink. He dabs around the cut on his cheek after he cleans up the outside of his face. The rag's no longer white by the time he's done. He tosses it in the trash just as the shower turns off.

Frank makes his way back to the couch and takes a seat, running over what he knows in his mind to better catch contradictions as he waits for the kid. It's not long before the bathroom door squeaks open. 

The shirt and sweatpants hang loose around Peter's frame. His hair is wet and curly without product, it's water-induced darker color making his face seem even paler. But his posture isn't rigid and his steps are casual, not cautious, so Frank thinks he can handle the coming conversation. Frank angles his body toward the bed, folding his hands together and resting his elbows on his thighs.

"Sit down," he orders.

He expects Peter to take the bed across from him, so he's a bit thrown off when Peter heads to the couch and lowers himself on the cushion next to Frank's. He turns and looks up at Frank with round, slightly bloodshot eyes, then glances over at the bed and shrinks a little when he processes the missed cue. But the kid commits to it a second later, shifting to make himself comfortable. Frank can smell the scent of the cheap motel shampoo clinging to his hair.

Frank readjusts himself to face the kid. "I need you to tell me how Gargan found out who you are."

Something flashes across Peter's face, an expression so quick that Frank can't make it out. "I told you, I don't know." He's not meeting Frank's eyes when he speaks.

"You told me you weren't a hundred percent," Frank corrects. "I need to know the other ninety-nine."

"It's more like eighty-two," Peter mumbles.

"Good enough odds for me."

"I mean, it's hard to know for sure. Maybe one of his guys was walking by my school and he recognized my voice." 

Frank begins to get the feeling that it's a bit higher than eighty-two. "Tell me how he found out, kid."

"Or what? You'll break my ribs too?"

The words seem to slip out of Peter's mouth, because his eyes go wide and his jaw clenches tight a moment after. He takes a sharp breath through his teeth as if he's about to speak, maybe to take it back, then doesn't. Instead, after a moment of consideration, he looks up and meets Frank's eyes. His stare wavers a little, but he manages to maintain it, letting his words stand. Frank withholds a huff. The wonders a shower can do for frayed nerves.

"You wanna know what I think?" Frank begins quietly. "I think that it's real funny Gargan got out of prison to hunt you down not long after you sent in the guy who knows your identity."

Frank hits his mark. Peter's gonna need a better poker face if he wants to keep this hero shit up, because the way his breath catches in his throat and the flicker of his eyes give him away. There's a glint of betrayal in them when he looks back, as if that was something Frank's not allowed to put together. "He wouldn't," the kid insists, too forcefully. "I saved his life, okay? Right after he tried to kill me, I ran after him and I- I pulled him out of a fire. A fire that he put himself in, one I risked my life to-" Peter breaks off and shakes his head. "He wouldn't."

Christ. Even Red's not that naïve. Frank's got no idea how he managed to survive nearly a year pissing off dangerous people as Spider-Man, because that's the kind of mindset that gets you killed. There is no code of honor or sense of gratitude with the scum Peter's clearly still learning how to deal with. The sooner the kid gets that through his head, the longer his life expectancy is gonna be.

"I mean, if he did it's because they tortured it out of him or something," Peter continues in a strained voice. "He wouldn't have just told them."

Frank's silence is effective enough.

All at once, Peter's shoulders sag and his head dips down. His mouth forms the shape of words Frank's not privy to as his eyes squeeze shut. A shudder travels down his spine from his shoulders while a shaky breath escapes his chest. For a second Frank thinks he's going to break down again, but the kid manages to catch himself and suck in a slow breath. He still needs more time—that much is clear.

Frank clears his throat and pushes himself to his feet. "I'm going out," he tells the kid, double checking that his gun is still in the waistband of his pants. "I'll be back with your suit." And with his vest and the guns he left at the warehouse, but Peter doesn't need a reminder.

Peter tenses and swiftly stands to meet him. "You- You're just gonna lea-" He cuts himself off and swallows. "How long will you be gone?"

The poorly concealed anxiety on his face confirms that what he's really asking is at what time does your absence mean that you're dead? The reproach toward Frank completely vanishes from Peter's expression at the prospect of being stuck alone, another reminder of his desperation that does something funny to Frank's chest. A quick glance at the digital alarm clock on the nightstand between the beds tells him it's 9:43 AM. He reaches into his pocket for his burner and passes it over to the kid, who hesitates a moment before accepting it with a good deal of wariness and confusion.

"I'm not back before two or if shit goes down, you dial the second number in there. His name's Curtis, and you brief him on what's going on. He asks, you answer. None of this secret identity bullshit. Not then. Yeah?"

Peter's brow furrows at secret identity bullshit but he has enough common sense to nod his assent. Some of the distress leaves his face as he transfers the phone from hand to hand. 

"He asks you to prove you know me, you tell him his goat's name was Cassius." Curt would be more than pissed at getting dragged back in with Frank, but Frank knows he couldn't refuse a child begging for his help. And he's better than David as a last-resort. David wouldn't risk leaving his kids for Peter, something Frank finds himself unable to fault him for. 

Peter's head snaps up. "You're friends with a goatkeeper?" 

Frank lets out a short huff at that thought, the corner of his mouth twitching upward. Out of all things, this is what prompts the first spark of childlike interest in Peter's eyes that Frank thought the kid was no longer capable of. For a millisecond there's excitement in the kid's expression before everything else weighing down on him washes it away. Probably for the best, because Frank can't imagine him liking what he has to say next.

Frank reaches for his handgun and holds it out to Peter by the barrel. "You know how to use this?"

Peter's face darkens. "I wouldn't even if I did."

"Mmm. It's loaded. Safety off, safety on," he says, flipping the switch in demonstration. When it's clear that Peter's not going to take it, Frank heads to the door and places the weapon on the nightstand on the way.

It's when Frank already has his hand on the doorknob that Peter decides to speak up. "Um, Mr. Castle?" he begins, picking at the edge of the sofa. It's in a tone Frank recognizes, one he hadn't heard in a good while. The distinctly childlike I'm gonna ask you to do something for me and please don't say no. Frank pauses by the door and waits.

"Do you think you could get an envelope? And some stamps?"

Frank turns back to the kid with narrowed eyes.

"It's just- I want to send a letter to my friend. Let him know I'm not dead, you know? So he doesn't worry." Frank's face must give away how he feels about that, because Peter quickly follows it up with, "I wouldn't sign the letter or give too much away. And I know not to have a return address. But I- I really want to talk to him, and I can't do that, so I thought…" Peter trails off, his face falling as he studies Frank's.

Frank has half a mind to refuse. If it's intercepted, Peter's friend—Ned, he's willing to bet—would be on the radar of dangerous people if he's not already. Not to mention that Frank doesn't know anything about this kid. His only assurance that Ned won't go to the police is Peter's. But Peter clearly thought this over, and credit where credit's due, it's the safest possible way even Frank can think of to contact his friend. Moreover, he knows what keeping Peter isolated, with Frank as the only person he has contact with, can do to the kid. 

"Yeah. Sure, kid."

"Thank you," he almost whispers as Frank walks out the door. It's the first genuine thanks he ever got out of the kid.

He hopes it's not the first of many.

Notes:

The idea for this story just came to me one night and I wrote a rougher version of the first three chapters in one sleepless go and I was originally super hesitant about publishing this but i thought "eh, maybe someone out there will like it."

This got way more feedback than I was expecting and I just,,, I'm so happy there are people who are interested in this odd little duo

Chapter 7: AWOL

Tony's morning is going just fine until he gets the notification that one Peter Parker didn't show up to school.

Which, of course, could mean a number of things. It could mean he's taking a sick day, that May's overreacting over an injury he got on patrol, or he could just be at something as mundane as a dentist appointment. Regardless, Tony has managed to convince himself that he's not being excessive by having FRIDAY notify him whenever Peter's absent by reminding himself that ditching school in favor of Spider-Man isn't exactly unprecedented for the kid. Granted, now that May knows, Tony would love to see the kid try to get out of pulling that one again. Comforted with the knowledge that Peter's not suicidal, Tony pushes himself off his chair and meanders toward the kitchen. 

"Hey FRIDAY, what's our friendly, neighborhood Spider-Man up to?" he asks, running his fingers along the counter as he makes his way to the fridge. "Is he bedridden, or is he about to be?"

"Unknown, boss."

Tony halts in front of the fridge, his hand lingering on the countertop. "What do you mean unknown? Why isn’t he at school?"

"May Parker did not contact Midtown to inform them. She didn't answer when the school reached out to her, either."

Tony's heart does something funny in his chest as his appetite all but vanishes. That's not right. Peter might forget to contact the school. Peter would deliberately avoid the school's calls. Hell, Tony can see scenarios in which Peter wouldn't even think to feed his school an excuse before swinging off as Spider-Man. But May wouldn't. Even if she and Peter were just curled up and making a lazy day of it, May would still know to give the school something. And not answering the school's calls—that's everything but in-character. 

"Dial Peter," Tony orders, and finds himself pacing when it begins to ring. He almost convinces himself that he's working himself up over nothing when the voicemail picks up after five unanswered rings. "Call him again. Through the suit, not his phone. Actually, put me through to him immediately." He isn't sure whether he'd be pissed or alleviated if Peter answers, but he soon finds out that he'd gladly take either compared to the cold pit that grows in his stomach when FRIDAY speaks next.

"Peter's suit is offline," she informs him. "I believe it may have sustained damage."

"Shit. Shit, shit, shit." Tony slams his fist against the counter. Breakfast forgotten, he rushes over to the counter and pulls up a holographic display, a map of New York hovering over the surface at a few quick waves of his hand. "Track the Spider Suit."

To his relief, a small red dot takes less than a second to appear in the blue of the map. But when he registers that the red dot's blinking from a warehouse outside Hempstead, a good hour's drive from Peter's school, that relief disappears. It warps into something else entirely when he reads Since Yesterday, 4:29 PM.

Tony takes a deep breath in through his nose, trying and failing to quell the anxious hammering of his heart. If the kid's not in trouble, he sure as hell is about to be. "FRIDAY, get me my suit."

"Right away, boss."

---

The motel ceiling is low.

Peter knows this shouldn't bother him as much as the lack of a TV or the musty trace in the air, but for some reason, it's the ceiling that sticks out as bothersome in the back of his mind. It makes the already small room feel even more cramped, like the walls could close in at any moment. It doesn't help that the only distraction is the occasional car that passes out the window. 

He's never been good with patience. Thirty minutes in the Damage Control vault had felt like hours, and that was with both his web-shooters and Karen to keep him occupied. Peter knows that he could easily break down the motel room door even if he couldn't unlock it, yet he still somehow manages to feel far more trapped in here. If nothing else, at least there's a pen and a small notebook in the nightstand between the beds.

Peter would be surprised if Mr. Castle doesn't insist on reading over the letter before he seals it up, so he knows he has to be smart about this. No mentioning the Punisher. He doubts Ned would take the fact that he's staying with him as a comfort, anyway. Peter sits back on the end of the bed, tapping the pen against the corner of his mouth.

Hi Ned, he scrawls at the top of the page. It's a bit ridiculous, everything considered, but Peter shrugs and rolls with it. I don't know what you've heard, but I'm not dead. I'm as safe as I can be right now. I don't know when I can come back to school, but I hope it will be soon. Peter presses harder on the when, because it's when, not if.

He rests the tip of the pen on the paper, letting an inky dot grow larger and larger as he steels himself for the next sentence. May is d- 

The pen stops in Peter's hand. The ink's final and can't be erased. Peter swallows back a lump rising in his throat as he scratches out the words, replacing it with, Something happened and May's not here. It was weak, and he can imagine Mr. Castle shaking his head as he reads it over, but he hopes Ned will get the message. I'm staying with someone right now, and he's- Peter hesitates, clicking the pen against his thumb. Nice isn't quite true. Far from it, really. Well-meaning? Homicidal? Wanted by basically everyone?

Good at this stuff, Peter decides. Please be careful. Don't walk alone down any dark alleys or answer any weird guys at the door n stuff. And probably tear this letter up after you read it. RIGHT AFTER, he adds, because Ned probably needs the emphasis.

I hope I can see you soon.

Peter rips out the paper and folds it before dropping it back on the nightstand next to the phone. He absently reaches for it and turns it over in his hands, pursing his lips before flipping it open with a shrug. While he's grateful Mr. Castle left him with an emergency contact, it works better to ease the niggling fear on the edge of Peter's mind that he's not going to come back. He isn't sure what to make of the fact that he'd rather have the company of the Punisher than not.

He opens the contacts and scrolls down, going down the short list twice before hovering over the second number. There were no names attached to the numbers, which makes sense when Peter thinks about it. He finds his thumb tapping repeatedly at the dial key as his restlessness grows and the temptation to talk to someone, anyone, becomes almost overwhelming. Maybe Curtis is nice. Maybe Curtis can tell him about his goats or something about Mr. Castle that makes him make more sense. 

Then again, it's not past two and shit's not going down.

Peter falls back on the bed and clutches the phone to his chest. May would know just the right thing to say. She hadn't even known about Spider-Man for more than two months, but it was so much nicer to be able to talk to her about it once she stopped being pissed. She'd always know when something looked just suspicious enough to report to Happy when Peter wasn't sure, and she always knew how to make it better when a thief gave him the slip or a mugger got a few good licks in. Just when all the pieces started falling together, just when Peter thought they were actually making it work, Gargan came and tore that away from him.

Revenge isn't the way. That's what May would say and Peter already learned that with Ben. It doesn't change the fact that something still boils inside him and that he has to remind himself that letting the Punisher get to Gargan isn't the solution. Yet the lines get blurrier by the minute. After all, Mr. Stark never talked about it when he did decide to talk to Peter, but Peter knows that he's killed people. Granted, those people were terrorists holding him hostage inside an Afghanistan cave. It was textbook self-defense, but weren't those six guys in the convenience store killed in self-defense too?

No, because Mr. Castle was defending you, a voice whispers in the back of Peter's mind.

I didn't ask him to, Peter counters.

You didn't stop him either.

Peter closes his eyes and runs his fingers down his face. He sniffs as he rubs his eyes open then rolls to his side, bringing the phone up to his face. He finds himself opening the keypad and his thumbs punch in a number that he knows by heart.

He just needs to hear her voice. A part of him hopes that maybe she'll pick up, that something other than her voicemail will speak and that Mr. Castle was wrong, that she really is just in a hospital waiting for him.

"Hello?"

Peter's heart drops to his stomach as he shoots up to his feet. It's a man's voice, low and modulated and unfamiliar.

"Uhhhh…" He double-checks the number to affirm that it's May's.

"Are you calling for May Parker?"

Peter takes a sharp breath before he takes a slow one, composing himself. He can't quite make out the tone, but it doesn't sound imposing. "I- uh, yeah. Yeah, I am," Peter says, keen enough to lower his voice and lay the Queens accent on thick.

"What is your relationship to her?"

That's definitely a red flag. "Who wants to know?"

"I'm Officer Moore with the NYPD. What is your relationship with May Parker?"

Peter's mouth grows dry. His mind blanks for a moment and he has to scramble to come up with something while debating with himself if he should hang up. That would be more suspicious, wouldn't it? He's already calling with a number May's phone wouldn't recognize. "I'm- I'm a friend from work. She, er, didn't show up to her shift last night." That much was true.

The officer takes a breath. "Could you please come down to the fifteenth precinct? I regret to inform you, sir, but May Parker was involved last night at what is now an active crime scene."

"What are you doing with her phone?" Peter demands, barely processing the man's words.

"It's evidence, sir. I'm the one tasked to go through it. I understand this must come as a shock to you, but I really can't talk about this over the phone. Please come down to the precinct. Any information that anyone has about Ms. Parker would help our investigation."

"She's a victim, why are you- You can't just go through her phone," Peter snaps before he can stop himself.

"Sir, Ms. Parker's phone may contain evidence critical to finding her nephew. Would you know anything about a Peter-"

Peter snaps the phone shut and backs up against the wall. He presses his spine against it, a shuddering breath escaping his chest as he sinks down to the floor. He tosses the phone back on the bed and buries his head between his knees.

He screwed up. He screwed up bad. He just called the police, and they're gonna find out it's him, and they're gonna track him down, find out he's Spider-Man, and Mr. Castle's not here to-

But it's a burner phone, right? Mr. Castle wouldn't get a phone that can be tracked. Peter just had to wait it out. He can do that.

He can also ignore the feeling of something wet sliding down his cheek.

---

Tony makes it to the warehouse in under five minutes.

It's out of the way, he'll give them that. Without the tracker, it would've taken him much longer to decide to check in a wooded area outside a Hempstead suburb. The lack of cars in the parking lot also works to draw attention away. It doesn't seem to have windows either, an admittedly smart move when it's Spider-Man you're kidnapping. Which, as much as he hates to admit it, is exactly what this appears to be.

Tony lands outside the front door as silently as his suit will allow. "Okay, how many am I dealing with?"

"There are no heat signatures from inside the building."

"What?" Tony shakes his head in an effort to dismiss the horrible thought chipping at the edge of his mind. "That can't be right. Where's Peter tracking from? Scan again."

"Peter is tracking fifty feet from your location." FRIDAY seems to hesitate before speaking next. "There are no heat signatures from inside the building."

Tony's blood runs cold. He doesn't think before he fires his repulsors and blasts the door open. His foot hits something as he bursts through, something hard that scrapes against the floor. Tony jolts and aims his palm down at- 

A trash bag.

A nervous, relieved huff of laughter escapes his mouth as a quick glance around the room confirms that there's not a body in sight. The only things of note seem to be an old couch, a cot against the wall, and some kind of computer set-up in the corner. The only sound is the whine of Tony's repulsors, charged and ready to fire. Despite the fact that no one's home, the lights are on and flickering above his head.

"Spider-Man?" Tony calls anyway. Better safe than sorry.

He doesn't get a response.

Keeping his repulsors activated, Tony stalks around the room. He shakes the computer mouse as he passes, tsking in disappointment when he's met with a lock screen. Nothing he can't get into when he's not pressed for time, though. Albeit cheap, the tech set-up is impressive. The wires are tangled and the screens are scratched, yet it was put together by somebody who knew what they were doing.

Tony's heart skips a beat when a familiar red and blue catches in his periphery. He turns on his heels and rushes to the couch, an undignified noise coming from his throat when his breath catches. No, God no…

It's just his suit. Crumpled, dust-covered and stained on the floor, but there's nobody in it. Tony's left reeling from a sudden rush of relief to a flash of horror, because the last thing Peter would do is just leave his suit in a warehouse. Tony deactivates his repulsors and picks up the suit by the shoulders with trembling hands. The material is torn on the upper arm and opposite calf, but it's the cut on the abdomen that's most concerning. A red that seems almost black stains the surrounding area to the point where even the dust and plaster are coated in it. 

Then he sees the mask on the armrest of the couch. 

"Shit!" Tony hisses, lashing out at the couch.

The couch skids aside, the wooden legs screeching against the floor at a volume that does nothing to match the blind panic roaring in his mind. The movement reveals a white container with a red cross that had been partially hidden under the couch. Smudges of blood mar the white plastic, crimson fingerprints on the handle that prompts a huff from Tony's nose.

"Stitched you up, did they?" he murmurs as he crouches down to pick up the first aid kit, studying the fingerprints with narrowed eyes. He sets the kit on the couch and scans the room for a trash can, muttering a "bingo" when he spots one in the corner. 

Wadded-up, bloodstained pads of gauze and small pieces of black thread used for stitching are piled in the trash bag, but it's not what catches his attention. A small collection of discarded syringes lies on top. Tony takes a sharp, shaky breath, struggling to keep his hand steady as he fishes one out. "FRIDAY?"

A chemical formula appears in front of his eyes that he'd probably be able to make sense of if his vision isn't swimming. "It's Midazolam, boss. Primarily used for sedation."

"Shit." It makes sense. It's cheaper to drug up the kid than find something strong enough to restrain him. 

So they, whoever they are, get into a scuffle with Spider-Man when they try to abduct him. Peter gets injured but they want him alive, so they patch him up. That just might be the thing that saves their lives when Tony finds them. How they found out Tony was coming and took off with Peter in time, he isn't sure. But it's clear that they abandoned ship recently, apparent by the incriminating evidence they left behind. That, or they're monumentally stupid. Which they must be for trying to kidnap Spider-Man in the first place, so hey, easier for him.

The why is harder to figure out. Maybe Spider-Man got on their nerves and they intended to kill him, but opted out when they unmasked him and found out he's a kid. That'd be nice. His go-to would be ransom; it might explain why May's not picking up. Or maybe Tony just hasn't gotten the call yet. He thought he kept his relationship with Peter on the down-low, but if it's his money that will allow Peter to be safe again, then so be it.

Tony presses his lips in a tight line and squeezes his eyes shut, pushing back the image of Peter tied up in a trunk and drugged up to his eyeballs. He's alive, and Tony has the fingerprints to track down whatever dumbasses that think they can get away with this. He passes by the computer set-up on his way back to the couch, back to the first aid kit, and stops in his tracks.

What looks to be the backside of a bullet-proof vest is propped up against the desk, blocking a set of drawers; there must be guns here that he hasn't found. The drawers seem like a safe bet, so Tony reaches out with his foot to kick the vest aside. 

It topples over and rolls to display the chest. Tony's heart stops.

Spray-painted on the vest, the white stark against the black is a thin, white skull.

The ground dips beneath Tony's feet. "No," he breathes. "No, fuck no, kid-" He shakes his head as he staggers back, forcing himself to hurry back to the couch. 

He fumbles with the first aid kit and holds the handle before his eyes. "FRIDAY, the prints. Who do they belong to?"

It could be a copycat. Those happened all the time, don't they? It was bound to happen with this guy if it hadn't already. Besides, Tony remembers hearing that he died. Hadn't he? With evil robots and Avengers shit and fucking aliens piling on his plate, this guy barely pinged his radar. God, he wishes he paid attention.

"Frank Castle. Extensive criminal record, including over sixty confirmed accounts of homicide, arson, kidnapping, torture, aggravated assault-"

"Stop," Tony bites out. The man's mugshot appears on the display in front of him, switching back and forth between a front and side profile as text appears underneath it.

"He didn't do anything," he breathes. The kid didn't do anything. 

Castle's not interested in money. Tony remembers that. But Tony also remembers that he didn't target innocent children, so he probably needs to review. Maybe Spider-Man got in Castle's way, but whatever code he operates under made him decide to subdue the kid instead of his usual method. Or Peter could know something that he's keeping from Castle, something about some criminal that Castle wanted to get to. It's the kind of thing Peter would do, risk his life for that of a convict. The absolute idiot. The absolute self-sacrificing idiot. 

Would Castle torture a kid? 

"You had to get yourself caught by the Punisher," Tony says, trading the first aid kit for the mask and turning it over in his hands. "Couldn't be greedy goon number five, huh?"

Tony grabs the suit and bunches it up in his arm. He pauses to stare at the lenses of the mask, gingerly folding it in his hand. He swiftly removes the computer from the desk, tucking it under his arm with the suit gripped tight in his hand. "I'm coming for you, kid," he promises.

He steps on the vest on the way to the door, digging his heel into the center of the skull on his way out.

Notes:

I don't have any other Tony POV chapters ironed out (get it? IRONed???), so we'll quickly be returning to our regularly scheduled program.

:)))))

Chapter 8: For Pete's Sake

Notes:

the biggest of thanks to candlesneedflame for betaing, please check out their stuff for more Peter and Frank and Peter and Matt interaction

The clock reads 1:39 PM when Frank swerves into the motel parking lot.

He hadn't even spent five minutes at the warehouse before realizing he needed to book it back to the kid. The place looked like it got hit by a hurricane. The door was blown in, the edges singed black and the handle misshapen as if something had exploded next to it. The damage was targeted enough that Frank would guess high-tech military-grade weaponry if he didn't know any better. A brief skim of the warehouse told him that the couch was facing a different wall and his protective vest wasn't where he left it. More importantly, the computer was missing and the kid's costume wasn't anywhere in sight. 

They weren't going for subtlety. Doesn't seem like they were going for much either. The place wasn't ransacked, as Frank's guns remained disassembled and undisturbed in their drawers. Hell, even Peter's web things were still in the folder David had dropped them in. If Frank had to guess, he'd bet that Gargan got pissed when he found the warehouse empty and took it out on the room. Snatched the Spider-Man suit as bait, maybe. As if Frank would let the kid be that stupid.

He puts the car into park and opens the door in the same movement. He wastes no time in getting to the motel room door, giving a short knock as he twists the key in the lock. Frank pushes inside and relocks it behind him after giving the room a quick once-over. The gun hasn't moved an inch and a folded piece of paper lies on the nightstand—probably the kid's letter to his friend.

The kid in question is splayed out on his stomach on the bed furthest from the door. He's on top of the bedspread and his forearms are tucked under the pillow that his cheek is pressed into. Despite the fact that he's facing the door, his face doesn't even twitch when Frank enters. Heavy sleeping isn't ideal for what they're doing, though Frank could just as easily chalk it up to the exhaustion catching up with him. Regardless, Peter clearly needs the rest, so Frank steps lightly as he fetches his handgun even if he knows that thirty more seconds won’t do the kid much good.

Frank's not sure why he pauses when he rounds the bed to rouse the kid, just stands there uselessly for a moment and watches his back rise and fall as he breathes.

Frankie used to sleep on his stomach.

"C'mon, Pete," Frank says, resting his hand on Peter's shoulder and giving it a light squeeze. "Up and at 'em."

Peter's eyelids flicker open as he takes a sharp breath before propping himself up. He must've passed out with his hair still wet, and the way it's flattened against the side of his head doesn't do him any favors. His brow goes tight when his eyes meet Frank's face, but it's quick to smooth out with a barely audible, "Oh."

Frank can sense disappointment there, but there's not much he can do about it. So he offers what he can, reaching into his pocket and dropping the kid's web things by his side once he rolls himself over to his back. 

Peter perks up a little at that. He grabs the device and places it on the back of his wrist and gives Frank a glimpse of how the things actually work. They looked like innocuous rectangular devices when Frank nabbed them, unrecognizable to the point where he was unsure if he remembered correctly where David said he stashed them. But as soon as it rests against Peter's skin, the device swiftly unfolds and wraps itself around his wrist. What looks to be a button makes itself at home in Peter's palm, probably what the kid pushed to get the webs to shoot out.

"You make those?" Frank asks as Peter applies the second device.

He doubts it. Even if the kid has the smarts to design it—hell, maybe he does—Frank knows he can't scrape together something that fancy from a dumpster or a high school lab. If someone didn't make this for him, then someone at least helped the kid out. Red has a guy. Never mentioned him, but Red sure as hell didn't make those billy clubs or that stupid-ass cowl himself. Christ, is that how deep the kid's in the vigilante shit? Already swarmed by interested parties that want to put Spider-Man on their resume.

"Hm?" Peter looks up at him and follows Frank's gaze down to his wrists. "Oh, I- kind of. The web formula's mine. Er, most of them. I provided the prototype for the first web-shooter, but this version is mostly-" Abruptly, Peter cuts himself off and snaps his jaw shut. He clears his throat as he rubs at one of the web-shooters with his opposite hand.

Frank pointedly lowers his chin and raises his eyebrows. 

The kid pretends he doesn't see him for a second before he peers up and tries, "Classified?"

Frank lets out a short chuckle. He used to be very familiar with that response, though it was never delivered with such uncertainty. It's like the kid's testing it out to see if he can get away with it more than anything. In any case, it's better than being fed another bullshit answer, so Frank makes a show of holding up hands and stepping back. 

Peter sits up as Frank lowers himself on the opposite bed, hoping that the kid wouldn't take note of how he's putting himself between him and the door. He waits until he has Peter's full attention and speaks in a level voice. "Gargan's men found the warehouse. Busted in the door with some kind of high-tech shit. Your suit wasn't there."

Peter's expression blanks and for a second Frank thinks they’re in the clear. Then his hand grows tight around the edge of the bed, the only warning before he jumps to his feet. Frank's quick enough to match his movement. But Peter's learned from his mistakes, backing up once he gauges Frank's position. 

"I have to get it back," he pleads, searching Frank's eyes. "It's all I have, Mr. Castle, I can't let them- they already took my-"

"It's a trap and you know it," Frank interrupts. That shuts him up. His jaw clamps closed and his eyes drop back to the ground. When Frank takes a slow step toward him, he doesn't react. "You know that, don't you?"

Peter gratifies him with a nod.

"Good." 

The kid looks like he means it, too. Whether or not he's smart enough to not walk straight into what he knows is a trap is still beyond Frank. He'll run out of safety into a collapsing building or a convenience store full of guys who want to shoot him if he thinks there are people to save. Frank doesn't think that it extends to objects, but he resolves to keep a close eye on the kid anyway. Stupid tends to be unpredictable.

Frank goes to return his phone to his person when Peter clears his throat. "Hey, Mr. Castle?"

Frank gives him a questioning grunt as he shoves the phone back in his pocket.

"I won't freak out about my suit if you won't freak out about my bad news."

That's definitely one of the stranger bargains someone's tried to make with him, but it makes Frank freeze nonetheless. He slowly turns to face the kid, who responds by shrinking back onto the bed. "What did you do?" he growls.

"I just wanted to call May, that's all, I swear," Peter rushes out. "I thought I'd get her voicemail, but this- this officer guy picks up because apparently her phone's at the station or something and-"

Fuck. It seems that stupid has a head start. "Shit," he hisses as he runs his hand down his face. Frank rounds on the kid. His back is hunched and his arms are folded close to his sides, fully avoiding looking at Frank's face. He ducks a little lower to make himself even smaller, fully preparing himself for Frank's wrath. Frank stops in his tracks and steps back. "What'd you tell him? What did you tell him?"

"That I was a friend from work! I changed my voice and everything! They're- They're going through her phone as evidence or something, and apparently they're looking for me- for Peter, and I hung up right after that. Besides, they can't track burners, right?"

Even if they wouldn't be able to trace the kid's call, a random number calling a dead woman's phone and suddenly hanging up would undoubtedly ping their radar as suspicious. It wouldn't take long for them to guess that it was Peter if they dug into it. The dumbass. How had he dealt with these situations with his own kids? There was a Goldilocks zone of discipline he'd learned to find, harsh enough to discourage the same fuck-up but lenient enough to not put them off telling him about future fuck-ups.

Then again, the kid already lost his aunt and his suit, and he's already well-aware of his mistake. "Okay," Frank begins, softening his tone. He fishes a second burner out of his jacket, one he bought for the kid while he was out. "You take this. It has my number and Curt's. You don't dial anyone else. You got that?"

Slowly, Peter reaches out and accepts the phone. "Yes, sir."

There it is, the sir again. May must've raised him right, because manners like that are rare in his generation. Still, he finds himself frowning at the words. It's the exact same thing the soldiers under his command would respond with when given orders. Hearing it come out of the kid's mouth doesn't feel right. "Hey, cut it with the sir, all right?"

Peter's brow goes up a little in what might be surprise. Frank realizes that he's forgotten what a little shit he can be when the kid replies, "Sorry, sir."

Frank's about to tell him as much when his burner vibrates in his pocket. He pulls out his phone, fully expecting David's number, but the only thing on the screen is the text announcing Blocked Number.

"Who is it?" Peter asks, quickly picking up on his unease.

Frank has a guess. "Stay inside," he tells the kid. He slips out the door with a brief glance to ensure Peter listened, one hand on the phone while the other drifts to his gun. It's only when the door is closed and he’s sure there's no one in sight that he flips the phone open. He holds it up to his ear and waits.

"Is this one Francis David Castle?" a voice comes after a beat. "Lieutenant of the Cerberus Squad, official unofficial triggerman on Ahmad Zubair?"

Frank can't help but scan the parking lot. That's not public information. The only record of that belongs to Homeland, so unless this asshole works for them, either he or people working for him have hacking skills that rival David's own. Frank knows this tactic; letting him glimpse at some of his cards to catch his attention and hint at the greater threat to come. 

Fine. He'll bite. "I take it you're the guy who took the computer."

"That's just how I got this number," the man says, confirming Frank's suspicion. It's troubling, but David's smart enough to have more than one firewall. He doubts this spook could get past all of them. "What the CIA and Homeland have on you is a good read if you can access it. And the NYPD's looking at you for a gang massacre yesterday, but I'm sure you already knew that."

Frank says nothing and waits for the man to get to the point.

"You have something that doesn't belong to you."

There it is. "Is that right?" He risks a glance at Peter's shadow through the curtains.

The voice lets out a scoff. "You know, I prepared a whole speech and everything for this, but I feel like it would be lost on you."

Frank doesn't grace him with a response.

"Central Park, noon tomorrow. Bring the kid, unharmed, and I'll let you walk out with all your limbs still attached."

The spook just made it miles easier for him if he just gave Frank a time and place where he's gonna be. Then again, he'd be more than hypocritical if he berated Peter for wanting to waltz into a trap then walked into one of his own the next day. Besides, Frank knows more than anyone that there are too many civilians in a place like that that could get caught in the crossfire. He wonders if the asshole picked the place for that exact reason. "You know, it's tempting, really. I'd love to meet up, I would. Have a talk about it. 'Fraid I'm a bit preoccupied, though."

There's a beat of silence, then, "I'm going to find you, Castle."

"Yeah? Get in line."

With that, Frank snaps the phone closed. He sounded far too confident on his last line for Frank's liking. While Peter's right in that burners can't be tracked like normal phones, he's wrong in thinking that that means they're safe. The kid must not know that the signal can be triangulated through cell towers, and Frank has a feeling that this spook could pull it off. 

Frank rushes back into the room and pops the cover off the phone to remove the battery and toss it in the trash. He removes the SIM card and drops it in an air vent on the floor before putting the rest of the phone with the battery. 

"The computer was stolen?" Peter asks quietly, watching him from the bed with wide eyes.

Frank pauses. "You heard that?"

"Only your bits," Peter says with a small shrug. "I've got enhanced senses. Who was that?"

Peter might as well be a clone of Red at this point. Maybe Red can stick to walls too and he's just holding out on them. "Some asshole that thinks knowing a few computer tricks means he’s clever."

Frank grabs Peter by the forearm and tugs him to the door. The kid pulls back at first, but only to grab his note from the nightstand before he quickly falls into line and allows Frank to lead him to the car. It's a midsize gray one, as inconspicuous as it comes. It even takes Peter a moment to notice where they're heading.

"How'd you get that?" The accusation isn't hidden in his voice.

"Took it from a guy who stole it. Relax—he's still breathin'." Breathing with a black eye and a broken arm, but breathing. He'd dropped his van off in a parking lot where no one should mind it and transferred a few choice weapons into the trunk. It's not ideal by any means, but Frank's not in any position to be picky. His answer does seem to satisfy the kid, though Frank knows that's not going to be the case for long.

Peter slides into the passenger's side as Frank starts the engine. The kid gets a glimpse of his bedhead in the rearview mirror and attempts to smooth it down, letting out huffs of frustration when his hair betrays him. They're barely out of the parking lot before Peter gives up and turns his focus out the window, but Frank can tell he’s stewing on something from the number of side-eyes the kid keeps sending him. 

"So are we on the run now?" Peter finally wonders. "Like in the movies? With the whole baseball caps and sunglasses get-up? And sketchy motels and fake IDs? Am I going to have to cut my hair? I really can't pull off much else, Mr. Castle."

He's babbling now, his voice just high enough to let Frank in on how scared he really is. At least Amy wasn't new to this part. Frank reaffirms his grip on the wheel. "You do what I tell you and you'll be fine."

"So that's it, then?" Peter's eyes flick over Frank's face. He must not like what he sees, because the next thing he says is, "Just- Just let you stuff me in another random motel room and sit quietly while you go off and- I dunno, murder your way to a solution?"

Frank gives him a warning look, tapping his forefinger on the wheel. The kid's nervous energy is building on itself, and he looks about ready to use Frank as an outlet. The transition from sir to this is almost jarring, a window into just how much turmoil is taking root in the kid's head. Frank stays silent, giving the kid a chance to follow his example.

"Where's the line for you? How come car thieves get to walk away but gang members don't?" he pushes. "Or does it just come down to- to how generous you're feeling at the moment? What gives you the right to choose who lives or dies?"

Frank clenches his jaw. Jesus Christ. The kid’s persistence is almost admirable if it isn't the grief making him lash out, but Frank recognizes that it’s only going to escalate if he doesn’t shut this down now. Peter’s fingers are drumming on the button in the center of his palm and there’s defiance in the stare that Frank would meet if he weren’t driving. If the kid wants to start something, then Frank’ll oblige. 

"Let me lay it out for you," he growls, easing on the break to better split his focus between Peter and the road. Now that he's got Frank's attention, Peter suddenly seems less sure of himself. "Back at the gas station. You came out of the bathroom and you made the choice to throw that bottle, yeah?"

"Yeah," Peter says through his teeth.

"Now, I don't know what was going through your head when you did that. We both know you could've done more damage with that throw, but you didn't. Now maybe- maybe it was self-defense. They get me in a bind and finish me off, they go to you next, right? Maybe adrenaline was calling the shots. Or maybe when it boils down to me or him, you thought I was the one who had to make it out."

Peter swallows. "I- I didn't want you to kill him."

"But you knew I was going to, didn't you?" Frank challenges. "You knew that one of us was gonna go, and you made the call that it wasn't gonna be me. You made that choice."

The kid shakes his head insistently. "That- no. That wasn't a choice. Was I just supposed to let them strangle you? Or- Or beat you with that bat?"

Frank shrugs. "You could've. But that's not what you decided, is it? Fact is, you'd done somethin' different, he'd be alive and I'd be dead. Hell, you'd probably be dead too."

That hits him. His bottom lip wobbles as he turns away in the seat and takes a shaky breath. "I- I don't-"

"What? You don't what?" Frank snaps. "What's your way? Gargan's not gonna stop hunting you 'til you're dead. You know that. You send him to prison, he spreads the word on your name and someone else gets out who wants your head. And they're gonna get it. Maybe in a week, maybe a year, but they're gonna get it. Maybe collect some of your friends' too. How many people do you save in a month, huh?"

The kid sniffs. "I'm not- I d-dunno."

"Every month after Gargan gets to you, that many people die. Or hell, we could just ignore it, right? I'd ship you down to Florida if you asked. Get you a new ID and set you up without a gang on your ass. Wouldn't chase after Gargan then. But then no more Spider-Man, and those people that you save? They die." Frank doesn’t soften the blow.

Peter's hand is covering his mouth and his eyes are scrunched shut. Frank pauses, gives him a chance to speak, but for once the kid doesn't take it.

"You're in it now, kid, and there's no backing out. Whatever choice you make, people die."

Peter's sniffle is wet and his exhale makes his chest shudder. He turns his face away from Frank, but he can see the kid wiping at his eyes in the side mirror. He almost feels guilty for reducing the kid to this state, yet it's a lesson he needs to get through his head. Frank can stave off his sympathy for later. Peter needs to understand just what's at stake, feelings be damned.

Frank lowers his voice to a near-whisper. "The only call you have is which people end up in the ground."

---

Peter, as it turns out, is a big fan of the silent treatment. They're over an hour into the drive and the kid hasn't said a word to him, just staring out his window and refusing to so much as look at him in fear of acknowledging Frank's existence. Frank can't tell if it's more misery or resentment that fuels it, but the kid's going to have to get more creative with his arsenal if he wants to do damage.

No one could beat Lisa when it came to the silent treatment. Frank doesn't remember what he did that sparked it, but it must've been pretty serious to prompt her to give him the cold shoulder for three whole days at age nine. Less than a week after he came back from overseas, even. It was Maria that finally convinced her to talk to him again, ending the three-day span that had made him wish at times that he was back in the Middle East.

Frank's got a good enough read on Peter by now to know the kid's not capable of that. If he hasn't noticed they're back in Queens yet, it won't be long before he does, and Frank would be surprised if he's got no comment on it. It's a risk, after all. Taking Peter where he's more likely to be recognized and where the bastards that wants him dead reside would be something Frank would try to avoid if it weren't for the simple fact that it's the best place to track down and kill said bastards. The kid'll be all about that, but the jury's still out on what he'll do about it. If he would do anything about it—seems like Peter hasn't decided yet. If Frank's lucky, he'll get to work before the kid does.

But Frank knows to never count on luck. Peter may not have known it, but he hit the nail on the head with Frank's plan to have the kid keep his head down while Frank tracks down and finishes off the guys that have it out for him. Revisions may be necessary. The kid made it clear that he isn’t on board with it and Frank would be surprised if their talk changed that for good. Still, Peter's surprised him before.

Frank lets out a small sigh. Adults are easier. Far more predictable. And tend to not have goddamn super strength. The drugs are always an option, though he has no doubt that that play would throw away whatever he's managed to gain of Peter's trust and cooperation without any chance of getting it back. Besides, the last thing the kid needs right now is-

Without any sort of warning, Peter lunges for the wheel. His hand clamps around Frank's wrist with an iron grip.

Frank can't stop himself from jerking in his seat as he uses his free hand to try to yank the kid off. "Hey! The hell are you—?!" 

"Slow down, you have to slow-"

Frank immediately glances ahead at the road, expecting to see the bumper of another car approaching his windshield, but there's nothing. "Get your goddamn hand off-"

"Slow down, slow down!"

There's white surrounding Peter's irises and a note of panic in his voice that prompts a visceral reaction from Frank. He slams on the breaks and jolts forward with the movement that follows. "Shit!"

Peter releases him as soon as the vehicle slows. Before he can pull away, Frank darts out his hand and seizes the kid by the forearm.

"The fuck was that stunt?" Frank tightens his grip. "You think that's funny? You think-" He breaks off when he sees a police car in the side mirror, sitting inconspicuously on a gravel path and hidden from the main road by a bush. A speed trap. He almost got caught by a goddamn speed trap.

Peter takes a sharp breath through his teeth and tries to tug away. "You- You're hurting me, let me-"

Frank instantly drops his arm, switching his gaze between Peter and the road. The kid's pressed against the door and regarding him with wide eyes. Frank's insides twist when he notices the fear in Peter's face and the way his fingers hover above the web-shooter's trigger. "Sorry," Frank says, sparing a few seconds to meet Peter's stare. "I'm sorry." He waits a beat to make sure the kid knows he means it, and after a long moment, the kid's shoulders drop and he settles back into the seat. It takes a moment longer for his fingers to drift away from the button. "Did you- How did you know?"

Peter shrugs. "Spider powers."

"That all I'm getting?" Frank asks when Peter doesn't elaborate. Kid just pointedly turns back toward the window and shifts his jaw.

Frank's no spider expert, but he's pretty sure that there aren't any that are able to sense when cops are nearby. But Frank doesn't know shit about this superpower stuff, so if that's all the kid is willing to tell him, then Frank will make a note of it.

"It's hard to describe," Peter mutters after a decent pause, still not facing Frank. "It's just- It's a bad feeling. You know how in horror movies a person will be doing something normal, then the creepy music comes on and you just know something bad's about to happen? It's like that. I didn't know it would be a police car. I just- I knew you had to slow down."

"Huh," Frank muses with a small nod. That's useful. That's pretty damn useful. It'd be next to impossible to catch the kid in an ambush. And it explains why he was on edge, staring at the parking lot in the gas station before Gargan's men arrived. "You let me know when that feeling comes again, all right?"

"Yeah. Sure," Peter bites out in the same tone he would say fuck off in.

Straight back to spiteful then. There's a shocker. But Peter can prioritize; Frank can commend that. When it came down to it, logic overruled the emotion and pressed the kid to work with him. If it happened once, it can happen again. If Frank comes at this from the right angle he might be able to get the kid to stay out of his way. Hell, if this doesn't all go to shit, Frank can see himself working with Peter in the future.

Only on a select few cases due to some prominent differences in opinion, but he can see it. The kid's got a good head on his shoulders and quick reflexes. A skill set that includes wall-climbing, super strength, and threat perception ain't half bad either. And apparently, some deep, instinctual part of him wants to keep Frank out of the hands of the police. He wonders whether or not Peter realized that yet.

Hopefully that will stick for a while.

Notes:

This is the most consistent update schedule I've ever had thank the Lord I have four periods open so I can write Punisher fanfiction

Chapter 9: It Takes a Village

Notes:

Sometimes you sit down to write a chapter and you think to yourself, "yeah, I have a pretty good idea on how long this is gonna be" then you learn that you are a fool. I am a fool

candlesneedflame really helped this chapter reach it's final evolved form go send them some love they write great stuff

Mr. Castle is right.

It goes against everything May taught him and it makes Peter's stomach twist to admit it, but Mr. Castle's right. Or at the very least, he's not wrong. Gargan's not going to be satisfied until Peter's dead, and every day Peter spends running from him is a day he's not saving people as Spider-Man. Mr. Castle paints a picture as black and white as the skull on his vest that depicts Peter's "choice" of letting innocents die or letting criminals die, but try as he might, Peter can't figure out how to dismantle it. 

He's not sure if it's selfish of him to want to keep Gargan out of prison so his identity stays out with him because having Gargan free to roam the streets isn't a much better option. The lack of a solution that isn't Mr. Castle's makes him want to bury his face in a pillow and scream. What frustrates him even further is how Mr. Castle knows he has him beat, and he just sits there and drives with the radio playing softly and occasionally nodding his head to the music, completely unfazed by the fact that Peter hasn't spoken to him in hours.

Peter considers refusing again when Mr. Castle stops to pick up another sandwich for him, though his stomach is quick to remind him that a can of Coke is all he's had in the past day. If nothing else, at least Mr. Castle’s not patronizing. He gets Peter's order in the form of yes or no questions and accepts Peter's nods as responses without telling him to speak up. And when he later pulls into an electronics store parking lot, he doesn't make Peter ask him what he's doing. He just says that he's picking up a new burner and that he won't be long before leaving the car without a second glance behind him to make sure Peter stays put. Like he doesn't have any doubt that that's what Peter will do.

(He's right again.)

The sky is dark and his sandwich is gone by the time Mr. Castle settles on a motel. This part of Queens looks familiar; come to think of it, Peter's pretty sure that he'd stopped a mugging a few alleys over. But it had all seemed friendlier when he was swinging. Now, on the ground, he has to try not to jump at every shadow that moves in the corner of his eye and he finds himself sticking closer to Mr. Castle than he'd like to on their short walk from the car to the motel room.

The first thing Mr. Castle does after locking the door behind him is open his phone contacts and start putting in numbers, so Peter takes the opportunity to move to the small couch against the wall furthest away from him. The distance is almost twice as much as the last motel, the room as a whole considerably bigger. There's even a small TV on the dresser across from the beds and the air is far more breathable compared to the staleness that hung in the previous motel.

Mr. Castle drops his duffle off his shoulder and onto the bed, setting his phone down next to it to rifle through the bag. He pulls out a folded bundle of clothes and doesn’t even glance over at Peter when he speaks. 

"I'm gonna shower," he states as he strides to the bathroom. Peter follows him with his eyes until the door clicks closed.

The clock between the beds reads 7:43 PM. AKA, night two. And tomorrow will be day two, a benchmark which Mr. Castle had anticipated and one that Peter had deemed impossible upon first hearing it. Slowly, Peter pries up his shirt to peer down at the black stitches that mar his skin below his ribs. He experimentally runs his finger over the wound; it doesn't hurt at the contact and the skin looks fused together for the most part, but there's still a distinct cut in it that makes him see the logic in waiting an extra day before removing the stitches. The state of the wound solidifies just how long it's been.

He's missed school for Spider-Man once before, but never a whole day of it. If Ned isn't worried yet, he'll be beyond worried by tomorrow. Maybe MJ will even admit to being concerned for him if Ned doesn't cover for him well enough. Which he probably won't, because it's Ned. And as the week goes on… Peter swallows. The thought is kind of funny, all things considered, but he can't help but dwell on how much homework he's going to have to make up. Take AP classes, they said. It’ll save you money in college, they said.

Shit, nevermind homework, where is he going to live? The thought of his apartment without May makes him pinch his eyes closed and shake his head to push back the burning behind them. Peter fumbles for his pocket and pulls out his letter to Ned with shaky hands. He doesn't know if Mr. Castle actually stopped at the post office earlier, but Peter thinks he'd be hard-pressed to do it now if he hasn't already. He takes a deep breath through his nose and stares at the letter. "One problem at a time, right?" he murmurs. Most urgent first. Exhibit A: how to get Gargan to not spill the beans.

Money might work, but Peter knows that would only suffice for so long before Gargan upped the price to something unaffordable. Also, providing a gang leader with cash to fuel his criminal acts? No bueno. 

Peter bites back his lip. Gargan has something on him. Maybe he needs to return the favor. There has to be something on Gargan that Peter can use to hold over his head to even out the scales. Or maybe something on someone close to Gargan, like a brother who has yet to get apprehended with a similar nasty criminal record. If Karen were here he could just ask her, or if he just had Ned's number he could use his Guy in the Chair to check if-

Wait. Peter's head snaps up to look at Mr. Castle's burner, sitting beside the duffle on the bed.

The shower's running strong and Peter doesn't know if he'll get a chance like this again. He jumps to his feet and picks up the burner from the bed and opens the contacts. There are five numbers in there, two of which Peter recognizes to be Curtis' and his own burner. The other three he's never seen before, but he's willing to bet that one of them belongs to David. One in three isn't great odds, but not bad either.

Besides, David had been willing to go against Mr. Castle's orders for Peter before. It wouldn't be a stretch to say he'd do it again. Peter punches the first of the three phone numbers in his own burner and dials.

Please be David, please be David…

"Nelson, Murdock and Page, may I help you?"

It suddenly occurs to Peter that he never got David's last name. It's a woman's voice, but this could be David’s work phone. "Uh, hi. Is David there?" 

"Um, we don’t have any Davids here." Peter presses his lips in a tight line. Typical Parker Luck. Still, curiosity about just what kind of business Mr. Castle deemed important enough to have a direct line to keeps him from hanging up. "Are you looking for a client? There aren’t any Davids in the office right now, but- "

"Client?" Peter echoes, more out of hope for her to expand than any real confusion.

"I think you have the wrong number," she says, not unkindly. "This is a law firm."

"Oh," Peter breathes. He's not sure what to make of that. "Sorry for taking your time, Miss. Have a good night."

"Oh, no harm done. You too." With that, a click comes from the receiver and the line goes dead.

Why does Mr. Castle have a law firm's number? Peter doesn't get the impression that he cares about the law or the consequences that come from breaking it. But he doesn't have the time to think about it now, so Peter types out the second number and hopes. Fifty-fifty is a more comfortable chance.

Peter gets up and starts pacing as the phone dials, trying and failing to quell his nerves as the third ring turns into the fourth.

"Hello?"

Peter lets out a sigh of relief. "David?"

"Wait, Peter?" David says, a different note to his voice. "What's wrong? Where's Frank?"

"It's fine, there's nothing-" Peter breaks off with a frown. "I didn't tell you my name."

"Oh," David says as if he had just remembered that too. "Yeah, Frank called with a status update in the morning. Are you guys okay?"

Peter holds back a huff, and he’s not sure why he’s surprised. The fact that Mr. Castle just handed over his name without even asking him, without even telling him, doesn't make it any better. Peter had told him that in what he'd apparently been wrong to assume was confidence, when he was at his most vulnerable, and Mr. Castle had just… Peter clenches his jaw. A logical voice argues that Mr. Castle had always implied that information like that would go to David and that David had made it clear that his identity would remain a secret, but it's drowned out by the flare of indignation in his chest. What else had Mr. Castle told him? Did Mr. Castle feel free to share that Peter had broken down and cried in his arms like a child too?

"We're okay," Peter remembers to say. "I just- Could you do something for me?"

"Uh, depends." There's wariness in David's tone.

"You're like, a Guy in the Chair, right? And you're already looking into Gargan? Do you think you could find out if he has a brother, or- or someone close to him that has a warrant out for them or something?"

David is silent for a moment too long. "Are you talking blackmail? Are you gonna threaten to- to put this hypothetical person away? "

"I mean- Yes?"

David takes a deep breath that Peter knows to be the precursor for the distinctly adult I am about to try to explain something to you that your teenage mind probably won't comprehend spiel. "Peter, these are dangerous people, and they've been playing this game for a lot longer than you have. Trying to get on their level will just- Did Frank agree to this?"

"You said killing wasn't your answer to every problem. That's what Mr. Castle wants to do," Peter counters, tactfully avoiding the question. David clicks his tongue and draws in a breath, so Peter barrels on before he can voice his refusal. "Can you at least look? See if there's anything to work with? Please?"

The silence between them is heavy and Peter can't stop himself from fidgeting as he waits for his verdict. "Sure. Sure, I'll look. But no promises." Before Peter can get out a thanks, David asks, "How are you holding up?"

Peter's stomach sinks. He doesn't want to have this conversation now, let alone with David. "I dunno. Fine."

David hums. "Yeah, I figured. Listen, if you wanna talk-"

"Thanks, but I don't-"

"Hey, that's fine too," David interrupts. "Just… know that Frank won't shut you down if you change your mind. He understands what you're going through—probably better than anyone-"

Peter's grateful for the excuse when the water in the bathroom turns off. "Hey, I gotta go. Talk to you later." He shuts the phone without giving David a chance to continue.

He carefully places Mr. Castle's burner next to the duffle in the exact same position before he returns to the couch and sits back down. His hand absentmindedly reaches for his web-shooter on his opposite wrist and removes it purely out of routine, so he might as well look it over and make it seem like he's been doing something by the time Mr. Castle comes out.

His web cartridges are both halfway to empty—he'll have to conserve them until he finds a way to get more web fluid. At his current rate, it hopefully won't become a problem. He tries to keep his attention on his web-shooters, but David's words ring in his head without his permission. He understands what you're going through—probably better than anyone. Peter remembers hearing about what Frank lost when the news outlets were covering the Castle trial. It was the only time May looked conflicted about her stance that he should go to prison.

Peter shakes his head and buries his focus in his web-shooters.

---

Frank half expects to find Peter with his back toward him and lying on the bed when he opens the bathroom door because it seems like just the kind of thing the kid would do with the mood he's in. The shunning act isn't cute, but in any case, it's better than violence and he doesn't see the point in confronting Peter about it as long as he has the kid's cooperation where it counts. 

Instead, Peter's planted himself between the two cushions on the couch and is fiddling with his web-shooters. Frank's first thought is that it's an avoidance tactic, but the way Peter's tongue pokes through his lips in concentration and the quiet grunts he makes as he turns them over, pieces them apart and reassembles them implies that there's something to improve upon that Frank can't begin to guess at. And he actually peers up at Frank when he nears, even meets his eyes for a couple seconds before going back to his task. It's not enough to convince Frank that Peter's given up his act, but it's something. Regardless, making sure your weapon's in working condition is a habit that's good to get into and reminds Frank of just how long the kid's been at this.

So Frank pulls out his own guns and begins cleaning them, letting his mind wander while his hands work from muscle memory. If he recalls correctly, the first he heard of Spider-Man was from a brief news segment he caught in a bar about eight months ago. He came on the scene around the same time as some of the other Manhattan-based vigilantes, maybe a year or two after Red paved the way. The thought that this kid has just as much experience as some of those other solo acts that decide to tackle the criminal underworld gives Frank pause.

Frank's not even sure Peter knows how many times he's gotten shot at by now. Yet he still froze up when that shitbag pressed a gun to his head back at the gas station, even when he had a window to disarm him. Maybe it wasn't nerves keeping him from acting; shit, maybe the kid straight-up didn't know how. Winging it has enabled him to survive this long, but there are some things you just can't learn in the field. 

Frank frowns, considering the pistol in his hand. Amy got it down quick enough. Hell, she even applied it, too. He clears his throat. "Hey, Pete."

Peter glances up from tinkering with his web-shooter, the movement just jarring enough to let Frank know that he was engrossed to the point of letting himself get startled. His eyes flick from Frank's face to the pistol gripped in his hand, and he relaxes by the tiniest amount when Frank sets his gun down on the desk in front of him.

"Come over here," Frank says with a beckoning jerk of his head. 

Peter doesn't move at first. He winds his web-shooter in between his fingers as if he's debating whether or not he should listen. Turns out Frank's assessment was correct and he really can't maintain it for long, because it's not long before the kid gets to his feet and walks closer before lingering a meter or so away from where Frank sits. Peter carefully follows his hand with his eyes when Frank reaches for his gun again, though he doesn't back away when Frank stands to meet him.

"This is a Kimber," Frank says, slowly turning the gun over in his hands. "Same one they gave me in the marines. They're hard to come by, so it's not the kind you had on you at the gas station. But it'll do for this."

Peter takes a sharp breath. "I don't want to know how to sh-"

"Yeah, I got that part," Frank cuts him off with a scoff. He knows better than to waste his time trying to teach someone who doesn’t want to learn. Frank releases the magazine to replace it with an empty clip and sets it aside before pulling back the slide and ejecting the cartridge in the chamber. He returns the slide and refocuses on Peter, who's looking increasingly confused. "They never teach you how to disarm someone in superhero school? You had a window that you didn't take. You know what that means?" He points the gun at Peter's forehead and pulls the trigger. He doesn't miss how the kid flinches when the hammer clicks.

"I, um, usually use my webs to disarm. I saw the window too, I just…" He trails off, pressing his lips together and dropping his gaze.

Frank figured as much. “Now you know you’re not always gonna have your webs, right?” He takes a small step back and raises his arm with his elbow bent, pointing his Kimber square at Peter’s chest. “Hey. Someone’s got a gun on you. What do you do about it?”

Peter shifts his weight from foot to foot once understanding crosses his face as he realizes where this is going. For a moment it seems like he’s gonna walk off, but then he removes his web-shooters from his wrists and gets them to fold up before shoving them in his pocket. He takes a minute to study Frank’s stance with a critical gaze, and maybe he actually knows what he’s looking for. Then his eyes drop to Frank’s legs and his balance goes to his heels, telegraphing even worse than Amy had. It might be a good move if Frank wasn’t already planning how to counter it.

Beginner’s course it is, then. Frank straightens and drops his arm at his side. “That’s not gonna work. You get me to the ground while my gun’s still on me, you’re dead. Remember you don’t have your mask on. If you look where you’re going to strike, I can see that. Here.” Frank returns his arm to its previous position and reaches out with his other hand to grab the kid’s forearm. Peter stiffens at his touch, though he allows Frank to guide his hand—which seems to have completely healed from his burns last night—to the gun and demonstrate pushing it away without resistance. “First thing’s first: you wanna get the gun pointed away from you. Offline, right? Don’t get any closer than you have to. Show me.” 

Peter hesitates, but at Frank’s prompting nod he’s quick to dart forward and shove the gun away, his grip firm on the barrel. He gives Frank a questioning look as he holds his pose.

“Good. Now go for the wrist." This time, the kid extends his arm in advance for Frank to get a hold of to direct it to the outside of Frank's wrist. "Doesn't matter how much super strength you got, joints are still weak. You get control of them, you can get control of the weapon. Get underneath—" Frank presses the back of Peter's hand to his arm "—get control, and twist away. Use your legs, not your arms. You got that?"

Peter's tongue flicks across his lips before he nods. "Think so."

"Mmm. Show me."

Frank releases the kid and lets him back up a few paces as he assumes his earlier offensive stance. Peter takes a quick breath and eyes the gun for a moment before switching his gaze to Frank's face. At least something stuck. Frank gives him a nod of approval and less than a second later, Peter lunges. And shit, the kid's fast when he wants to be. The gun's out of his hand so quickly that Frank's not sure he could've countered it if he wanted to. 

Peter's standing there, gawking at the gun in his hand as he gives a quiet huff with the corner of his mouth quirked upward.

"Attaboy. Look at that," Frank calls, and amazingly, that's all it takes to get the grin to spread. It's small, but it makes the corner of Peter's eyes crinkle in an expression he's never seen on the kid before and he's startled to find that a part of him doesn't want it to leave. "You see that, Pete? Just like that. Boom."

"That’s actually kinda easy," Peter marvels as he turns the gun over in his hands. The grin is still there when he looks up to meet Frank's eyes.

"Hey, don't get cocky," Frank warns, and Peter schools his face back to neutral in an overexaggerated way that lets Frank know he's still playing. But they're not finished and Peter's not going to like what comes next, so it's as good of a time as any to get back on track. Frank clears his throat and brings his tone back to serious. "You're not done yet. You just took a weapon off somebody who was gonna use it on you. You don't give them the chance to try it again." 

Any trace of the smile vanishes. Peter tenses as he pieces together exactly where Frank's heading with this. He gives a tiny shake of his head and steps back, lowering the gun to his side. 

Frank doesn't relent. "If they're ready to use it on you, you gotta be ready to use it on them. You want to stay alive out there, this is something you gotta understand. Show me that you understand."

Amy had got it. Not right away, but she got it. Looking at him now, Frank can't begin to guess whether or not Peter's going to pull the trigger. The kid swallows and his hands tighten around the Kimber, his shifting balance reflecting his indecision. His finger taps next to the trigger for a few seconds before he stills and decisively rolls his shoulders back. Peter looks up at him and Frank waits for the click. Peter raises the gun- 

-and releases the magazine in a single fluid motion, perfectly copying Frank's actions from earlier. He tosses the magazine on the bed and the gun back on the couch. 

Just like that, Frank's back on the roof. Grotto's bound at his feet and Red has the gun taped to his hand. The look on Red's face before he shot the chain is almost identical to the one Peter wears now. The way he raises his chin and the unwavering stare is all Red, and Frank bets the defiance in his eyes is exactly what's under Red's mask. Frank purses his lips and lets out a low hum. If the kid wants to take door number three, then Frank will oblige. He snatches a handgun off the side table and takes aim at Peter's head.

"Bang. Spider-Man's dead." 

The kid's eyes go wide and his jaw drops. "That's not- That's cheating." There's actual indignation in his voice.

"Cheating?" Frank huffs and he has to look away for a moment to shake his head before going back to Peter. "You think the guys trying to shoot at you are gonna play fair?"

"But I saw that gun," Peter says—Christ, almost whines. "It's not like I wasn't paying attention. I wouldn't have just left a pile of guns sitting next to an actual bad guy, Mr. Castle."

An actual bad guy. Frank wonders if Peter's realized that his mind's made up. "Yeah? Then what would you have done?"

Peter opens his mouth, then promptly closes it. "Knocked them out?"

"Uh-huh. You done that before? Hand-to-hand?"

Peter reaches his hand across his body to rub at his arm. "I mean, you just hit them hard on the head, right?" 

Jesus Christ. "Can't believe this kid," Frank mutters under his breath, remembering Peter's enhanced hearing a moment too late. It's nothing short of a miracle that the idiot's not dead already.

Peter scoffs as Frank collects his Kimber and the magazine from the furniture, then fetches a new cartridge to reload it. The kid takes a breath, then lets it out as he maneuvers around Frank to better meet his eyes. "I can learn," he says, cocking his head to the side and raising his eyebrows the slightest amount.

Frank shakes his head and brushes him off with a huff. Figures. The second the kid realizes he can get something from him, he has no problem being friendly.

"Teach a man to fish, right?" Peter prods, and Frank can feel the kid hovering behind him as he pockets his Kimber and puts away the rest of his guns from the side table.

He pauses to give the kid a look. "You want a demonstration?" 

Peter scowls and Frank has to withhold a chuckle that he knows Peter wouldn't take kindly to. Still, the kid keeps a loose follow behind him as Frank crosses the floor to flip off the light, dimming the room with only the lamp between the beds allowing him to see. Confusion moves across Peter's face as Frank picks up his phone and moves his duffle from the bed to the floor before lying back on top of the quilt, swiftly transferring his Kimber under the pillow in the same motion. He bends his elbow behind his head to prop up the pillow with his forearm, but he only barely closes his eyes before Peter speaks.

"It's only eight-thirty."

Frank doesn't open his eyes. "Mm-hmm."

Peter's silent for a moment and Frank almost fools himself into thinking it's going to last. "Mr. Castle?"

Frank half-succeeds in suppressing a sigh. "I'm risin’ early."

"What for?" Peter asks, instantly suspicious.

"Recon. Info-gathering. See what I can dig up." And maybe eliminate some of the adversary if he's lucky. "I'd appreciate it if you tried to get some sleep."

"Oh," Peter mumbles, pacified. There's a creaking from the other bed and rustling of sheets as Peter gets settled. The click of the lamp turning off follows and Frank stops himself mid-motion from turning it back on. Sleeping in the dark is riskier, but if Peter's senses really are as enhanced as he claims, Frank can understand why he wants it. Frank sinks back into the pillow. He can acclimate. 

If he's able to be productive enough for the next few days, he wouldn't have to acclimate for long. The sooner he can get Peter to Red, the better off Peter will be. It's the step before that'll be the real trick.

The mattress squeaks and the sheets swish from the other bed. Frank waits for the noise to stop before he lets out a slow breath and focuses on emptying his mind.

He's almost able to hear Maria calling to him when more creaking whisks her away. Frank doesn't know why it bothers him when he's made do with gunfire and distant shouts in the background before, so he redoubles his efforts. Almost succeeds too, but then a long exhale comes from where Peter lays. 

"You comfy yet?"

"Sorry," Peter whispers, and Frank can't decide what's off about his voice until a quiet sniffle comes after. "Hey, do you- Can I turn on the TV? I'll keep the volume low."

Frank might agree to it if the flashing screen wouldn't be such an attention-grabber through the curtains. "No."

"Please?"

He wonders if please ever worked with his aunt and uncle, or any other adult Peter's ever talked to. "No."

Peter doesn't respond immediately. When he does, Frank has to strain to hear it. "May liked to watch TV after I went to bed."

Something heavy settles over Frank's chest. He runs a hand down his face and sighs before reaching over and turning on the lamp. Peter's straightened out under the blankets of the other bed, the covers pulled up to his chin. His bloodshot eyes squint at the sudden light and follow Frank warily as he pushes himself up and moves to the couch. Better to tackle this early than to let it fester.

"We gonna keep whispering like we're at a little girls' sleepover or are we gonna have a conversation?" Frank shoots the kid a pointed look once he sits back on the cushion. "Hmm?"

Peter works his lips for a moment and can't meet Frank's eyes. So Frank inches closer to the armrest and nods firmly at the empty cushion next to him. It's a gamble, but in the end it pays off. Peter pushes back the blankets and pads over to the couch, proceeding to sit squarely in the center of his cushion and clasp his hands in between his thighs. He doesn't say anything right away, though Frank knows he can wait this one out.

His shoulders drop and a puff of air escapes his nose as the kid folds. "My uncle died because I didn't stop the person that killed him," Peter says after a beat. "And so I decided to stop the bad guys first, you know? Because if I didn't, and I could, it'd be on me."

Frank got hints of it before, but he has confirmation now. Guilt. It's the first thing that's not Red. Red would never admit it, yet Frank can see that at least part of the reason he does what he does is that he just wants to hit somebody. Right then, something clicks. Peter's not like them. He doesn't care about retribution. And Frank's initial read was off too—he doesn't swing around in his fancy suit for the glory or to flaunt his powers either. He just doesn't want people to go through what he went through. 

Frank's seen child soldiers before. Frank's personally known soldiers that weren't done growing up yet. Kids that were still naïve enough to think that they alone could turn the tide of war. They all ended up one of two ways: broken or dead.

Peter clears his throat. "So- So if I did that- I became Spider-Man, saved people, stopped the bad guys, why… why is May still dead?" The kid's voice does something funny on the last word. 

Almost by itself, Frank's arm drapes over the back of the couch above Peter's shoulders. He's not touching the kid, but he closed most of the distance.

"It's not fair," Peter says, staring at his lap. He stiffens a little and risks a look at Frank. "Sorry, I know that sounds real mature, and I didn't mean that what happened to you was—” Frank doesn’t mean to tense, but Peter must pick up on it anyway “—nevermind. I dunno.” The kid swallows. "Do… Do you get scared, Mr. Castle?"

Frank huffs. The kid sounds like he genuinely doesn't know. "Everyone gets scared, kid."

Peter nods his head in a way that's more considering of Frank's answer than in agreement. His mouth is pressed in a tight line and his eyes are downcast, like he's afraid of what Frank will find in them.

Does he get scared? Lisa had been the last one to ask him that. It was the last night at his home before he was sent overseas for the final time, and Lisa was just starting to understand what he was leaving to do. Frankie hadn't had any doubts that he would come back, didn't even think that marines could feel fear. But Lisa—there was no fooling her. Frank had sat her down on the couch next to him, about as close as Peter is to him now, and he just held her. And she held him until they both passed out, and Frank doesn't know if he could've walked out the door that morning if Lisa hadn't stayed asleep.

Frank pulls his arm back from above Peter's shoulders and keeps it at his side before he can change his mind. 

"It's not gonna be easy. Your life before this? You're never gonna get that back." Frank softens his tone to lessen the sting of his words because he knows that anything less than the truth won’t do shit. "And it's not gonna stop hurting. Not for good. But you've got an after. I've got a guy who's gonna set you up. Fix this whole mess with you and the police and get you right back in your school."

"Curtis?" Peter asks as if he can't imagine Frank having more than one guy in his corner.

Frank scoffs. "Matt Murdock. Lawyer in Hell's Kitchen."

A small line appears in the middle of Peter's brow. "Murdock?" he repeats. "You know a lawyer?"

"Did my trial."

"I followed your trial." The pauses between Peter's responses are getting longer and longer. "I wouldn't think your lawyers like you all that much."

That's fair, given how Frank ended it. He nods, conceding to Peter's point. "He's not gonna help you for me, kid. He takes cases pro-bono, but he's good."

"Okay."

It’s just a simple okay, complete acceptance with no skepticism added. Either Peter's wearing out faster than he thought, or something's shifted. Whatever it is, Peter's efforts to carry on the conversation seem to be waning as he sinks further and further back into the couch. 

"He's not gonna put me in foster care, is he?" he finally asks. The trepidation in his voice is hard to miss, almost masking the exhaustion.

"Nah. He'll work something out for you. Make sure you can keep Spider-Man, too."

Peter grunts in acknowledgment, then doesn't say anything for long enough that Frank's momentarily convinced he nodded off. "Can you bring my letter to Ned t'morrow? I wrote his address on the back." The request comes out a mumble.

And right there's another piece of the puzzle. It'd be easy for David—hell, even Frank—to figure out where Ned goes to school with his full name and address, and by association, where Peter goes to school. They'd have the kid's last name in the bag by that point. Then would come his age, apartment, and everything else he's not willing to tell them. It'd be the easy play, the smart play, so Frank's not entirely sure why he resolves to drop it off without a second glance at it.

"Yeah, he'll get it."

Peter makes a noise that Frank decides to interpret as an appreciative hum. Then the kid's breaths start to slow and he turns to his side as he starts to slump against the back of the couch. 

"Hey, not here," Frank grunts, repositioning himself to get a grip on Peter's shoulders. He goes to stand and pulls Peter up with him, an action that prompts a sharp breath and gets the kid’s head to bob back up. Steering Peter to the bed proves less of a challenge and all he needs is a nudge before he's down on the pillow. Frank draws the blankets back over him and takes a minute to assure himself that Peter's really out. 

Peter hadn't seemed this small when Frank first saw him at the gang's headquarters. Somehow, this is the same kid who was running out of buildings with children in his arms and webbing up armed criminals while cracking jokes. Whether Spider-Man's bravado was a facade or not, there's no trace left of it now. 

Frank should've shot those last two bastards while he had the chance.

He fishes his handgun out from under the pillow and double-checks that Peter's burner is on the nightstand. Quietly, Frank sets the Kimber down next to it. The kid probably wouldn't use it, even if he needed to, so Frank can admit to himself that arming him is more for his peace of mind than anything else. Frank pockets the folded note on the table with an address scrawled on the back before he takes a second to memorize the path to the door. Keeping his movements silent, he picks up his duffle and turns off the lamp. He hadn't been lying when he told Peter that he intended to leave in the morning to gather more intel on the gang, but he'd be hard-pressed to sleep now.

And he doesn’t need to deal with the bullshit the kid would start if he sees the number of guns Frank packs in his duffle.

With light footsteps, Frank heads for the door.

Notes:

If there is a spectrum of how pleasant phone calls with people that you don't know the identity of go, Peter and Frank are on opposite ends

Thank you for all your lovely comments! They really help fuel the fire for this story

Chapter 10: Red Sky at Morning

Notes:

I briefly considered trying to come up with individual chapter titles, but alas, titles are my greatest weakness so I'm sticking with the very creative "Chapter 10." Writers who come up with titles for each chapter, how do you do it?? How do they come to you???

Also you guys are so nice in the comments, reading them just makes my day :)

Mr. Castle is gone when Peter wakes up.

Peter's pretty sure that rising early to someone like Mr. Castle means before the sun, so he's not sure why he's disappointed to find himself alone when he opens his eyes and sees sunlight shining through the curtains. His letter to Ned on the nightstand is gone too, replaced by Mr. Castle's Kimber like some kind of warped parting gift.

According to the alarm clock, first period is just about to end. It'll mark the most Peter's ever missed of school since becoming Spider-Man, as sick days are no longer a thing for him. Ned's probably well beyond freaking out by now and Flash is most likely spreading ridiculous rumors that he'll have to struggle to dismantle when he gets back. MJ will either have tons of questions or no questions for him, and Peter's not sure which one would be worse. He bets that his teachers will be giving him the same looks he got after Ben died, all rueful and poignant and every time he’ll raise his hand in class they'll pounce to call on him with an eager expression like he's finally emerging out of a shell of depression in their presence.

He bets he'll get double those looks, suitable for being orphaned twice the usual number of times. Not to mention whatever story Mr. Castle and the lawyer decided to spin around him; he doubts he'll be able to pass off "I spent some time hanging out with the Punisher" without being required to have at least a dozen therapy sessions. Matt Murdock must be some lawyer for Mr. Castle to think he can pull that off, but Peter's surprised to find that Mr. Castle's faith in this guy is enough for him.

Peter absently reaches for his burner on the nightstand. Maybe he could dig into it himself. He has the law firm's number in his call history and he wouldn't mind talking to the nice lady again. Then again, Mr. Castle seems to be operating on some sort of timetable, and Peter doesn't want to suffer the consequences of screwing that timetable up.

But he also knows that Mr. Castle's timetable isn't without fatalities.

Peter throws off the blankets and pushes himself to his feet, decisively flipping open his phone. He goes to his call history and scrolls down to the number he knows to be David's and dials.

"Hi, Peter," David answers after the third ring, a strained note to his voice.

"Did you find anything?" 

David huffs. "Well, good morning to you too." Peter winces at himself as a less than stifled yawn sounds from the receiver. "You know I sleep, right? For future reference, I'm a pretty all-around average human being, so-"

"Sorry," Peter mumbles, but more for the sake of getting to the point. "So… is that a no?"

"You're worse than Frank," David sighs. "Yeah, I did some digging. Finally accessed Gargan's prison files. Know what I found?"

Something between anticipation and dread flares up in Peter's chest. "What?"

"That he's a sociopath. And he's already made up his mind that he wants you dead. He's not going to-"

Peter fails to hold back a scoff as he begins to pace, running a hand down his face. "You don't know that, okay?" he snaps, then takes a deep breath to pull himself back. "Look, there has to be something. You don't- I don't want anyone else to die because of me. So- So if you can't help me with that, then-"

"Peter." There's a shift in David's tone. "You know what I was before I got tangled up in this shit? An NSA analyst. I know people. I know how they work. So when I tell you that Gargan's not going to settle with anything less than your death, believe me, I know."

Peter opens his mouth to protest, but it dies in his throat. That's not- That can't be right. May would never agree with that. One analyst’s opinion doesn’t warrant a death sentence. No one can get to really know a person like that by just watching videos or reading files about them. David can't know if-

"Look," David blows out a long breath. "I know that's not what you want to hear. But nobody's dying because of you—they all made their own choices."

Peter grits his teeth. That's not what Mr. Castle said. Peter's made his choices too. "You don't get it. This is my fight, okay? It's me Gargan wants. Not you, not Mr. Castle. I should be the one that decides how it's going to end. And I don't want anyone else to die."

"You're a child."

He has to resist the urge to throw the phone against the wall. He knows damn well that he's a kid—how can he forget when he's constantly being reminded of it—but that doesn't mean that he's suddenly incapable of having a moral compass. Child or not, he's been Spider-Man for almost a year now. He's been in more fights than David probably ever has, created his own devices to win them, and he hasn't ended a single one of them with murder. And to think that David and Mr. Castle suddenly know what's best for him better than he does now that he's on his own—Peter tightens his grip around the phone.

"Peter…"

It's in the same tone of voice the teachers used to use.

Peter shakes his head. He's not doing this Mr. Castle's way. He can't let it play out like that. May wouldn't want vengeance, and she especially wouldn't want Peter being complicit with it. Criminal or civilian, Spider-Man doesn’t let people die. If he’s supposed to be Spider-Man when all this is over, he can’t do it knowing he sat by and allowed someone to be killed for him. If Mr. Castle’s right and there really is no way this ends with everyone alive, it won’t be because of his inaction. Peter reaches in his pockets and applies his web-shooters to his wrists. 

This is Queens. His home turf. He knows where the criminals hang out and he knows just what kinds he needs to find. Peter raises the phone back to his ear. "Thanks for looking," he bites out.

"Woah, hey, hold on," David rushes out before he can snap the phone closed. "Just- Just hold on. I know how Spider-Man works too. I studied up on you, remember?"

Peter takes a slow breath. Someone straight-up admitting to trying to uncover his secret identity is hard to forget.

"Are you gonna stay in that motel room after you hang up?"

Peter swallows and clamps his mouth shut.

"Yeah, that's what I thought. And I'm guessing that Frank's not in there with you. So if you're gonna go out there regardless—" Peter hears static through the receiver, indicative of movement "—I'd rather not have you parading your face around Queens. Around Thirty-eighth and Thirty-fourth might have what you're looking for. Lots of drug deals going on in a spot along there, and Gargan's guys are the distributors."

For a moment, Peter's mind goes blank at the information just presented to him. His jaw drops and it takes him a few seconds to process it. "I- Thank y-"

The line goes dead.

Peter tightens his jaw and faces the door. He sets the burner back on the nightstand and beelines for the dresser when he hears how loud the wind whistles against the window. The heater in his suit would be real nice about now, though Peter's in no position to be picky. He scans through the few clothing items in the drawers and settles on Mr. Castle's black hoodie, quickly pulling it over his head. It smells faintly of gun oil and he has to bunch up the sleeves to free his hands, but it does a decent job of concealing his web-shooters and it seems heavy enough to make the cold bearable.

He heads for the exit, but something stops his feet before he can grab for the handle. The top of the nightstand recaptures his attention out of the corner of his eye, the Kimber, phone, and alarm clock the only things on it. He'd almost forgotten that Ned's letter is gone. Which means Mr. Castle always intended to deliver it, just as Peter asked him to.

Peter doubles back to slip his burner in his pocket before he shuts the door behind him.

---

 Frank unscrews the lid to his canteen and takes a swig.

He’d rather rely on decent rest over coffee to keep himself alert, but he’s learned to make do. Staying out until morning hadn’t been the plan. Everyone's eager to rat with the muzzle of a rifle to their head, yet the accuracy of such info is a whole different shitpile. Nobody knows where Gargan is and everybody knows someone who does. Frank’s only rewarded with the confirmation that Gargan's keeping Spider-Man's identity close to his chest and that no one has the guts to question why he's so set on finding a high schooler in the first place. Not that Frank expects anything different from this crowd.

It’s a goddamn relief when he finally gets an address instead of a name.

Frank shifts his coat to better conceal his gun; the last thing he needs is to attract attention. Unless what meets him is a gamechanger, Frank commits to return to Peter after this next stop. The kid should be getting hungry by now and the only thing that makes Frank less comfortable than leaving him alone for this long is the thought of bringing him along. He has to remind himself that the kid’s not helpless—super strength goes a long way. And he’s more capable than Amy was in every way except for the fact that when it comes down to it, he won’t pull the trigger. 

If only that wasn’t the one that matters the most.

The address leads to a fourth-story apartment in a complex in Astoria that's far too occupied for his liking. The decision to get a better vantage point into said apartment comes instantly to him, and it's not long before he's on the roof of the neighboring building and angling his rifle to the window. He props it up on the edge of the wall to steady the gun before he lowers himself behind it and peers through the scope.

It’d be a fucking miracle if Gargan waltzed into his line of fire, so Frank's not surprised when that's not what happens. There's a distinct lack of a scorpion tattoo on the neck of the guy that backs up into the frame of the window, and Frank can't see enough of his face to determine if he's one of the men David had shown him way back when he first agreed to put them down. Only a few seconds pass before he paces right back out of the frame, allowing Frank to focus on the wall and door behind him.

The wallpaper is dull and tearing away at the edges and there are scuff marks on the wooden door, clashing with the fancy knick-knacks on the shelf next to it. When the guy appears back behind the window, Frank can make out an expensive watch on his left wrist. There aren’t many reasons as to why a guy who doesn't have money troubles would keep living in such a run-down apartment. Seems like the address isn't a bust after all. Frank moves his hand up the barrel of his rifle to tuck it away, intending to get face-to-face with the man when he notices that the man’s left wrist is shaking.

The guy falters back and holds his arms out in front of him, palms up. His eyes are wide and there's a sheen on his forehead, his mouth moving quickly as he gives consistent tiny shakes of his head. A gun sits at his waist, a gun that Frank can't figure out why he's not reaching for. Instead, he runs his hand through his thin hair before scrambling back like a cornered rat.

Frank narrows his eye as he adjusts the scope. The guy presses his back against the window and slides to the side, fumbling as the curtains catch around his shoulder and the curtain rod falls to the ground. He jolts at the presumed crash and drops out of Frank's sight. A shadow falls across the floor that moves toward the man, preceding—

The hell?

Frank blinks. Leans forward, adjusts his scope, and checks again. His eyes have never deceived him before.

The fuck is—?

There, in all his red and gold glory, stands Iron Man himself.

He strolls up behind the window while making flaunting gestures with his arms, the sunlight glaring off his armor into Frank's eye. Iron Man bends down and roughly hauls the guy up by his shoulders, even going as far as brushing them off in a way that might seem friendly if it weren't for the way the man trembles. He claps his gauntlet-fitted hands together and starts pacing in a tight circle, his faceplate keeping Frank from having the slightest goddamn clue what he's talking about.

Spider-Man at the warehouse had been a surprise. It shouldn't have been, as everything about his appearance there fit his MO, so it was Frank's own fault for not anticipating it. Iron Man is from fucking left field.

Last Frank checked, Tony Stark is keeping himself busy by building robots that run cities into the ground and being the poster boy for the Sokovia Accords that sparked the Avengers' team-ending pissing match. Unless the guy Frank had been scouting is some alien in disguise and Peter somehow managed to get himself into fucking galactic level shit, he can't begin to imagine what Stark deems to fit his paygrade here. A PR stunt maybe, because Frank doesn't doubt that there are people who would applaud Stark for putting away a drug dealer, as if it required any effort on his part to do so.

Frank takes his finger off the trigger. His bullet wouldn't even dent Stark's armor, and he doesn't need Stark tracing the shot if he went for the dealer. He's stuck watching as Stark and the guy move behind the window, then leave his view for a good couple of minutes before he finally sees Stark exit through the door. Frank ducks down behind the wall completely and pulls his gun with him. He fishes his phone out of his pocket and holds it up in front of him, taking a moment to angle it just right to capture the reflection of the neighboring building's roof on the screen.

It's not long before he makes out the opening of the roof access door before Stark steps out and flies off without so much as a sound or a glance behind him. Frank waits a long moment to assure himself that he's well and gone before packing up his gun and making his way to the stairs. 

He only bothers to check in on the Avengers shit every so often to make sure he's likely to remain off their radar. Once he has that determined, he couldn't care less about what the media force-feeds him about them. Maybe paying attention to it would've done him some good, because right now it's a toss-up if Stark killed that dealer or not. Only one way to be certain.

Frank keeps his pace casual as he crosses the sidewalk to the apartment complex. There's no lock on the front door, so Frank doesn't waste time opening it and slipping inside. He holds his handgun in front of him and presses close to the wall as he scales the stairs to the fourth floor. All but one of the apartment doors are closed. Frank locks his eyes on his target and silently walks the length of the hall.

Keeping his back to the wall while holding his finger over the trigger, he nudges the door open and waits.

"Listen man, I told you everything I know, okay?!" A persistent thudding follows the words.

Frank steps in the room.

The dealer is handcuffed to what must be the bedroom door, his struggles turning frantic as the color drains from his face when his eyes land on Frank. Christ, even the handcuffs are the on-brand red and gold. Frank twists the knob when he closes the door behind him to ensure that the latch doesn't make a sound. 

"Hey, woah, you're not supposed to- whatever you think I did, I swear I-"

Frank shushes him as he steps closer and the dealer's wise enough to go silent. "Wanna tell me about that little chat you just had?"

"Look, if you think I called him, that's not it, okay? I'd never- I didn't even know he was-"

The crack of his nose under Frank's knuckles gives him a twinge of satisfaction. The scum gasps and sputters as he uses his free hand to wipe at his bloodied face.

"You think that I thought you have Iron Man on speed dial?" Frank growls, making a show of drawing up his gun. 

"No! He said he was- something about playing connect the dots. About where you are and where you've stashed the kid." A cold pit opens in Frank's stomach. The shitbag breaks off, brow furrowing as he studies Frank's face. "Holy shit. You didn't know?" 

Frank hardens his expression and presses the gun against his temple. "Didn't know what?"

The dealer flinches under the barrel. "That kid—the one that you took from Gargan? Iron Man's looking for him. So he's looking for you. I don't know why, and I didn't tell him anything because I don't know anything. And the police are on their way, so you don't have to-"

Frank cuts him off with a round to the forehead. Took him from Gargan tells him more than he needs to know about where this bastard's allegiance lies. He heads for the door as he starts to make out the wail of sirens in the distance and all but runs down the stairs.

A cold rush of wind blasts his face when he exits the apartment. He takes a sharp turn into an alley and forces himself to walk the rest of the way to the car.

No way in hell is Iron Man looking for Peter. If Gargan found out the kid's identity, it'd be a breeze for Stark. How he knows Peter's with Frank is a different matter entirely. The bodies of May and the men that Frank put down should be all identified by now; it's likely Stark found out what gang they were tied to and worked from there. Or he went down David's route, maybe managing to scrounge up the footage from the convenience store if Frank's bullet didn't ruin it. Stark has the skills of a spook to run gait recognition if Frank missed a camera that caught him and the ki-

Frank almost stops in his tracks. The spook.

Shit. Frank's decision to refuse the Central Park meeting was a dodged bullet. He twists his mouth into a frown, trying to bring the conversation to the forefront of his mind. You have something that doesn't belong to you made a hell of a lot more sense coming from someone under Gargan. Who did Stark think Peter belonged to? Him? Why was he set on finding the kid in the first place? Frank can't recall any of the Avengers giving a damn when Red dropped off the grid. What singles Spider-Man out?

Central park, noon tomorrow. Bring the kid, unharmed. Another thing that had made sense coming from Gargan; part of that no one can kill him but me thing he has going. Since when did Stark care about Peter getting hurt with the kid swinging around and stopping armed robberies for the past year? Something had to have changed for him to- 

It all clicks into place.

The Sokovia Accords. Or the Superhero Registration Act, as so many news outlets seem fond of calling it. Frank's seen firsthand how long it takes UN decisions to be enacted, so it makes sense that Peter's been Spider-Man without trouble for the last four months. But the kid's not careful like Red is. Frank doesn't think Peter would know if the government dug into him. As long as the kid stays in place, keeps his routine and his offenses minor, it makes sense for the government to decide to deal with the big fish before moving on to him and slamming a contract in front of his face and telling the kid to sign up or rot in a cell for the rest of his life.

But the second Spider-Man drops off the grid, he becomes unpredictable. Frank's well-aware of how dangerous an unpredictable Spider-Man can be. Seems like their priorities just shifted.

It's not just Gargan after the kid now.

Frank opens his burner as soon as he makes it to the car. Red would know the most about this Sokovia Accords shit and how it applies to the kid, and for a second he finds his finger hovering over the number. But he doesn't have time to launch into an explanation, so he scrolls down to David's contact and dials.

The phone clicks halfway through the first ring.

Frank clears his throat. "I need you to look into the Sokovia Accords."

"Frank? Oh, thank God. You gotta tell me when you switch phones, becau- wait, Sokovia-?"

Frank lets out a sigh as he runs his hand down his face. "David-"

"No no, put a pin in that. There's a parking garage on Thirty-eighth and Thirty-fourth that you should be at five minutes ago. Peter took off."

Frank's blood runs cold. "What did you say?"

David keeps talking, but his words sound distant. "I tried to stop him, but he was going to leave anyway so I thought I could direct him somewhere- Look, he's gonna try to contact Gargan. I thought if Gargan could be baited in and then you could- I've been tracking him with security cameras, but I lost him in the parking garage about two minutes ago."

"Shit!" Frank twists the keys in the ignition and swerves onto the road. He ends the call and glances between his phone and the street as he goes to Peter's number. His only assurance comes when it goes to voicemail in the middle of the second ring. Frank throws his phone on the passenger seat. "Goddamnit, Pete."

At least Amy had survival instincts. This idiot's wandering through the city, maskless, with a fucking gang and the government on his ass. And Frank never gave Peter David's number. The only way the kid could've called him is if he- Frank tightens his grip on the wheel. The little shit. After he promised to get Red to set the kid up, taught him how to disarm, hell, let him cry into his chest- Frank never expected anything in return, but Christ, he thought he'd earned something other than this.

Frank clenches his jaw. When he gets Peter out of this, they're gonna have a long fucking talk.

Frank presses on the gas and tries to tell himself that his racing heart can be chalked up to anger alone.

Notes:

:)

Chapter 11: The Scorpion and the Spider

Notes:

Super big thanks to candlesneedflame for their beta skills, as always. And in case you hadn't noticed, I have chapter titles now (except for chapter 5, because I am a big dumb but I'll think of something eventually i swear)! I'm also coming down with a cough and a fever, so I might be grounded to my bed for a while, which might mean more writing time or more sleeping time, so the release date of the next chapter might be twice as late or twice as early depending on which.

Also, the response to the previous chapter was amazing I love you guys

Spiders, if Peter remembers correctly, can't thermoregulate. It's one of the many tidbits he picked up after some deep research following the bite, one that only rarely comes to the forefront of his mind. A thermometer on his tongue had been quick to assure him that he had nothing to worry about on that front, and the only time he ever wonders at it are in the classrooms of teachers who believe that a cold atmosphere helps keep students awake instead of making them want to resort to hibernation.

Now, Peter can't help but reconsider the possibility. He has to clench his jaw to keep his teeth from chattering and bunch the hoodie's sleeves around his hands to ensure that his fingers don't freeze off. His nose and cheeks sting whenever another gust of wind barrels down the sidewalk and his enhanced senses definitely aren't helping. When he swings, the cold is either taken care of by the adrenaline rush or rendered unnoticeable by the thrill. But he hasn't had to walk anywhere in weather like this without May stopping him first to pull a hat over his ears or toss a pair of gloves in his hands in a long while. Each year as winter neared, his asthma worsened, and he'd noticed May catching herself from reminding him of it a few times in the past month.

Peter flips the hood over his head and tries not to think about how May would never stop him at the door again.

He halts at a street corner and peers up at the sign. 34th Street. A few blocks to the right, and then… Peter frowns. It'd either be an incredibly good or an incredibly bad stroke of Parker Luck if Gargan is just hanging out under the 38th Avenue sign. David said that the drug deals going on were tied back to Gargan, so it shouldn't be too difficult to find one and take the dealer's phone. Did most gang members have a direct line to the gang leader? Or would he have to talk to some kind of intermediary? Hi, it's me, Spider-Man. Can I arrange an appointment with your mob boss, please?

Mr. Castle would likely know the answer. Peter's burner phone weighs heavy against his thigh as he turns down the street. Mr. Castle also hadn't given him a time that he'd return, so Peter's got no idea how long he has before Mr. Castle realizes he left. If this goes well, he'll be back in the motel room before that happens. 

There are no dark alleys or sketchy parking lots in sight when he gets to the intersection. The only undesirable thing as far as he can tell is that he can see his breath hang in the air when he exhales. Where's a drug dealer when you need one? Peter pauses to survey the road when his eyes land on a pair of half-open garage doors on the side of a building at the end of the street. A small car sits tucked inside one of them, covered by a green, dust-coated tarp. A far too new-looking security camera is angled down toward the entrance. 

Peter ducks his head down and pulls the hood as far over his face as he can as he strolls into the parking garage. Despite the dimly lit entryway and the suspicious lack of many parked cars for an open New York lot, the sudden shelter from the wind is a relief. He presses against the wall as soon as he's out of sight of the street.

The entryway opens into a large parking space that's divided in two by a half-wall that signifies a ramp leading to a lower level, a design that likely continues further down. A few cars are clustered around the stairwell that leads to the building above on the opposite side of the lot, but the parking garage is otherwise empty. At least, the top level is. The hood falls over Peter's shoulders as he transitions from the wall to the ceiling, slowly crawling along the slanted cement above the ramp to get a vantage point to the lot below. 

A lone car sits in the center of the parking lot and it only takes Peter a quick glance to note the figure leaning under a light against the opposite wall, tapping away on his phone with a distant expression. A drug dealer waiting for his customer, if Peter has to guess.

He prepares to fire a webline to swing down from and a second shot to ensnare the man when a voice rings uninvited through his head. You gotta get better at this part of the job. Peter doesn't have an interrogation mode to pry out the man's password if his phone was locked, not that that had been at all effective the last time he did this. Last time, the criminal had told him where Toomes was going to be to further his own interests and because he thought Peter was "ballsy." As much as Peter hates to admit it, he hadn't seemed the slightest bit intimidated. Peter doesn't even have his mask now. Not only would his teenage face make him less likely to be taken seriously, but the drug dealer would then be able to match the face of Spider-Man.

Mr. Castle is intimidating. The man back in the convenience store hadn't taken long to give Mr. Castle the answers he wanted, and Peter doesn't think all of it can be attributed to his ribs being crushed under a boot. 

Mr. Castle had never raised his voice. Maybe that was something interrogation mode got wrong. He asked his questions in a moderate tone and didn't waste time repeating himself when not given a response. Even when it's Peter he's demanding answers out of, he never yells. When it's not a direct order of "tell me," he speaks like he's expecting an answer, not hoping for one. Now that Peter thinks back on it, Mr. Castle had always made sure that Peter was sitting before pressing him for information. There was probably a reason for that, though he couldn't quite suss it out. Peter bites his lip and furrows his brow. His eye contact never wavered and he always held himself like there wasn't a single threat to him in the room. And when he wanted Peter to stay in the warehouse that first night, he made sure to explain why it was in Peter’s best interests to do what he wanted.

Being known to the public and criminal underworld as "The Punisher" probably helps too.

Peter takes a deep breath. He swiftly drops to the floor and ducks behind the half-wall. He peeks over it and carefully aims his wrist at the man. 

The man lets out a shriek as a glob of webbing collides with his face. His phone drops to the ground as he scrabbles to tear it off. Peter jumps over the half-wall and fires a webline to the ceiling to propel him across the parking lot while shooting a second set of webs to stick the guy's hands to his side. 

"The fuck is this stuff?!" he yelps, his head swiveling around wildly as if he's trying to see past the webbing coating his eyes. Peter makes his footsteps slow and deliberate as he approaches the man, gratified when he fumbles back against the wall in response.

Peter stoops down to pick up the now cracked phone and turns it on. Nine dots shine back at him on the screen. Patterns aren’t that hard to guess if the man doesn’t talk. Peter fires a web to the wall and silently maneuvers around the man to stick it against his back. The guy shouts and grunts as he's yanked back into the concrete, his breaths quickly becoming desperate and frantic.

So far, so good. In a voice he's careful to keep level, Peter demands, "You're going to tell me the pattern to unlock your phone."

The man's struggles stop for a moment as his brow furrows and his head tilts to the side. "Wait, what?"

Shit. Peter steps closer into the man's space in hopes to gain back his control. "You work for Gargan, don't you?"

"I-" The man breaks off with a frown. "Wait, you're Spider-Man, yeah?"

Before Peter can figure out a response, a loud ringing erupts from his pocket. Peter's glad the man can't see his undignified jump before he fumbles for his burner. Mr. Castle's number shines at him from the screen, prompting a flare of panic as he flips open the phone to immediately shut it and end the call.

Peter starts pacing as he runs a hand down his face. Mr. Castle knows he left. He probably just returned to find the motel room empty. Should he have left a note? Would it have made a difference? And the fact that he thought Peter would answer… Peter’s stomach twists.

"Maybe you should've taken that. I don't think Mommy likes it when you ignore her calls," the man jeers.

Frustration boils up in Peter's chest. He opens his mouth to spit out a retort, then closes it to reconsider. "Actually, that was the Punisher."

The man lets out a short bark of laughter, but his sneer fades when Peter doesn't follow it up. "You're joking."

"Usually, yeah. But mutual interests, you know? It happens." Peter gives a shrug that the man can't see. "I want Gargan, he wants Gargan… gotta keep tabs on each other’s progress. Little info exchange here and there. I can call him back if you don't believe me." He types out random numbers on his phone, the frustration replaced with satisfaction when the guy flinches at the beeps.

"Okay, okay, you don't have to- It's a backward L, then up to the middle. That's the pattern, okay?" the man rushes out.

Peter silently sighs at the fact that he had to invoke Mr. Castle’s name to get his answer, but it's a far cry better than resorting to Mr. Castle's methods. He switches out his burner for the man's smartphone and tries the pattern, humming when the lock screen switches to the home. Gar is all he needs to type before Mac Gargan shines back at him in bold letters. He opens the messages and types out, This is Spider-Man. I'm at the parking garage on 34th.

His thumb hovers above Send for what feels like a minute before he musters the ability to press it.

"You gonna turn Gargan in or something?" the drug dealer pipes up. 

Peter's breath catches in his throat when the phone vibrates in his hand. With a shaky thumb, he opens the message.

Prove it.

His heart batters against his ribcage. He opens the camera and the image trembles when he angles it to point at the web-shooter on his wrist. He somehow manages to get a clear picture when he snaps the photo. 

Gargan's reply is almost immediate.

Can't wait.

A shudder crawls down Peter's spine.

"This web stuff comes off, right?" the man grumbles, twisting his neck to rub his face against his shoulder.

"Give it t-two hours."

The man perks up, eyebrows raised. "Aww, you scared, Spidey?"

Peter presses his mouth into a thin line.

"Gargan's really not a fan of yours, you know. Got real pissed after you scarred him up on that ferry." 

"That was an accident, okay?" Peter snaps. "I wasn't the one who knocked him overboard."

"Yeah? Have fun explaining that to him."

"Drug trafficking is a felony, you know. Gets you about five years, right? You think you'll have fun in prison?"

The man shrugs. "At least I can expect five more years."

Peter huffs in an attempt to cover up the deep breath he has to take at the man's words. He's never met anyone who completely refuses to listen to reason, who doesn't have a single ounce of humanity. Even Toomes spared him in the car homecoming night and he hadn't fought against Peter after he pulled him out of that fire. When all was said and done, Peter knows that Toomes did what he did because he cares about his family and wanted to support them. It lines up with what Ben and May taught him about there being good in everyone, and even Mr. Castle failed to prove them wrong. There has to be something Gargan cares about that he can appeal to.

"I've seen Gargan do some pretty messed up shit," the drug dealer begins casually. "I'd be surprised if he-"

A web to the mouth is quick to render him silent. The man grunts in protest and writhes for a bit before giving up with a long sigh through his nose. When Peter finds himself pacing again, at least the man can't comment on it.

There's only one way Gargan can enter, so Peter doesn't have to worry about an ambush. That's something. But the only cover in the lot is the man's car in the center, which doesn't provide him with much if things go south. He's pretty sure he has enough web fluid left to fight his way out if it comes to it, and if not, he now knows how to get a gun out of his opponent's hands without it.

About five more minutes of fidgeting pass before his Spider Sense catches his attention with a pounding at the base of his skull. Peter goes rigid, focusing his attention on what's to come beyond the half-wall. He's surprised at the rumble of a car engine and the nearing scent of exhaust, all too aware of how the drumming in his chest gets faster and faster. When he sees the shimmer of metal sliding down the ramp, he can't tell if the thundering in his ears comes from the engine or from within.

The car stops just outside the entrance, blocking it off in a way that wouldn't keep Peter from exiting, but the message that it sends feels like ice water being poured down his neck. Peter's fingers come to rest over his web-shooters and he has to disobey his screaming instincts when he stands his ground.

The driver's door opens. Then the passenger door, then the two back doors. The huff of laughter from the drug dealer behind him sounds distant.

They can see his face. All four of them can see his face-

"Hi, Spider-Man."

Peter barely withholds a jolt. He snaps his head to the man closing the passenger door behind him. A long scar stretches from the hairline of his buzzed head to the corner of his eyebrow and a smaller one mars his cheekbone. Even from where he stands, Peter can make out the blotches of red in his left eye that form a messy ring that encircles his iris. Is he- Did he get partially blinded? Before Peter can dwell on it, the man cranes his neck to the side as if he's trying to crack it, displaying the scorpion tattoo in Peter's full view.

Peter's mind goes blank.

"I really have to thank you for setting this up," Gargan says, raising his eyebrows and nodding. "You know, Bobby here—" Gargan jerks his head toward the driver, following close behind "—was saying that it'd be a trap, since you're buddies with the Punisher now, but I said 'Peter? No, he would never.' And what do ya know?" 

Just then, Peter realizes that he's never heard Gargan speak. It's not low and gravelly like he'd been expecting; kind of like Mr. Castle's voice, which screams danger in the way that a lion screams danger. Gargan's voice is almost high and smooth, for lack of a better word. But still dangerous—dangerous like a creak below one's feet in the middle of a frozen lake.

Gargan extends his arms, referencing the parking lot in a grand gesture. "No Punisher. I appreciate that we're both on the same page as far as getting this over with without a hassle goes, I really do."

Peter's gaze drifts down to the guns at their sides.

"Funny, I was told you're a talker. Cat got your tongue, Pete?" Gargan halts about ten feet in front of him, turning his ear toward him expectantly.

"You don't get to call me that." The words erupt from Peter's chest before he can think them over. 

Gargan purses his lips. "Right," he says, drawing out the word. "Secret identity. You should be more careful with that. Honestly, you should thank me for killing off your bitch aunt. Someone was bound to get it out of her eventually."

For a split second, Mr. Castle's solution doesn't seem that bad. Rage, red and hot and pure, scorches through him and it takes all his willpower to keep himself in place. 

Gargan turns to the men behind him and laughs. "Oh, he didn't like that, did he?"

Peter sucks in a slow breath through clenched teeth. "I didn't give you your scar. Toomes knocked you off that boat, not me."

There are wrinkles at the corner of Gargan's eyes. "Yes," he says slowly, as if he were talking to a fucking toddler. "I was there. And why did Toomes put on his bird suit, huh? Because someone wasn't where he was supposed to be."

"I'm sorry that you got scarred, okay? I didn't mean for that to happen." Is that what you want to hear? Peter barely holds himself back from saying.

"Apology accepted."

Peter blinks. "What?"

"Oh, I'm still going to kill you," Gargan says with a dismissive wave of his hand, not seeming to notice how Peter blanches at the words. "You put me back in prison. Don't pretend that that's not what you wanted. And it's not just me. You're thinning out the herd, Pete. My guys, our buyers—the ones you haven't put away are skipping town or won't do business with us. It's a bad look."

Gargan steps forward and Peter matches it with several steps back. C'mon Spider-Man, think think think- "Listen- The city is- it's a safer place with me. I- I save people. Those alien weapons you wanted to buy? You r-really think they're tested? Hell, the ferry got cut in half when one backfired! How long before it would've backfired on you? And- And the people I save- I've saved gang members too. I've prevented shoot-outs. If you k-kill me-"

"I can live with the consequences."

The world vanishes beneath his feet. His Spider Sense goes off like a siren as Gargan raises his hand. The men behind him reach for their hilts in slow motion as Peter's gut screams at him to run, to hide, but there's nothing to run to and there's nothing to hide behind-

Peter squeezes his eyes shut when he sees the barrels of four guns preparing to aim straight at him. But before they fire, the tingling at the base of his skull grows sharper with a different kind of warning.

Peter opens his eyes as multiple shots ring out. Two of Gargan's men drop to the ground like puppets with their strings cut, their bodies thudding in succession against the concrete. The third man turns around to meet a bullet head-on, and Peter gags at the warm spray of blood against his cheek and forces his eyes up from the mess on the ground. The drug dealer behind him is screaming deep in his throat, screaming that's silenced with another bang.  

In less than a second, Gargan's the only one left standing. Which means-

Peter dives for Gargan, colliding into the man's side just in time to feel something sting past his upper arm. He yelps as they crash into the ground, tumbling over each other until they settle with Gargan's calf pressing into Peter's windpipe. Before Peter can shove him off, Gargan has him staring straight down into another firearm. 

"HEY!"

It sounds like a battle cry. Peter can feel his heartbeat pick up in his throat at the familiar shout as a wave of panic threatens to overwhelm him, all while he struggles for a breath. Gargan whips around, facing away from Peter, and leans forward to increase the pressure. 

Now’s his chance. Offline- Peter narrows his eyes on the gun and lunges, sticking his hands to the barrel and shoving it away from him. Get control, and twist away. He darts his hand for Gargan's wrist and squeezes, wrenching the gun out of Gargan's hand when the man takes a sharp breath. 

He skids the gun across the ground in the same movement he flips Gargan off of him. Peter switches between coughing and gasping as he clambers to his feet, only to find himself looking down a rifle pointed to his chest.

Gargan groans from behind Peter and it takes him a second to realize where he's standing. He looks up at Frank Castle, his expression impossible to read. Both of his hands have a tight grip around the rifle, his finger hovering above the trigger and a fire in his stare. Mr. Castle gestures his rifle to the side, the order firm and implicit.

A voice in the back of Peter's mind shouts at him to walk away. To step back from Gargan and let Mr. Castle end it. After all, it'd be the easy thing to do. Probably the smart thing to do, too. The threat of his identity getting out would die with Gargan and he wouldn't have to spend the rest of his life looking over his shoulder, constantly waiting for the next grocery run to turn into a shootout. Besides, he gave Gargan his chance. A chance that Gargan chose not to take. And after what Gargan did to May, Peter's not sure he'd even feel guilty about letting the Punisher do his job. 

Then Peter remembers the last death he could've prevented.

Mr. Castle sidesteps to aim around Peter and goes stiff when Peter sidesteps with him. His eyes narrow. "Stand down."

Peter clenches his fists in hopes to hide their tremor and he wants to throw up at the smell in the air. He's sure Mr. Castle can hear the pounding of his heart by now, but somehow, Peter doesn't move.

Mr. Castle steps forward, close enough that Peter can make out the veins popping in his neck and no less imposing without the white skull on his chest. "This a game to you? I look like I'm playing fucking games? Stand. Down."

It's then when Gargan decides to bolt. He makes a break for his car by the exit and Mr. Castle adjusts his aim just as quickly. Peter barrels into Mr. Castle's side, tackling him to the ground and dislodging the rifle from his hands. 

Rough hands clamp on to Peter's shoulders and force his chest against the cement, pressing him down for a few beats in an unspoken command. For a moment, Peter's tempted to listen. The weight above him vanishes with a muttered "Goddamnit" as a car engine roars to life and a boot lands beside his face a second later. As Mr. Castle lifts it to take a step, Peter manages to get a web to connect to the back of his ankle. He pulls the thread taut and yanks his arm back, returning Mr. Castle to the ground.

Mr. Castle shifts to his side and fires his handgun at the car as it speeds out, but it's not long before his bullets are deflected by the half-wall. "Shit!"

Peter rolls to his back to sit himself up, but all he can do is freeze when the movement brings him face-to-face with a man with a hole in his forehead. He's slack-jawed and his eyes are still wide with a mixture of shock and horror. He thinks he can see a glint of metal in the wound as blood pours out around it, creating an ever-growing puddle around his head. Peter wants nothing more than to scramble back as it gets closer and closer to reaching him, but his limbs won't listen when his brain shouts at them to move.

A hand clasps tight around Peter's forearm and hauls him up. It moves up to his upper arm as a second hand presses in between his shoulders, proceeding to push him toward the ramp. Peter stumbles under the pressure before he forces his feet to move fast enough to accommodate it. He takes a deep breath in an attempt to get the numb tingling to dissipate from his hands, but he has to keep himself from choking on the stench of blood instead.

It's the convenience store all over again. There are bodies all around him and he can't move and there's blood that isn't his on his face-

Only this time, none of the deaths can be put on him. It was Mr. Castle who intervened, Mr. Castle who pulled the trigger, and it's Mr. Castle who came and saved his life. He's not even sure how he manages to keep his feet moving to the exit. Everything feels like it's in the background, happening to someone else-

Without warning, Peter's shoved forward into the bricks of the entryway, just out of view of the sidewalk. Peter's too shocked to respond as Mr. Castle inspects the hole in the sleeve of his upper arm that had resulted from the bullet that whizzed by him, saying something under his breath that he doesn't catch. He risks a glance at Mr. Castle's face and tenses when he's finally able to make out his expression.

It's the same one Mr. Stark wore after the ferry, only ten times more terrifying.

Mr. Castle's hand shoots up and fastens on Peter's face by his jaw to direct it up to meet his eyes. "The fuck was that?!"

Peter tries to flinch away, but Mr. Castle's grip on his face only grows tighter. "I- I-"

"You tryin' to get yourself killed?!" He twists his hand, forcing Peter's face to the side while grabbing the frayed fabric on his upper arm and thrusting it in front of him. "You see that? Huh? See how close I came to killing you?"

Peter blinks rapidly in an effort to alleviate the burning behind his eyes and shakes his head free before backing up. "I d-didn't mean- didn't w-want-"

"You didn't want this to happen, is that it?" Mr. Castle snarls. Peter shrinks back as he advances, but he's trapped when Mr. Castle's arm flies out to the wall by his shoulder. "This is what happens when you can't follow a single goddamn order!"

Peter squeezes his eyelids shut and turns his head away. 

"How about this?" Something cold and hard presses against his temple. Peter doesn't have to look to confirm the handgun to his head as he jerks back only to fall against the wall. "This what you want?!"

A bang that sends a jolt through his body cuts off his response. Dust from the bricks shower down upon him and patter against his cheek, prompting an unwitting whimper from his throat.

"IS THAT WHAT YOU WANT TO HEAR?" 

"NO!" 

Peter ducks under his arm and scrambles to the side, pressing his spine against the wall once he’s a good distance away. He sinks down to the floor, shaking as he pulls his legs in and hides his face in his knees. Shudders that he can't attribute to the cold travel down his body as a sob escapes his throat. He opens his eyes and it takes him a moment to see his knees through the blurry film of tears. His sweatpants are stained red where he pressed his cheek. Red from the blood of the man whose skull shattered in front of him, red that no number of showers will wash off.

He hugs his legs closer to his chest as he tries and fails to stifle his cries. 

Footsteps near him before doubling back, then near him again, the pattern indicating pacing. Mr. Castle takes a deep breath through his nose. “This isn’t working,” he mutters, almost inaudibly. "This isn't goddamn working."

Peter's heart skips a beat. That's almost exactly what Mr. Stark had said. Before he took the suit, before the forever, before Peter had broken something that he still hasn't managed to fix. Okay, it's not working out.

He wipes his eyes with his elbow and fumbles to his feet. "No, no no no no-"

Mr. Castle stops in his tracks. 

Peter reaches for his arm, grasping desperately at his sleeve. "I'm s-sorry, I'm sorry- I know it was d-dumb and I- I won't run again, I promise, I'll never run again, just-" He breaks off, clutching Mr. Castle's arm as he swallows back the lump rising in his throat. "Just- Please, don't lea-leave. P-Please, I don't wanna be alone, don't make me be alone-"

He has to break off when his throat closes for a moment, forcing him to take a desperate breath. He's never been alone before—never like this. Even when the world came crashing down around him after Ben's death, May was there to grieve with him. But May's not here now, and he can't go to Ned without putting him in danger and MJ doesn't even know. Mr. Stark's radio silence after Peter turned down his Avenger offer sent enough of a message and it's only a matter of time before Gargan would get to him if he had to fend for himself. Gargan would shoot him, or worse, and he can only imagine Ned's expression if it's reported that Peter Parker's body is found at the bottom of a river-

Peter makes himself loosen his hold when he realizes how tight his grip had become. "I'm sorry, s-sir, I'm-"

"Hey, hey- Stop. Stop that." Mr. Castle's hand curls around his shoulder and pushes him back, but he lets his grip remain as he pries his arm free to rest both hands on Peter's shoulders and keep him in place. He stoops down to be level with Peter's face, then breaks his stare to turn his head away and shake it, making a noise that sounds like a scoff. But when he speaks, there’s no trace of scorn in his tone. It’s something Peter hasn’t heard before, a mix of disbelief and something he couldn’t identify. "You think- You think I'd come and save your ass just to- to what, throw you back to them?” 

Peter searches his face with burning eyes, unsure if he’s meant to answer.

“Listen to me,” Mr. Castle says, his brow raised and his dark eyes boring into Peter's own. There's a different kind of harshness in his voice now. "I'm not leavin', kid. Said I'd get you an after, right? So you get that through your head."

A moment passes before his words process. Relief washes over him as the energy and everything else gets sapped out. The subsiding adrenaline leaves him wavering on his feet and all he can manage is a weak nod as his eyes continue to drain themselves of tears. He closes them in an effort to block out the rifle dangling at Mr. Castle's side and the cold brick wall, but images flare up behind his eyelids, flickering between the bodies of Ben and a stranger splayed out on the ground. If he listens closely enough, he thinks he can make out the echoes of a gunshot.

“Hey, let’s get you outta here, yeah? Let’s get you outta here.” Mr. Castle doesn’t wait for his response before turning him around and shepherding him out to the sidewalk, pulling the hood over Peter’s head as they cross under the security camera. “Steady, kid. Car’s close. You’re gonna sit tight while I make a call.”

Chapter 12: Eye of the Hurricane

Notes:

Thank you guys so much for all the well wishes! Turns out I had a little bout of walking pneumonia, but after working through a bottle of "cherry flavored" antibiotics that definitely wasn't cherry flavored, I'm back in business :D

"Nelson, Murdock and Page, may I help you?"

God. It's been so goddamn long. Karen sounds just like she had back in that hospital, back when it'd been Frank's own bullshit that made the mess. Now, she sounds just a little too perky to be genuine, and Frank wonders how many calls she's had to take this morning or if she has the slightest sense of what's coming. And since when had it been and Page?  

About goddamn time. Frank takes a deep breath, adjusting the burner against his ear as he shifts his hand to get a better grip on the wheel. "Karen."

There's a beat of silence, followed by a rustling and a static that almost covers up the hissed, "Frank?!"

Peter's head snaps up from the passenger seat at the sudden aggressive tone. His hands, which have been slowly turning over themselves in front of the vent, freeze in place. The blood splattered on his cheek looks darker against his pale face, closer to dried. His eyes drop back to his feet as soon as Frank tries to meet them, making it even harder to figure out if the kid's in the same state he was in after the convenience store or if he's just trying to avoid pissing Frank off. When he goes back to warming his hands, the movements are slow and methodical, an obvious attempt to calm himself down. His breathing sounds normal, but the intervals are just too precise to be natural.

Shit. How much of that is Frank's doing? At what point would Curt have shouted at him to cut it out? At least Amy had time away from him to cool down after he had told her off for the shit she pulled in the trailer; Peter had to get right back in the car with him. No wonder the kid's barely holding himself together. If he really has it in his head that the wrong word is going to get him thrown on the street… Frank taps his forefinger against the wheel. That's learned behavior. No normal kid grows up thinking their parents are gonna fucking leave them. Could be why Peter was raised by his aunt and-

"Frank, why are you- Are you in custody? You're not in custody, are you?" Karen rushes out, snapping Frank's focus back to the present. Despite everything, her concern manages to prompt a grin.

"I'm fine, Karen. But this ain't a social call. Murdock there?"

"Hold on a second," she snaps. Her voice isn't as clear through the receiver, almost as if that isn't him she's talking to. "What's going on? Are you hurt?"

"Murdock." Frank takes a sharp turn onto a side street and makes himself ignore Peter's subsequent shaky breath. "Is he there?"

A muffled exchange that he can't quite make out comes from the phone before more rustling and static. Then for a second, it all goes quiet.

"Frank."

Peter tilts his head at the new voice. Responsive is good. Better than he was immediately after the convenience store. Yet Frank has a feeling that everything else will be harder to fix this time around. But first thing's first: "Murdock. I've got something that's right up your alley."

There's a decent pause as Red considers his reply. When he speaks, his tone is even, not betraying a hint of emotion. "Which alley is that?"

Red's real question isn't lost on him. "Just want to talk, Murdock."

"Is it about those people you killed in the warehouse collapse? Or the ones you massacred in that gas station?" he hisses into the phone.

Frank narrows his eyes. Stark mentioned that the NYPD was looking for him during their call, but he hadn't expected both incidents to already have made it into the media. NYPD sure as hell took their time publicizing it last time. Whether they tied the events to him or Red pieced it together himself is a different matter entirely. Hell, maybe Frank's got it all wrong and Red just picked it up from a police scanner with his enhanced shit. "I'm headin' to your side of town. There's a motel on forty-eighth between tenth and eleventh. When can you be there?"

"What's this about?" Red growls. "If you're trying to bring your shit back into Hell's-"

"Not over the phone." Frank takes a breath to continue, but Peter beats him to it. 

"You should put it on speaker," the kid mumbles, still staring down at his feet. "It's not safe to- to drive on the phone."

Christ. Did that really come out of his mouth? Are they all hypocrites? Frank turns to the kid with a rebuke that dies on his tongue when Peter automatically shrinks back under his gaze like a dog with its tail between its legs. So Frank resorts to shushing him instead, and Peter's jaw is quick to clamp shut.

"Is someone- Who's with you?" Red demands, a new urgency in his words.

"Not over the phone. When can you be there?"

Red takes his sweet time coming up with a response, almost as if he's trying to give Frank the impression that he'll refuse. But Red knows as well as Frank does that he wouldn't have called unless it's something goddamn important. The ball's in his court now, and Frank can predict Red well enough to know that he can't just leave it. "After one," he finally says. It's later than Frank would've guessed if his previous urgency is anything to go by. Maybe to give him extra time to scout ahead. "What am I walking into, Frank?"

Frank lets out a dry chuckle. "Leave your smartphone behind and come alone." 

Frank ends the call before Red has the chance to push him further. Peter frowns a little at the order, but he doesn't ask about it. The biggest reaction the kid gives is nudging the vent to change the direction of the heat. The kid's never been shy about asking questions before, especially those that concern him, but Peter doesn't say a word. Not that Frank would answer; Peter's overwhelmed as is. He doesn't need to hear the government is on his ass too, and considering how the kid sees fit to deal with people who want him out of their way, Frank's not sure if he'll change his mind once Peter settles down.

His silence is the polar opposite from Amy. If she didn't strive to have the last word with a snide remark, she'd move right on from conflicts with a new conversation as if they never happened. Probably something of a survival tactic considering the company she kept. Peter's not as hardened. That much is apparent. Shit, is it an age thing? How many years does Amy have on Peter? The homecoming he talked about could mean anything from late high school to fresh out of middle school. Frank has a feeling that Peter would give him a straight answer if he asked. But the last thing the kid needs right now is questioning, and that's something Red's bound to have a go at anyway. 

Frank takes a long breath through his nose. He can't have the kid like this when Red comes. Fear's a good substitute when respect isn't an option, but not from a kid. Never from a kid. Frank clears his throat, fishing for the right words. "Back at the garage—shouldn't have pulled my gun on you, kid. If you thought for a second that I was gonna use it on you, then that's my own damn fault."

Peter's hands go still again, but he doesn't reply. 

Frank's not sure what he was expecting. An it's okay wouldn't suffice because they both know damn well that it's not. As far as apologies go, if that even counted as one, Frank knows it's botchy. No wonder Peter doesn't accept it. Still, getting it out there feels like a necessity. The look on Peter's face as Gargan stated he still planned to kill him hadn't matched the expression he wore when facing Frank's anger for long, but the fact that it had been there at all is something Frank can't let stand. 

Gargan would've been better off if Peter hadn't shoved him out of the way of his bullet. A quick death like that is far from what he has coming. But Frank can't prioritize that now, not with the kid looking sicker and sicker with every pothole that rattles the car. "How about my talk with Murdock? You get all that?" Frank tries.

Peter just nods.

"He's gonna ask you some questions. I can't promise you he's not gonna ask for your identity. Whatever it is, you gotta be honest with him, you got it?" Not that Peter could get a lie past Red that he wouldn't be able to sniff out.

Peter doesn't nod this time. Just lowers his head a little and swallows as if Frank's not paying enough attention to properly interpret it.

Frank holds back a sigh as he turns his focus back on the road. They've got a ways to go.

---

Peter's not sure when he decided it, but MJ's definitely the bravest person he knows.

It doesn't matter who she disagrees with or when she disagrees with them—she'd be sure to let anyone know exactly when they're wrong. Whether it's strangers or Peter and Ned, from teachers to fellow students, she'd stare them down and tell them what she thinks in the exact same tone. No matter the situation, what MJ has to say always takes priority over the consequences she could face for saying it. 

Now, it's not hard for Peter to imagine exactly how MJ would have talked to Gargan. She'd meet his eyes and say in her own distinct I don't really care what you think but here's how it is and you can't do anything about it tone and tell him that he deserves that scar and whatever else Toomes damaged on that ferry. And she'd keep a cool expression whether Gargan threatened her or not, and reply to any impassioned rant with a flat, "whatever."

And as Mr. Castle leads him up to their new motel room with a hand between his shoulders, MJ would be able to tell him that the last thing she wants to do right now is to relive the past couple of days to a strange lawyer. Then she'd probably follow up with a statistic about how corrupt the American legal system is. How long has he been friends with MJ again? He'd considered telling her about Spider-Man a few times in the last couple of months, but it was never a long internal debate. After all, people have found out about Spider-Man's identity. Mr. Stark, Ned, May, Mr. Castle… they all found out. Peter's never told anybody. And now he's supposed to spill it all to a lawyer he's only about to meet.

Unlike MJ, Peter can't make himself bring the words past his lips. Just like he can't make himself say that there's something wrong with how his heartbeat won't slow down and he can't tell if his Spider Sense is still going off or if it's something else, because there's nothing there no matter how many times he looks over his shoulder. Yet at the same time, he wants to do nothing but sleep until he manages to wake up to May rousing him for school like how it's supposed to be.

"Sit on the bed," Mr. Castle orders as he closes the motel room door behind them. Peter moves to the bed and lowers himself on the edge as Mr. Castle drops his duffle bag at the foot of it. "Hoodie off," he says, turning to the bathroom. "I'm taking out your stitches."

Oh. Peter still has those. Taking them out is probably a good idea, but all he can think of is how Mr. Castle originally said Peter would be staying with him until he's "back on his feet." With his stitches gone, any responsibility Mr. Castle feels about Peter's injuries would be rendered null. Peter knows it's irrational and it doesn't match up with what Mr. Castle said about not leaving, but once he's all healed, that's one less reason for Mr. Castle to keep him around.

Peter presses his mouth in a tight line as he grabs the bottom of the hoodie and pulls it over his head before prying his arms free. The room's a lot colder than he thought. As he scans the room for a distraction, he can't help but notice how the Kimber is missing from the nightstand. Probably because it's still at the other motel. Is Mr. Castle going to go back and get it? Or is that a bad play? Does he even realize he left it? It's the same gun he got from the marines and he's kept it all this time, so it probably means something. Should Peter remind him, or would that just make him more pissed?

The sound of a faucet turning on and off precedes Mr. Castle exiting the bathroom, a folded washcloth clutched in one hand and a paper cup in the other. Peter scoots over to make room as he approaches, but Mr. Castle doesn't sit. Instead, he places the cup on the nightstand as he crouches in front of him and mutters a quiet "Hold still," then reaches the cloth out to Peter's face. 

The order doesn't register in time and Peter automatically turns away from the damp, scratchy fabric against his cheek. But the water that trickles down his hairline is surprisingly warm and the cloth moves slowly with the right amount of pressure, so Peter keeps his head steady as Mr. Castle repeatedly runs it down the side of his face. Red and brown stains mar the surface of the washcloth once Mr. Castle sets it down on the nightstand, still far less blood than it had felt like. It felt like he'd been in the blast radius of a water balloon, only- Peter gives his head a small shake and forcibly shifts his focus to Mr. Castle.

He unzips a side pocket of the duffle and rifles around for a bit before pulling out a thin, silver pair of scissors. Peter presses himself as close to the pillows and headboard as he can when Mr. Castle takes a seat beside him. "Right. Let's see it," he says with a nod at Peter's leg.

Peter leans back into the pillows as he maneuvers his leg up to Mr. Castle's lap. Mr. Castle bunches his pant leg around his knee, his eyebrows shooting up as he studies it.

"Goddamn," he breathes. "Never seen shit like that before."

Peter suppresses his momentary flash of panic as he props himself up to peer down at his calf. The stitches look laughably unnecessary. They cover a wound that's barely a scrape, half the size that it was before and what remained is almost completely scarred over. He hadn't had wounds bad enough to require stitches after his last fight with Toomes (at least, he doesn't think they needed stitches), and keeping on long sleeves and pants for a few following days was all he needed to do before they were gone. He's never put much thought into his healing factor, but he's never really gotten hurt enough before he had it to understand its scope.

"You're tellin' me a spider got you this?" Mr. Castle huffs. The scissors' blade is cold against Peter's leg.

Mr. Castle pauses a bit too long for the question to be rhetorical. "I… yeah," Peter mumbles.

Mr. Castle lets out a low hum as he snips the first stitch at the knot and starts to tug it free. It doesn't hurt like Peter expected, but it's not a comfortable sensation either. "Think this'll scar?" Mr. Castle asks as he cuts another thread.

"I…" It's an easy question, so Peter's not sure why he can't summon an answer. MJ would've delivered a dry remark by now, but all Peter can think of is the scar that Gargan pinned on him and the look in his mismatched eyes as he choked him against the pavement not a second after Peter saved him from a bullet. It's not what Toomes did. Toomes went quietly after Peter saved his life. But Peter must've read that wrong too, because he can't think of many other ways Gargan could've found out. Did Toomes tell Gargan about how he crushed him under that building too? Is that why May got killed the way she did in the trap meant for him? Because Toomes wanted him to suffer?

Peter gives a tiny shake of his head. Liz is a good person. She couldn't have turned out like that if Toomes really was that much of a monster. Maybe Gargan threatened her. Then again, that theory had made much more sense when Peter thought that there was no way someone he saved could immediately turn around and start trying to kill him. Peter rubs at his neck, trying to alleviate the pressure of the leg against his throat and the gun in his face- 

"Pete. Hey." 

Peter snaps his head up. Over half the stitches in his leg are out. When had that happened? Mr. Castle is looking at him with a furrowed brow and his head is angled downward. His eyes don't have any of the hardness they had before.

"Drink that." He nods to the paper cup on the nightstand. "You need to get some fluids in you."

That's probably true. Peter reaches for the cup and takes a sip. He probably needs to eat too, yet he has a feeling nothing solid would stay down for long. He goes to set the cup back down, but something crosses Mr. Castle's face that prompts him to pull it back and force down another sip. It doesn't do much to ease the concern in Mr. Castle's expression, just as bad as the anger in an entirely different way.

"I don't think it'll scar," Peter manages to get out, which must've been the right thing to say if the way Mr. Castle shifts his focus back to his calf is anything to go by. "I haven't gotten anything permanent since I- since I got bit. It's- It's good for the secret identity, n' all." 

He fails to keep the bitter note from his tone as Gargan's voice plays itself over in his head. Right. Secret identity. You should be more careful with that. And he's not wrong. An alarming number of names have been added and erased from the list of people who know. He's not sure he could accurately write it out if he tried. It used to be the card he kept closest to his chest, but now the whole deck's spilling out of his grasp, spiraling out of his control with everything else in his life. His identity can be leaked at the whim of a criminal, May's dead, and people keep dying around him-

Peter closes his eyes and takes a quick breath. Pull yourself together, Spider-Man. "Sometimes I wish I didn't have it," he says, forcing nonchalance in his tone. "My healing factor. Once it's gone—" he nods to his leg wound "—it's like, it'll only exist in my head, you know? I could forget where I got it, or how I got it, or-" Peter breaks off. He's caught glimpses of some of Mr. Castle's scars, and he's complaining to him of all people that his wounds heal too well. "Sorry, I didn't mean- I bet I sound super grateful right now."

Mr. Castle opens his mouth and takes a breath, then oddly enough, closes it and says nothing. His eyes flicker away from the stitches as he works his jaw, then sniffs and snips another thread. Before Peter can decide what just happened, he speaks. 

"Left arm, near my elbow. Harder to see now, but it had to be about… hell, ten years ago." Mr. Castle pries out the final stitch and gestures for Peter to lie back. 

Peter pulls up his shirt to expose the stitches on his side before he rests his back into the pillows, his brimming curiosity fighting with his brain telling him to keep his mouth shut.

"Me and Lisa—we were walking back from the park. My daughter," Mr. Castle clarifies, pausing to work at the first stitch in Peter's side.

He doesn't seem to notice how Peter freezes or how for a second Peter swears that his heart stops in his chest.

"We're crossing the parking lot, and she's- she's making a game out of it. She's holding her arms out and walking across those parking bumpers, jumping between them like- like the world will end if she touches the ground." Mr. Castle breaks off with a chuckle, shaking his head before he goes to cut a second stitch. "But it's getting dark, see, and the spaces are getting further apart. I tell her to stop, but she’s back at it a minute later. Guess it’s my own fault for letting it slide."

Peter doesn't dare say a word in the silence that follows as Mr. Castle tugs out a thread.

"Remember that bad feeling you got with the police car?" he asks. Peter doesn't risk doing anymore than nodding, and Mr. Castle continues. "Yeah. I'm ahead of her, I don't even see her, I just- I just know. I don't remember moving—just like that, I'm on the ground, she's on top of me, and my arm hurts like a bitch. Corner of the parking bumper got me on the way down. She's fine, but takes one look at my arm and acts like I'm about to bleed out."

Peter gives him another small nod as Mr. Castle shakes his head and sets the scissors on the comforter.

"She doesn't freak out, though. Grabs me by the hand and pulls me straight home. Says she saw the teacher treat a kid for a scrape, so she- she knows what she's doing. Yeah. Wife opens the door, demands to know what happened, but Lisa just drags me straight past her to the bathroom, all business. She sits me down and the first thing she does is ask me how bad it hurts, from one to five."

Peter can't help a huff at that.

"Mm-hmm. Never seen her so serious before, so I get all grave and say 'Lisa, I think it's a five.' So she's on a mission now. Has to ask where the Band-Aids are, but otherwise could've fooled me that she's done this before. She gets a tissue and cleans up the blood, just… unfazed. A minute later, I've got a- a yellow dinosaur Band-Aid on my arm. You picture that, Pete?" 

It's hard not to. Peter fails to hold back a grin, and Mr. Castle meets it with another short laugh. 

"Yeah. I have to take it off to clean it proper later, but I put it back on because she… she looks so proud of herself, you know? She tells me to rate it again when she's done, and I tell her there's no pain to rate. 'It's a zero now, Lis. You made it a zero.' And she just…" Mr. Castle trails off. He's facing Peter, the stitches forgotten, but he's not looking at Peter anymore. He's staring past him, watching something that Peter can't see. There are wrinkles at the corner of his eyes that contrast with the way a reflective shine starts to show in them. His mouth starts to move, yet only the beginnings of a word escape before the rest dies in his throat. 

"She just glowed, Pete," he finally breathes. "She glowed."

Peter can pinpoint the exact second the spell breaks. The wrinkles vanish from Mr. Castle’s expression and his mouth goes slack, leaving behind something Peter's not sure what to name. He straightens and squares his shoulders, a shift subtle enough that Peter isn’t sure if he would have been able to pick it out a day ago. Maybe it’s a shift he’s not supposed to pick out. Peter tries to meet his eyes, but for the first time he can remember, Mr. Castle avoids his gaze.

Mr. Castle rubs at his elbow before picking up the scissors, going back to the stitches like he never set them down in the first place. Peter doesn’t think even MJ would know what to say. His brain shouts at him to say something while simultaneously offering him nothing. He knows that he had just witnessed something rare, something that he used to be sure didn’t exist, but no combination of words feel adequate or explain the twisting he feels in his chest. Still, he knows something is better than nothing, so he clears his throat and musters up a quiet, “Thank you.”

Mr. Castle's grunt isn't a very adequate response either, but in the silence that follows, Peter realizes that his Spider Sense had gone quiet.

Chapter 13: The Devil is in the Details

Notes:

Massive thanks to candlesneedflame for their beta-ing skills and their continued support!

It's been about a year since Peter's spoken to a lawyer.

Of course, it'd been May that did most of the talking then. He remembers words like “bequests” and “assets” being thrown around, most of which went straight over his head. He can't recall much about the lawyer themselves or what they talked about in that meeting so soon after Ben's death—in hindsight, he should have paid closer attention. He's pretty sure that it had to do with Ben's will, but the only thing that sticks out clearly is May's tear-streaked face after that meeting.

At least Matt Murdock seemed just as apprehensive as Peter feels when Mr. Castle talked with him over the phone. Despite Mr. Castle's confidence, Peter can't help but be surprised that the lawyer agreed. Unless… it's not a ruse, is it? After all, Mr. Castle told the lawyer where they are. It wouldn't be hard for him to call the police and point them in the right direction. Honestly, it's what Peter would do in his shoes. Come to think of it, the entire call was a bit weird. The nice lady from earlier—Karen, Mr. Castle had called her—had recognized Mr. Castle just by him saying her name. She'd also demanded to know if he was hurt, something Peter can't imagine most people would ask when receiving a surprise phone call from the Punisher.

And if Mr. Castle knows Karen, why had he insisted that Matt Murdock come alone? Their law firm has three names, doesn't it? Not that Peter wants to talk to three lawyers, but he can't suss out why Murdock's the one Mr. Castle picked. If nothing else, at least this is a meeting that Peter can anticipate. If Murdock's name is going to be added to the growing list of people who know Spider-Man's face, at least Peter can finally have the foresight to make it under his own terms. No unmasking in his bedroom with unwanted onlookers, no surprise billionaires in his living room, and no waking up maskless and groggy on an unfamiliar couch.

Matt Murdock doesn't know anything about Peter Parker. He doesn't know how many tears Peter couldn't hold back over the past couple of days or the number of times he's been frozen by his own terror. If Spider-Man's the only person Murdock knows about, that's perfectly fine by him.

Spider-Man's stronger than Peter is anyway.

The digital clock reads 1:23 PM, and Peter almost convinces himself that Murdock's not going to show up when three distinct knocks sound from the door. 

Mr. Castle gets to his feet and grabs for his handgun, taking a few steps towards the door before stopping in his tracks and turning to Peter. "Any bad feelings?"

"No," Peter says with a shake of his head. Not the kind you're asking about.  

To his surprise, that's all Mr. Castle needs to tuck away the gun in the waistband of his pants. Still, he angles the side of his body to the door and approaches it with light footsteps, pausing a good moment before looking through the peephole. He reaches for the door chain and twists the knob a second later, so Peter jumps off the bed to his feet and tenses when Mr. Castle steps aside to allow entry.

Matt Murdock sure looks like a lawyer. He's wearing a dark gray suit with a white button-up, complete with a gray patterned tie and a black satchel over his shoulder. His hair is combed and parted down the side, only serving to make Peter realize how much he’s abandoned his own. The red-tinted sunglasses covering his eyes are a bit much; it's November, and Mr. Stark's the only person Peter knows that can pull off sunglasses indoors. On this guy, it only serves to accentuate the red in his split lip. His jaw is set in a way that doesn't look comfortable and his knuckles pop as he curls his hands around his red-tipped white cane that he holds in front of-

Oh. Oh.  

"Frank," Murdock says, an edge to his tone that Peter can't identify. The lawyer doesn't quite look at Mr. Castle as he says it, his gaze angled just a bit too far to the side.

Should Peter say something? Murdock probably doesn't even know he's in the room. A simple hi feels a bit off given the circumstances, yet his brain isn't offering him much else. Peter opens his mouth, but the creaking door cuts him off as Mr. Castle closes it behind the lawyer.

"Didn't catch you busy, did I?" Mr. Castle comments with a lilt that Peter knows means he couldn't care less. He falls back to the dresser as he speaks, grabbing a folding chair against it in the corner of the room and setting it up to face the bed.

Murdock's smile doesn't reach his eyes. "Not as busy as you've been."

Peter frowns. Maybe his blindness is why Mr. Castle chose Murdock. If this goes poorly, then at least Murdock won't be able to describe Spider-Man to the police. It's honestly a relief.

"Pete." Mr. Castle gives a beckoning jerk of his head. Peter clears his throat and strides across the room, taking care to ensure that his footsteps are audible over the carpet. "I want you to meet Matt Murdock."

Murdock turns to face him with an unreadable expression, not giving Peter the slightest clue as to what's going on behind those sunglasses. Swallowing, Peter extends his hand. "Nice to meet you, sir. I'm Peter."

Murdock doesn't shake it. Of course he doesn't shake it. Peter’s cheeks grow hot and he’s about to retract his hand when Murdock holds out his own and offers him a tight-lipped smile. "A pleasure."

Peter goes to grab it and regrets it immediately. He has to suppress a wince at the sharp spike of pain that comes from his bruised knuckles in Murdock's grip, something Murdock is thankfully quick to loosen. He drops it entirely a second later and shifts back to Mr. Castle after he takes a deep breath through his nose.

"I need to talk with you outside."

Peter's heart sinks. That's adult code for I want to talk to you where the kid can't hear, and it’s even worse when Mr. Castle doesn't hesitate before turning back to the door. He doesn't cast a second glance at Peter before he grabs for the knob. He can't help but feel like a kid stuck at a parent-teacher conference, made to wait out in the hall while May and his teacher talk about him behind a closed door.

Actually, screw this. This isn't about his grades. Peter maneuvers around them to plant his feet in front of the door and forces himself to meet Mr. Castle's eyes. "Hey, if you’re going to talk about me, then I deserve to be there. I don’t want any decisions made for me.”

Murdock's brow furrows as Mr. Castle lets out a sigh and runs his hand down the lower half of his face. "Go. Wait on the bed."

Indignation bubbles up in Peter's chest. "But I-"

"Wait inside, kid." Mr. Castle lowers his chin and raises his eyebrows, his stare hard and unblinking. It’s the same kind of look May would give him when she thought he was about to make a scene. "Please."

Peter drops his gaze and yields with a quiet huff. He doesn't feel any less like a child as he trudges back to the bed and takes a seat on the edge, folding his hands in his lap. Mr. Castle looks him over for a moment before leaving out the door with Murdock on his tail. Two pairs of footsteps stop just out of view of the window after the door clicks shut, close enough for a conversation to be audible to him. But as soon as Peter starts to focus his hearing, the footsteps pick up again until they fade completely out of his range.

Peter puffs his cheeks and blows out a long breath as he collapses back on the comforter. So much for first impressions.

---

The clock insists that Murdock and Mr. Castle are gone for twenty minutes, but to Peter, it might as well be hours. There's no TV in the room and the walls are blank and void of decorations. The only things Peter has left to entertain himself with are the possibilities of what they're talking about. It's been long enough that he doesn't doubt that Murdock's been made aware of the whole Spider-Man aspect, though how much Mr. Castle's getting into it is something he can only guess. Peter reaches for another pillow to prop up his head before removing a web-shooter to absently toss it from hand to hand.

For the third time, Peter glances at the clock and tells himself that he'll go out there and see what's keeping them if he has to go through five more minutes of nothing. Or maybe he could lock the door if they really like being outside so much. It's a petulant thought, one he knows he wouldn't go through with, but the possibility gives him something to consider. 

Finally, a pair of silhouettes pass across the window, preceding a click and a twisting of the knob. A red-tipped cane pokes through before the door swings open, and both Murdock and Mr. Castle are quick to step inside. Cold air rushes into the room with their entrance, and Peter has to suppress a shudder as the door thuds closed. Both of their faces are hard to read beyond a red tinge to their cheeks that only serves to reaffirm that Peter's not the only one affected by the chill.

And if Murdock knows he's Spider-Man, he might as well act the part. 

"I was this close to locking the door on you guys for taking so long," Peter quips, not bothering to sit up as he switches to one hand to toss up his web-shooter in order to free up his other to make a small distance between his thumb and forefinger.

Murdock remains neutral, but Mr. Castle gives him a small huff. "Good thing you're smart," he replies evenly as he lowers himself to sit on the opposite bed.

A retort dies on Peter's tongue as Murdock's cane taps against the leg of the chair across from him. He reaches out with a hand to find the back of the chair, and Mr. Castle mutters something under his breath that Peter doesn't catch as Murdock pulls it out. "Mind if I sit?" he asks, and it takes a moment for Peter to realize that it's him he's addressing.

Oh. So they're doing this. Peter pushes himself to a sitting position and flattens his feet on the floor, resisting the urge to drum them against it. "Uh, sure."

Murdock gives him another tight-lipped smile as he takes a seat. He leans forward a little, resting his elbows on his thighs with his hands clasped together after he props the cane back against the dresser. It's the same position Mr. Castle had adopted before he delved into questions, so it's not hard for Peter to figure out where this is going. "Frank gave me a run-down of your situation," Murdock begins. That was a bit long for a run-down, but Peter keeps that thought to himself. "If you think I should hear it from you, then I'm listening. If not, I'd like to work on filling in the gaps."

On one hand, Peter's grateful. Recounting May's death to a stranger before he even mustered up the courage to play it in his own mind isn't something he thinks he's ready to do. If Mr. Castle already handled those details, of Gargan and the convenience store and the garage, then that's more than fine by him. On the other hand, he has a pretty good idea of what filling in the gaps entails. Peter swallows, weaving his web-shooter between his fingers. "I- Filling in the gaps is fine."

"Great," Murdock says with another one of those not-quite-there smiles. "Now, Peter, are you familiar with attorney-client privilege, or would you like me to reiterate the terms?"

Attorney-client privilege. "So… are you my lawyer now? Do I need to- to sign something first?"

"Attorney-client privilege isn't dependant on a hire. Besides, a minor's signature isn't legally binding. So." Murdock raises his eyebrows expectantly.

'Attorney-client privilege' was thrown around in some of the cop shows May used to watch, and Peter's heard it dropped a couple of times in movies. He's never asked what it meant and they never bothered to define it, but the context provided enough clues that he never had to wonder. "As long as TV portrays it right, I'm familiar."

"Close enough," Murdock amends with a considering frown. "Frank, if you could step out while Peter and I-"

"Wait," Peter finds himself blurting as Mr. Castle gets to his feet. A second later, both of them are focused on him, and Peter's unable to meet either of their faces. "I- I don't mind if he stays," he mutters, forcing nonchalance with a shrug.

He can't decipher the expression on Mr. Castle's face when he looks back up, but at Murdock's wave, he lowers himself back on the bed. Murdock gives a contemplative nod as he draws out the silence, just long enough for Peter to notice how pale he is in the reflection of his glasses. "Were you born in Queens, Peter?" 

"Born and raised, sir." How that's relevant, he's not sure.

"How often do you venture out?" 

"I've never left New York City." Peter pauses with a frown. That's not quite true. "Well, I guess I did once."

"Yeah? What was the occasion?"

Peter narrows his eyes. He knows what this is. He doubts Murdock would waste his time with fluff questions unless they're meant to soften him up for the big ones to come. Besides, the last thing he wants to do is get into how he was strung along to fight the Avengers in Germany. "Are you going to ask me for my identity, Mr. Murdock?"

Murdock leans back with a small inhale, his head cocked to the side. "Are you ready to tell me?"

Peter doesn't have a reply to that, especially when he catches Mr. Castle's frown out of the corner of his eye. Touché.  

"Which high school do you go to? One around here, I'd imagine." Murdock continues as if Peter had never spoken.

He can see how that's relevant. It's a baby step, and Murdock knows it. If he can't answer this one… Peter draws in a slow breath. "Midtown Tech, sir."

Murdock gives him a nod. "I hear they're selective—that's quite an achievement. You got friends there?"

"Uh, yeah. Some." He's pretty sure that his friendship with MJ is mutually acknowledged by now. "Only one knows I'm Spider-Man. Ned Leeds," he adds, anticipating the follow-up question. "But he doesn't have anything to do with this. He helps me out with Spider-Man stuff sometimes. Like David."

He glances over at Mr. Castle at that, who lets out a soft snort.

"Who else knows, Peter?" Murdock presses.

Mr. Stark had asked him that same question about four months ago. His answer had been much easier then. Now… He's not sure how Mr. Castle will react if he knows Iron Man was the first to find out. What could Peter even say if he got in contact? Hey, it's Spider-Man. I know we haven't talked since I turned down your offer to be a part of a world-famous team of superheroes for the test that wasn't actually a test, but if you know how to blackmail gang members because I let my identity slip, that'd be great. Also, my aunt died. And congrats on the engagement. Oh, I'm banned from being Spider-Man forever? Cool.

Besides, in all the months he's known him, Mr. Stark never reached out. He contacted him once to recruit him to fight Captain America, then only once more on the ferry before that confrontation that had almost ended it all. Peter had texted him through Happy every day and never received a single response. And he'd been under the impression that the suit was a gift for him to keep, some kind of quid pro quo for flying across the ocean to join an Avengers battle, only to have it taken back the second he made a mistake due to a problem that Mr. Stark never said he was taking seriously. We'll call you, but four months of nothing gradually turned anticipation into a fantasy.

Peter's hand drifts to his pocket, folding over the burner phone. It isn't as fancy as Mr. Stark's tech by any means, but at least Mr. Castle promised to answer it. 

Peter clears his throat and looks back to Murdock. "Gargan knows. I don't know if he's told anybody else. And Too- A guy in prison knows, but it's- it's a whole thing. And I guess you guys know. So… yeah."

"Is that all?" Murdock asks lightly.

Peter nods his head before catching himself. "Yeah, as far as I know," he affirms with as much confidence as he can muster.

Murdock presses his mouth into a thin line and dips his head, pausing just a moment too long before going on. "And what grade are you in, at Midtown?"

Peter's heart skips a beat. He knows it's important, that the law applies differently to people of different ages, but an admission feels impossible to get out. What if Murdock and Mr. Castle decide that he's too young? Mr. Castle had said that Murdock would make sure that he can keep Spider-Man, but Murdock hasn't even touched on it beyond Frank gave me a run-down of your situation. Peter finds himself turning to Mr. Castle, who meets his eyes and gives him a slow nod.

"I'm in-" Peter takes a slow breath. Spit it out, Spider-Man. "I'm a sophomore, sir. I'm- I'm fifteen."

The bed opposite to him creaks as Mr. Castle grows stiff. His gaze flickers and his brow goes tight as he leans forward, resting his elbows on his knees as he brings a fist in front of his mouth. Murdock's lips part and he takes a barely audible breath, but it's enough for Peter to know that his answer hadn't been the ideal one.

"You were fourteen when you put on that mask?" There's no accusation in Mr. Castle's tone, yet Peter's still unable to meet his eyes or summon a response.

There's a strain in Murdock's voice when he speaks. "And- And when will you turn sixteen?"

"August." AKA, not anytime soon. That must not be the ideal answer either if Murdock's expression is anything to go by. "Is that bad?" he asks hesitantly.

"It's-" Murdock breaks off, his tongue flicking over his lips. "You haven't done anything bad, Peter."

A simple yes would've sufficed.

Murdock blows out a slow breath. "I understand your reservations, Peter, but I need you to understand that I want to help you. And that's going to be difficult for me if I don't know your name."

Peter's breath catches in his throat. He swallows to clear it and finds himself digging his nails into the blanket at the edge of the bed. The question isn't a surprise, yet his heart batters against his ribcage nonetheless. The logical part of his brain reminds him that with his age, school, and first name, he's all but screwed in the secret identity department anyway. Yet at the same time, the thought of handing it over to Murdock, someone he's barely known for half an hour, a stranger, makes an echo of his Spider Sense twinge in the back of his skull. Peter takes a gulp of air and slowly lets it out through his nose, but it does little to calm his racing pulse.

"I'm not required to disclose representation of my client," Murdock says, leaning forward. His voice is too level, too even. "No one needs to know that I'm representing Peter or Spider-Man. No one is going to make the connection, and I promise you that unless I have your explicit permission, it stays in this room."

That's just lawyer talk, it's just lawyer talk- He doesn't know that Murdock won't immediately turn around to the police, that he won't use it as blackmail, or pull out a badge and a pair of handcuffs as soon as Peter says it and then- Peter clenches his jaw shut. His name is the one thing he has left, the one thing he hasn't given up, the one thing that keeps him from being as helpless to them as he is to Gargan. And to think that he's expected to just roll over and present him with it-

"Easy." Mr. Castle's tone is soft and his gaze is unwavering. "It's okay, you can tell him."

Peter closes his eyes and steels himself. 

Mr. Castle wouldn't have contacted Murdock if he thought that he couldn't be trusted. 

"Peter Parker."

There it is. No going back now.

For a moment, both men are motionless and Peter wonders if he's just made a huge mistake. The air feels thick with tension, swirling around him and threatening to smother him. When Murdock gives him a small, approving nod, he can finally breathe again.

"So," Peter says, unable to suppress a nervous laugh, "what's my verdict?"

That wins him a small smirk that might actually be genuine on Murdock's face. The lawyer clears his throat and reaches back for his cane before getting to his feet, Mr. Castle quick to follow. 

"This isn't an open-and-shut case, and I doubt that Mac Gargan has legal representation that I could confer with. As much as I'd like to have a solution ready for you, it's going to take time for me to find the best one. And considering the… extraordinary circumstances…" Murdock puts a delicate emphasis on the word before he trails off, dropping his head and letting out a small sigh. When he brings it back up, he turns to face Mr. Castle entirely. "Yeah, Frank. I'll do it."

Peter furrows his brow, pushing himself to stand to meet them. I'll do it? Isn't Murdock already doing it? He glances over at Mr. Castle, but his confusion isn't reflected. Mr. Castle doesn't even look at him, too occupied fixing Murdock with a steady stare. "Mr. Castle…?"

Mr. Castle looks his way for a moment before running his hand down his face, but it's Murdock who speaks. "I'll be outside," he says quietly before he makes his way out the door.

Foreboding knots itself in Peter's chest as Mr. Castle lets out a sigh through his nose as gestures to the bed. "Sit down."

Peter doesn't move. "What is he talking about? W-What's happening?"

Mr. Castle spends a moment staring past him, his middle finger drumming against his side. "The guys after you think you're with me, kid," he says after a beat. "You're safe as long as they're wrong."

The words don't register. Not at first. "I- I don't…"

"You're staying with Murdock."

That- That doesn't add up. That doesn't make any sense. The entire reason Mr. Castle wanted Peter to stay in the first place was that the only thing keeping them from tracking you down or offing anyone else you've ever talked to is they think you've got a big, scary friend. That hasn't changed. What's changed is… Peter swallows back the lump rising in his throat. Had the I'm not leaving been a lie? Just something to keep him placated while Mr. Castle found the best way to get rid of him?

"No no, hey, no-" In an instant, Peter's in his space and frantic instinct takes over, putting him between Mr. Castle and the door. "You can't- You can't do that. You said you w-wouldn't do that, you promised you wouldn't do that!"

Before he can get any further, Mr. Castle reaches out and places a hand on Peter's shoulder. "Hey, hey. Listen to me. What happened this morning? The gas station? That shit's not gonna end. Not for me. You know that."

Peter doesn't have a response. A you don't know that dies in his throat when he remembers who he's talking to. The only thing he can come up with is a childish that's not fair that he knows won't change a thing. Because Mr. Castle's right. He can still hear the gunfire and smell the blood when he closes his eyes, stuck as a witness as so many lives are snuffed out around him. And that's not even touching the fact that the person he's with is the one doing the killing. Peter knows what he'd be agreeing to if he begged to stay.

And yet… 

"This ain't on you. You got that?" Mr. Castle's grip tightens as he dips his head to be level with Peter's eyes. "None of this shit's on you. Now you're gonna go with Murdock, you're gonna do what he says, and he's gonna help you fix this."

"But-" Peter breaks off with a sniffle, scrambling for any sort of valid protest. "But w-what about Gargan? What if he- he finds out? How is Murdock going to-" He cuts himself off, biting back his lip. Peter can barely protect himself from Gargan, how is he supposed to-? Murdock would just end up another casualty of the Parker Luck. 

A brief flash of what looks to be frustration crosses Mr. Castle's face, but it's too quick for Peter to determine if it's aimed at him. "Nah. Not gonna happen. I'll make sure of that."

Peter knows what that means, but they've gone in enough circles about it that just the thought of bringing it up now exhausts him. At this point, they're more than well aware of where the other stands. There's not much left that Peter has to say.

So he lurches forward instead.

He throws his arms around Mr. Castle's shoulders and clasps his fingers together behind his back. The response is almost immediate. A heavy pair of hands settle on his back a second later, one moving up to rest Peter's head against his shoulder. He can feel the calluses on his fingers and smell the gun oil clinging to his jacket, but Peter finds himself unable to care. He turns his cheek into Mr. Castle's shoulder, grateful that he can't see the water welling up in his eyes when he sniffles. 

"Thank you," Peter murmurs. "For- For e-"

He breaks off when Mr. Castle tenses. "No. You owe me nothin'," he says, voice firm. He pushes Peter back, his hands constricting on Peter's upper arms and his dark eyes boring into Peter's own. "You ever find yourself doin' what you do where I'm doin' what I do—you remember that. You owe me nothin'."

Peter doesn't get the chance to process what he's saying before Mr. Castle lets go entirely. He stoops down to grab the duffle off the floor and place it on the bed, then rifles through it and piles Peter's clothes out on the comforter. He studies the contents of the duffle for a moment before shedding his jacket, holding it out to Peter with a small nod.

"You're gonna need this. Murdock didn't drive here."

Peter accepts the jacket with a quiet huff. He pulls it on and holds out his arms when Mr. Castle bundles up the clothes and passes it to him. Mr. Castle proceeds to scan the room and let out a short breath before going for the door, Peter trailing after.

Murdock's back is against the wall outside, his cane held between his legs and his head bowed. He seems to look up when the door opens, his ear angled in their direction. Peter finds himself grateful when he doesn't say a word. 

"Got everything, Murdock?" Mr. Castle asks, an undercurrent to his tone that Peter can't identify.

Slowly, Murdock dips his head. "See you around, Frank."

For some reason, that prompts a short chuckle, but it's quick to die off. Mr. Castle turns to face Peter, his expression shifting before it settles into neutral. He rests a hand on Peter's shoulder, giving it a squeeze and meeting his eyes. He gives a small nod, only letting go and breaking his gaze after Peter returns it.

Mr. Castle turns to the car parked down the sidewalk and reaches in his pocket for the keys before he heads toward it, leaving Peter by the motel room with Murdock at his side.

He doesn't look back.

Notes:

See? Matt IS in this fic! And if not next chapter, he'll be getting his own POV two chapters from now :D

Chapter 14: Along the Grapevine

Notes:

Thank you guys so much for your responses on the last chapter! Y'all are so great :D

And a super big thanks to candlesneedflame for helping make Tony Tony in this chapter

What Stick wouldn't give to be in Matt's shoes right about now. 

He'd get one whiff of Peter and light up in the same way a dog lights up when presented with a new chew toy. An orphaned, enhanced kid, all but handed over to him? Stick would be on about "the war" and pinning the kid to the ground in no time.

The kid. Spider-Man's a goddamn kid.

It's no wonder that Matt never ran into him on the occasions the Kitchen's problems drifted into Queens—it was probably past his curfew by the time Matt came around. 

Spider-Man's muscles are taut with tension and Matt can taste the salt from his tears. His stomach isn't growling, but his breath tells Matt that he hasn't eaten since last night. His skin is cold and he smells like blood and gravel and cheap shampoo. Yet Frank's scent muffles most of it, clinging to the jacket that's too long for Peter's arms and falls below his waist. The only lingering warmer spots on him are the back of his neck, where Frank had put his hand, and his cheek, where Peter had pressed it against Frank's shoulder.

Frank hadn't even hesitated. Not for a second. He'd let Peter cling to him and held him just as tight in return, guiding his head to rest on him without a moment of wavering. It explains why Peter's breathing grows tighter and he sniffles too much to attribute it entirely to the cold as the car's engine roars to life. His head swivels to track it as it rolls down the street. He takes a shaky breath and clenches his fingers tight around the bundle of clothes in his arms when the car turns out of his sight. 

Matt draws in a deep, quiet breath through his nose before he turns to face the kid. "You holding something?" he asks lightly, gesturing to the clothes in Peter's grasp. 

Peter jumps as if he'd forgotten Matt was there. "Uh, clothes."

Matt pats the satchel at his side and holds out a hand. "Here." Carrying an armful of clothes down the sidewalk could draw second glances that they don't need, especially from anyone looking for Peter.

"Thanks," Peter mutters as he passes them to Matt, but not without a moment of reluctance. Matt shifts, angling himself so that Peter can't see the billy clubs and black mask at the bottom of the satchel when he opens it. He stuffs the clothes inside, packing them in before latching the flap closed. He can practically feel Peter's gaze trained on him as he moves, his weight shifting from foot to foot depending on which way Matt faced. Matt's not sure whether it's him or the hell the kid's been through that has him on edge. Either way, Matt has a feeling that the only reason Peter's not bolting is because Frank instructed him not to.

Matt would have to work on that. "You ready?" 

Peter shrugs, then shrinks down a little as heat rises to his cheeks when he processes his fumble. "Yeah, sure," he lies.

Matt doesn't know why he asked. Still, he lifts his cane off the ground and holds it at his side. "Mind if I borrow your arm?" The concern might not be founded, but it'd still discourage him from straying.

"Borrow my—?" Confusion coats his voice, quickly cut off as his tongue clicks against the roof of his mouth. "Oh, yeah. I mean, no, I don't mind."

It's hard to tell if his heart fluttering is indicative of embarrassment or a lie, but Matt goes forward with it anyway. He grabs Peter's elbow with a light grip and gives him a soft nudge, all the kid needs before he starts moving. He keeps his weight in his toes as he walks and his arm is stiff under Matt's hold, and he's facing anywhere but Matt himself. 

"So," Matt tries, "what sounds good for lunch?"

"Lunch?" Peter says it as if he's unfamiliar with the concept.

"Ninth Avenue's only a block away. Pretty much anything you could ask for there."

Peter dips his head. "Thanks, but I'm not hungry."

Matt suppresses a frown. Maybe Peter's too old to have fallen for Stick's play. Buying him food to coax him into opening up is a page right out of Stick's book, something Matt mentally berates himself for trying to reference. Yet at the same time, the kid needs to eat. Matt debates pushing it for a few seconds before deciding against it; if he wants to get anywhere with him, immediately going against his expressed wishes isn't the best way to proceed. 

"Have you been to Hell's Kitchen before, Peter? Take a right up here," he adds, giving Peter another nudge. The kid's quick to oblige, taking a sharp turn and muttering an apology when Matt's shoulder brushes against a signpost in his effort to keep in contact with him.

Matt wouldn't be surprised if Peter is familiar with the Kitchen; Spider-Man is a different story. Someone swinging on webs through his city is something he should've noticed, and he can only wonder what else he misses if Peter affirms it. But the kid only gives a one-shouldered shrug. "Not really."

"How come?"

Another shrug, more hesitant this time as if he's stewing on what to say. "I dunno."

The criminals Matt corners are more eager to talk to him. The only thing that seems to be keeping Peter responding is an effort to not come across as rude. It's more than the effort that Matt made at his age, and he's rewarding the kid for it by trying to make small talk right after interrogating him. 

Right as Matt decides to let it go, Peter lets out a small sigh. "It's kinda—" he casts a quick glance behind him and to his sides before lowering his voice to a mumble "—Spider-Man business. I stay out of Hell's Kitchen 'cause, you know… Daredevil."

If it weren't for Peter guiding him along, Matt would have halted in his tracks. Somehow, he's able to keep his tone even. "I don't follow."

"It's hard to-" Peter breaks off, reaching his free arm behind him to scratch at the back of his head before shaking it. "It doesn't really matter, anyway."

Matt quells the rush of frustration before it can show on his face. "Try me."

"I don't know, it's-" Peter breaks off and works his jaw. "I guess… he's like, the original masked vigilante. Looking out for the little guy, you know? I thought about stopping by when I started out, maybe hope to run into him at the same crime scene or something, but… it would've been really awkward if I was like, 'Hey, I'm Spider-Man,' and he's like, 'Who?'"

Jesus Christ. An attempt at a response rises and dies in Matt's throat. "So you… you wanted to have street cred first?" he barely manages to get out.

Save for the Daily Bugle, which Matt has learned from firsthand experience to listen to with a grain of salt, Spider-Man seems to be viewed overall favorably by both the public and media. Matt tries to keep an ear out for whenever he pops up, as the sample size of masked vigilantes, as far as he knows, is limited to the two of them. Even Foggy and Karen have taken note of the similarity, sometimes summarizing newspaper articles and videos for him when they come across them. Beyond the completely different ways Spider-Man and Daredevil are portrayed in the media, they never spend much time dwelling on the other vigilante.

"No, not-" Peter's just as quick to cut himself off as he is to protest. "I mean, I guess you could put it that way. But then right after my aunt found out, Daredevil attacked that newspaper and church, so-"

"Daredevil didn't do that," Matt corrects, perhaps a second too swiftly. "That was a copycat. Cross here."

Peter stops at a crosswalk once Matt tugs at his arm. "Yeah, we know that now. But at the time, my aunt was- basically, Hell's Kitchen was off-limits."

While it stings to hear just how far Fisk's efforts to smear his name had spread, it's a relief that Peter's aunt had made that call. The last thing Matt had needed was to factor in Spider-Man on top of both Dex and Fisk. 

"I didn't believe it at first," Peter continues, moving his hands to his pockets with a small shrug, "so I did some research, and I found some articles explaining how it wasn’t, like, completely out of the blue. Apparently, he stabbed some guy in the face before tossing him off a roof and putting him into a coma. And he breaks a lot of bones, and he's tortured people too. Even after the imposter thing was cleared up, I thought…" Peter trails off. "Uh, the walk symbol's on."

Matt holds his tongue as he adjusts his grip on Peter's arm to cross the street. Peter's not wrong, after all. He puts it simply, but he's not wrong.

It's no wonder the public paints them in such different lights. There's not much to create controversy over when Spider-Man's worst crimes appear to be trespassing and property damage, with perhaps an occasional assault charge that's black and white enough that Matt could come up with a solid defense for it on the fly. Spider-Man is the kind of vigilante that helps the elderly cross the street, catches bike thieves, stops bank robberies, and will pose for a picture. 

But those aren't the kind of things that get you on a gang leader's personal hit list. If this Mac Gargan still wants Peter dead at the risk of pissing off Frank Castle, then it's personal. 

Even the shitstorm that had surrounded Ray Nadeem looks tame compared to what Frank just piled on his plate. Keeping Peter out of Gargan's hands is simple enough; nothing any more complicated than what Matt has done before. Figuring out how to keep Spider-Man's identity secret without letting Frank put a bullet in Gargan is a different story. Blackmail had worked with Fisk, but Matt has a feeling that good material won't be as accessible this time around. Then there's the fact that Peter doesn't have anyone to take him in. Uncle shot in an alley, aunt killed in the warehouse collapse days ago, and too young for emancipation. Putting him in the system is the logical option, but that's a hell Matt's all too familiar with.

Then there's the Sokovia Accords.

"It’s not even grunts, Red," Frank had said. "Kid doesn’t know it, but fucking Iron Man is on his ass. Last thing I need is him thinking they can have a friendly chat about it. Tried pulling that shit with Gargan.” 

He hadn't thought the Accords had been implemented yet. Matt had made sure to go over the Accords with Foggy as soon as they were publicized, and they'd had a long discussion about Daredevil afterward. If the government is able to find out about Matt's enhancements—a thankfully big if in his case—the best-case scenario is that he signs the Accords and has to wear a tracking bracelet for the rest of his life. Worst case scenario… 'Any enhanced individuals who use their powers to break the law (including those who take part in extralegal vigilante activities), or are otherwise deemed to be a threat to the safety of the general public, may be detained indefinitely without trial.'  

Even the best legal team can't help without trial. And when there's footage of Peter scaling walls and stopping buses, his enhancements are impossible to play off. 

"… think he's good for the city, though. Especially if it's between him and Wilson Fisk. That guy's huge. I wouldn't want to be within twenty feet of him without my- with what I can do," Peter says with a quick glance behind him.

Matt snaps back to the present, frowning as he runs Peter's words over in his head. "I'd imagine what you can do doesn't matter as much if you have enough training."

Peter falters with his next step. "I- I guess."

Wait. Surely he has… "You've had training, right?"

Peter opens his mouth, but for a moment, no noise comes out. "Yeah," he says, followed by a second, more confident, "yeah."

Jesus. Despite his uncertainty, it's not a complete lie. Come to think of it, unless the person who trained him is his school friend or a criminal, the list he gave Matt of the people who know his identity doesn't match with the possibilities. It only affirms that there's someone else that he's hiding, someone else who knows. Hopefully it's the person who trained him—if not, Matt would have to keep digging. "What sort of stuff have you been trained in?" he asks, keeping his tone light.

"Um, Mr. Castle taught me how to disarm. But they say experience is the best teacher, so…" Peter trails off.

It takes an extraordinary amount of willpower to keep himself from reacting. It's nothing short of a miracle that Peter's not dead. He'd been fourteen, with powers he didn't know how to use yet, untrained, and he decided to put on a mask and go out on the streets to fight criminals. Shit, maybe it would've been better if Stick had gotten to him. 

Matt dismisses the thought almost immediately, but the shock still remains. It's a question of when, not if being Spider-Man is going to kill him if Matt allows him to continue. Hell, he's already had a number of far too close calls. If Matt manages to fix this and Peter thinks he can just hop back on the streets- Christ. Matt should've paid closer attention before it came to this. If he had just picked up on the fact that Spider-Man is only out and about after three in the afternoon and on weekends, if he had put second thought in to just how young his voice sounds in the videos… 

Fifteen. He can't know what the hell he's doing. Someone who's not old enough to decide to fight for their country shouldn't be fighting for their city on the streets. Whatever comes of this, whether Peter likes it or not, Matt knows that he can't allow an untrained child to continue dancing around the barrels of guns.

That's not your only option, Matty.

Matt shoves Stick's voice to the back of his mind.

---

"Boss, I've picked up Castle's name on NYPD tactical frequencies. Four DOAs following reports of shots fired in a parking garage on Thirty-eighth and Thirty-fourth in Astoria. Officers are on the scene."

Fucking finally.

After finding out that eight of Mac Gargan's men had been killed in a warehouse collapse where Spider-Man and Castle were seen, interrogating some of his other lackeys seemed like the next logical step, but all he's found is that they don't seem to know any more than he does. Castle has Peter, Gargan wants Peter, and nobody knows where anybody is. 

Castle's made himself a very hard man to predict, Tony will give him that. Hacking into Homeland hasn't gotten any more difficult despite the number of times Tony's done it, not that he's complaining. The fact that Homeland had Castle and proceeded to let him walk is something he takes issue with.

Homeland had Castle in an office, unrestrained, and wearing a goddamn hoodie, talking with a federal agent into a camera about some Kandahar business that Tony doesn't have time to give a shit about. He'd dropped a bunch of names of people that he'd killed, most corrupt enough that Tony couldn't find it in himself to care. But when the agent had mentioned a Zubair… We go, we find him. We dragged him out of his house in front of his kids. His wife was screaming. Same thing we did to a bunch of other guys.

Castle had delivered it all with an even voice and a flat expression, like none of it fazed him in the slightest. He corroborated what a videotape apparently already confirmed: that he'd stood by as some CIA higher-up tortured an Afghan police officer. His tone was cold when he affirmed that he was the one that had put a bullet in the officer's brain. He hadn't known that Zubair was innocent at the time, but Tony couldn’t see the impact that knowledge had on him as he recounted the man's murder.

Tony could only make himself watch the tape once. Zubair had begged for his life, said that he wasn't a terrorist, that he had a family, and Castle hadn't hesitated for a second before shooting him in the head.

This is the man that has Peter.

The address FRIDAY supplies him is so close that it's almost like Castle's mocking him. It doesn't even take Tony a minute to arrive on the scene. Half a dozen squad cars are clustered around the garage's entrance while a few more block off the road. Police officers mill about below him, each going still and looking up one by one as he flies closer. Tony can make out jaws dropping as he eases power off his repulsors to land, a motion he'd consider making more theatrical if he were here for any other reason. 

This time, despite the wide eyes and gaping mouths, he's not here to put on a show. His faceplate folds back into his suit, but all he can do is take a breath before a voice speaks up behind him.

"Well, it's about goddamn time one of you started taking this shit seriously."

Tony turns to face the speaker. He's got a bullet-proof vest on top of his white button-up, both covered by an NYPD jacket. His hands rest on his hips, one awfully close to the gun in his holster. But it's the golden badge dangling around his neck that catches Tony's attention, the word Sergeant shining back at him. 

Tough crowd, but at least he's forward. Tony can appreciate that. Tony opens his arms in a here-I-am gesture and brings them back to his sides before he speaks. "Considering that Earth seems more or less alien-free at the moment, we thought we'd try our hand at the domestic threats."

The sergeant scoffs and gives a tiny shake of his head. "You started in the right place. We've got four DOAs in that parking garage. That makes eighteen courtesy of Castle in the past few days."

Tony lets out a contemplative hum. "Yeah, tell you what—you go clear out your boys in blue, and I'll get Castle out of your hair."

Instead of complying, the sergeant's eyes narrow. He opens his mouth before promptly shutting it, his brow furrowing before he speaks. "So what, you've got some kind of Avenger's jurisdiction that you're going to wave?"

"Pretty much," Tony replies without missing a beat. God, he doesn't have time for this. "The Avengers operate under the supervision of the United Nations, and here I am: operating."

The sergeant just turns his head to the side, regarding Tony out of the corners of his eyes.

"You know, Secretary Ross did bring up the idea of official Avenger's ID cards—guess it's my fault for shutting him down and thinking that there wouldn't be anyone who didn't recognize-"

"I know who you are," the sergeant interrupts flatly. Any other time, Tony would be impressed. "But I've been put in charge of the Punisher case for over a year now, and I don't need-"

"You ever met him?"

The sergeant breaks off and raises his eyebrows. "I- Met him? Castle?" His tongue flicks over his lips. "Never sat down for a friendly conversation, but yeah. We've had our run-ins."

"Right. You can stay, Sergeant…?"

"Mahoney," he replies tersely. Mahoney glances behind him and starts to sigh before cutting himself off. He jerks his head in a follow me gesture before leaving for the garage, not even checking to make sure that Tony's on his tail. "We've identified two of the four bodies, and if I had to guess, the other two also work for this Mac Gargan guy. Castle seems set on taking him out, though I think it might be mutual. Now, we don't know for sure yet that Castle killed these four, but it fits his MO down to the letter."

Tony purses his lips and nods, running Mahoney's words over in his mind as he follows the sergeant to the parking garage's ramp. "So four here, and eight in the warehouse collapse a few days back. That’s twelve. You said eighteen."

"That's right," Mahoney confirms. He stops at the edge of the ramp, blowing out a long breath before he turns to face Tony. The look on his face makes Tony's heart batter against his ribcage. Tony has to clench his jaw shut to keep the words from bubbling out, which only ends up freeing his nose to take in the sickly stench of blood. "Six of Gargan's men turned up dead in a gas station in Hempstead yesterday morning. Cashier called it in, said she saw them squaring off and got out of there before shit went down. Reason it's not in the press yet is that it ties in with another ongoing investigation." 

Mahoney steps closer, locking his eyes on Tony's and lowering his voice. "According to her, Castle had a kid with him."

Tony has to swallow to keep his breath from catching in his throat. Yesterday morning. While Tony was checking out their hideout, Castle took Peter to a fucking shootout. Tony takes in a breath through his mouth and exhales through his nose, striving to keep his voice steady. "Have you identified the kid?"

"Again, I've got a guess." That's all he says before he heads down the ramp, forcing Tony to follow.

Tony's seen too much of his own share of blood and torture and bodies to consider himself squeamish, but the sight that meets him at the bottom of the ramp is enough to make his stomach churn. Three bodies are littered carelessly in the center of the parking lot, their limbs angled awkwardly as if they had dropped where they stood. Dark blood pools and streams around each of their heads, their faces somewhere between white and ashy gray. A handgun lies near each of their sides like it'd slipped out of their fingers on its way to the ground.

But it's the man against the wall that has Tony's heart drop to his stomach. At first glance, it looks like he's still standing. His head hangs over his chest like his back is somehow stuck to the wall.

A white glob of webbing binds the man’s hands to his sides. Peter’s webbing. More webbing coats his eyes, the white stained red with a stream that runs down his forehead to his chin, dripping onto the concrete floor.

"Clear out! All of you!" Mahoney calls, his voice almost making Tony jump. 

Protests fade into questions and whispers as the officers notice Iron Man by Mahoney's side, but they're quick to comply. In less than a minute, the parking garage is silent. 

"Headshots, all of them," Mahoney states, gesturing to the bodies. His voice sounds distant. "Now here's the thing about Castle: when he took out the Kitchen Irish, he mowed them down. Dogs of Hell, too. Didn't waste any time making it clean. This—" Mahoney scans the lot "—is clean."

Tony bites down on his tongue and blinks, forcing himself back to the present. "You're suggesting Castle didn't do this?" he asks doubtfully.

Mahoney shrugs. "I'm suggesting Castle couldn't afford to be messy."

Shit. He's good. Tony stalks over to the man against the wall, looking him over before reaching out to touch the webbing sticking his hands to his sides. Castle could've taken Peter's web-shooters, but given what Mahoney said, that's not where Tony's leaning.

"Got any idea what that white shit is?" Mahoney asks, his footsteps approaching from behind. "Because if you say it's some alien-"

"'fraid not. I'll do you one better, Mahoney." Tony spins around to face him, cocking his head to the side. "Why does Frank Castle take a kid with him to kill a gang? C'mon, spitball. Actually, hold that thought," Tony says when Mahoney takes a breath. "What's the ongoing investigation? Who's the kid?"

The last thing he needs is for the NYPD to draw a connection between Peter and Spider-Man. The webs on the man could be damning if Tony doesn't play his cards right. 

Unfortunately, Mahoney knows how to put two and two together. "Best guess? Peter Parker. Reported missing a few days ago when he didn't show up to school. But teens run off and pop back up all the time, so we didn't think much of it until we found out about his aunt. Again, didn't release her death to the press 'cause of the ongoing investigation."

The floor vanishes from under Tony's feet.

"What?" he can barely get out.

That's not right. That's not goddamn right. Checking May Parker's status was one of the first things he did. It was missing, not fucking dead. He'd assumed Castle threatened her to lay low, not fucking- Shit. He'd been sure to check the Parker residence and hadn't found any sign of a struggle, the only other way Castle could've gotten her is if he- May is—goddamnit, was—a nurse. If he grabbed her on her way to the hospital with her badge pinned on her shirt-

Holy shit. Does Peter know? The threat on May's life could be how Castle's keeping him from running. Or he does know, and Castle tortured information about his friends out of him with the promise that they'll meet the same fate as May if Peter tries anything. Either way, Peter won't be the same when Tony gets him back. Fuck, he doesn't even have any family to go to-

"Stark? You okay?"

Tony snaps his head up, drawing in a quick breath before meeting Mahoney's eyes and nodding. "Peter's aunt—what happened?" he manages to ask.

"The warehouse collapse. She got caught up in it. No idea what she was doing there."

Tony narrows his eyes. "'Caught up in it?' You don't think Castle killed her?" He doesn't mean for it to come out like an accusation.

Mahoney sighs properly this time. "Look—I went over the background check myself. A nurse, no gang affiliations, volunteers at the food pantry—hell, the worst thing on her record is a speeding ticket. Castle wouldn't have killed her."

"What, because he's got a code?" Tony scoffs.

Mahoney doesn't miss a beat. "Earlier this year, I was driving him to the precinct in an ambulance. Had him handcuffed and everything. But when this other crazy bastard drove me off the road to get to him, Castle freed himself while I was stuck in the front seat. He could've left then and there, but when the ambulance caught fire, he went in and saved my ass. Day earlier, he was practically suicidal when he thought his stray bullets killed three innocent women."

A part of Tony wants to shake his head, to dismiss Mahoney's words as the bullshit they are, but the other part can't help but notice the dead serious glint in his eyes. 

"Now, I want Castle locked up just as much as you do," Mahoney continues. Tony holds back a huff; if that were the case, he wouldn't want Castle locked up at all. "But he didn't kill May Parker. And if her nephew is with him, Castle's not going to kill a kid."

"So why the hell did he bring Peter here? Since you know him so well." A voice in the back of his mind warns him that snapping at the officer he asked to help him isn't the smartest play, but to Mahoney's credit, he doesn't even bat an eye.

"Spitballing? Bait. The Parkers have some connection with Gargan, and Castle's using the kid to draw him out."

That… That actually adds up. It explains the sedatives Castle used, probably to keep Peter from running until he found out his identity. From there, blackmail could be used to keep the kid cooperative. And if Peter Parker was being used as bait for Gargan, not Spider-Man, then Gargan must be aware of his identity as well. That poses another problem. If nothing else, at least Mahoney seems confident that Castle's not going to have Peter killed. A part of Tony wants to ask if he thinks Castle would torture him; an even greater part of Tony doesn't want to know.

"Okay," Tony mutters, clapping his hands together as he focuses back on Mahoney. "I'll shoot you a text later. Save my number and give me a call if you remember anything important. I'm taking the Castle and Parker case off your hands. Two birds, one stone." Tony offers Mahoney a tight-lipped smile as he pats his shoulder.

Mahoney glances over at Tony's gauntlet-covered hand before stepping out of his grasp. "Hold on a-"

"I'm gonna need all the files and evidence you collected. Ballistics, last known locations, that sort of stuff. How many people know about the Parker case?"

Mahoney's mouth opens, but for a few seconds, nothing comes out. "The- The connection between the cases is just guesswork since I don't have anything concrete tying them together yet, but you-"

"Just you? Great." Tony strides to the center of the parking garage, giving it one last once-over before heading for the ramp. "You'll receive an NDA about that tonight. Oh yeah, and that security cam at the entrance—I'm gonna need the footage. The NYPD hasn't watched it yet, yeah?"

Mahoney presses his lips in a thin line. "No, Stark-"

"If it's about the paperwork, I'll get it to you before the NDA." Tony would have to make some calls and scrounge up some actual paperwork for that to happen, but he knows which strings to pull. He fires up his repulsors and brings his faceplate back over his head before Mahoney can get a word in edgewise. "Oh, and if you ever get bored of the NYPD, give me a call."

If Mahoney responds, Tony doesn't catch it. He has footage to watch. And after that, a long, long talk with Pepper.

Notes:

Tony: saw you hangin out with peter yesterday
Frank: stark, it's not what you think-
Tony: i won't hesitate bITch

Chapter 15: Devil's Advocate

Notes:

Sorry it took me a whole decade to get this chapter out. Last month and this first week have been hectic with a capital Heck. I had planned to update before then, but I guess my vision wasn't 2020.

(i'll see myself out)

And as always, big thanks to candlesneedflame for betaing and check out their stuff if you haven't done so already!

Murdock doesn't have a dog.

In hindsight, it was probably wrong of Peter to hope that he did. Moreover, Peter shouldn't have assumed that he needed one in the first place. He can all but see MJ's pursed lips and hear her caustic voice as she tsks and says, Wow, Peter. How did you think blind people with dog allergies got around?  

After all, Murdock never seemed uncertain about where they were on the walk to his apartment, and Peter's pretty sure that Murdock had ended up doing much more guiding than he had. Besides, if he did have a seeing-eye dog, he most likely would've been using it the whole time. All things considered, Peter really shouldn't be as disappointed as he is when Murdock opens his apartment door and no lab or golden retriever runs up to greet them.

Instead, he's met with a short hallway that opens up to a living room, lit only by the light that spills in through the tinted window panes that bathe the room in a yellow glow. A couch and two armchairs with a coffee table between them sit in the center of the room, the only notable items before his gaze shifts to the small kitchen against the wall. The counter looks to be made up of cheap OSB wood and what appears to be a stone countertop, an assortment of jars and bottles on top containing spices and other kitchen implements that neither he nor May would know what to do with. 

The thought almost forms that Murdock doesn't have much in the way of decorations before Peter mentally kicks himself. All the same, the minimalist design, high ceiling, blank walls, and the type of door that partially closes off the bedroom makes him think of a warehouse more than a home.

"You can take a look around, if you want," Murdock says. He stops in the entryway to take off his satchel and fold up his cane, the movement smooth and practiced as he disassembles it all while seemingly staring ahead instead of down at his hands. He rests it on a small table before turning down the hallway, reaching out to brush his knuckles against the wall as he walks to meet Peter at the edge of the living room. His gait is a complete departure from how it was outside, as if all of the uncertainty and hesitation in his steps vanish the second he enters his home. Honestly, it's kind of fascinating.

The notion also makes Peter feel more like an intruder than anything else.

"I'll have to stock up a bit first, but you're welcome to anything you find in the kitchen." Murdock halts a few feet away, pursing his lips into a considering frown before giving a tiny nod and continuing. "As far as sleeping arrangements go, I'll make up the bedroom for you and take the couch. You can-"

"No no, that's- I'll be fine on the couch, Mr. Murdock," Peter interrupts, putting on an assured smile before remembering who it's for. 

Murdock just shakes his head. "You can't see it now, but there's a billboard across the street that I'm told really lights this place up at night. I'm taking the couch."

Before Peter can come up with a counter-argument or even decide if it's worth it, a loud, robotic "Karen, Karen, Karen-" comes from a smartphone on the coffee table. Peter finds himself grateful that Murdock can't see his undignified jump. 

Murdock clicks his tongue against the roof of his mouth before striding over and reaching for the phone, his thumb hovering above the screen as he turns to Peter with a raised brow. "Mind if I—?"

Peter remembers not to shrug this time. "Sure."

Murdock swipes across the screen and brings the phone to his ear, automatically facing away from Peter and stepping a few paces back. "Hey."

"Hey, are you okay?" Karen rushes out. It's almost the same worried tone she had asked Mr. Castle in.

"I'm fine. It was just a talk, Karen," Murdock assures, as if there had been a very real possibility that Mr. Castle would do anything to a blind lawyer that he asked to meet with.

Then there's Karen. Is she Nelson or Page? Peter quickly comes to the decision that Karen Page has a much better ring to it, and come to think of it, actually sounds kind of familiar. The Karen in question lets out what Peter thinks is a small sigh of relief before continuing with, "About what? For Frank to call the office directly-"

"Yeah, I- I can’t talk about this over the phone."

Peter narrows his eyes. Over the phone. But that implies-

"Okay, so when are you coming back?"

Murdock's tongue flicks between his lips, his head tilting in Peter’s direction. "Can you guys manage if I take the rest of the day off?"

There's a beat of silence before Karen responds. "Look, we both know Frank wouldn't have called if he thought he could handle whatever it is himself. If it's that serious, I want to know what's going on before you put on your-"

"Karen- Karen," Murdock's quick to cut her off. "I'll come in and explain everything tomorrow. I just- Just let me get some more answers first."

Peter swallows. That sounds an awful lot like another round of questioning, and just the mere prospect of that is all it takes to weigh him down. Murdock already has his school, his age, his name—what more could he want? The only thing Mr. Castle couldn't have told him is what happened to his parents, but the last thing Peter wants are the extra pity points he'd get if Murdock knew that they died in a plane crash. Everything Murdock says to him already feels calculated enough, like he's worried that Peter's going to break down into the fetal position if he chooses the wrong words. 

The pauses between his replies to Karen are much shorter, much more conversational, and Peter almost wishes that he was talking to her instead. He'd barely exchanged any words with her when he was trying to contact David, but at least she talked to him like he wasn't made of glass.

"Okay," Karen relents after a long moment. "If you need anything-"

"I got it," Murdock says with a small, actually genuine smile. "Thanks, Karen."

The second he ends the call, the name clicks into place. "Karen Page? Isn't she- That's that reporter lady, right? You're gonna tell my identity to a reporter?"

"Former reporter," Murdock quickly corrects. "You've heard of her?" he asks, like that's the most important issue Peter brought up.

"Daredevil articles, remember?" Peter all but snaps. "But you can't tell her. Is she even a lawyer? Does she have attorney-client privilege? I-"

Murdock holds up his hands with his palms open as if he's trying to pacify a frightened animal. His tone matches the gesture when he speaks. "You can trust her," he says slowly. "Yes, Karen has attorney-client privilege. She's been with us since the beginning, and the last thing she'd do is publish an exposé on you, I promise."

Peter fails to hold back a huff. Tell Murdock your identity, you can trust him. Tell Karen your identity, you can trust her. And on and on until he might as well just pull a Tony Stark and announce it at a press conference and it wouldn't make a difference. At least Gargan would have nothing on him then. Peter crosses his arms and shakes his head, facing away from Murdock for a moment before turning back to him. "You promised that unless you have my explicit permission, it stays in this room."

This time, Peter decides to count the seconds during the anticipated pause before Murdock's reply. "Finding a solution that works best for you will go much faster if I'm not the only one looking for it."

"You promised."

That'd be enough for Mr. Castle, but Peter has no idea if that even matters to Murdock in the slightest, or if it was just something said in the moment in an attempt to pry out his identity. Murdock draws in a deep breath, shifting his head until his sunglasses are angled in a way that gives the illusion of eye contact. One, two, three, four… 

He raises his hands again, this time accompanying the gesture with a tiny step back. "Okay. You're right, I did."

Peter braces himself for the but, yet it doesn't come. Murdock just stuffs his phone in the inside pocket of his blazer and turns to the kitchen, his mouth twisting into a small frown as he stops by the table in front of the counter. His head is tilted in Peter's direction and his brow is furrowed like he actually cares. Like he really expects Peter to believe that he's just a good Samaritan, that he's letting Peter eat his food and sleep in his bed in addition to risking his life for him out of the kindness of his soul. And he's supposed to buy that Mr. Castle's lawyer is just nice enough to take him in? 

Mr. Castle never bothered with pretense or fake smiles. When he was pissed he didn't try to pass off as otherwise, and he didn't try to cover up the few glimpses Peter caught of him happy. When Peter asked him a question, he could expect an answer that's not tailored to who's hearing it. Mr. Castle never attempted to draw attention away from the fact that he's the Punisher and he never pretended that he isn't anything more. 

"So what," Peter starts, hating the shake in his voice, "you're just… really nice?"

Murdock's frown grows deeper. When he shifts to the side, Peter doesn't miss how he's blocking off the roof access door. "Excuse me?"

"That's why you're doing this, right?" Peter steps closer, taking note of how Murdock straightens in response. "I mean, I'm not paying you. I know you and Mr. Castle aren't friends. And you- you didn't agree right away, so it's not that you owe him something. It's not that you work for Gargan, or the police, or- or-"

It's only now Peter realizes how easy reading Mr. Castle had become. Murdock's face is an impassive mask, leaving him lost as to if any of the accusations are landing. Even after the usual amount of time for a calculated reply passes, Murdock doesn't say a word. Foreboding builds in Peter's chest, heavy and suffocating and making the high-ceilinged room feel like a cage. A quick web to bind Murdock's feet to the ground would free up the roof access door, and the front door is an option if-

Before Peter can come to a decision, Murdock turns to the living room and abandons his stance without breaking his silence. He leaves the path to the door wide open, almost as if he couldn't care less what Peter was planning to do. He just lowers himself on the couch and folds his hands in his lap, facing the chair across from him. When Murdock finally speaks, he doesn't even pretend to look over at him. 

"Sit."

Murdock doesn't make it sound like a request. You're gonna go with Murdock, you're gonna do what he says, and he's gonna help you fix this. Peter takes a slow breath and shifts his weight from foot to foot. Slowly, he stalks around the couch and stops in front of the chair, wavering for a moment before taking a seat on the edge of the cushion.

Murdock leans forward and presses his mouth into a thin line. He laces his fingers together and taps his thumbs, something akin to hesitation in the deep breath he takes through his nose. Before Peter can decide what he's playing at, Murdock reaches for his sunglasses and pulls them off, holding them in a loose grip in his hand. Murdock's eyes look… surprisingly normal. Which he probably shouldn't be surprised by. What were you expecting, Peter? MJ would challenge with an unwavering gaze.

"My dad was a boxer," he begins, shifting his glasses to his opposite hand. "He was supposed to throw a fight, and when he didn't, it pissed off the wrong people." When Murdock pauses, Peter has a pretty good idea where his story is going. "I was ten when I heard a gunshot and found his body in an alley. I understand that might sound a bit familiar." 

Oh.

"I spent the rest of my childhood in Saint Agnes'. Peter, I don't want that for you."

Peter replays Murdock's words in his mind, his stomach going cold with a realization as the anger drains out of him. Murdock wouldn't have known it was his father's body right away. He'd either have to feel for something familiar or wait for someone to confirm it, and Peter can't decide which is worse. Peter drops his gaze and curls his hand around the sleeve of Mr. Castle's jacket before running it down his face. When had he started assuming the worst of people? What would May think? "Sorry, sir," he mumbles. "I shouldn't have… sorry."

"Don't worry about it." Murdock returns his glasses to his face and pushes himself up, clearing his throat. "I'm making a grocery run. Shouldn't be long. You want anything?"

The subject change is almost jarring, and Peter has to take a moment before he shakes his head. "Thanks, but I'm- I'm good. Do…" He trails off, scanning the room as he stands to meet Murdock. There's a closed laptop on top of a red desk in the corner and a bookshelf against the wall, but he doubts that there would be any not in Braille. Beyond that… "Do you have anything to do?"

Murdock's lips part and his eyebrows raise the slightest amount. He falters before reaching in his pocket and pulling out his smartphone and hesitates a second longer before holding it out. "Put in your burner number. Don't make any purchases."

On one hand, Peter can't help but feel like an iPad kid getting their parent's phone in order to be kept quiet and entertained. On the other hand, he hasn't had a glimpse of the internet in days. Has anyone taken note of Spider-Man's disappearance? He's taken longer breaks than a few days, but he's rarely pushed it beyond three. And unlike vigilantes like Mr. Castle or Daredevil, he usually does his work out in public and in the light of day. If people aren't seeing him, they won't as easily write it off. More importantly, what are people making of Peter Parker's disappearance? What will his Instagram or Snapchat inbox look like?

Peter's breath catches in his throat. Ned's most definitely messaged him. He could video call Ned, right now, and talk with his friend-

Then again, just logging into his social media could send out his location. On second thought, there's no reason he can't disable it and install a VPN. The idea of seeing a familiar face, someone who knows May, someone who understands almost shoves every opposing thought out of his mind. Almost.

The more he knows, the more danger he's in.

"Peter? Something wrong?" 

"Nothing," Peter mutters, but when he reaches for the phone, Murdock pulls his hand back. Peter lets out a soft sigh. "I just thought about calling my friend. But that'd be putting him in danger, so-" He cuts himself off with a shrug that he fails to make nonchalant.

Instead of agreeing or taking away the phone altogether, Murdock just lets out a contemplative hum. "Ned, right? The one who knows you're Spider-Man?"

"Uh, yeah. He's… basically my best friend."

Murdock sniffs and runs his hand over his mouth, something flashing over his face too quickly for Peter to make out. "If you can contact him without getting tracked, I think he'd appreciate hearing from you," he finally says, holding out the phone again. "I don't see a problem with it as long as you don't mention where you are or who you're with."

Whether that's lawyer advice, friendship advice, or a horrible blindness pun, Peter can only guess. He carefully accepts the phone and folds it over in his hands, mumbling out a "Thanks."

Murdock gives him a nod and turns back to the hallway, pausing for a brief moment before walking out of sight. The creaking of the door comes soon after, leaving Peter alone in the middle of the apartment.

The phone in his palm suddenly gets a lot heavier.

---

The worst thing about Snapchat is definitely the Seen notification.

Peter had managed to download it after spending way too long figuring out how to disable the accessibility features that must've helped Murdock, careful to memorize his steps to ensure that he could reverse it later. Ned's name sits bolded at the top of Snapchat's messages list, the letters staring back at him like a challenge. But it's MJ's bolded name below it that draws his eye. She never uses Snapchat. She's expressed her distaste of streaks to Peter more than once and he's never been able to figure out why she had it in the first place. Curiosity and anxiety swirl together in his chest, forcing him to plant his thumbs at the phone's side to keep himself from tapping it. Has she asked Ned about him? Is she worried?

Peter falls back on the couch and presses his palm against his forehead. How would Ned react to seeing him? Would he ask about May? He couldn't tell Murdock—he can't even say it—how's he supposed to tell Ned that May is-

Peter sets the phone down on the coffee table and squeezes his eyes shut. This is far from the scariest thing he's done in the past week. But the second he clicks Ned's name, there's no going back. If Ned sees that he viewed his messages but didn't respond… Peter takes a deep breath. He hovers his thumb over the name, quickly pressing on the screen before he can change his mind.

Ned: [did u get my texts?]
Yesterday, 9:45 AM

Ned: [dude, where r u]
Yesterday, 10:23 AM

Ned: [Peter, I'm really starting to freak out rn.]
Yesterday, 3:52 PM

Ned: [I'm at ur apartment but no ones home]
Yesterday, 3:53 PM

Ned: [look if you don't reply soon I'm going to assume you're in big trouble]
Yesterday, 3:53 PM

Ned: [I just came over again and there's still no one here. I don't know what to do and Mays gone too. I'm gonna go to the police and tell them that ur missing]
Yesterday, 10:07 PM

Ned: [that peter parker's missing, not sm]
Today, 6:01 AM

Ned: [pls respond]
Today, 6:01 AM

Peter doesn't realize how much faster his breathing had gotten until he finishes the final message. Steeling himself, he presses the video call button and tries to ignore the hammering in his chest.

It stops halfway through the second ring. The image is still black, but he can hear the audio as clear as day.

"Peter? Peter, hey, are you there?!"

Everything brewing inside him screeches to a halt. When Peter speaks, it almost feels like it's someone else saying it. "Hi, Ned."

The video loads. Ned's holding the phone in front of his face and pacing around in his room, his eyebrows knit tight with worry and his mouth agape. "Oh God, Peter. Are you okay? Where are you?"

A cocktail of emotions storms inside him, bringing a smile to his face and a lump in his throat, giving him no idea what to make of the blurry film in front of his eyes that he has to blink away. Ned looks just like he had at the beginning of the week, back when they'd been talking about pooling their money to get the Lego Millennium Falcon and if they could get Ned on the same frequency as Karen in the Spider Suit. Peter angles the phone to better show his face and gives Ned a series of tiny nods. "Yeah, I'm- I'm okay. It's just- It's so good to see you."

"Are you in trouble?" Ned rushes out. "Are there bad guys after you? Is that what you meant by 'don't walk down any dark alleys?' Who are you-"

"Wait, wait," Peter interrupts, his heart jumping in his chest. "Did you- You got my letter?"

Ned nods vigorously. "It was just- just sitting outside my door when I left for school today. I ripped it up and threw it away after I read it, but- Peter. You've got to tell me what's going on, dude. You've never—er, once—missed school for Spider-Man, and- and what do you mean by May's not-"

Peter's face must do something at her name, because almost instantly, Ned goes quiet. 

"Oh God," Ned breathes. "Peter…"

Peter's only seen that expression on Ned's face once before, about a year ago. Seeing it again is just- He sets the phone down on the table and runs the jacket's sleeve over his eyes, sniffling and swallowing to keep everything from spilling out. He takes a deep breath and lets it out slowly, mustering up the strength to return to the phone. 

Ned's breathing is shaky when Peter looks back at the screen. "Can you tell me what happened?"

Peter wets his lips and opens his mouth, but nothing comes out. "No," he manages, hating how it sounds like a whimper.

"Okay," Ned mutters. "That's- That's okay. I- um. Are you- Are you safe?"

Peter nods.

"Is this one of those- those if I know too much, I'm in danger kinda situations?"

Peter nods again.

"Right. Uh- The person you're staying with—what did you mean 'he's good at this stuff?' What's going on?"

Come on, Peter. "Um, one of the guys Toomes was selling to on the ferry—Mac Gargan—he found out who I am. He set up a- There was this warehouse collapse, and May- she-" Peter turns away when his throat closes up on him, shutting his eyes in an effort to compose himself. "I got pretty banged up. And- And Mr. Ca- Frank Castle was there, so I've been with him." He rushes through the last sentence.

Ned just blinks and furrows his brow at first, but a second later, his eyes grow wide and Peter can see the blood draining from his face. "Holy shit," he gawks. "You escaped the Punisher?"

Ned's words don't process right away. "W-What?"

"Did you fight him?" Ned blurts, then immediately clamps his hand over his mouth. "Sorry, if that's too- If you don't want to talk about-"

"No, I didn't- I guess we fought a little. But I didn't- I didn't escape him."

"Wait." Ned's eyes narrow, then gapes before he hisses out, "You're still with him?! Or…" he frowns, tucking back his chin, "he's the person who's 'good at this stuff?'"

An answer dies in the back of Peter's throat.

Ned shifts the angle of his phone as he sits back on his bed. "So- So the Punisher- You just… went with him?"

"No, no," Peter interrupts, trying to rein back the frustration creeping into his tone. "Ned—the building was- it was coming down, and May- He basically dragged me out of there. He saved my life, Ned."

Ned glances down, his eyes shifting from side to side as his jaw clenched, as if he was trying to hold himself back from speaking.

"He has a Guy in the Chair too," Peter says, hating the concern he can see building in Ned's face. "His code name's Micro. He's pretty nice. He was an NSA analyst, so he's like, ninth level Guy in the Chair. He knows how to access prison records, police records…" He trails off when Ned's expression doesn't change.

"Did he hurt you?" Ned asks quietly. "The Punisher?"

Something twists in Peter's chest. It had hurt when Mr. Castle had tackled him to the ground and twisted his arm behind his back to prevent him from leaving, but Peter's more than aware of how bad that answer sounds, as well as the justification that was probably for the best in the long run. "He's not a bad guy, Ned. He's just-"

Peter cuts himself off, but Ned picks up on it anyway. "If you were about to say 'misunderstood-'"

"I mean he's not-" Peter breaks off, floundering for the right words. "He's not all he's made out to be."

Ned draws in a slow breath, resolve replacing the reluctance that's etched into his face. "Remember Intro to Psych? Those fifteen minutes we spent on Stockholm Syndrome?"

Peter's mouth drops open. "I don't have Stockholm Syndrome," he scoffs. When Ned takes a breath, he's quick to follow it up with, "I know that's what someone with Stockholm Syndrome would say."

"Okay, but he took you to a secondary location," Ned points out gently, like Peter's the one who's not following. "He hurt you, and he's the Punisher-"

"He risked his life for me three separate times," Peter almost snaps, feeling his heart drop in his chest when Ned flinches. "Look—I kicked him in the face pretty hard, so we're pretty much even. And he never threatened me. I mean, yeah, he's scary, but I'm not- I wasn't afraid of him. And he-" Peter cuts himself off. And he let me cry in his arms and told me May's death isn't my fault. He talked to me about his daughter, his daughter that he lost- "He taught me how to disarm. He wouldn't do that if he was planning to shoot me."

Ned looks away, tilting his chin closer to his chest.

"I'm not saying he's like, a hero or anything," Peter persists. "I'm not- I'm not trying to excuse anything he's done. But he's not just some- some psycho. And he wouldn't have delivered the letter if he was trying to manipulate me or something. I wouldn't have known if he threw it away. I didn't even know he remembered to-"

Ned's head snaps up. "You told the Punisher where I live?"

"Ned," Peter almost groans. 

Ned inhales slowly through his nose. "Okay, okay. But are you sure-"

"The first thing he did after he stitched me up was give me a phone and tell me to call my parents so they could come get me. He didn't know, but why would he-"

"Okay, yeah, that's not what a kidnapper would do," Ned concedes. "But he's still killed a ton of people. Hey—are you with him now?"

"No," Peter mutters, unsure if he hates or appreciates the look of relief that crosses Ned's face.

"So if you see him again, you'd web him up for the police, right?"

Peter doesn't respond.

"… Peter?"

"I don't approve of what he does," Peter says firmly. "If I saw him hurting people, then I'd- I'd stop him."

Ned swallows, a tight line forming between his eyebrows. It's not a challenge, but Peter thinks he would've preferred that. It's doubt, quiet and unyielding, and honestly, Peter doesn't know if his foundation is strong enough to combat it. 

"Hey, c-could you email me copies of the lessons and assignments we have to do?" he asks weakly. There's no way Ned would fall for the subject change, but if the soft sigh he gives is any indication, he's at least going to let it slide. "I don't want to fall behind."

"Yeah, I got you covered. And if you ever want to talk—about anything—or if you need me to be your Guy in the Chair, whatever…"

Gratitude swells in Peter's chest, rising until it's burning behind his eyes. "Thanks, Ned. I'm- This isn't my phone. Message me your number so I can put it in my burner. The guy I'm staying with now is basically the total opposite of Mr. Castle as far as occupations and getting into fights go, so."

Ned perks up a little at that. "Spider Sense verdict?"

"Clean," Peter asserts. He takes a breath to continue, but the sound of a key rattling in a doorknob cuts him off before he gets the chance. He pushes himself off the couch and to his feet, peering down the hallway with his hand not gripping the phone poised at his web-shooter. When a red-tipped cane is the first to poke through the door, Peter drops his arm and turns his focus back to Ned. "It's him. I gotta go."

"I'll message you." With that, the screen goes black. 

Peter stuffs the phone in his pocket and turns to the entryway, replaying Ned's words in his mind. Guy in the Chair. It hadn't been necessary when Peter had Karen, and the only time Ned ever really got to be the Guy in the Chair was homecoming night. Though Murdock never explicitly said it, Peter's under the impression that their arrangement could last anytime between a week and a month. 

How many people do you save in a month, huh?

He can't abandon Spider-Man for a whole month. And the more Spider-Man's disappearance aligns with Peter Parker's, the more his identity is at risk. Maybe if he could get Ned to bring him his homemade suit and figure out how to set up a commlink- Then again, if any of Gargan's men spot him swinging around, they'd know he's not with Mr. Castle.

The click of the front door snaps Peter out of his thoughts. Murdock's standing in the entryway, three grocery bags in one hand and one more and his cane in the other. "I can take those," Peter offers automatically.

Murdock raises his eyebrows, almost as if he's caught off guard. "Uh, sure. Just set them on the counter."

Peter takes the bags and sets off for the kitchen. Maybe he's thinking about this the wrong way. After all, he's not restricted to weekends and afternoons anymore, and he's fairly certain that there's more crime to stop at night anyway. If it's Spider-Man that Gargan wants, then he'd be looking for webs and wall-crawlers. If Peter refrains from that, he'd still be left with his Spider Sense and super strength, which isn't half bad. However, starting vigilante activities, at night in Hell's Kitchen, probably isn't the smartest play he has.

Unless… "Hey, have you s- er, heard anything about Daredevil lately?"

Murdock pauses at the edge of the living room, resting his hands on his hips and cocking his head to the side. "What do you mean?"

"I mean, is he- you know, Daredevilling? I know there's been at least one six-month period when nobody saw him, and he's taken other shorter breaks. Do you know if he's active?" Peter asks, vying for a casual tone as he places the bags on the counter.

For a moment, Murdock doesn't move. "Why do you ask?"

Peter's starting to wish he'd just googled it.

A small sigh escapes Murdock's lips. "Okay. Let's play this out." He turns away from Peter and starts to stroll around the furniture, yet something about his pace seems almost deliberate. "You decide to go out there and put on a mask. Everyone after you thinks you're with Frank, so the first night goes smoothly. Maybe the second one too. But if you keep it up, it's only a matter of time before someone pieces it together. You're a beacon for dangerous people, Peter."

A retort dies in the back of Peter's throat. As much as he hates to admit it, the holes in Murdock's logic are hard to find. Still, Spider-Man's not supposed to sit around and keep his head down when people could be shouting for help, when there are car crashes to stop and when there are thieves who might- Peter shakes his head and draws in a deep breath, focusing on keeping his voice level. "Whenever I take a day off, people get hurt."

Something passes across Murdock's face, an expression so brief that it's gone before Peter can make it out. "And the kind of people Gargan sends won't stop at hurting you."

Peter bites back his lip, pressing his mouth into a thin line. He doesn't know what he expects to come from arguing with someone who argues for a living. Murdock's not wrong. Gargan couldn't care less about innocent people in his crossfire—and he'd been more than eager to abandon the bodies of the men who worked with him back at the parking garage. He'd kidnapped children to draw Peter out before, and Peter would prefer not to see how much farther he's willing to go.

So if he only has one smooth night, then he has to make it count.

Notes:

:D

Chapter 16: Plank in Thine Eye

Notes:

Well, bold of me to assume that January would be less hectic than December. Writing in the winter is unreasonably difficult. But!!! I'm really excited about these next few chapters, and this one falls on the lengthier side.

As always, big thanks to candlesneedflame for betaing especially for helping with the pacing in this chapter! And thank you all for the lovely comments!

Peter has never had a nightmare about May before.

As a child, they were only ever about monsters under his bed and snippets from horror movies when May forgot to change the channel before the damage was done, and the occasional dream of the plane that he'd only been told about in freefall through the sky. After Ben died, Peter began to notice a negative correlation between the time he spends as Spider-Man and the frequency of the dreams that cycle through the event like a broken record. The selection became more varied after everything with Toomes, adding struggling to find the surface of the water and waking up to his sheets strewn about around him to the list of scenarios that could meet him once he closes his eyes. 

The ones that put him in a sea of dust and rubble after Toomes brought the warehouse down upon him are thankfully rare, because they always end the same way. The debris will get heavier and heavier and when Peter tries to cry out, either the words won't come or no one will answer. When Peter's strength finally gives way, he always snaps awake a second before everything comes crashing down, and he always has to scramble off his lofted bed because the ceiling is just too goddamn close to his face.

Yet he would take that dream for a week straight if it meant that he didn't have to relive seeing May in the wreckage in his place. She hadn't even said anything, she'd barely even looked at him, but she was alive under there and Peter couldn't- 

Peter takes a slow, shaky breath in an effort to calm his racing heart and does a quick once-over of the room. The ceiling is high above him and as far as he can tell, well-supported in all the pivotal places. The window's large enough that sunlight is all that's needed to illuminate the room, and the bed's comfortable enough that Peter really has no reason as to why he slept better on that creaky motel mattress. He instinctively reaches out to the nightstand for his phone, searching for the time, searching for a distraction, but all that bumps his hand is the device labeled Talking Alarm Clock that has no digital display.

Peter turns over onto his back and feels for the sheets, pulling them up to his chin. Silk, he's pretty sure. A bit out of place and expensive compared to everything else in Murdock's sparsely decorated apartment, but it's soft enough that the prospect of lying in bed and delaying any small talk or questioning from the man is more than tempting. The last thing he wants is for Murdock to prod at how he slept, because the best response Peter has for that is a blatant lie.

Then again, Murdock wouldn't have to wonder at the answer if Peter holed himself up in the bedroom all morning. If he had to guess, he'd bet that the man is already awake. With a sharp breath, Peter forces himself to a sitting position and swings his legs off the bed, failing to suppress a wince when his feet make contact with the freezing floor. His hand automatically moves to his head in an attempt to fix his messy hair, but he's quick to give up when he remembers that it’s not like Murdock would judge. He smooths the comforter back over the mattress and places the pillow on top before sliding the door open.

Murdock is nowhere to be seen. The blankets he used rest folded on the back of the couch and the pillow is tucked next to the armrest. A quick stroll around the living room confirms that the bathroom door is wide open, revealing nobody inside. The front door is locked, which succeeds in bringing Peter a modicum of relief. 

"Mr. Murdock?" he tries anyway, hating how his pulse immediately picks up when there's no response. 

Peter takes a deep breath and slowly blows it out before he shakes his head. He has May's schedule memorized, and he must've gotten used to Mr. Castle always announcing what he was leaving to do beforehand. It's not like Murdock has to follow that pattern. Besides, it's Murdock's home he's staying in. It could only be a matter of time before he returned. Yet Peter still finds himself eyeing his burner on the coffee table, Murdock's number fresh in the contacts.

He forces his gaze away from the phone and drifts toward the kitchen, backtracking when he notices the laptop on the small table in front of the counter. The screen is open, but it's cool enough that Peter's fairly certain that at least half an hour has passed since it's been used. Would Ned have emailed him his assignments by now? Peter purses his lips and shifts his weight from foot to foot. Homework's a productive distraction. Murdock probably wouldn't mind.

A swipe across the touchpad is all that's needed to light up the screen once he pulls back the chair and takes a seat. Aside from a robotic voice that reads "Google" back to him when he hovers over the icon, everything seems to function like he's used to. He resorts to muting it when it reads off every word that he types in the search bar and makes a mental note to change it back as he logs in to his email. Three unopened messages from Ned sit at the top, with what looks to be an automated email from the school below them. Following that is a small cluster of colleges begging for him to pay a campus visit, and then-

Peter's breath catches in his throat.

May Parker.

It was sent four days ago and the subject is Scholarship of all things, but after failing to hear her voicemail, failing to say goodbye, it feels like the most important word in the world. He rushes to click on it with his heart pounding in his chest, yet presses the heels of his hands to his eyes before the new screen loads. 

What is he thinking? This is the last thing she ever sent to him, ever will send to him, and he's rushing to read it the second he finds it like- like- Shit. He knows he should save it, should star the email and come back to it when he actually needs it, but holding himself back is a feat he doesn't have the strength to perform. He pulls his hands away from his face and resolves to read it slowly, word by word, but the second he turns his eyes to it he takes it in all at once.

I found this 2k scholarship [link] that you should apply for, your grades already qualify you and you just need to write an essay! It's never too early ;)

Peter blinks back the burning in his eyes and swallows the lump rising in his throat. There's no love u, no proud of u, not even a heart emoji. It's too short, and he shouldn't be disappointed because there's no way May could've known, but he can't help but put his fist to his lips and clench his jaw shut. It's not fair. He brings the wobbly arrow to the winky face and hovers over it as the edges of his vision blur before squeezing his eyes shut. Maybe- Maybe May texted him. He has to check his phone for a goodbye, an i love u, or a you'll be okay. He needs to get back to his apartment, he has to make sure Gargan hasn't taken his phone-

A sharp tingle pricks at the base of his skull.

Peter slams the laptop closed and whirls around, the chair crashing to the floor as he shoots to his feet.

A stranger stands before him, a large paper bag clutched in one hand while holding one of Murdock's canes over his shoulder with the other, poised and ready to swing. He yelps and scrambles back at Peter's sudden movement, but he doesn't stand down.

Peter's heart leaps to his throat when he reaches for his web-shooter on his wrist and all his fingers meet is bare skin. He knew this would happen, he knew Gargan would track him down- He risks a glance to the hallway, trying to push down his panic to prepare for the sight of Gargan over Murdock's body, but there's no one else in sight. Which means- Peter curls his hand into a fist at his side. If the stranger hasn't called for reinforcements yet, then he's going to have to-

"What?" the stranger breathes, his face scrunching up to make an expression closer to bafflement than aggression. 

Peter swallows, meeting the man's eyes with an unblinking gaze that he hopes shows more resolve than it does fear. 

Instead of making a move toward him, the stranger's brow just furrows tighter as he glances Peter over. Come to think of it, he doesn't look like the typical goon. He has a dark brown suit jacket over a white button-up and a bright blue patterned tie, and his sandy blond hair is neatly combed to the side with the help of product. The paper bag smells of Thai food, and considering he's armed with a cane instead of a gun, he probably doesn't have one.

"Uh…" The stranger blinks rapidly as if he's trying to prove to himself that Peter's still going to be there when he stops. "Not to be rude, but… who are you?"

"Who are you?" Peter snaps back. As long as the stranger doesn’t have backup, taking him out shouldn’t be too much of a challenge. He could use his webs to restrain him, but that’d risk him knowing Spider-Man’s face- "How- How'd you get in here?"

The man's mouth falls open as he lets out a disbelieving scoff. “How did I- Okay, I asked you first,” he retorts, a note of petulance in his voice that catches Peter off guard. “I have an apartment key. How’d you get in here? What are you doing with that laptop?"

"How'd you get his apartment key?" Peter counters, eyeing his web-shooters on the coffee table over the stranger's shoulder. "What did- What did you do to Murdock?"

The stranger readjusts his grip on the cane. "What do you mean, what did I do to- oh, shit," he breaks off, his voice going soft as he inches closer and squints at Peter's face. "Are you cr- Uh, hey, are you okay?"

Peter falters, wiping his eyes with his forearm and dismayed to find them wet. "I- I'm fine," he says, but can't hold the stranger's gaze.

Slowly, the stranger removes the cane from his shoulder and rests the tip against the ground. "What are you, uh- What were you looking at there?" he asks in a different tone, gesturing at the laptop.

Peter's mouth opens before he can decide how he wants to answer. "Um… scholarships."

The man clicks his tongue against his teeth and presses his lips together with a sympathetic nod. "Yeah, I'd be crying too." Before Peter can protest, he crouches to set the bag and cane on the floor. "But a criminal record doesn't look good on a college application, so…"

Peter bristles at the underhanded accusation. “I- I didn’t break in.”

The stranger smiles a tight-lipped smile and gestures vaguely to the room. "Mind clearing that up for me? 'Cause I really doubt you wandered in here by accident."

Peter waits for a cue from his Spider Sense, for any indication that he should be scrambling for his web-shooters or bolting for the door, but he gets no response. Slowly, he crosses his arms over his chest and takes a deep breath. "I'm Murdock's client. I- Legally, I can't tell you anything. Attorney-client privilege."

The stranger huffs, quickly mirroring Peter's stance. "I'm Matt's business partner. We share all our clients. Hold on," the man mutters as he reaches into his pocket. He pulls out his wallet and rifles through it before presenting a card that reads New York State Bar Association. "See? So, legally," he passes the card into Peter's hand with a triumphant grin, “no secrets allowed.”

Peter glances between the card and the man with narrowed eyes. The likelihood that he’s with Gargan seems to get lower the more that he talks, and if he really is here for Peter, whatever he’s playing at is far from how Peter would go about it. So he takes his eyes off the man to study the card, quickly skimming over the text. Franklin Nelson. It matches up with the law firm name, but there's no picture on the card to match the man carrying it. Slowly, Peter hands the card back over. "I, uh, don't actually have a reference point for what a lawyer card should look like, so," Peter gives a small shrug, "that could be fake for all I know."

Nelson shakes his head with a humorless smile as he folds the card over before throwing his hands up in the air. "Why would I carry a fake bar card around in my wallet? I did not spend hundreds of thousands of dollars in student loans on this for a twelve-year-old to tell me it's not real."

"Fifteen," Peter blurts, then stiffens and fights the urge to clamp his hand over his mouth.

"Fifteen and looking at scholarships?" He blows out a low whistle. "You're on top of it. However, we at Nelson, Murdock and Page—especially the Murdock—do not condone playing hooky." Nelson shakes his head with an exaggerated sigh. "For shame."

Peter has to suppress a grin at Nelson's overly stern stare before the meaning of his words register. "Wait- school's started?"

Nelson gives him a long look. "It's a quarter 'til twelve. Thai?" He nudges the bag with his foot. "Not exactly a breakfast food."

Peter runs a hand down his face and takes a step back. He’d never been one for sleeping in; not with Spider-Man and a plethora of homework to do. He’s not sure what to make of the new development. How long ago had Murdock left? Did he really think Peter needed rest to the point where he was ready to let him sleep the day away? 

“Tell you what,” Nelson begins, pulling his phone out of his pocket and Peter out of his thoughts, “I’ll call Matt. If he says you’re not supposed to be here, then you better have a good lawyer. Or you better be really good at making Braille apology cards."

At Peter's mumbled agreement, Nelson taps and swipes at the screen for a few moments before holding it up to his ear, angling himself away from Peter as it rings. Nelson starts to fidget once ten seconds of nothing passes, and lets out a frustrated sigh that's he's quick to cut off when it goes to voicemail in the middle of a ring.

"New plan," Nelson announces with a clap of his hands. "We await Matt's arrival."

The way he says it makes it seem like they're about to embark on a quest instead of do nothing in an apartment for an untold amount of time, and Peter's grin slips past him before he's able to force his expression back to neutral.

"Oh," Nelson starts suddenly, glancing between Peter and the paper bag on the floor. "Matt's not here, and I've got two lunches that are only good when hot." He bends down to open the bag and removes two to-go boxes, one in each hand, and extends one toward Peter with a pointed raise of his brow.

After a moment of hesitation, Peter reaches out to accept.

---

Matt never thought he'd live to see Maggie and Stick in agreement.

While Peter had been adamant that Matt keep everything between them, Maggie's not the type to pry where she's not welcome. If an orphan, teenaged Spider-Man is staying with me is all Matt could provide, he can trust Maggie not to demand any more than she's given. Then again, Matt had also been under the impression that after everything she's seen, after everyone she's witnessed get hurt due to their ties to a vigilante, she'd be the first to affirm that Matt should do everything in his power to steer a child away from that kind of life.

Instead, once Matt had finished laying it all out, she'd just hummed and commented, "Are you familiar with Matthew seven, verse three?"

Her tone was conversational to the point where it took Matt a few seconds to register what she meant. When Matt regained his footing enough to point out that no, he's not being a hypocrite because Peter barely has any training, Maggie had retorted with a dry, "And what could you possibly do to fix that?"

In the end, Matt left much less certain than he'd come. 

On one hand, Peter's far too young to take it upon himself to combat New York City's criminal population. The kid's lucky he entered the vigilante scene when he did; he wouldn't have stood a chance against Fisk in his prime, a sentiment even Peter was smart enough to echo. Not even a few months back, the kid would've been target practice for Dex if it weren't for his aunt's intervention. And the fact that Frank was able to get so much information out of him in so little time is either a testament to the trust he earned, or a testament to how desperate Peter was to place that trust. 

On the other hand, Matt can't put a stop to Spider-Man now and expect himself to lose his qualms the second the kid turns eighteen. If Spider-Man gets himself killed because he spent three years sitting on the bench instead of training, then that's on Matt too. Matt blows out a long breath as he opens the door to his apartment building, trying to organize his thoughts. Frank informed him that Peter's aunt was aware of her nephew's extra-curricular activities when Matt had asked—she had to come around to it, but she knew about it. Had she tried and failed to stop him? What would she think of the child she raised training with the same person she'd instructed him to stay out of Hell's Kitchen to avoid? 

His aunt ain't here.  

Matt shakes his head with a huff and tries to shove Stick's voice aside. Figuring out what to do regarding Peter's future as Spider-Man is far from his greatest priority at the moment. Not with Gargan, the Accords, and Peter's lack of a permanent place to-

Thud.  

Matt freezes mid-step. Did that come from—? Matt's heart jumps in his chest as he holds up his cane and rushes up the rest of the stairs. Shit. He doesn't have his mask, he doesn't have anything- He should've woken the kid up- No, he shouldn't have left him in the first place-

"But why a butcher?"

The kid's voice cuts through Matt's thoughts and halts him in his tracks outside the door.

"You know, I think she just liked the idea of free ham."

It only takes Matt a couple of seconds to piece it together, but it takes his heart much longer to slow with a strange mixture of relief and surprise. Matt takes a moment to compose himself before reaching out and twisting the doorknob open with a click. 

"Matt?" Foggy tests.

"Yeah," Matt calls back, resting his cane in the crook between the table and the door before heading for the living room.

"You gotta answer my calls, buddy."

"Noted."

Foggy's sitting at the table by the kitchen, a fork in his hand and a container in front of him that smells of the Thai place on the corner. A few droplets of sauce are splattered on the floor by his shoes—from a recently dropped fork, if the noise was anything to go by. But it's the kid that gives Matt pause. Peter's mirroring Foggy's position across from him, picking at what remains of the food in his container while Matt could barely get the kid to down a piece of toast last night. He's actually leaning back against the chair, sitting like he's not preparing to bolt for the door at the drop of a hat.

"Oh, Matt," Foggy begins around a mouthful of food, gesturing with his fork to the kid in front of him, "this is Peter, our new intern."

"Intern?" 

"Mmm." Foggy swallows. "He forgot his resume, which is hard to overlook—" Peter huffs at that "—but he's got straight A's, he's good with hardware, and he understands that an internship at a prestigious law firm looks great on a college application. Oh, and his previous internship experience? Stark Industries."

"Stark Industries?" Matt snaps his head up. Come to think of it, that actually makes sense. Either it's how Stark found out, or Peter was offered the internship as a way to keep an eye on him. The information Stark could get from the kid from his application alone, maybe even press for more info at proper interview… Could Peter have met Tony Stark? Did the kid know just how deep of water he was treading in by working for the same man who signed to lock people like him up? Matt gives a tiny shake of his head and mentally files the information away for later before bringing his attention back to Foggy. "Do you want an intern, or someone to fetch coffee?"

"There's a difference?" Foggy pushes back his chair and gets to his feet. “We both know that no law firm's official until they have interns. Besides,” Foggy cups a hand over his mouth, yet makes no effort to lower his voice, “you don’t even have to pay them!”

"Foggy-"

"He's good with hardware and our printer's been broken for a week. C'mon, new blood, Matt."

"Are we sharks now, too?"

"I know how to fix a printer," Peter pipes up, earning enthusiastic nods from Foggy.

"He didn't break into your apartment, did he?" Foggy asks when Matt fails to come up with an immediate response. "You do know this child?"

"What? No, he didn't-"

"Then I fail to see the problem."

Matt takes a breath to retort, but cuts himself off when he notes that Peter isn't protesting. Somehow, Foggy was able to get the kid's name and employment history out of him, the latter of which could be far more relevant than Matt ever considered. Maybe Matt's been asking the wrong questions. Karen's always had a knack for knowing where to dig, and if Peter's new amiability is any indication, he may not be as opposed to an introduction as he had been previously.

Matt turns to face Peter with a small exhale. "Can I tell him?"

Just like that, the air around the kid shifts. His spine goes ramrod-straight against the back of the chair and his jaw freezes mid-bite. He swallows, his heart rate picking up as he casts a quick glance behind him to the roof-access door. 

"Tell me what?" Foggy asks slowly.

Peter stabs his fork into the to-go box. "Nothing."

"He has the same attorney-client privilege with you that I do, Peter," Matt tries, managing to withhold a sigh. It'd been a gamble on his part; it's much harder to hide something from someone to their face than from the opposite end of a phone line, but the kid doesn't fold. "Anything you told me-"

"You said would stay between us." There's a new edge in the kid's tone, a warning and a challenge at the same time.

Matt presses his lips in a tight line and wishes the distrust was a surprise. He can't even blame the kid for it—Matt doubts he would act much differently in his shoes. From what Frank told him and from what Matt had managed to gather, he's the first person Peter ever willingly revealed his identity to, and even then, willingly is a stretch. Considering that it's the wrong person knowing his identity that put him here in the first place, perhaps Matt's pushing for too much too soon. 

Maybe Matt should return the favor. A simple 'I'm Daredevil' would likely bypass all of that, and for once Matt actually has a decent idea regarding what the reaction would be. It'd be a shortcut to getting his cooperation, something Matt's almost tempted to take. Then again, that path doesn't come without its own risks. Peter isn't as careful with his identity as he should be, and that's not even factoring in the worst-case scenario. If the government manages to get their hands on Spider-Man, Matt can't expect a kid to keep Daredevil's identity to himself when considering the kind of treatment the government could get away with on a prison that no one ever comes back from.

So Matt tries for patience instead, holding up his hands in a placating gesture. "Peter-"

"No, okay?" the kid bites out.

Foggy pointedly clears his throat in the heavy silence that follows. "Just a guess here," he begins delicately, "but I don't think a strange kid just happened to show up in your apartment following a mysterious phone call from Frank Castle."

If Foggy had a hunch before, Peter's sharp breath must confirm it for him now. The kid seems to come to the same conclusion when he slumps back against his seat and lets out a soft sigh, taking a moment to press his elbow against the table and lean his face into his hand. When he finally speaks, it comes out a mumble. "Fine."

Before Peter can change his mind, Matt says, "Foggy, this is Spider-Man."

"What?" Foggy's heart does something funny that doesn't match his scoff. "Spider-Man's not a teenager."

Peter goes still and stares down at his lap, his grip tightening around his silverware. Foggy's head swivels between Matt and the kid, a small noise coming from the back of his throat when no one moves to affirm his objection. Slowly, Peter raises his hand off the table, a fork dangling in the air from where it sticks to his forefinger.

"Oh," Foggy breathes, his quiet tone a polar opposite to the pounding in his chest. "That's- huh. You're just- doing that. I thought it'd be, like, adhesive gloves or something, but-" Foggy takes a breath and turns away, dragging his hand down his face before he starts to pace. "But Spider-Man first showed up a year ago. You'd have been…"

"Old enough," Peter mutters. Matt pretends not to hear.

"Do- Do your parents know?" Foggy barrels on, oblivious to how Peter's breath catches in his throat. But he's saved from answering when Foggy stops in front of Matt, his voice growing higher and faster. "Is- So that's what Frank wanted? He just- Spider-Man? How long have you known? How long have you known that Spider-Man is a-"

"A what?" Peter snaps, the fork dropping out of his hand and clattering onto the table. Matt's not sure if it's the noise or his tone that makes Foggy clamp his mouth shut, but Peter's quickening pulse is only concealed by it for a moment. "Everyone keeps saying that! I know I'm a kid, but that doesn't change the fact that I- I can stop a speeding car with my bare hands. Everyone's fine with Spider-Man until the second they find out he's a teenager, then they just- just expect me to sit around and do nothing while there are people who could be-"

Whatever expression Matt and Foggy are wearing, it's enough to get Peter to cut himself off the moment he looks over. The beginnings of a word form in his throat before it dies off, replaced with a sniff as he rests his elbows on the table to support his head when he runs a hand over his hair. "I'm sorry," he mumbles, the shift in demeanor like a flip of a switch. "I shouldn't- I didn't mean to yell."

He really does mean it, too. Whatever aggression and frustration Matt glimpsed, it's altered into something else entirely. Matt never anticipated finding himself thinking what would Frank do, but it's better than the alternative.

"Hey…" Foggy shifts on his feet before taking a tentative step toward the kid, entering his space with an outstretched hand before Peter shrinks back. Foggy's quick to pull away, opting instead to return to the chair across from him. He takes the kind of breath that usually precedes a lengthy question, but nothing comes of it. 

"Can we just…" Peter makes a vague waving gesture between them and finishes by blowing out a long breath. "There's this gang leader named Mac Gargan that got out of prison and wants me dead. He knows my secret identity. That's- That's what Mr. Murdock's supposed to help me with. I just want- Can we please focus on that?"

Foggy's jaw falls open. "You've got a-" He breaks off, lightly clicking his tongue against the roof of his mouth. 

Matt doesn't miss that Peter only addressed half of his legal problems, though he doubts his aunt's omission is an accident. But if Peter wants to deal with this piece by piece, perhaps even make all of his answers honest this time, then Matt will oblige. And if he wants to pretend his flare-up had never happened, Matt remembers enough about Matthew seven to not push him. Besides, if Matt's included with everyone in Peter's outburst, it'll only be so long before the kid's out looking for his own solution if Matt fails to provide one for him.

"Okay. Yeah, sure. We'll talk about the- the gang leader after you," Foggy starts, the disbelief poorly hidden in his tone as he pushes himself back out of the chair to restart his pacing. He slows when he nears Matt, hissing out an almost inaudible, "Does he—?" At Matt's slight shake of his head, Foggy clears his throat and continues after a pause just long enough to mean you're explaining this later. "Right. So you can't let this guy live free or he'll kill a bunch of people, and if you put this guy in prison again he'll- Sounds pretty Fisk-y, actually. You got any dirt on this guy?"

Peter's relief is almost palpable. "I got an NSA agent to look into him. No blackmail, if that's what you're asking."

"Of course you had an NSA agent look into him," Foggy mutters. "What else you got?"

"How about the man in prison who gave him your identity?" Matt wonders aloud. "You didn't mention his name." As to why, Matt doesn't have to guess. He has no doubt what Frank would try to do with the information.

Peter swallows and winds his hands together in his lap. "Adrian Toomes," he finally gets out. 

"And how did he find out?"

"A dumb coincidence. It's not important." Peter's shoulders fall with his sigh. "Basically, Toomes ran an illegal weapons gig. They'd combine Chitauri tech from the Incident with Earth weapons and sell them on the black market. I got wind that Toomes would be making a deal with Gargan on this ferry, but I didn't know the FBI would be there. A sting, or whatever. Toomes and I started fighting, Gargan got knocked off and the FBI got him. I caught Toomes a few days later. I think- Gargan probably threatened Toomes' family or something. I saved his life, and I don't think he'd just… yeah."

Jesus. The kid sounds like he's reciting a paper, not recounting illegal weapons deals and FBI encounters. He's in far deeper than Matt could've imagined. The investigation he must have conducted to piece it all together and to take the collar when the FBI couldn't- What kind of situations did he have to put himself in to get that information? How many people did he have to hurt?

"Jesus," Foggy echoes. "That's- Wait. You were- I heard about that ferry. It split in half, and I remember a picture of Spider- a picture of you, just- holding it all together-"

Foggy cuts himself off when the kid's only response is to ball his hand into a fist and pinch the bridge of his nose between his thumb and forefinger, mumbling something even Matt can't catch.

"Are Toomes and his men all in prison?" Matt asks softly, gratified when Peter looks back up.

"Um, not all of them. But I haven't seen any more weapons, so…" Peter trails off with a shrug.

Foggy casts a quick glance in Matt's direction as Matt resists the urge to run his hand down his face. Cutting the head off the snake wouldn't have worked with Fisk if they let everybody on his payroll keep walking around. Either Toomes' men gave up on the massive source of income they were sitting on, or Matt's lucky they decided to move their operation somewhere else than Hell's Kitchen. 

"Wait," Foggy blurts, his heart jumping in his chest as his pacing picks up. "Wait, wait, wait, wait. Does he- Toomes made the deal, right? Did Gargan buy the weapon? Did you see money go from one hand to the other?"

"I- I don't- The weapons were all in a truck. I saw Gargan's guy looking at the weapons, and- and I grabbed the keys before he could pass it over. Maybe- I guess the money was already exchanged. Does it-"

"Matt- Matt-" Foggy whirls around and clutches on to his shoulder. "The Sokovia Accords!"

Matt can't help but go stiff under Foggy's grasp. Shit. It was only a matter of time before Foggy came to that conclusion, but Matt can already feel the kid's curiosity coming off of him in waves as Frank's words ring in his head. If Peter was in the habit of trying to make nice with his enemies, getting him out of Iron Man's grasp would be considerably more difficult than Gargan's. If the kid starts to look into it- Unless- "Foggy, wait- You think-"

"Legally, an enhanced individual is someone with superhuman capabilities, right?" he says, his words and pacing getting faster and faster. "Whether someone has biological superhuman capabilities or technology that gives them superhuman capabilities doesn't matter. But- In the Accords, strictly regulated tech that grants people superhuman capabilities-"

Holy shit. "If possessing Chitauri weaponry makes you an unregistered enhanced individual-"

"One-way ticket to the Raft. Indefinitely, without trial."

Slowly, Peter rises to his feet. "Wait- Can this really- But the weapons aren't in Gargan's possession anymore."

"The Accords don't specify that they have to be," Foggy rushes out. "Sure, the Raft isn't exactly meant for guys like him and it's a bit of an unfair loophole, but that's what we get paid to find."

"So this could actually work?"

Matt takes a deep breath. Playing with the Accords could go very wrong, very quickly for people like them. The second Gargan starts to consider Spider-Man and the Accords in the same sentence, they could be facing a combined force of the government and any criminal that's interested in what Gargan could offer. They couldn't afford to strike more than once, to let Gargan slip away and give him a single minute to retaliate. But even if they're playing with fire, it's still the best chance Peter has. "Yeah, I think it could."

"We just need the nail in the coffin," Foggy says, stabbing his finger into his palm for emphasis. "Considering the without trial bit, all we need is proof that Gargan bought the weapons. Videos, photos, a witness, a gift receipt—and present it to the right person. You think Toomes would corroborate?"

Peter's leg grows restless against the floor. "I… doubt it."

"So who do you know that would? Any of Toomes' men?" Matt asks. When the kid doesn't respond, he tries, "Peter, is there any name we can start with? Anyone who associated with Gargan or Toomes in the past?"

Peter opens his mouth, closes it for a long moment, then opens it again. "Sorry, but I can't think of anyone off the top of my head."

"Hmm. Well, keep thinking on it." The disappointment is apparent in Foggy's voice as he starts to sigh before cutting himself off. "Guess I'll be digging through lots of files on this Toomes guy. Maybe something will crop up."

"Maybe," Matt echoes.

The kid's lying through his teeth.

Notes:

For those of you wondering and/or missing him, Frank will be in the next chapter!

Matthew 7: 3-5: "Why do you look at the speck of sawdust in your brother’s eye and pay no attention to the plank in your own eye? How can you say to your brother, ‘Let me take the speck out of your eye,’ when all the time there is a plank in your own eye? You hypocrite, first take the plank out of your own eye, and then you will see clearly to remove the speck from your brother’s eye."

Chapter 17: Two Minutes to Midnight

Notes:

Hi guys! I know it's been a while, but apparently it's a lot harder to write during quarantine than I initially thought. But I'm doing pretty well overall, and I hope you guys are the same.

Massive thanks to candlesneedflame, as always, for their wonderful beta skills!

"How old would she be by now?"

"Next month's her birthday. She'd be fifteen."

Fuck.

"You'd be in so much trouble by now, trust me. She'd be scaring the life outta you."

Amy was more right than she could've known.

Fifteen. Not even halfway through high school and still can't drive without an adult in the car, and even then it's a toss-up if he's ever been taught how. It's almost funny, in a fucked-up sort of way—the kid swings on webs over traffic and throws himself in front of armed criminals, but he'd be crossing the line if he got behind the wheel or tried to get himself a full-time job. Peter probably hasn't started shaving yet, but one spider bite later and the government wants him in a cell for the rest of his life. Or, if Frank's being realistic, he can recognize that fifteen's young enough to mold into a new weapon if someone high up really set their mind to it. Hell, Frank's put down guys at that level that would jump at the chance.

And Frank- Shit. The kid's the same age his daughter would be, and he put a fucking gun to his head. Pulled the trigger too, but it was the offhand comment about this not working out that amped up the waterworks. Of course a fifteen-year-old would take facing the brunt of Frank's anger over not having anybody to rely on for the first time in his life when a gang's hunting him down. Survival instincts are a hell of a thing, but the kid's selective about when he wants to use them. Then again, the expression that twisted Peter's face when he found out that he had a place secured with Red doesn't add up with that. He didn't have to hold on to Frank like his life depended on it, but neither did Frank have to hold him back.

Frank gives a small shake of his head and forces his attention back to the task at hand. Pretending this could've ended any other way isn't gonna help nothing. The kid's where he needs to be. Going by how close Red was to decking him back at the motel, Frank's sure that he's going to keep Peter as far away from this bullshit as he can. Peter'll be all about that; kid loves getting sidelined from the action. If Frank's lucky, Red will be too busy figuring out how to make that stick for either of them to fuck up this mess even more.

Gargan's got more wits about him than most of the lowlifes who think they're the shit, Frank'll give him that. Rat must've crawled back into his hole, because in two days since the garage incident all Frank's managed to gather is jack shit. Still, Frank knows how Gargan's kind work. Someone will spill something sooner or later. And if Stark does manage to follow the trail of bodies before Frank finishes it, at least the kid won't be waiting for him like a prize at the end.

But first things first. 

"Mac Gargan," Frank says slowly, taking a step closer to the bloodied shitbag shaking at his feet. "Where is he?"

"I don't know! I swear to God, I don't know," the guy cries out, pressing himself into the wall of the warehouse. He's staring up at Frank with a wide, terrified eye, the other too swollen and purple to make much use of. His breathing is fast enough that Frank's inclined to believe him, but he switches his aim from between the eyes to the knee last second before unloading. The pained howl comes a second later as the guy curls in on himself, clutching at his leg before smearing red all over the floor. 

"Am I supposed to believe he up and disappeared? Trusted you all to play nice while he's gone?" Frank growls, ignoring the scream that comes when he presses his boot on the guy's busted knee. "Bullshit. He's talking to somebody. I know he's talking to somebody. I want a name."

"I don't- fucking- have one!" the scum hisses out. His good eye shuts tight and his mouth twists into a grimace, genuine enough to let Frank know that he's wasting his time.

"Fair enough." 

Frank raises the muzzle of the gun to his forehead, just barely keeping himself from squeezing the trigger when the guy gasps out a desperate series of, "Wait, wait, wait- Please, wait-"

Letting the stallers have their way has never done him any good before, so Frank internally curses at how desperate he's gotten when he ends up lowering his gun. 

The guy seems equally surprised if the way his jaw goes slack as his protests die off is anything to go by. But he comes back to his senses quickly enough, clearing his throat and rushing out, "Look, I just- This guy- he tells me where to be, and I'm there. I don't know if he- I can take you to him-" 

The man topples back into the wall, then careens to the side to meet the ground as the gunshot echoes around him. Crimson streams out from the hole in his forehead and Frank steps back as he pockets his handgun to avoid getting the filth all over his boots. I can take you to him. Out of the kindness of his heart, too, Frank bets. Jesus Christ. It's almost become a routine at this point. Maybe Frank would've been smart to use Peter as bait. Seems like Gargan won't come out for much else. 

Frank turns away and shakes his head, dismissing the thought almost immediately. The garage incident came too goddamn close to adding the kid to the body count, and beyond that, Peter doesn't have the stomach for this shit. Peter had been on the edge of breaking down from it all after Frank had to lead him out of that garage, but he seemed to acknowledge that Frank dropping the guys with guns trained on him was a necessity to the point where he didn't put up a fight when Frank cleaned him up and got him to settle down. If Frank had managed to pull the trigger on Gargan, he's not sure that the kid would've let him put him back together. 

Frank's almost to the door when a loud ringing stops him in his tracks.

A glance behind him confirms the guy's phone is lit and buzzing from inside his front pocket. 

The timing is a stroke of incredible luck, that's for sure. Not out of the question, though. Frank's fairly certain that it's happened to him a few times before, but he still finds himself slowly turning on his feet to reexamine the warehouse around him. No cameras, no hiding spots he hasn't checked, no footprints in the dust where there shouldn't be, but shit, what he wouldn't give for the kid's danger sense about now. Frank silently draws his gun and backtracks to the body, looking it over for a brief moment before shaking his head with a scoff as the ringer goes silent. 

The hell is he expecting? Bars to shoot down over the windows? Christ, all this superhero shit is getting to his head. All the same, he keeps his finger poised over the trigger as he heads for the exit, already mapping out which alleys offer the most discreet escape when the phone blares again behind him.

Shit.

Frank doubles back and rolls the body over, muttering a curse as he fishes the phone out from the pocket to be greeted by white text reading Blocked Number. 

It's a split-second decision: answer it, or get the fuck out. Stark can track him the moment he starts talking, but that's operating under the assumption that Stark doesn't already know he's here. Frank's never gonna find out how the fuck Stark pulled this stunt if he books it, and if nothing else, maybe it means something that Stark's not currently hovering outside the window with the cavalry. Besides, throwing away his shot at getting a glimpse at Stark's cards is a stupid play; Frank just has to ensure that he's not revealing any of his own in the process. Frank swipes at the screen as he raises the phone to his ear.

"Castle?" comes the voice after a lengthy pause, drawing out his name. "That you?"

Frank lifts his gun and scans the windows. "Stark."

"Hey, you stay on the line and I promise I'm stationary," Stark says, as if Frank had been seconds away from hanging up. Hell, maybe he should be. But Frank knows how these types of things work, so he returns his gun to the waistband of his pants.

"You promise?" Frank echoes. "Cross your heart, Stark?"

Stark scoffs before drawing in a slow breath, dropping his voice to a tone that Frank doesn't recognize from any of the interviews. "While there's nothing I'd rather do than be personally responsible for putting you in the ground," Stark grits out, pausing to let his words linger like he's expecting Frank to be shaking in his boots, "I've done my homework. And I think that there's a way we both walk out of this with what we want."

Frank lets out a low hum and shakes his head. Stark's talking like this is some goddamn business arrangement. Shit, it might as well be to him. "That how you made this call?" Frank asks, glancing over at the body. "More homework, or a lucky guess?"

Stark's tongue clicks against the roof of his mouth—he doesn't want to get into that one. But Frank's the one with the ace, and Stark knows it. "You know, most criminals don't question it when a new smartwatch appears at their front door. Did some cross-referencing, figured who you'd be after next… Forgive me for jumping to conclusions when our buddy here flat-lined."

Frank automatically looks to the guy's wrist, something twisting in his gut when he spots the blood-splattered watch. Goddamnit. Stark knows he's after Gargan. No wonder Stark decided to give that tidbit up; he knows as well as Frank does that Frank can't keep this up if he has to skip over every guy that has a watch on. He'd almost rather take the bounty that the Schultz's put on his head with Amy, because at least then he could still do his fucking job. 

"So here's my proposition," Stark begins after a beat, as if he was waiting for Frank to come to that conclusion. "I can find Gargan in five minutes. You set up the time and place. You hand over the kid, and I'll give you Gargan. On his knees, gift-wrapped, whatever you want."

Frank barely holds back a huff. Is that what Stark thinks this is about? Still, a part of him is tempted to agree. He'd bluffed his way through hostage exchanges before. But Stark's not Russo, Agent Orange—hell, even the Schultz billionaires don't come close. If Stark really did his homework, then he'd want to see Peter for himself. Even if that was on the table, Frank would have no guarantee that Stark would let him walk, even with the added illusion of security that letting him pick the time and place provided. Like Stark doesn't have a goddamn iron suit that could have both him and the kid in the dirt in a second.

"Getting better, Stark," Frank says, shifting the phone on his ear. "Still gonna have to pass."

If the noise that escapes Stark's throat is anything to go by, he didn't see that one coming. To his credit, he's quick to cover it up, because his voice is steel when he speaks next. "So how's this end, Castle? Once Gargan's dead, huh?" Stark pauses like he's expecting an answer, but he has no problem picking back up when Frank doesn't give him one. "I've seen the footage. Holding a gun to Spider-Man's head isn't gonna work forever. Are you gonna let him go, or do you want another kid to take a bullet 'cause of you? Is that what you want?"

Frank's trigger finger thuds repeatedly against his palm as he's forced to blink the red from his vision and quell the boiling in his blood. "Didn't like it when he dropped off your radar, did you?" he asks quietly. "You wanna know how this is gonna play out? I'll spell it out for you." Frank goes quiet and draws out the silence, and knows he has Stark right where he wants him when he doesn't break it. 

"You are never gonna find that kid again."

Frank leaves Stark with that. He ends the call and drops the phone on the cement floor, watching the screen shatter. 

He gives himself a minute at most before Stark shows, so Frank doesn't waste his time making his way to the door. He pauses last second to pull his burner out of his pocket, studying it with a frown. He'd never even consider it with anyone else, but as much as he hates it, he's only gotten glimpses at what Stark's capable of. He was able to get the guy's phone number from the watch easily enough. Frank's never heard of burner phones being tracked before, but he's not about to put that past a man who could build a tech suit out of scraps in a cave. 

Frank tosses the burner on the ground and pulls out his gun to fire a quick round through the center, sending it skidding across the floor.

He's out of the warehouse and back in the crowd by the time he sees a flash of red and gold pass overhead.

---

"Just so we're on the same page," Foggy begins with a deep breath, "Spider-Man is a doubly orphaned teenager with a gangster and Tony freakin' Stark on his ass?"

"Basically." Matt barely manages to stifle his sigh. "Did Brett show you the NDA?"

"Nah." Foggy shakes his head and crosses his arms, not bothering to hold back a sigh of his own. "Said he just wanted to rant about it when I ran into him at the precinct. I mean, he's been on top of the Castle case ever since he got promoted, then out of the blue Iron Man just-" Foggy cuts himself off with a swooping hand motion and a sound effect to accompany it as he plucks something imaginary from the air. 

There were only a few reasons Matt could come up with as to why Stark wouldn't want the NYPD involved, the most obvious one being he doesn't want Spider-Man to fall into their custody. It's possible that he also doesn't want to risk the NYPD putting together Peter's identity, which could lead to it going public. While Matt's relieved that their goals might be aligned in that respect, he doesn't like the implications that come with it. The public outcry that could follow if Spider-Man's revealed to be a kid getting sent to the Raft… it's no wonder Stark wants to avoid that.

Foggy puffs his cheeks and blows out a breath as he stuffs his hands in his pockets. "Tell me you've got good news on your end. How's Peter holding up?"

Matt lets out a small scoff. A quick shift of his focus to his living room confirms that Peter's just how they left him: cross-legged on the floor, the flipping of pages and the clattering of Legos surrounding him enough to keep him from paying any mind to their conversation. Apparently the knowledge that he likes Star Wars and that his hobbies include Lego building was enough for Foggy to set the trap and pull Matt out into the outside hallway, and honestly, Matt's just ashamed that he hadn't thought of getting the kid anything like that earlier. It's definitely a nice change of pace from the behavior that struck the kid since the end of Foggy's last visit.

It's no longer a question of if Peter's planning to take a night out as Spider-Man; it's a question of when. Matt had almost panicked when he heard the kid rifling through his first aid kit at two in the morning, but the kid quickly disappeared back into the bedroom with scissors and the needle and thread for stitching without any scent of an open wound. The distinct snipping of cloth came soon after, which Peter's at least polite enough to use one of his own t-shirts for. An impromptu mask, if Matt had to guess. And considering how often he texts his 'Guy in the Chair,' the pieces aren't hard to put together. 

"I think- I'm almost certain he's planning on going out tonight. He was lying about not knowing any of Gargan's associates."

Foggy leans back into the wall and tilts his head up against it, letting out another sigh. "So as our resident vigilante," he starts, lowering his voice, "what could someone do to get you to not do that?"

Matt dips his head and lets out a humorless chuckle. "How do you want me to stop Spider-Man?" Matt challenges, ignoring the edge to Foggy's tone. "He's not giving me any names, Foggy. We have nothing if he stays."

Foggy makes a discontented noise in the back of his throat before shooting back to a standing position. "Hold on, you can't-"

"If you have a better idea-"

"Yes!" Foggy hisses. "Just tell him that you're Daredevil and that- that he can't do that! One vigilante to another, or something."

"Because that worked out great for Frank," Matt retorts with a huff.

"He's the Punisher, Matt! I think Peter can recognize the difference!"

Before Matt can get out a response, the rustling from inside the apartment stops altogether. Matt jerks his head to the door before shaking it, prompting a deep sigh from Foggy. 

"Just… I hope you know what you're doing."

Matt takes a slow breath before turning away and placing his hand on the doorknob. "Thanks for stopping by, Foggy."

"Yeah." Foggy's chin drops to his chest and his breathing shifts as if he's about to speak, but the way he turns toward the stairs last second is enough to indicate a changed course. "I'm gonna go back to the office and get interrogated by Karen about our new client. Call me if you need anything. Or if you can convince Peter to save me."

Matt gives him a nod as he closes the door behind him, quietly hoping that he won't have to take him up on that offer. 

He can practically feel Peter's gaze on him as he reenters the living room, but the kid's heartbeat is slow enough that he couldn't have overheard much. A small, indecipherable mass of Legos sits assembled in his palm, the other pieces scattered around him in a messily arranged arc. The instruction manual rests in his lap, the box and other packaging sitting on the coffee table behind him. It's more cluttered than Matt would like, but Peter seems content enough, so he doesn't comment on it. The sudden childlike satisfaction feels jarring compared to everything preceding it, yet Matt's heart still feels heavy at the knowledge that it's not going to last.

"Did you guys hear from Mr. Castle or something?" the kid asks after a moment of fiddling with the Lego mass, the forced nonchalance poorly masking the hope in his voice.

For once in his life, Matt's almost regretful that he hasn't. "I don't have his number. But I can let you know if he calls," Matt adds when Peter's shoulders droop. 

Though he can't imagine Frank calling with any news that Peter would like to hear, the kid's appeased enough with his answer to return his attention to the Legos. He scans over the floor and glances between the manual and the Lego arc, reaching for a couple of false positives before settling on the correct piece with a triumphant huff. There's something both amusing and horrifying with the fact that Spider-Man's attention can be redirected from preparing to track down a criminal with nothing but a Lego set, something that makes Matt wish that he'd hit Stick harder when he had the chance.

Matt clears his throat. "What are you building?"

"Luke's X-Wing," he answers without sparing a look in Matt's direction, then quickly tacks on, "from Star Wars."

Matt gives a hum of acknowledgment despite the lack of clarity the answer brings him. 

"I've actually already got one of these, but Ned ended up building most of it, so." Peter shrugs as he flips the page. "Not- Not that I'm complaining. I'd rather build it than display it."

"Not much fun in displaying it," Matt comments, quietly surprised that Peter's actually putting forth an effort to carry the conversation. 

Peter nods absently as he reaches for another piece. "Yeah. It's not-" A loud buzz from the coffee table cuts the kid off, prompting him to abandon his search in favor of reaching for his burner. His pulse hastens as he types away at the keypad before going still to study the screen, a concentrated air about him until he raises his palm to cover his mouth and blows out a breath through his nose.

"Ned all right?" Matt prods.

Peter's head snaps back up. "No, yeah. Ned's fine. It's just-" He breaks off, working his jaw for a moment and only continuing once Matt gives an expectant raise of his brow. "Basically, there are these Twitter accounts that monitor superheroes, right? It's mostly blurry pictures and grainy videos—sightings and stuff. They obviously don't get everything, but I still like to check it sometimes, you know? And the one on Spider-Man updates almost every day, but…" Peter swallows, and Matt presses his mouth into a thin line once he realizes where this is going. "Ned sent me a graph they just posted, and… this is the longest I've been gone in months. I mean- What happens when the criminals realize that?"

All of the ease from earlier vanishes as if it'd never been there in the first place. Peter studies the screen a moment longer before he flips his burner shut and returns it to the table, then proceeds to pick at the corner of the instructions without any effort to read them.

Matt racks his mind for an answer, trying and failing to come up with something that he hasn't already prepared a counterargument to a thousand times over. No teenager should take it upon themselves to keep a city's criminals at bay, but Matt's hesitant to start that conversation. Though he had turned away from Daredevil for six months after he told Karen, who continued to reassure him that crime was lower than it had ever been, statistics didn't matter when he heard shouts from blocks away that he convinced himself police would attend to. So he bides his time by stepping around the kid to grab his burner and slide it to the opposite end of the table until it's out of his reach, earning a small huff in response.

Not for the first time, he wishes he'd thought to pay at least one visit to Queens to investigate the new vigilante on the scene. Nip the problem in the bud before it devolved to this. Matt sits against the armrest of the couch and clears his throat to catch the kid's attention. "What the criminals do isn't your responsibility, Peter."

Just like that, Peter goes stock-still. The manual falls through his fingers as he freezes, his breath hitching almost inaudibly while his heart pounds against his chest. His mouth parts before he abruptly snaps it shut and sniffs. "Yeah, well. At least until Gargan's put away," he says, a forced note of diplomacy in his tone that's covering up something Matt can't quite pinpoint. 

Matt dips his head and draws in a slow breath. Once Gargan's put away, he has Iron Man to worry about, a problem he hasn't even begun trying to come up with a miracle solution for. "Maybe you should wait until we find you somewhere permanent," he proposes airily. "You said Spider-Man stays out of Hell's Kitchen, right? You can't swing all the way to Queens everyday."

"Yeah, but Midtown's nearby. Its buildings are better for swinging, anyway." Peter reaches out for a Lego and snaps it into place. "Besides, Daredevil's activity dropped too. I mean, someone's gotta look out for the little guys."

Goddamnit. Matt goes to pinch the bridge of his nose and quickly plays the movement off as pushing up his glasses. The longer this goes on, the harder it's going to be to convince Peter that the correlation is just a coincidence. How's he supposed to—? Shit. Matt clenches his hand tight over the edge of the armrest, then lets go before Peter can take notice. The only way the kid would know about any recent lack of Daredevil is if he searched for it. Which means… 

"Hey, Mr. Murdock?"

"Matt's fine, Peter," he says, quickly shifting his expression to make up for his clipped tone when the kid looks up.

"Matt," Peter amends after a beat as he fiddles with the Lego in his hands, "I just- I know my case isn't… easy." That's the understatement of the year, but Matt withholds a snort in favor of a tight-lipped smile. "And I know I haven't been- I just want you to know that I really am grateful for what you and Foggy are doing."

Though the kid's sincere, the way he says it sounds more like an apology than an expression of gratitude. As to what he's apologizing for, Matt doesn't anticipate finding out.

"Oh, well," Matt takes a breath and gets to his feet, "I'm just looking out for the little guy."

Notes:

:D

So this next chapter is going to be a beast, and there's going to be some Spanish dialogue in there, and my Spanish is iffy at best. I can use Google translate, but if I have any readers who are familiar with the language and want to help, please hit me up in the comments or over my tumblr messages @tupacaze (with a z, not an s)!!

Take care of yourselves!

Chapter 18: Alea Iacta Est

Notes:

Hi guys! Sorry it's been so long! I decided to take online summer college courses and had to take finals in May and hooooo boy

I'm absolutely floored by how much Spanish translation offers I received! Thank you all so much! But, as it turned out, I got super stuck in the middle of the chapter, and, after a lot of pondering, I decided to change directions with it and I ended up not needing the Spanish. I really appreciate all of your offers though!

Massive thanks to lrrytrainor for beta-ing this chapter!

For what it's worth, Peter does feel guilty about sneaking out.

He'd debated with himself for at least ten minutes over whether or not he should leave a note—something that adds up to I'm sorry and I'll be back before morning—and he was on his way to search for a pen and paper before it hit him that Matt wouldn't be able to read it. When the image of MJ rolling her eyes is vivid enough to make him wince, he appeases it by shoving his burner in his pocket and vowing that if Matt called, he'd answer. Which, if he's lucky, won't be a problem because Matt will never know he left in the first place.

But Peter knows how the Parker Luck works, so he mentally practices an apology as he layers up with one of Matt's black, heavier sweatshirts (that he silently promises him he'll return without damage) and quietly borrows a folded ten from the wallet in his nightstand (borrows, because he is going to find a way to pay Matt back). It doesn't change the knot tightening in his stomach as he slides the bedroom door open, especially when he's met with the billboard's shine illuminating the room that'd definitely be keeping him up if Matt hadn't given up his bed for him. It's yet another seemingly unappreciated gesture to add to the growing list.

If nothing else, whatever Spider-Man-related lecture he's in for when he gets back, it can't sting more than any of May's. 

A creaky floorboard nearly gives him a heart attack while he's ascending the stairs to the roof access door, but Matt's form on the couch remains motionless while Peter holds his breath to keep himself from gasping. I don't know what's worse, he can practically hear MJ tsk, the fact that you're sneaking away from a blind man or the fact that you're bad at it. What are you gonna do if he gets up? Pretend not to be here?

It takes a minute of frozen anxiety for Peter to assure himself that Matt's still asleep, and it's only when he slips out the door that he can breathe again.

Finally, he can actually breathe. The wind is crisp and stings against his cheeks, but the mere fact that he's back on the rooftops more than makes up for it. The street lights reflect off the asphalt to create a painting that his normal schedule doesn’t allow him to see and makes him wonder why he didn’t push May to stay out later. Hell's Kitchen is aglow below him, the screeching of tires and the distant wailing of sirens greeting his ears in a way he didn't think he'd miss. The billboard casts a long shadow behind him once he moves out from behind the door, making his black outfit a canvas for an array of shifting neons. He has to squint for a moment to allow his eyes to adjust before he can fully take in his surroundings. Over half of the buildings are brick and shorter than he's used to—older, if he had to guess. But they're clustered closely enough that Peter bets he won't have to use his webs to travel between them, which means less of a chance that someone makes him out as Spider-Man.

At least, that's the plan. Spider-Man probably isn't the first thing people would assume upon seeing a dark masked figure running across the rooftops in Hell's Kitchen; he just hopes he won't run into the real thing. Matt had brought up Daredevil's previous experience with copycats earlier, and the last thing Peter wants is the Devil of Hell’s Kitchen getting the wrong idea. Maybe Daredevil will take another night off, Peter hopes as he pulls his mask over his face. Either way, the worst-case scenario on the rooftops is getting attacked by Daredevil. Worst-case scenario on the sidewalks is getting killed by Gargan, so it's not a hard call in the end.

Peter rushes to the edge of the roof and takes off. Weightlessness overtakes him for a moment before he sticks his landing on the roof of the next building, the rush of adrenaline chasing away the cold almost immediately. For a second he's tempted to fire a webline and swing to the oncoming roof just for the thrill of it, then shakes his head and reminds himself that he's not Spider-Manning, he has a job to do.

According to Ned's slightly less than legal research, Aaron Davis is staying in an apartment on the opposite side of Midtown, just across the river from Queens. Hopefully the new address isn't a reaction to Peter figuring out his previous one, because he doubts that the man is suddenly going to find Peter intimidating if he isn't in the mood to be helpful. Still, Peter's not running in blind this time. He knows who he's after, he knows what he wants, and he's at least seventy percent sure about how to get it. If a witness is all that stands between getting Spider-Man back and making Gargan pay for what he did to May, then Peter'll be damned if he lets himself screw this up.

Davis had referred to Gargan as a crazy guy he used to work with when they last talked, so Peter's fairly certain that he doesn't have to worry about severing any loyalties. Since Davis told him about the ferry deal, he clearly didn't take any issue with Gargan going to prison either. That's another bonus. If Peter remembers correctly, Davis was convicted for larceny, not murder or assault, so he's not likely to-

Peter skids to a halt as a tingle pricks at the base of his skull. 

He peers over the edge of the building, half expecting a group of goons with face tattoos passing underneath, but the sidewalk is empty save for an old couple walking hand-in-hand. A shadow moving behind a dumpster out of the corner of his eye makes him start, but it's only a cat that emerges a second later to dart to the opposite alleyway. The most dangerous thing he can spot is a rusty nail a few feet ahead of him, and it's not even face-up.

"C'mon, Spider Sense," he mutters, shaking his head in an attempt to clear it. "Don't glitch out on me now." With that, he backs up to get a running start to leap to the next building. A part of him anticipates the feeling of cold talons digging into his shoulders to carry him up into the air, yet he lands quietly despite the fact that the dull buzzing stays with him.

Peter frowns. His Spider Sense hasn't ever been off before, has it? He slows to a walk, waiting for something clearer like a duck or a behind you or anything he can actually work with. Fingers poised over his web-shooters, he scans his surroundings again to no avail. A shiver travels from his neck down his spine, but he has a feeling it has less to do with the icy breeze and more to do with the cold pit growing in his chest. Something's wrong. Something… Someone-

Peter breaks into a run and jumps for the next building, sticking against the side and scrambling for the roof. He almost slips as he struggles to get a grip on the gravel, and he swears he can hear footsteps as the rocks scrape around him that disappear as soon as he regains his balance. He sprints across the rooftop and rolls into his fall to land on the one ahead, his heartbeat roaring in his ears to the point where it blocks out anything useful. Instinct sends him scurrying up a radio tower, clutching on until he can barely feel his fingers against the freezing metal. He cranes his neck and shifts, looking for something, anything out of place, but the only movement comes from a clothesline swaying in the breeze.

The buzzing is still there. It's faint, not nearly as prominent as it was when Foggy had snuck up on him a day ago, but it's not leaving. Peter wraps an elbow around a metal bar to free up his hand, fingers hovering over the web-shooter's trigger, and draws in a shaky breath. He hasn't been out the past few days, and you're not even doing anything illegal, Peter forcibly reminds himself. This is Hell's Kitchen. He has actual, violent criminals to catch.

Repeating it over in his mind like a mantra, Peter slowly detaches himself from the radio tower and back to the roof, but it doesn't feel solid beneath his feet. Get a hold of yourself, Spider-Man. He won't be able to get back before Matt wakes if he keeps stopping and starting like- Peter stops in his tracks.

If he's wrong, he's going to lead Daredevil straight to Davis.

Better safe than sorry, right? Peter takes a deep breath and rolls his shoulders. Before he can give himself the chance to reconsider, he runs and leaps off the edge of the roof, twisting in mid-fall to fire a webline at the building he just sprang off of. Peter turns in the air as he dips toward the ground, then runs as silently as he can along the wall to propel himself to complete his arc. He lands on the opposite side of the building he started on and hurries to the fire escape, pressing himself to the ceiling of one of the platforms and quietly peering up through the metal mesh. 

For a long moment, nothing happens.

But this time when he hears a footstep, there's nothing to muffle it. 

His stomach drops as he waits for the horned silhouette to spill across the bricks. Then hopefully jump across the alley and continue on its unconcerned-with-Peter way, nothing more than a close encounter that Peter can tell Ned about to make his jaw drop and pester him for details that he doesn't have. But whatever's up there does not move a second time.

Okay. Peter shapes the word with his mouth, not daring to speak it aloud. Daredevil is far from the scariest hero or villain he's encountered. Not nearly as much as of a shoot first, ask questions later kind of person as Mr. Castle, from what Peter's heard. Before the copycat had attacked the newspaper, he'd even toyed with the idea of swinging by when he heard that Wilson Fisk had been released from prison. He'd track Daredevil down, land in front of him with an impressive flip, and say something along the lines of, 'Hi, I'm Spider-Man. Fisk sucks. How can I help?'

'Hi, I'm Spider-Man. Please don't attack me or torture the criminal I'm after,' is far from his ideal first impression. Still, Mr. Castle had dropped his gun and stopped threatening to shoot him once Peter explained the situation when they'd met. And considering how suspicious he's acting and how bad this looks… Could he fight Daredevil? It'd been an abstract thought before, more of a what if than something he actually had to plan for. He doesn't stand much of a chance hand-to-hand, so finding an opening for a well-aimed web is his best shot. It still doesn't change the fact that his heart's racing as fast as it had when he had first spotted Mr. Castle with that skull on his chest. Deep breaths, Spider-Man.

"Hey, Daredevil."

No response.

Great. Well, his cover's blown anyway. Slowly, Peter lowers himself to stand on the platform below. "Devil of Hell's Kitchen? Mr. Daredevil?" Peter tries, clearing his throat in an effort to rid the tremor from his voice. "Uh, you probably can't tell from the get-up, but it's Spider-Man. From Queens. I'm just- incognito, right now."

Nothing.

"I'm actually on my way out of Hell's Kitchen, so if you could stop following me, I'd- I'd really appreciate that. I've just got some… some Spider-Man business. You know how it is."

If Daredevil does know how it is, he doesn't comment on it.

"Um. You're welcome in Queens anytime for Daredevil business. But I'm on a tight schedule, and I can't get this shirt bloody or anything, so if you could-" Peter breaks off as the wind whistles through the alley and sends a can clattering across the pavement below. "If you could…" And I'm talking to a brick wall.

God, he misses Karen. She'd activate the heat signature feature and enable him to see what he's missing or send up his drone to help him check ahead. Even if there's nothing, just her voice affirming it would come as a relief. But Karen's not here, so when he presses his fingers against the wall to return to the roof, it's hard to convince himself to follow through. Maybe the sidewalk is safer. His Spider Sense certainly doesn't like where he is now. Peter pulls his hand off the wall and turns down the fire escape stairs. Odds are anyone looking for him wouldn't be scanning the streets of Hell's Kitchen at one in the-

His Spider Sense doesn't even get the chance to warn him.

He hears a CLANG a millisecond before red glints inches in front of his nose and the baton bashes into the bricks.

Holy shit.

Holy fucking shit.

His pulse skyrockets as he clambers over the railing and onto the wall, shooting webs to the roof with both shaking hands to yank himself up. His heart feels like it's trying to batter out of his ribcage and his head is spinning from an odd mixture of relief and terror, but he doesn't stop running to as much as cast a glance behind him. His stomach flips when he realizes that he can't tell if his footsteps are echoing or if he's being tailed—all he's sure of is that he has to get out of Hell's Kitchen. 

The buzzing in his head dials up to a droning as he nears the end of the roof, contrasting with the way he should be feeling upon spotting Eighth Avenue a building away. The edge of Hell's Kitchen, right? He won't be able to make the jump without using his webs, but he'd take the risk in a heartbeat over the devil breathing down his neck. The street doesn't appear busy, and- shit, those definitely aren't echoes.

Peter sends a webline to a water tower across the street and swings. He relies on his Spider Sense over his vision to enable him to weave through the legs of the tower, the wind burning his eyes and making him miss his suit's lenses when his elbow thuds against a pole. Peter manages to slide into his landing and get straight back to his feet, maintaining his momentum as he risks a glance back across the street to find an empty roof. What the hell? Before he has time to investigate further, his Spider Sense gives him the first plain instruction he's gotten all night.

Keep running.

So he races across rooftops and over alleyways while his pulse thunders in his ears. His lungs start to burn with the frigid air, but Peter doesn't dare to slow.

He's four blocks away when the buzzing finally goes silent. Peter stumbles to a stop and half leans, half collapses against an exhaust vent and shoves his mask up his face, watching clouds form in front of him with every shaky exhale. His hand quivers as he wipes it down his face and finds sweat glistening on his palm.

No time to rest, kid.

Slowly, Peter stands himself back up and tugs his mask over his eyes.

---

As it turns out, not many ice cream shops are open past midnight in November. 

In hindsight, it's really something Peter should've accounted for. It takes five minutes of searching before he finds a mom-and-pop grocery store that looks like it has promise, and five more minutes of waiting for a trio of college kids to leave with a package of beer before he decides it's empty enough to enter maskless. The cashier gives him an odd look when all he places on the counter is a ten-dollar bill and a carton of Neapolitan ice cream, but it's New York, so a tired "have a nice night" is all he gets after he gets back the change. 

He did, however, account for the fact that he couldn't tell apartment numbers from the outside of the building. By the time he's next to the fourth story window Ned had directed him to, an electronic billboard tells him that it's a quarter until two in the morning and the numbness from clutching the ice cream is almost to his elbow.

Here goes nothing. Peter experimentally pulls up on the glass, unsurprised to find the window unlocked at this height, then promptly shuts it before he can crack it open much further. Breaking into his apartment probably wouldn't be his best impression, and that’s something Peter's screwed up enough for one night. He adjusts himself to try to peer down the black hallway, but as far as he can discern from the empty kitchenette and living room, Davis is asleep.

Peter balls his hand into a fist and tucks the ice cream in the crook of his elbow, biting back his lip as he stares at the glass. Hey, it's Spider-Man again. Sorry for waking you up, but could you please act as a witness against the crazy guy you used to work for and talk about your criminal acts to my lawyers? He works his jaw and draws in a quick breath through his teeth. Maybe leaving Davis webbed to his car for two hours wasn't the best call. Maybe this whole thing was a bad call—after all, Matt and Foggy make a living off of persuading people. The idea of leaving the problem of how to get Davis to cooperate to them isn't as unappealing as it should be.

Then again, it was Peter's insistence that Toomes' guy aim his gun at him instead of Davis that got him talking last time, not threats or anything a lawyer could throw at him. And after his help with the ferry, the idea of handing his name over to two lawyers and possibly roping Davis into a mess of legal consequences if he doesn’t cooperate feels like a pretty crappy way to say thank you. Even if it ends up working out, Peter doubts that course of action would encourage criminals to cooperate with him in the future if Davis spreads around how Spider-Man expresses his gratitude. Besides, Peter didn't barely escape Hell's Kitchen to opt out now.

Swallowing, Peter raps against the window and waits.

He leans in close until his breath fogs up the glass, but the apartment's unchanged when he takes his sleeve to smear it away. Peter wavers before pounding louder a second time and just as he's debating whether or not to invite himself in, there's a sharp tingle at the base of his skull.

The gun emerges before the rest of Davis from the hallway, outstretched in front of him as he steps into view. He's got on black sweatpants and a loose purple t-shirt with a logo that Peter doesn't recognize, a feeling that's evidently mutual when his gaze lands on Peter and his gun flies up to Peter's face. "Shit!"

Peter fights back the urge to duck out of the window, forcing himself to remain still. Larceny, not murder. He hasn't killed anybody.

That the cops know of, a traitorous voice reminds him.

Slowly, carefully, he readjusts his grip on the ice cream carton to press it against the glass and hopes Davis chalks his shake up to the cold. Davis' eyes shift from wide to narrow, a tight line forming between his brow as he frowns. Then, to Peter's immense relief, he shakes his head as his chin drops to his chest, the handgun falling with it. The corners of his mouth are quirked upward when he looks back up and stuffs the gun into the waistband of his pants. He gradually approaches the window and halts a foot away, staring up at Peter with a quizzical expression for a beat before he reaches out to push it open.

"The hell is this?" he says, looking Peter over. "Where's your costume?"

"Oh, well red and blue isn't exactly great for stealth missions."

Davis' eyes flick down to the ice cream in Peter's hold. "Stealth missions?"

"Yeah," Peter affirms with confidence he doesn't have. "Top secret, high-level stuff."

Davis just stares at him with an impassive expression that Peter can't begin to try and read.

Peter draws in a slow breath and quietly hates how diffident he sounds when he gets out, "Can I come inside?"

After a beat, Davis gives a shrug that could mean anything from I don't care to why would you ask that, but he doesn't protest when Peter pulls up the window and climbs through. He leaves Peter awkwardly shifting his weight from foot to foot to warm himself up as he moves to the wall and flicks on the lights. Peter's not sure whether to feel threatened or assured when he proceeds to close the curtains. Davis finally settles against the back of his couch, scratching at his nose before crossing his arms over his chest. "I don't even…" Davis trails off with a vague gesture in Peter's direction. "What is this?"

"Um, Neapolitan." Peter steps forward and holds the ice cream out.

Davis frowns, studying Peter with a low hum. "Uh-huh." 

Before Peter can be grateful for the mask concealing his burning cheeks, Davis sidesteps closer to accept the ice cream from his hands, though not without hesitance. He turns toward the kitchenette and places the ice cream in the freezer, casting occasional glances back at Peter as he moves. His face is unreadable apart from his shifting eyes, but his hand isn't nearing his gun, so Peter takes that as a win. 

"Is this an apology, or you wanna know something?" Davis stops in front of the cupboards and furrows his brow.

"Do I have to pick one?" Peter counters, telling himself that he's trying to set the tone of his questioning rather than stalling it.

Peter tries not to squirm under Davis' steady gaze, hating how exposed he feels without his lenses. "Aight," Davis finally says. He opens up the cupboard to reach for a glass and there's something different in his eyes when he turns back to Peter. "You want somethin' to drink? Whiskey, scotch…?"

Peter finds himself shaking his head before Davis can finish. "Oh, I'm not—" he catches himself just on time "—thirsty."

Davis' pause is a second too long before he closes the cupboard and hums an acknowledgment. He moves to the small dining table in front of the closed window and pulls back a chair, then gestures from Peter to the one across from him. One shot at this, Spider-Man.

Slowly, Peter follows the cue and takes a seat. Interrogation, take three. He'd tried taking a page out of Mr. Castle's book last time, but threats and intimidation aren't options here (and honestly, not something he thinks he can pull off). How does Matt handle these conversations? There was that same level of collectedness, but whereas Mr. Castle was always blunt and to the point, Matt speaks like he's leading Peter to a certain conclusion that's much harder to disagree with once he arrives at it. A tactic best suited for the courtrooms, he bets. And when they were first introduced, Matt had made sure to build up to the important questions, not open with them. 

"Have you heard about Mac Gargan?" Peter scoots forward and makes the effort to meet Davis' eyes.

"Heard he ain't in prison." Davis leans back in his chair. "You want anything else, you're outta luck."

"No, no-" Peter breaks off with a breath. "I already know how to put him back in prison—for good, this time. I just need information about that ferry deal."

Davis cocks his head to the side. "Thought you were there for that."

"Yeah, well," Peter flicks his tongue over his lips and picks at the cushion's seam, "I'm not exactly an unbiased source."

It takes a moment to sink in. When it does, Davis lets out a scoff that makes Peter's heart sink to his stomach. "You serious?"

A response dies in the back of Peter's throat.

"Look- I appreciate the ice cream 'n all," Davis leans forward and rests an elbow on the table, "but even if I was a- a witness to something, this ain't shit I wanna get into."

It's at this point in the conversation when Matt would go silent and sit down, giving himself a chance to collect his thoughts and for Peter to reconsider his own. But the panic bubbling up in his chest sends words spilling out of his mouth before he can think them over, his nails digging into his seat to keep himself from shooting up. "All I need is for someone to confirm that Gargan bought those weapons. You- You don't even have to go to the police. I mean- I know these lawyers that can-"

"Woah, woah," Davis interrupts, palm open in the air. "One of Gargan's guys told me they were gonna make a deal on that ferry, and that's what I told you. I can't confirm nothing."

Peter knows enough about the law to understand that hearsay isn't going to get him anywhere. "But you have to know something. You don't- Gargan has to be put away. He has to, it's not like last time with-" Peter swallows and forces a slow breath. "Who's the guy that told you? Someone- Someone must've told you."

Davis doesn't waver. All he does is stare at him steadily as he drags out the silence, quashing any hope with it. "I've got somewhere to be in—" he glances over at the microwave clock "—five hours." He pushes back the chair and makes his way over to the window, pulling back the curtains. "You should head out."

Hold on. This can't be- Peter shakes his head, trying to reel his thoughts back into place. This isn't how it's supposed to end. Davis is the only lead he's got, the only thing Matt and Foggy could come up with- What would Matt say when Peter has to tell him that he blew their only shot? That they have nothing better than Mr. Castle's solution? What would May think if he not only couldn't save her, but he can't even get the guy who killed her- Think. There has to be something he's missing, something he can say or some detail that he's overlooked-

Davis clears his throat, his eyes narrowing in warning. Peter scoots the chair back, metal screeching across the wood floor, and forces himself to his feet. And to think he'd thought this would be a win. After the collapsing warehouse, the parking garage- At least Davis isn't trying to shoot him. Gargan, Davis—how could neither of them care about-

Wait. 

Peter stops in his tracks. "Mr. Davis, how old is your nephew?"

Peter knows that he's definitely spent too much time with Mr. Castle when Davis' hand twitches toward his gun and his first thought is good.

"My nephew ain't got nothing to do with this."

"Depends." Peter straightens to his full height, meeting Davis' eyes head-on. "How old is he?"

Davis shifts his jaw, a steely look in his eyes that Peter hasn't seen before.

"Have you heard about the warehouse collapse in Queens not too long ago?" Peter presses. "The explosion?"

"What about it?" Davis asks through his teeth. 

Peter shrugs and faces away from Davis, starting to stroll around the table at the same casual pace he remembers Matt used. "I guess I really pissed Gargan off, 'cause he kidnapped elementary schoolers to get me there. Six first through third graders, I think. We- I barely got them out before the building collapsed."

He swallows back the lump rising in his throat to push away the thought of who he didn't get out.

Davis' chin lowers to his chest as he blows out a slow breath through his nose. Instead of turning to Peter when he looks back up, he grabs for the curtain and pulls it closed. "You didn't hear none of this from me, right?"

It takes all of Peter's willpower to contain the rush of excitement that comes at the words, shoving the sorrow to the corner of his mind. "Oh, yeah. Yes," he says, nodding vigorously.

"The guy you want is the techie to the- that winged guy that you caught," Davis says after a moment of hesitation. "He's the one who made the weapons and put the price tag on 'em. If all you need is a guy to say Gargan paid for that shit, then he's who you want. Got real sloppy after his boss left; probably be willing to cut some sort of deal."

"What's his name?"

"Phineas Mason. Heard he's based in Bushwick, edge of Queens."

"Phineas Mason," Peter echoes, cementing the name in his mind. He heads for the window, failing to keep the spring out of his step, and tugs the curtains aside to push it open. "Uh, thanks," he adds, shifting to face him. "Really, I-"

"Hey, just- don't make this a thing." Davis steps closer, crowding Peter out the window. "I don't want to be your- I don't want you knocking at my window every time you think I know some- some criminal underworld shit."

But you know criminal underworld shit every time. "Right. Sorry," Peter says instead, though more as an apology and less as a promise. He takes a breath to prepare for the blast of cold air as he maneuvers to the outside wall, but a shudder washes over him anyway. The faint click of the window locking behind him elicits a huff that warms the cloth in front of his mouth.

For the first time in a while, as Peter leaps from the wall to the next building, he actually feels light.

Though with Daredevil out and about on the rooftops, he just might chance the sidewalks when he returns to Hell's Kitchen.

Notes:

Now, I know what you're thinking. "But Tupacase," you say. "You said this would be a beast of a chapter. You don't post for three months and this average-lengthed chapter is all you've got??"

So, funny story. I actually had to cut this chapter in half because if I didn't, it would be 12k words long. That means chapter 19 is like 90% completed, and I wanted to have it mostly finished before I posted this chapter so I could post the follow-up not long from now.

I hope you're all safe and healthy!

Chapter 19: Dark Side of the Moon

Notes:

I'm looking at the date I'm publishing this chapter and I'm looking at the date I first published this story, and I can't believe it's almost been a whole entire year. I still can't believe how many people are interested in this and an especially big thank you to those of you who've stuck it out with me for the long haul. Right now I think there's five, maybe six chapters left after this one, and I'm honestly so baffled that I'm so close to finishing such a massive project. So I guess what I'm trying to say is happy almost-birthday to this baby of mine, and thank you all for watching it grow <3

Big thanks to Cinnamon_Apples and Sushisashimi for beta-ing this chapter!

Oh, hey, Matt. So I've been thinking on it, and I just remembered that Phineas Mason's the witness we need. Isn't that great?

Peter grimaces and kicks a small rock out in front of him, sending it tumbling down the sidewalk.

Good morning, Matt. You'll never guess what just came to me—the guy we need is named Phineas Mason, and he's somewhere in Bushwick. Yeah, it's just been on the tip of my tongue this whole time. Better late than never, right?

Peter absently moves to kick the rock again once he catches up. He's not good enough at acting to pull off spontaneously remembering, and Matt's not stupid enough to buy it. Maybe, just maybe, honesty is the best policy here. Besides, no harm no foul, right?

Then again, that's not how May saw it a few months ago. His curfew of ten wasn't exactly negotiable, so when he'd been clued in on a midnight robbery only two weeks after she found out about Spider-Man, going out behind her back seemed like the only viable option. It'd gone smoothly enough, and he'd been ready to pat himself on the back for a job well done when he found his bedroom window latched shut. His trudge up the apartment's stairs was nearly unbearable, and he'd heard May's pacing before he gathered the courage to knock at the front door. He was unable to meet her face as she'd gone on about how he'd broken her trust and felt the shame swell up when she said that she would've allowed it had he just asked.  

She had settled on taking his phone and forbidding him from hanging out with Ned for the rest of the week, but it was the persistent cracking open of his bedroom door at night to check on him that stung the most. 

Hey, Matt. So, the good news is I found out the guy we need is Phineas Mason. The bad news isn't even that bad, really, because the worst thing that happened is I learned that Daredevil's really territorial. Peter sighs, sidestepping a bit in order to kick the pebble ahead. He wouldn't blame Matt for deciding to take his burner away. It's what he used to talk with Ned and get Davis' address, so the punishment fits the crime. And in his experience, said punishments are always less severe when he owns up to his actions before giving the adults a chance to discover them. Even Mr. Castle's response to Peter admitting to calling the police station had amounted to nothing more than a stern don't do that again, albeit that fumble hadn't been intentional.

Though Peter has yet to see it, he'd take a pissed off Matt over a pissed off May or a pissed off Mr. Castle any day. And when it comes between a pissed off Matt or the guilt that would come with lying to his face after everything he’s done to help, Peter finds himself leaning toward the former. If Matt confiscating his burner and locking the roof access door is the price he has to pay for his honesty, then Peter won't object. 

Peter finalizes his decision with a nod as he beelines to the edge of the sidewalk to kick the rock back to the center. Come to think of it… Why is Daredevil so territorial? He's always struck Peter as more of the brooding, I work alone type, but then again, so had Mr. Castle. He never would've thought the Punisher would be more open-minded to the company of other vigilantes than Daredevil. It kind of stings that the only other person who could understand what comes with having a secret identity doesn’t even want to acknowledge him beyond throwing a baton at his face. Even just a ‘get out of my city, Spider-Man,’ would be better than chasing him out like he’s some menace. Someone's been reading too much Daily Bugle.  

Peter slows with a frown. Mr. Castle had started out in Hell's Kitchen, hadn't he? Daredevil probably wasn't a fan of that. It's not a stretch to assume that it put him off other vigilantes hanging out in his neighborhood. Though if that's the case, Peter's not sure how to feel about being lumped in the same category as the Punisher. Peter reaches in his pocket, brushing past his folded mask to rest his fingers on his burner. Hi, Mr. Castle. I was just wondering, have you ever ran into Daredevil before? I just wanted to know, because… Peter blows out a breath and slows as he nears the rock before shaking his head and stepping past it. On second thought, he doesn't want to hear about the circumstances that could've led to Mr. Castle meeting Daredevil. Peter already has a pretty good guess. Still, his fingers tighten around his phone. 

Hi, Mr. Castle. I'm doing fine. Matt's friend got me a Lego set. I just wanted to check in and ask how you're… Peter dismisses the thought with a shake of his head. He's not sure he wants to hear that answer either. A bad means that Mr. Castle's not any closer to finding Gargan, and a good means that he's close to killing him. Either answer means that he's leaving a trail of bodies. 

Yet… Hi, Mr. Castle. Are you busy?

Peter's wrenched out of his thoughts when the hairs on his neck stand on end.

He stops in his tracks and looks toward the roofs, but there's no horned shadow in sight. While he has been made aware that not seeing Daredevil isn't any guarantee that he’s not there, this feels… different. This feels… familiar. Less you’re being stalked by a dangerous vigilante and more the feeling that comes when he’s patrolling Queens, the kind of feeling that precedes a crash or a shout for help. 

Peter's body reacts before his mind has the chance to object. It's all autopilot when he turns down the sidewalk to the source, his fingers readying automatically on his web-shooters. His heartbeat thunders in his ears as exhilaration floods through his veins at the fact that he actually has the chance to help someone, followed by a mental slap in the face because hey Spider-Man, someone's in danger.  

And what do you plan to do about it, Peter? A voice that sounds suspiciously like Matt’s rings uninvited through his head and stops him mid-step. Gargan will know Spider-Man is in Hell’s Kitchen if you use your webs. You have what you need to know, and you already risked enough for it. Keep walking.

Peter shakes his head and shoves the voice to the back of his mind, but the words still linger with the faint prickling at the back of his skull. Maybe he’s blowing it out of proportion. As far as he knows, his Spider Sense could just be warning him about a drug deal or a stolen bike a block over. It wouldn’t be the first time and it’s decisively not something to risk his identity over. Maybe he should-

A scream rips through the quiet and is cut off in less than a second.

Peter whirls back around and takes off. 

His Spider Sense sends him skidding to a stop near the end of the street at the edge of an alley, the sound of scuffling and muffled shouts echoing between the walls when he arrives. A couple of half-empty beer bottles sit a few feet away, making his lip curl when paired with what he sees next. He risks a quick glance to find two men—the closer one rifling through a purse that obviously isn't his, and the other grappling with his hand pressed over a struggling lady's mouth. She's shaking in her heels and scratching fruitlessly at the forearm around her chest, a scene Peter's intervened in a dozen times before. Habit takes over as Peter aims his web-shooter at the man's face-

-then ducks back behind the wall before he can fire. Crap. No webs. Think, Spider-Man. He can't throw any punches without risking Gargan hearing about some superpowered kid and putting it together. He has his mask, but it doesn't resemble Daredevil's enough up close to fool them, and he sure as hell can’t pull off any of Daredevil's moves. It wouldn't take Gargan long to realize who a masked vigilante that isn't Daredevil is if he gets wind of it. Where's Daredevil when you need him? How's Peter supposed to-

"Ach! Shut up, bitch!" The man careens to the side when the woman manages to get out a yelp, trapping her between himself and the wall. Peter catches a sharp flash of silver from the man's free hand that starts on a trajectory toward the woman’s neck.

Now!

Peter dives for a bottle and hurls it at the wall opposite of the woman. It shatters the second it meets the bricks. The man stumbles back from the woman as shards pelt against his leather jacket and he turns just in time to have one slice across his cheek. 

Oh God- Peter clamps his hand over his mouth to stifle his sharp breath as a red gash opens on the man's face, but manages to snap himself back when the woman uses the distraction to writhe free. She hurries out of the alley, nearly shoving past Peter in her effort to escape.

"Hey- Ma'am, are you-" 

The woman doesn't even look back at him as she flees across the street.

"Shit! Rich, your face!"

Peter's heart does something funny when he faces back down the alley. The man is leaning against the wall with his forearm, a steady stream of red seeping down his jawline from a jagged cut stretching from his ear to under his eye. Gargan's marred face flashes through his mind and Peter's stomach churns as he bites back his lip to keep himself from blurting out an apology. A part of him that he's less than proud of is almost grateful that he isn't wearing his suit because Spider-Man's not supposed to do something like that. 

He was mugging someone, he forcibly reminds himself. It does little to stop the nausea growing to his throat. He was mugging someone and I stopped it.

The man looks up and locks his eyes on Peter's. The pure loathing in their depths sends his feet faltering back, but he finds that he'd take the fury any day over the expression that stares back at him a moment later and all but freezes him in place. The corner of the man's mouth twists upward and his eyes narrow as they go alight with something that sends a rush of ice water down his spine. 

Recognition.

Somehow, Peter makes himself unstick his feet from the ground and darts around the corner. He presses his back against the bricks as soon as he's out of their sight and takes in a slow breath of frigid air in an attempt to calm the thundering in his chest. No way. He just imagined it, there's no way-

"Hey, hey- You see that kid's face?" Leather Jacket rasps. 

His companion scoffs. "You see what he did to yours?"

"Fuck you." Footsteps. "Thing is, I could've sworn that's the little shit Gargan's after."

Shit. Shit. Shit shit shit-

"No fucking way."

Walk away. Walk away, Spider-Man. Walk-

"Yes fucking way."

Peter's Spider Sense burns as he makes himself back up down the sidewalk. This can't be happening- It's only one criminal, how could the one criminal who saw his face in a city Peter's not even supposed to be in have connections with-

"Wanna make some more cash tonight?"

Peter stumbles to a halt. His breath catches in his throat as the ground is yanked out from under his feet. He'd been joking about the bounty thing to Mr. Castle, he didn't think- there's no way that-

"Hell no. Ain't he with the goddamn Punisher?"

The rush of relief has Peter swaying before he can force himself to walk again. One night. It's only night one, they'll think that this is a fluke, and Gargan won't-

"I don't see no Punisher."

"Well, shit."

It takes all of Peter's willpower not to scramble up the wall when the pair of footfalls gets closer. The headlights of a car passing from behind reveals the tips of long shadows by his feet.

Stupid Parker Luck. Stupid goddamn Parker Luck. To think that he was in the clear, that he finally got a leg up on Gargan and now-

"Hold up,” Purse-snatcher hisses. Though Peter's enhanced hearing places him at about forty feet back, he can all but feel the man breathing down his neck.

“You wanna give this fucker the chance to get-”

“Not on the sidewalk, dumbass. You want him drawing attention? Look, he can’t stick to it forever.”

Peter clenches his hands into fists to stop them from trembling and forces a slow breath when the ground starts to sway. Okay. He has to- There has to be a way he can play this right. Options. Short term: he can't turn around, or they'll see his face and both of them will know for sure that it's him. If he runs, they'll chase after him. Staying on the open sidewalk and keeping them walking at a distance is his best shot. They probably don't have guns since they weren't aiming any at the woman, so that's something. The knife could pose a problem, but if it comes down to a fight for his life, he has enough web fluid to make it out clean.

Long term: he webs them up, they realize he's Spider-Man. He could turn down an alley, hurry up the walls and give them the slip- and then they'd call for backup and Gargan would know you're here. Peter swallows back the panic rising in his throat as he pauses at the end of the street. The whispers behind him get more and more audible as the men near. He turns on his heels and heads down the side road, careful to stay within the light of the streetlamps. Maybe- Maybe he can lead them straight to the police station. They wouldn't dare jump him there.

And even if he knew where the hell the police station was, the police are going to have a lot of questions when they see May Parker's missing nephew on their cameras. "Shit," Peter breathes. Matt was right, Matt was right- He should've just told him about Davis, if he'd just goddamn listened-

The entire reason Mr. Castle made him stay with Matt is so that this wouldn't happen, so that Gargan wouldn't find him, and Peter just-

Peter's leading them straight to Matt's apartment. 

Peter takes a sharp turn in the opposite direction once he reaches the end of the street and tries not to panic when the men’s footsteps pick up at his sudden move. When they slow, it's not at the same pace it was before. Shit. He can only wander around Hell's Kitchen for so long before they decide to corner him in an alley, or call for backup, or decide that Gargan would be content with taking him dead or alive-

His burner nearly slips out of his hand once he fishes it out of his pocket. He’s careful to keep it out of sight of his followers and close to his chest, which only serves to bring his attention to how frantically his heart is battering against his ribcage. He can barely feel the buttons beneath his thumb as he opens the contacts and he doesn't think that he can attribute the numbness to the cold.

Mr. Castle can help. He’d helped last time, when- when he-

Peter squeezes his eyes shut to keep the gunshots from echoing in his skull.

He scrolls down to Matt's number and tries to summon the courage to dial. Sorry to wake you up, Matt. But I did exactly what you told me not to do and what resulted is the exact thing you warned me about. Peter clenches his jaw, biting down on the insides of his cheek. What could Matt even do? Was he supposed to pass his phone to the muggers and hope that Matt can lawyer his way out? Matt doesn't owe him anything—hell, Peter just took his money and clothes without asking after Matt had stuck his neck out for him—so what if- what if he-

He presses the button and holds his breath. 

It doesn't even get halfway through the second ring. 

"Where are you?"

Peter hasn't heard that tone before. It's even enough that a part of him is relieved that Matt seems to have been awake, but the unfamiliar coldness to it makes him suppress the shiver that tries to crawl down his back. He brings the mouthpiece in front of him and keeps his elbow close to his side, silently begging that it’s enough to keep the goons from taking notice. "Um, I don't- I'm not sure."

"Can you make it back by yourself, or do you need me to come get you?"

Peter's cheeks burn despite the cold. "Matt, I- I s-screwed up," he forces out, careful to keep his voice low and the chatter out of his teeth. “There's these, um- I promise I wasn't looking, I swear I wasn't like, Spider-Manning or anything, but this woman was getting mugged, and I didn't- I couldn't just stand by-”

"Peter." Peter snaps his mouth shut. "Is someone following you?"

"I'm sorry," he breathes. "I’m sorry- I know what you said, I just- I think there's a- a contract out on me." He's barely able to stop his voice from cracking. "They saw my face."

There's a long pause and static as Matt shifts the phone, muttering something that Peter doesn't catch. Peter tightens his grip on the burner, silently bracing for the click of the receiver. "Are you in Hell's Kitchen?" he finally asks. His voice is far flatter than Peter expected and a part of him wishes for Mr. Castle's blatant anger that at least lets him know just how thin of ice he's walking on.

"Yeah. Uh—" Peter squints at the street sign ahead "—Fifty-first and… I'm on Ninth, I think."

"You said 'they.' How many? Are they armed?"

"Two. Um, I saw a knife." His pulse picks up as the murmuring increases behind him. "I won't lead them to your apartment, I swear. I think- I can fight them if it comes to-"

"No." Matt draws in a slow breath. He says something else that Peter's not privy to, though the harsh inflection he can pick up on gives him a pretty good guess. Peter ducks his head and bites back his lip; he's never heard Matt curse before. "Peter, listen to me very carefully. Turn on Fifty-second. There's an abandoned building next to a parking lot on the right side of the street. Go inside."

Peter knows that it's childish, that the composure in Matt's tone isn't as real as he'd have him believe, but the directions feel like a lifeline and he can't help but latch on. "Okay."

"Make sure they follow you in. Then go to the fourth floor. Do I make myself clear?"

Peter swallows. "Yes, sir."

He waits for the explanation, for any indication as to what's supposed to happen next or what he should do if he’s cornered in a way that only Spider-Man could escape. Instead, the line goes dead with Matt's name on his tongue.

His chest shudders with his next inhale. Okay. He called Matt. He called Matt, and Matt gave him a solution. He's in no position to be demanding answers, not when he owes Matt far more. Peter closes the burner and slips it back in his pocket and runs the instructions over in his head. Fifty-second, abandoned building, fourth floor. Then… call Matt back? Or stand around and hope that Leather Jacket doesn't want to put a matching scar on his face? What if he gets there and- and why is Matt so sure that the fourth floor of some abandoned building is- 

Peter gives a firm shake of his head. He can follow orders this time.

"Hey, go down the next alley and cut 'im off at the end of the street. I'm getting sick of this shit."

"Here, take my kni-"

Peter quickens his pace and veers around the corner to Fifty-second.

"Keep it down," Purse-snatcher hisses, and Peter has to strain to make out what comes next as he fixes his gaze on the large parking lot ahead. "You sure the Punisher's not about to jump out at the corner?"

Leather Jacket scoffs. "I've got a buddy who says he's been busy around Queens. I'll call him up—he'll swing by here and take us to Gargan. I wanna get paid before the Punisher puts a bullet in him."

The implications behind been busy barely register beyond the flood of adrenaline at call him up. Peter draws in a breath, steels himself, and breaks into a sprint.

A startled "Shit!" comes from behind him, but Peter doesn't dare look back. He beelines for the building's door and lurches to a halt before it, his heart jumping to his throat at the rapid footfalls behind him. The realization that the door had been locked comes only after he twists the knob and wrenches it open to the splintering of wood at his shoes. Panic courses like a jolt of electricity down his body, barely quelled by a mantra of they didn’t see it, they didn’t see it- For a split second, scuffing the shavings out of sight feels more important than getting to the fourth floor before a shout that’s much closer than it should be snaps him back to reality. 

The only light comes from the doorway behind him and the dirtied windows, but his enhanced senses make quick use of what he's got. The tile is cracked where it's not missing and the plaster is flaking from the walls, revealing the blackened brick underneath. It could've been a shop a long time ago; maybe that's how Matt knows of it. Peter hurries for the stairwell in the corner and glances up the center, fixing his gaze on the thin metal railing four floors above. A part of him says that it’d be smart to test his weight on the less than stable-looking structure, but that part all but vanishes at the prickling at the back of his neck. 

It’s all instinct when he goes from the ground to clinging to the outside of the railing two floors up and he can barely hold himself back from firing a web over half-clambering, half-leaping the rest of the way. The light from the doorway flickers and footsteps pound across the tile as he scrambles over the railing and makes it to his feet just in time to peer down and see Leather Jacket staring up at him with an expression that’s almost feral. 

Peter forces himself to duck away before his companion enters and to ignore the frantic, “Fourth floor!” below him.

“How the fuck-”

“Come on!”

The thundering up the stairs is as good of a signal as any. Peter turns on his heels and bursts out of the stairwell. Suddenly, the frigid air outside of Davis’ window with the gun aimed at his face doesn’t seem all that bad.

There's nothing here.

Peter doesn't know what he expected. Maybe some mysterious cash-filled briefcase in the center of the floor that he's supposed to use to bribe the men to go away, or maybe Foggy in the corner with the cane poised and ready to swing. Instead, he's met with rickety floorboards and broken windows that create a cross-breeze cold enough to freeze him to his core. A shrill squeak jolts him in place as a bat takes off out the window, leaving Peter alone to face what's to come.

Is that what Matt wanted? Nobody else getting caught in the crossfire? 

Peter squeezes his eyes shut and resists the urge to throw his burner aside in favor of trying to regain control over his breathing. May would tell him to run. Climb out the window to the fire escape while he has the chance and do not look back. Then keep running until he's out of Hell's Kitchen and he can call Mr. Castle and- and that would solve nothing. But Mr. Castle would tell him to go for the wrist. To get the knife away as quickly as he can and make sure he doesn't telegraph it with his eyes. Then maybe let fast reflexes and carefully applied super strength take care of it from there. Then- Then he can knock them out and call the police. Yeah. Simple. Abandoned building fight, take two.

“Fourth floor, right?”

He doesn’t need super senses to hear their panting. A twinge from his Spider Sense lets him know to keep the action away from the center of the floor and to steer clear of a cracked support beam in the corner. Peter draws in a deep breath, widens his stance, and faces the stairwell.

Leather Jacket sees him first. Streams of sweat cut through the blood caked on his cheek, the wound dark and gaping. He slows to a stop as he looks Peter over and his mouth twists into a grin that churns his stomach. "Peter, right?" He steps out of the stairwell as Purse-snatcher crowds behind him, and hangs back in the doorway. The man stalks forward and Peter forces himself to stand his ground when the switchblade flashes open.

There's a dull buzzing at the base of his skull.

"You wanna come quietly? Or do you wanna make us collect the lower rewa-"

GET DOWN.

Peter drops to the floor just as the window shatters behind him and red whisks above his head. It ricochets against the wall and meets Purse-snatcher square in the temple, sending him crumpling to the ground in under a second. 

Leather Jacket's eyes go wide as Peter scrambles backward against the wall. The crunching of glass under his feet sounds distant compared to the roaring in his ears and the pounding in his chest.

Right in front of him, black outfit illuminated by the city to his back, is the devil himself.

Once it registers, to his credit, Leather Jacket doesn't miss a beat. The switchblade goes from his side to out in front of him, jabbing at Daredevil with frantic steps forward. For a moment Peter thinks Leather Jacket is actually driving him back, but then Daredevil sidesteps his outstretched arm and grabs it by the elbow to yank it behind him in a direction that arms aren't supposed to bend.

Peter can't help his flinch at the man's scream, and almost finds himself relieved when Leather Jacket manages to squirm out of his hold. As he lunges for his fallen knife, Daredevil flips in the air, almost in a way that resembles a cartwheel if it wasn’t for the way his boot hooks the man in the jaw. Leather Jacket stumbles back into the bricks, careens to the side, and collapses on the floorboards. It's all over in less than a minute.

Then Daredevil turns to Peter.

Peter manages to bite back his yelp when his recoil results in slamming his palm onto broken glass, but the pain quickly becomes easy to ignore. He shouldn't have been looking for horns. Instead, it's that black mask that Peter remembers from those grainy YouTube videos a few years back. Only now, Peter can make out that it's actually a black cloth with a white layer poking out underneath, tied together in the back. What at first glance seem to be fingerless gloves is actually more black cloth wound tightly around his hands, and there's a collar of a red undershirt just visible under the black crewneck. 

Peter could've died happy knowing none of this.

He racks his mind for a quip, something conveying both thank you and please stay on the opposite side of the room, but the lump in his throat keeps his words from escaping. Daredevil tilts his head to the side, assessing, and Peter's never wished for his mask more than now. Did Daredevil get close enough to recognize his outfit from the roofs earlier? Or can Peter play himself off as some dumb teen that doesn't know any better than to walk around Hell's Kitchen alone past midnight? Daredevil turns away before Peter can decide, his footsteps catlike as he maneuvers around the glass to reach the fallen form of Purse-snatcher. He seems to study him for a moment (how he can see through both layers of cloth, Peter's not sure) before reaching down to retrieve his red baton.

Oh shit. Peter clambers back to his feet and tries not to have a heart attack when Daredevil goes tense at his movement. The man turns to face him, mouth pressed in an unreadable line that, for a split second, seems almost familiar. When he takes a slow, deliberate step forward, Peter matches it with several steps back.

But Daredevil doesn't stop. He keeps his baton close to his side as he nears, and keeps nearing after Peter's spine lines up against the wall. He doesn't know if it's blood or sweat that has his palm slick when he rests his finger on his web-shooter's trigger, but Daredevil halts the moment Peter angles it at his boots.

A part of him wants nothing more than to dart out the window, and the other part of him is shouting that he should take advantage of getting in the first strike. Neither wins out, leaving Peter frozen in place with the buzzing growing louder and louder, almost drowning out his heartbeat roaring in his ears.

Daredevil's chest rises and falls as he takes a slow breath through his nose. All at once, the buzzing dissipates.

"Go home, Spider-Man."

Oh.

Oh.

He knows.

Peter fishes his mask out of his pocket with shaking hands as Daredevil shifts to the side, opening the path to the fire escape. How long the offer will be open for, he doesn't want to find out.

Peter bolts out the window and doesn't look back.

---

Matt's nowhere in his apartment when Peter returns.

He'd expected to find the man in the center of the living room with his hands on his hips, maybe wearing a suit if for no other reason than Peter can't picture him pissed off in his t-shirt and sweatpants. Peter had built himself up before opening the roof access door, preparing his defense and bracing himself for the lecture and disappointment, but the only sign of Matt's presence is the rumpled blanket at the end of the couch. The bedroom door is just as open as Peter left it and there are no additional outfits missing from the closet when Peter hurries over to check.

Calling him seems like a good idea until Peter's attempt to grab his phone chafes his cut against his pocket. It's not long before he finds himself in the bathroom with his hand under the faucet, his web-shooter set next to the first aid kit on the counter, and the mirror cabinet open so he can avoid the pale face of the teenager staring back at him.

The water runs pink into the sink after it flows over his palm, the cold stream unfortunately returning feeling to his hand instead of numbing it due to the sheer briskness of the rooftops. The stinging snaps him into focus if nothing else, making him just swift enough to catch one of the trains in his mind taking off at a million miles an hour.

As far as he's aware, Daredevil has the same criminal endgame that he does: gift-wrap them for the police and let the system handle it from there, albeit Daredevil prefers the too-unconscious-to-run-away method. Odds are the two men after him would end up in police custody, and even if they didn't want to admit to trying to kidnap a teenager, Peter bets they have a record dirty enough for the police to keep them from waltzing back onto the streets. It's far from a long term solution, but with Phineas Mason's name, they can put Gargan away quickly enough for it to not become a problem.

Because you've proven lucky enough for that to work out, a dry voice points out from the back of his mind.

Shut up, Peter expertly counters. He grabs the bottle of hydrogen peroxide from the kit and pops off the lid. Besides, I was lucky enough for Daredevil to show up on time.

Were you?

Peter clenches his teeth and tips the bottle onto his palm, just keeping himself from jerking back as the wound burns and fizzles white. When it clears up, it's decisively not as deep as his torso and leg gash that Mr. Castle had to stitch up; it’s more on the level of the wounds he got after his final fight with Toomes. With that sound diagnosis, Peter reaches for a roll of gauze and begins to wrap it taut around his hand.

Come to think of it, with the way things have been going for him, maybe it's not luck. After all, it'd been Matt that sent him up there. Peter hadn't even heard Daredevil climb the fire escape or pick up on any footsteps on the roof—almost like he was staking him out. And he didn't ask anything of Peter once he'd dealt with the men as if he'd already known why they were there. Combined with Matt's abrupt hang-up… The gauze goes still in Peter's hand.

Could Matt know Daredevil?

They've talked about him on more than one occasion. In fact, it was one of the first things they talked about. If Matt knew where to find Daredevil this whole time, why would he play dumb about the fact that Daredevil actually is active when Peter brought it up? Why would he pretend to understand what Peter's going through, when, at any time, he could've just asked if talking to the only other masked vigilante is something Peter is interested-

I'm not required to disclose representation of my client, Matt had said. No one is going to make the connection, and I promise you that unless I have your explicit permission, it stays in this room. Foggy had mentioned that they helped put Wilson Fisk away. And it's no secret how much Daredevil hates the guy, so maybe it isn't a stretch that they worked together on it and their firm agreed to be Daredevil's lawyers on a rainy day. If that's the case, then Matt's silence regarding Daredevil is something of a relief. 

Peter ties off the gauze and places the kit back in the cabinet. Once he rinses the stray red droplets down the sink, he pulls out his phone and dials Matt's number.

It goes straight to voicemail.

Peter frowns and dials again.

Nothing.

Okay. Peter swallows and begins to pace around the living room's perimeter. Maybe- Maybe Matt's talking to Daredevil right now. Something like 'hey, Spider-Man is my client, so please don't stalk him across the rooftops. Also, he told me that those men you found tried to mug a lady, so I'll show up at the precinct tomorrow and do lawyer things so they don't talk about Peter Parker on the streets.' Yeah. After all, navigating Hell's Kitchen at three in the morning wouldn't be any different for a blind man.

Peter halts in his tracks.

Daredevil started following him only a few buildings away—at least, according to his Spider Sense. It's not like there hadn't been anything more pressing going on, because those muggers certainly didn't sound new to this. For whatever reason, Daredevil had him pegged almost immediately. And for someone interested in following him, he was especially uninterested in what Peter had to say to him. Almost as if… 

No. Come on. What is he thinking? Matt's blind. Peter's seen the way his gaze doesn't focus in on things, he's taken note of how Matt never looks down when he handles something, how he always reaches out to touch a chair or the couch before taking a seat, the talking alarm clock, the computer and phone settings, the Braille books lining the shelves and the Braille tags in his closet- Matt is blind. Completely, totally blind, with maybe the smallest amount of light perception that Peter hasn't gathered the courage to ask about.

Another thing Peter knows is that you have to see someone's face so you know where to aim when you do a backflip to kick it.

Right?

Then again, Peter didn't see Daredevil looking at him when he almost got a baton to the face. Double then again, Matt wouldn't throw a projectile at the face of his client who's been staying in his home for the past three days. 

Triple then again, did it hit you?

"Get a grip," Peter hisses, dragging his hand over his hair. He needs sleep. The past few nights have been either nightmares or work toward finding Davis; clearly not enough to keep his brain functioning properly. He has half the mind to close his eyes and try for a backflip himself, and that thought alone is enough for the other half to steer his legs to the bedroom. Silk sheets. Daredevil wouldn't sleep on silk sheets. He either sleeps on a bed of nails or has a superpower that makes him not need sleep at all. He's a vigilante, the furthest thing from a lawyer with the exception of a cop. And he's certainly not the kind of guy who's best friend with Foggy Nelson.

But he is the kind of guy to not be seen around Hell's Kitchen after Matt Murdock takes on Spider-Man as a client. It's the same line of reasoning Toomes used to figure him out.

Peter uncurls his fist to find a red dot growing in the center of the gauze.

Where Would I Hide the Supersuit? isn't a new game to him.

Peter turns on his heels to the locked closet near the stairs. He'd wondered at it before, but it wasn't his place to question what his host kept behind doors that he clearly kept locked for a reason. And to think that the formality had been his priority. Peter grabs a hold of the lock, shackle in one hand and the padlock's body in the other, and yanks.

He drops the two pieces to the floor as the doors creak open. He half expects to find the horned cowl staring straight at him, but it’s the large chest on the floor that makes his heart beat faster. Peter crouches down and unlatches it with trembling fingers. With a slow, measured breath, he flips it open.

Shit.

A small collection of what looks to be boxing memorabilia covers half of the space, along with a colorful, intricately folded paper bracelet, some poster or newspaper clipping, and a small chart labeled Braille Alphabet. But what draws Peter's eye is the red satin robe, carefully folded to display the yellow Battlin' Jack Murdock.

Peter claps his hand over his mouth, faltering back as he sucks in a gasp through his fingers. What’s wrong with him? Peter would be furious if someone he let into his home decided to go poking through Ben's stuff, yet here he is, staring at one of the last things Matt's dad wore before he was murdered. He squeezes his eyes shut, pressing his face into his palms and shaking his head. How the hell is he supposed to justify this to Matt on top of everything else? Oh, sorry, but I thought you were Daredevil. My bad. As delicately as he can, he places his hand on the lid and closes it. He tries his best to ignore the gnawing at his insides as he latches it shut and nudges it further into the closet.

It's… very light for how full it looks.

Biting his lip, Peter pulls it back and reopens it. He sticks his fingers against the sides of the chest, careful not to disturb any of the mementos inside, and lifts. All of the items come up with him.

The chest, however, does not. Right under the items, right under Peter's nose, is a large, empty compartment that smells of leather and gunshot residue.

Peter's heart skips a beat as his lungs forget how to function.

He hastily reassembles the chest and shoves it back in place, almost slamming the closet doors shut. He snatches the pieces of the padlock off the ground and drops them in his pocket as he reels back onto the couch. The place where Matt- Daredevil had been sleeping, just a doorway away from him, and Peter hadn't-

He's blind. It doesn't make any sense. He's blind. 

Yet this whole time- from the moment Peter met him- Matt had been the first person he'd ever told about Spider-Man, and Matt knows this, and he just- 

Why didn't he say anything?

Peter told him how he felt about Daredevil. Matt had- had pretended to care about his feelings, had listened and commented when he talked to him about Daredevil and told Peter how fucking similar they were with what happened to his dad, all the while if he'd just said one thing, the one thing that would actually be worth a damn- Daredevil's supposed to be the one person who could understand, the one person who knows what Peter goes through every time he puts on the mask, yet all he'd said was legal bullshit and 'Go home, Spider-Man' like it all means nothing.

Peter's breath hitches around the lump rising in his throat. All at once, the room's yellow glow turns cold. He hurries to the bedroom and slides the door shut, then aims his good hand at the latch and coats it with a glob of webbing. His breathing picks up faster than he can help it as he lowers himself on the bed, waiting for his vision to adjust to the darkness. He gives up in favor of crawling under the blankets and closing his eyes, and for a moment he can convince himself that he's back in his own bed with May in the next room instead of in Matt's apartment, engulfed by Matt's silk sheets-

He throws the covers off and grabs the hem of Matt's sweatshirt, pulling it over his head and writhing himself free. The cold hits him immediately, drawing his eyes to Mr. Castle's jacket on the bedpost.

Did he know?

The room's silence is deafening.

His burner reads 3:14 AM, yet that barely gives him pause. Peter dials the number and holds his breath.

It doesn't even ring.

"Your call cannot be completed as dialed," the robotic voice says. "Please check the number and dial again."

What?

His mouth drops open, but he clamps it shut to stop the small noise rising in the back of his throat. He- He said he'd answer. He promised he'd answer, that he wasn't going to leave him- It wasn't like Mr. Stark, it wasn't about convenience, Mr. Castle had promised-

Why would he lie? Did he just toss his burner aside once he passed Peter off to Matt like- like he doesn't even- no. He wouldn't. He wouldn't. Not after everything he told him, everything they've been through, after that look on his face when he talked about his daughter- But then what does Peter know?

Peter reaches blindly for the jacket and curls up on the mattress, pressing his face into the pillow to keep his lip from wobbling. He shakily splays the jacket over him and wipes his eyes on the sleeve.

It still smells like him.

Chapter 20: Vital for Understanding

Notes:

Hooooo boy! This update comes a lot later than I had planned, but it's 2020, so of course things were bound to get hectic. I mentioned this in the comments, but for those of you who don't know, I live in/around Cedar Rapids, and around mid-August we were hit by a derecho (basically an inland hurricane) that had the wind speeds of a category 4 hurricane. It cut the power to our neighborhood for a week, and while things are more or less back to normal now, that was... an experience. And not to get sappy on y'all, but immediately after the storm it was honestly amazing how our neighborhood came together to help out with the debris and fallen trees and how immensely important the one guy in our neighborhood who owned a chainsaw immediately became. Overall, 2/10, would not derecho again, but if I ever have to write a scene in which a character experiences a hurricane, no one can tell me I didn't portray it realistically :D

Also! University recently started up, but assuming 2020 doesn't throw another doozy at me, that shouldn't affect my update schedule too much. And since all of my classes are online, you don't need to worry about me regarding corona since I'm doing this semester from home.

With all of that said, thank you so much for the comments! They've been super nice with all of the aforementioned going on, you guys are the best :)

Thanks to Sushisashimi for beating this chapter!

Matt had never witnessed Spider-Man in action before.

Foggy and Karen had done their best to describe it, to their credit. They've emphasized how effortlessly he leaps between buildings and compared his web-swinging to how Matt utilized his old grappling hook, but it did little to prepare him for the actual thing. The kid moves from rooftop to rooftop with the kind of surefootedness that would make any Hand member look sloppy, deft and light on his feet to the point where even Stick would hum in approval. Should've been paying attention to your own footwork, Matty, he chides. All the cards in your hands and the kid still found you out.

Frank had given him a head's up about Peter's sixth sense; he'd warned that it only went off when there was a threat nearby, so it's Matt's own fault for assuming that the fact he doesn't want to hurt the kid would keep it quiet. Matt had even opted against his usual Muay Thai ropes in case Peter forced him to go on the offensive, but perhaps it was that line of thinking that deemed him a threat in the first place. One way or another, Peter had sensed him following and became the second person after Jessica Jones to ever give him the slip.

If that had been that, Matt would've been impressed.

But of course Spider-Man couldn't ignore a woman's cries for help. Of course he had to get involved, and of course Matt had to swoop in and clean up the mess.

If Matt had to guess, he’d assume that Spider-Man isn’t accustomed to coming out at night or the kind of people that the cover of darkness tends to draw out. Either way, the kid doesn't even realize how lucky he is. Only one of the men had gotten a good look at his face, and Matt doesn't anticipate him mouthing off about it anytime soon. Getting them to talk hadn't been difficult, though finding out just how much money waits as a reward for whoever gets Peter into Gargan's hands was the opposite of a relief. 

Matt halts beside his roof access door and lets out a long breath, forcing his attention away from the footsteps pacing back and forth across his living room. He reaches behind his head and pulls off his mask, clenching it in his hand as he lowers it to his side, billy club gripped tight in the other. Foggy's right. There's no point in delaying the inevitable. Even if Peter hasn't already pieced it together, Matt can't imagine the kid buying any excuse he bullshits anyway. And frankly, Matt's done pretending to buy his. 

The kid stops in his tracks the second Matt twists the knob.

Maybe it was his sixth sense that roused him, or maybe the timing is nothing more than a coincidence; whatever the case, Peter can't have been awake for long. Despite the kid's racing heart, an air of exhaustion hangs over him, weighing down at his shoulders and causing the slightest drag in his feet. He must've been on Matt's bed if the sheets thrown haphazardly over the end of the mattress are anything to go by, and when Matt takes note of the unique scent of webbing plastered to his door, something tightens in his chest. Matt's sweatshirt is gone, discarded on his bedroom floor, replaced by Frank's jacket with sleeves just long enough to conceal the way Peter's fingers hover over his web-shooter's trigger.

Matt draws in a deep breath. The sharp taste of copper diverts his attention to the cut in the kid's palm, something he at least had enough sense to clean and bandage. There's no infection, but he'd have to inspect it more closely to determine whether Peter needs stitches and he has a feeling that's the last thing the kid would let him do. Yet there's something else metallic in the air, something-

Matt closes the door behind him and squeezes his mask in his fist. Two pieces of a padlock weigh down Peter's pocket, and, staining his fingers, is the scent of Jack Murdock's robe.

Everything else in the apartment fades out.

So that's how we're doing this. Slowly, Matt descends the stairs, a distant part of him hating the twinge of satisfaction that follows the thud in Peter's chest after each step. But unlike in the abandoned building, Peter doesn't shrink back this time, even if the way he shifts his weight is enough to let Matt know that he wants to. The kid holds his position as Matt nears, his jaw clenched like he's waiting for him to make the first move, like his adrenaline isn't already spiking through the roof. 

Peter keeps his gaze trained on him as Matt makes his way across the room to the closet. When Matt places a hand on the door, lightly running his fingers down the wood, the kid's heart jumps. He shuffles his feet before he forces himself to still as he dips his head with a slight burn to his cheeks. Matt pauses, the kid's guilt catching him off guard just enough to recognize the fire in his blood and the devil stirring in his chest. 

But this time, recognizing it is all it takes to quash it back down. Jesus. Matt bites back a flash of guilt of his own and with a long, measured exhale, he gradually sets his billy club on the floor.

The response is almost immediate. Though his stance doesn't change, Peter's hand goes slack, his aim shifting from Matt's foot to the middle of the floor. The kid takes a quick breath through his mouth but his jaw clamps shut instead of following it up. The change in his breathing tells Matt that he's stewing on something, and Matt's done this enough times to form a pretty good guess as to what. One vigilante to another, Foggy had said. With a barely suppressed sigh, Matt shoves his mask into his back pocket and turns to face the kid head-on.

"Ask."

Peter swallows and works his jaw. "Are you really blind?"

It had been a struggle to explain that part to Foggy and Karen. But for them, an explanation had been long overdue. "What do you think?" Matt says instead, forcing his tone to remain even.

The kid tilts his head to the side. "I… don't think you can see," he decides. He pauses, practically squirming in place as he takes a brief once-over of the room. "It'd be too hard to fake. All the medical records and stuff. But I- I don't think you need that cane either."

Not bad, Stick muses. The corner of Matt's mouth twitches before he can school his expression back to neutral. "Yeah, well," he offers a quick, tight-lipped smile, "I imagine you would be most equipped to understand why I use it."

Just like that, Peter's stance breaks.

"I do understand," he all but hisses, taking a sharp step toward Matt and doubling back to restart his pacing when Matt stiffens. "But I'm not asking why you- you walk with a cane out in public. I get it. What I don't-" Peter breaks off when his voice starts shaking and halts in place. "If- If I had figured out your identity—if you told me your identity—the first thing I would do is tell you mine."

His heartbeat picks up, but not because he's lying.

“What’d you do to those two guys?” the kid tries when he doesn’t get a response.

Matt just manages to keep his lip from curling. It was easy enough to deal with the one who hadn’t even seen Peter’s face, and Matt imagines that his concussion and broken arms will deter him from returning to the streets for a good while. The other one had landed in the dumpster four stories down. He’d probably regain consciousness in a couple of weeks if the Russian from a few years back is anything to go by, but Matt’s fairly confident that he’ll have Gargan in the Raft before that becomes an issue. But he’s also fairly confident that Peter won’t see it that way, that perhaps it hasn’t quite registered that it wasn’t Spider-Man they were trying to sell, but a child.  

The child in question inches closer, his fists clenching with his aggravated huff. “Why didn’t you tell me then? What, did you think I'd- that I would tell someone you're Daredevil? Can you really not trust me to-”

Peter breaks off when Matt fails to hold back his scoff. "Did you tell Ned about Spider-Man?" A hard edge slips into his voice, but it's becoming increasingly difficult to care to keep it out. "How about your aunt? Or Toomes? Did you trust them, or did they find out because you don't know when to keep on your mask?"

God, Matt knows better. He can already hear himself seeking Maggie for penance, for treating the child in his care like he's on the opposite side of the witness stand, but there's something boiling under his skin and the words feel gratifying as they finally spill out. 

Peter opens his mouth, but for a moment, nothing comes out. “So- So no one ever found out about you before?" 

Goddamnit. Something must flash across his face before he can catch himself, because Peter doesn’t hesitate to pounce the moment he picks it up. “How did Foggy find out? Does he know, or are you still lying to him too?”

Matt grits his teeth. "What else did you find out, Peter?" he asks quietly. It's a flimsy redirection, he knows, but he’s spent enough years at law school to know how to bait the hook. “After you went through my wallet and left Hell’s Kitchen?”

Peter snaps his jaw shut to cut off the sound coming from the back of his throat. He casts a glance back to Matt’s bedroom as his hand brushes against his pocket, prompting the distinct clattering of coins against the metal of the padlock. He’d only taken cash by the sound of it, which is something of a relief considering Matt’s careful not to keep too much of it on hand, but beyond that and the collage of smells on him that imply grocery store, Matt’s left drawing a blank. Did he buy something for whoever he was looking for? And if he was empty-handed by the time Matt met him in the abandoned building… 

He found them.

“You were on your way back when those men found you. So,” Matt drops his voice to barely above a whisper, “who is it?”

The kid swallows. His heartbeat seems to fidget with the rest of him before he crosses his arms tight over his chest. He angles his head away for a moment, then comes to some sort of decision as he faces back to Matt with his chin raised and his mouth pressed shut.

Jesus Christ. “Peter, there is a contract out on you. I can’t keep you safe if you don’t-”

“Keep me safe?” Peter steps forward with a tremor in his voice, but this time when Matt straightens to meet him, the kid doesn’t fall back. His muscles are taught, feet spread apart, and pulse getting faster by the second. “I wouldn’t have left if you’d just told me! You could’ve helped me-”

“I didn’t make you leave!” Matt snaps back, deliberately forcing his hand back open once it forms a fist at his side. “Because of what you did, two men were seconds away from figuring out your identity-”

“Well what would you have done?!” the kid nearly shouts. “They were mugging her with a knife to her throat. Am I supposed to believe you’d- you’d just walk away?”

Matt takes a breath to retort, to deepen the stab of guilt he knows he’ll feel when he explains this to Foggy later, but Peter advances before he gets the chance. 

"You're supposed to be—" Peter strides forward "—the one person who understands. You made me tell you everything about me when we first met, and you wouldn't tell me the one thing about you that actually matters!"

Matt snaps his jaw shut. If those are the grounds Peter wants to set, then Matt will oblige.

“Everything?” Matt echoes. He steps forward, just close enough to be within the kid’s reach. "Me. Frank Castle. Ned Leeds. Toomes. Gargan."

For a moment, Peter’s confusion is almost audible.

"What's the last name, Peter?"

Peter’s heart drops.

“W-What?” His pulse is as fast as it had been in the abandoned building. “I don't- what name?”

His heartbeat skips in the signature of a lie. The kid falters back the second Matt lifts his foot to step closer.

“I mean- Foggy knows. You told him. I guess- I guess he’s on the list now, so-”

Skip. Skip. “The name, Peter.”

The kid takes a deep breath that does nothing to quell his rising blood pressure. He lifts his head like he’s trying to meet Matt’s eyes, a quaver starting in his voice before he can reign it back in. “I- I wasn’t sure, but sometimes I wonder if MJ knows, okay? She’s my friend, and- I dunno, sometimes she just acts like she-”

Skip. Skip. Skip.

Christ. Matt just manages to withhold a growl of frustration and Peter breaks off when Matt turns around to shake his head. How Father Lantom put up with him at this age is beyond him, and how Frank Castle has the patience for this he understands even less. He rests his hands on his hips and tilts up his head, letting out a humorless laugh. When Matt moves back to face him, the kid’s rooted to the spot. “Tell me the name, Peter.”

The kid's mouth goes from open to closed to back open, and he nearly jumps when the back of his leg meets the coffee table once he starts backing up. He hesitates, face shifting between where Matt stands and the ceiling above him, so it's something of a relief when he finally deflates. His head hangs over his chest as he reaches across his body to rub his opposite arm. A small sniffle precedes a shaky breath, but the kid follows it up with a thick swallow instead of whatever name he’s wrestling with in his head. His mouth forms a word that Matt can’t begin to understand and when he finally puts his voice to it, it comes out a mumble that anyone else couldn’t have made out.

“Tony Stark.”

Matt’s mouth falls open.

He shakes his head and angles his ear to Peter’s chest, but the skip doesn’t come.

“Tony St-” Matt cuts himself off with a sharp breath through his nose followed by a hand running down his face. Of fucking course. The Stark Industries internship, Stark’s persistence in trying to find the kid, the fact Peter took on a guy dealing with alien tech—the only piece that doesn’t fit is why the kid decided to keep it to himself. Shit. Surely the kid would have mentioned it if he thought Stark was trying to put him in the Raft, but it doesn’t change the fact that Frank’s somewhere in New York City thinking- Goddamnit. The very reason Frank didn’t want the kid to know, the reason he asked Matt to keep it from him-

Matt turns away and paces a small circle before going straight to the kitchen to open the fridge, but a distant voice reminds him that seeing him drinking wouldn’t bring any assurance to the kid shuffling in the living room. Peter rubs at his eyes with his balled-up sleeve and bites back his lip. The subsiding adrenaline has him leaning against the back of the couch after his stance starts to waver, leaving Matt to wonder just how much sleep he got last night. The windows are just beginning to warm from the sunlight, so any more than two hours would be a generous guess. 

But this isn’t something that can wait. Matt grabs an energy bar from the pantry and two glasses from the cupboard that he fills at the sink. The kid puts together where this is going quickly enough, though he still drags his feet when he trails after Matt to sit across from him on the couch. His usual manners are gone when he accepts the food and water, but honestly, Matt would be more surprised if they weren’t. 

The kid tears open the wrapper, yet he couldn’t be less interested in the food. He hunches forward in the chair and picks at the packaging while he works his jaw. He grabs the water and takes a sip, then spends the next minute staring off into space as his hands periodically tighten and loosen at the cushion’s edge. 

Something gnaws at Matt’s stomach. The kid’s outrage is almost preferable to this. He leans forward and folds his hands in his lap where Peter can see them. “Just start at the beginning,” he prompts softly.

So Peter does.

---

The kid’s utterly drained by the time he’s done.

Matt knows it's not his place to make judgments about anything his client says. He knows to keep his mouth shut as they explain their version of events and to only interject with clarifying questions, or in Peter's case, to urge him on when the kid trails off. He's usually careful to keep his expression non-reactive, to not give his client any cues that could make them alter their story to accommodate his impression of it, which is the one reason he's grateful the kid seems determined to keep his gaze glued to the floor. 

Matt pinches the bridge of his nose. God. It would’ve been better if Peter’s heartbeat was skipping the entire time, if Tony Stark hadn’t recruited a child to fight in a war that he had no business being a part of. And that Stark had held the fact that his aunt didn’t know over the kid’s head to get him to agree to come… Peter had skimmed over it, didn’t call it what it was, but Matt knows blackmail when he hears it. Yet it was the Stark-made suit Peter dwelled on more than anything else, as if that in any way made up for the man cutting off contact as soon as the kid’s usefulness ran out.

Maybe Peter’s right. Maybe Matt is the one person who understands, but not for the reason he thinks.

He doesn’t even seem to realize that Stark roped him in to fight for the very sanctions that would see people like him shipped off to the Raft without a second thought. He could be under the impression that aligning himself with Stark is enough to skirt around the Accords, which, Matt can admit, isn’t an unfair assumption given the relatively recent Avengers offer he turned down after putting Toomes behind bars.

(Stark wanted a fifteen-year-old to join the Avengers.)

Regardless, throwing the kid in the Raft doesn’t appear to be what Stark’s after. That’s the only relief. Matt doesn’t doubt that Stark put a tracking device in the kid’s suit—if he had to guess, the man didn’t like that an asset had disappeared from his map to then find him in the company of Frank Castle. Only one more thing didn’t add up.

“Why didn’t you tell me?”

Peter shrugs without looking up. “Back on the ferry… I messed up, so he took my suit away. I- I guess he can’t do that now, but…” The kid shifts in his seat and reaches for the energy bar next to the finished Lego X-Wing on the table between them. He holds it in front of his mouth for a beat, then returns it to its place, untouched. “I messed up again. She’s- She’s gone because of me, and I thought—” the kid interrupts himself with a swallow “—if you called him, he- he’d try to take Spider-Man away again. If he answered.”

If he answered. This time, it’s Matt’s heart that does something funny. At least Stick had the decency to make his desertion under no uncertain terms. But there’s still hints of admiration entangled with the flashes of bitterness when the kid talks about Stark, so Matt doubts he’ll make it very far. But Matt doesn’t doubt that Stark would put a halt to Spider-Man; the kid’s in no state to go straight back to what he was doing and Stark wouldn’t want to risk a valuable asset. Though Matt has a feeling that the way Stark sees it, Peter is far from a priority over Spider-Man. He braces himself and says, “Maybe that’s something you should start to consider.”

Peter’s head snaps up and his voice comes out a rasp. “What?"

“You need to start thinking about this long-term. Once Gargan is put away,” Matt says delicately. “I could help you file for emancipation when you turn sixteen, if that’s what you want. But you’d need a job that provides a stable source of income, and frankly, given everything that’s happened to you, I doubt the court would grant it over requiring you to stay in a foster home. Either way, I don’t see how Spider-Man is sustainable.”

Sure you don’t, Stick scoffs. He’s got a gift, Matty. The special kind. You want him to waste it?

Matt gives a minute shake of his head and shoves the voice to the back of his mind. He can’t- no. Even if he had any kind of the experience Frank or Father Lantom had, it’d be cruel of him to promise to take care of the kid when he can't even promise that he’ll make it home alive every night. The last thing Peter needs is to go through this again, and that’s only the first issue Matt can think of. 

Then again, Matt would’ve wanted nothing more than for someone who understood to come along and promise to keep him out of the system for good back when he stood in Peter’s shoes. And if the kid somehow managed to keep up with Spider-Man anyway, there’s no telling how a foster parent would react upon finding out. But if Peter kept it under wraps and didn’t come home one night, leaving no one knowing where to begin searching for him… Jesus. Perhaps it’s not a coincidence that Peter showed up in his life when he did. Maybe he is meant to do more than what Frank asked of him. 

Maggie would know how to navigate this. She knows what Matt’s capable of and she knows what kids need. When he gets the chance, he’ll-

Peter’s quiet voice cuts through his thoughts. “I'll have to go into foster care?”

“It’s a possibility,” Matt admits with an exhale. He reaches for his own glass and takes a long sip, reigning his thoughts back in before trying to figure out how to mitigate the reaction from what he needs to ask next. “Do you know Stark’s number?”

The kid’s giving small shakes of his head before Matt can even finish the question. “No, you- you can’t. If he keeps me from being Spider-Man, I-” Peter breaks off with a sniff. His head tilts as he peers back up at him, shifting as he searches Matt’s face. He must not like what he finds, because there’s a note of panic in his voice when he speaks next. “If- If I quit now, all the people I could’ve saved- What about the woman from last night? If I don’t do this-”

The second Matt catches himself trying to remember how Foggy had responded to that is the second he realizes he’s arguing with a mirror. He hears his mouth say the words, “If you keep this up, you’re going to get yourself hurt, Peter,” but the ringing of Matthew seven, verse three in his head almost drowns them out. 

“I have a healing factor,” Peter says, but Matt’s fairly sure it’s more to be dry than to make a point. “And- And Mr. Castle said that you’d make sure I can keep Spider-Man.”

Matt can’t quite withhold his scoff. “Well, if Frank Castle thinks it’s okay-”

“That’s not what I-” Peter cuts himself off. “I mean, what’d you do if someone tried to stop you from being Daredevil?”

“I’m not asking you to hang up the suit forever, Peter,” Matt clarifies. Matthew seven, verse three. “Just until you can figure things out.”

“You mean until I’m eighteen?” Peter challenges.

Or until he’s trained, Stick hums.

Peter must take Matt’s silence as a confirmation, because in a single movement he gets to his feet and turns away, muttering something under his breath that’s not clear enough for Matt to pick out. He circles around near the bedroom door, breaths quickening like he's either trying to stave off the panic or readying himself for a second round. Matt shifts his weight to his feet. If the kid brings up training, he’s not sure that he’d be able to keep Stick’s voice in his head. Quietly, Matt clears his throat and stands to meet him. 

“Peter, there’s something Frank didn’t want you to know,” he begins, and the kid immediately turns to face him. “He was concerned about how you’d react, and at the time…” Matt flicks his tongue over his lips. “Tony Stark is looking for you. Due to the recent passing of the Accords, we were under the impression it was because he wanted you in the Raft. It’s… part of the reason I didn’t tell you. About me.”

The kid doesn’t say anything right away—all he gets as a response is Peter’s heart rate picking up. For a minute he stays glued to the spot, then returns to his pacing with a stiffness he didn’t have before. Matt can all but hear the gears turning in his head as he presses his forehead into his palm before pulling his hand back through his hair, only to freeze before clasping it over his mouth. Matt doesn’t miss the way it shakes. Peter takes the kind of breath that usually means he has something to say, but for a moment, nothing comes out. “Mr. Castle’s burner phone isn’t activated anymore.”

Shit. It’s not a question, though Matt can hear the inquiry in his tone and in the way his fingers grasp tighter around the sleeves of Frank’s jacket. Despite his fatigue, it didn’t take the kid much time to put the pieces together. Once the implications register, Matt has to fight to keep the knot of dread forming in his gut from showing on his face and tries for a shrug. “Frank Castle’s a hard man to track. I’d guess he threw it away so he doesn’t risk getting traced through the cell towers.”

“Yeah,” the kid breathes, a conviction in his voice that contrasts with the way he constricts his grip on the jacket’s sleeve. It stays stuck to his fingers when he straightens them back out.

It’s the most likely explanation, yet the anxiety coming off the kid has Matt’s mind wandering too. If Stark did get to Frank, he had to still be alive. Stark wouldn’t kill the only person whom he believed knew Peter’s location, and Matt doesn’t know what he could possibly do to get Frank Castle to give it up. Either way, it’s all the more reason why contacting him isn’t something they can put off.

Matt’s preparing the question again when the kid breaks. All at once, his shoulders sag under an intangible weight and his lip wobbles until he manages to bite it back. He gives a wet sniffle before he half-sits, half-collapses back into the armchair, fumbling for a moment as he situates himself to be cross-legged on the cushion. Peter sets his elbow on his knee and places his chin in his palm for only a second before he’s wiping his forearm along his eyes. There’s no fight left in him when a small noise comes from the back of his throat, yet it couldn’t feel further from a victory.

“I- I never got his number,” he mumbles. “Sorry.”

Sorry. Stark never even… Matt forces his expression to remain neutral, to make sure the kid doesn’t mistake that the devil is rearing its head at him. He manages to soften his tone when he says, “We'll figure something out.”

Peter nods along, but all of his focus goes to fiddling with the jacket’s zipper before moving it up from his chest to his collarbone. "I’m sorry I looked through your dad’s stuff.”

It catches Matt off guard, sudden and almost a whisper. It’s not an I’m sorry for lying or an I’m sorry for making you worry you'd find a child bleeding out in an alleyway, but it’s genuine, and it’s a start. Matt lets out a soft sigh and lowers his chin to his chest. “You shouldn't have felt like you had to.”

The kid stoops a little at that—whether it’s due to guilt or exhaustion, Matt’s not sure. He seems ready to tap out, and Matt doubts he’ll last a second once his head hits the pillow. Matt takes a breath to direct the kid to the bedroom, to make sure Peter’s out before he starts on the number of calls he’s going to have to make, but the kid beats him to it.

“I just-" He breaks off when Matt tilts his head to the side, floundering over whatever words he wants to get out. "Spider-Man's all I have left," he finally says. "I know I've made mistakes, and- and I know you have to call him, just- Matt, can you- If you can make sure that he can’t take Spider-Man away first, I'd…" Peter trails off, voice cracking in the back of his throat. "I can't lose that too."

He doesn't even try to hide the plea in his voice. But maybe Spider-Man isn't the only reason for his trepidation toward seeing Stark. Maybe, after two months of radio silence when the last time Stark saw him was for that Avenger's offer, after all the work the kid had done to make Stark think he was ready for it, maybe a part of the kid simply doesn't want Iron Man to see him now. 

Peter doesn’t react when Matt steps closer. He makes sure to telegraph it, to give the kid a chance to move away, but Matt’s palm lands on his shoulder without protest. He tightens his grip, readying to nudge Peter to his feet—he doesn’t expect the kid to lean into it. Matt pauses, drawing in a quiet breath through his nose. “I’ll do what I can,” he says.

He shouldn't be grateful that only one of them can hear heartbeats.

Chapter 21: A Stark Contrast

Summary:

Thanks to Sushisashimi for beta-ing this chapter!!

It takes thirty-six hours after the first StarkWatch for Frank to really start thinking on how to pierce his iron hide.

Smarter, richer men than him have tried to weed out Stark before, but none of them had the sense to pull out the roots and all of them had the gall to act surprised when he comes back angrier. Frank doubts he could get his hands on anything that could dent Stark’s armor and the kid’s the only bait he can come up with that could get the man to step out of it. A well-placed shot through the eye with the right rifle might get him somewhere, and if it just ends up cracking his lenses, Frank can work with that, too. Even the best bullet-proof glass can only take so much fire.

But it's all just thinking; no action behind it, just an idea to screw around with while he stakes out his marks. The whole fucking city would be keeping their eyes peeled for him if he managed to put Stark down, and the last thing he needs is what’s left of the Avenger’s posse on his ass. Not much good could come from taking Stark out of the picture beyond the short-lived satisfaction. Wouldn’t make much of a difference to Peter if he traded out Iron Man for Iron Patriot—War Machine? Whatever the fuck he’s calling himself these days—hunting him down when the government decides they want him even more now that they have a puppet they need to replace. 

Red’s smart when he wants to be, but he’s gonna have to pull some serious legal jargon out of his ass if he wants to get the kid back to any semblance of his normal life. It all boils his fucking blood. Frank can’t put a bullet in Stark to end this, and Stark’s made sure he can’t end it on Gargan’s front either. Out of the twenty-some guys he’s tracked down since that call, only five of them weren’t sporting a Stark-patented free pass. All five of them only had bullshit and sputtered pleas to give him, but at least Frank got to pull the trigger.

Make that six.

Six is smart enough to keep himself within shouting range of passersby, yet stupid enough to have his back to the opposite end of the alleyway while tapping away on his phone. His mug rings familiar enough that Frank can place it among the ones David had shown him early on. The way he casts glances around the corner for a good ten minutes and the way his hand keeps moving in and out of his hoodie’s front pocket as if he’s trying to decide the least suspicious place to keep it pegs him as a dealer, and Frank doesn’t have to guess at who he answers to if he’s dealing here. 

The phone flies out of his hands when he catches a glimpse of Frank out of the corner of his eye. He only makes it a few feet before Frank has his chest against the wall and a Ka-Bar to his throat.

“Shit. Shit, shit shit-”

A nick under his chin shuts him up quick. “Mac Gargan,” Frank begins. It’s practically a script by now. “Wanna tell me where he is?”

Six seems to know his lines, too. “No, no- I don’t know, I swear I don’t know anything.”

For a guy who doesn’t know anything, Six sure knows the name. Frank flits the edge of the blade against Six’s throat. “Yeah? You sure about that?”

“Yes!” he hisses out. “Please, I don’t- I don’t know.”

The script says that this is where Frank gets Six on the ground, makes sure he understands where bullshitting gets him, and Six will keep pleading and stammering until Frank realizes he’s wasting his time. 

The script hasn’t done Frank any favors. He drives the Ka-Bar home and steps back to avoid the spray. Six totters back, clutches at his neck and tries to stop the lifeblood from flowing between his fingers, then slides against the wall to meet the pavement. His eyes are wide and glassy by the time he hits the ground. 

Frank squats down and wipes the Ka-Bar clean on Six’s hoodie before returning it to its sheath. After a moment of consideration, he snags Six’s now cracked smartphone on the way back up. Not a Stark brand. He tests the power button and swipes at the lock screen, hoping for a fingerprint scanner that an embarrassing amount of lowlifes were stupid enough to be fond of. He doesn’t expect to be taken straight to the home screen.

None of the recent calls have names attached to them. Gallery doesn’t offer much, either. But in the texts, top of the list, are none other than the initials MG.

Shit. Six was a better liar than he gave him credit for. Frank falls back, presses his spine against the wall and glances down both sides of the alley, then shifts his attention to the phone. He taps at the name and remembers last second to cast a final look above him while keeping an ear out for the whine of repulsors. When nothing happens, Frank rests his hand over the grip of his gun and focuses back on the screen.

Sent: [Randy says he wants to meet. Says he found a heavy supplier who wants in]
8:14 AM

MG: [Got a name?]
8:20 AM

Sent: [He’ll go over the details in person]
8:32 AM

MG: [Tomorrow. Milton Hotel, 2nd floor, corner of Jackson and 42nd in LIC. 430pm]
8:51 AM

Sent: [I’ll pass it along]
8:54 AM

Goddamn.

Tomorrow. A whole day to plan ahead for exactly where and when Gargan's gonna be. All packaged up to look like a lucky break. 

Gargan would have to be a fucking idiot to share info like this with a guy who doesn't know how to work a lock screen. Come to think of it… Frank nudges Six supine with his boot and takes note of how the hoodie's pocket is flat against his stomach. No bulges in his jean pockets, either, and Frank can't help but wonder what he was doing playing drug dealer if he doesn't have anything to deal. Six spent an awful lot of time typing at his phone considering his most recent texts were hours old. Too bad the bastard's show didn't play out—probably meant to drop the phone and bolt as soon as he got Frank in his sights. All that aside, second floor is all the info Frank needs to know it's a trap.

Second floor is too low to get a good shot from a neighboring roof and too crowded to risk a firefight. Not that Gargan would give a shit about that. What matters is if Gargan gives a shit about offing Frank himself.

Frank commits the address to memory and pries the case off the phone. He drops the battery in the growing pool of blood and snaps the SIM card in two before tossing it a good distance away. Gargan showed up to kill the kid back in the parking garage, but he'd known Spider-Man didn't have it in him to make that mutual. Still, all the kid did was put some cronies behind bars and fuck up his face. Pissed him off, sure, but Frank's body count of his men is somewhere in the twenties. 

He'll show. Trap or not, Frank'll be there to meet him.

But a bunch of StarkWatches all in one place that flatline at the same time is a trap Gargan doesn't even realize he's setting. If Frank doesn't play his cards just right, he won't even see it coming before it bites him in the ass.

Frank zips his jacket up to cover the bullet-proof vest—skull's too risky on the down-low—as he makes his way back on the sidewalk. Tomorrow. Red can hear about it on the news, because the last thing Frank's in the mood for is his holier-than-thou bitching about killing and he's not gonna give Red the chance to do something about it. He'll find a phone booth and call once Gargan stops breathing and check how Red's managing the Stark front. He doesn't anticipate liking what he hears.

Frank's step falters for a beat before he can get back in rhythm. 

Good news was always supposed to mean that some legal footnote says the Accords don't apply to Peter and he can go back to Spider-Man to keep at least half his life how it used to be. It's what the kid wants, it's the thing the kid found to fix himself, and it wasn't Frank's prerogative to get in the way. But shit, he never stopped to think about what back to normal means.

Peter stops people like him. Hell, Frank barely dodged getting webbed up when they first met before he ducked behind that column. If it weren't for his aunt and the children down the stairs, the kid would've seen fit to web him up with Gargan's scum and Frank would've seen fit to put a cap in his shoulder for it. Maybe that's not changed on Peter’s front if the way he tackled Frank and webbed his foot in the parking garage is anything to go by.

If the kid's able to go back to Spider-Man, Frank would be an idiot to rule out the possibility of running into him on the job. The kid might not turn him in, but if he doesn't want Frank putting down his aunt's murderer, then there's no one he wouldn't try to keep him from putting in the ground. A flashbang to throw off enhanced senses followed by a leg shot would have Peter down for the count. He’d walk it off quickly enough. But even if Frank can make himself squeeze the trigger, he doesn't know how he can make himself walk away when the kid cries out. 

Shouldn't have pulled my gun on you, kid, Frank had told him. If you thought for a second that I was gonna use it on you, then that's my own damn fault.  

Shit, the reason Frank even knows to accommodate for the danger sense isn’t that he applied the proper interrogation tactics or put the right pieces together, but that the kid trusted him enough to tell him about it. The mask does fuck all when Frank can see in his head how the surprise would turn into betrayal in his eyes, how he’d clutch at the wound Frank put in him and the brave face he’d put on when he tries to haul himself away before the cops place him at the scene. 

It was bad enough back in the parking garage when Frank’s bullet only grazed him, when he and Gargan had tumbled to the ground and for a moment Frank hadn’t been sure which one he’d hit. For a split second it was just the kid on the pavement, blood and brain matter making up the visible half of his face as he struggled for a breath with the goddamn carousel music blaring in his ears- Fuck. 

Frank clears his throat and his mind so the only picture in it is the street in front of him. It’s easy with Red; the devil only comes out at night and he always throws the first punch. Maybe someday he’ll even stop pretending that he doesn’t want to. But the kid’s not there yet, and Frank’s not going to be the one that pushes him. Lucky for him, school ensures Spider-Man only shows after three and can’t stay out too late. Frank’s never had a problem rising early. The weekends are a different story, but there are four other boroughs in the city that are chock-full of gang activity and Frank’s got no reason to stick to this one. If the news is the only place the kid ever sees him again, then that’s the way it is. It’s miles better than the alternative. 

Or, hell, maybe they’ll end up having a run-in at the grocery store like normal fucking people. 

Frank’s huff forms mist in the air. With a shake of his head, he turns his focus back to Gargan and away from the funny pang in his chest.

---

“Mahoney, Mahoney, Mahoney-”

The ringing is cut off almost as soon as it begins, yet still a second too late. It barges into Peter's brain and drags him up through the throes of sleep to deposit him none too gently on a mattress that's too soft to be his. He feels his grunt more than he intends it, and it takes his mind a second to conflate routine with reality when he cracks open an eye to yellow light and brick walls.

It all comes flooding back when a low voice drifts in from beyond the door. “… client privilege. He's safe… Yeah?… No, I haven't seen him since-”

No- no. He shouldn't listen in. Not after… no. Peter swallows and turns his head into the pillow, shifting his focus toward sorting through the mounting cacophony in his mind.

Tony Stark is looking for you. Peter snags the thought and mulls it over, waiting for it to spark a resounding duh, of course he would, why didn’t I realize that sooner, but nothing happens. 

Mr. Stark is looking for me, he tries again, and the void doesn’t respond. No matter how many times he runs it over in his head, it still doesn't set in. Mr. Stark hasn’t spoken to him in months. Which… probably isn’t something he should take personally. It’d be selfish of him to think he has any right to be Iron Man’s priority when he’s trying to prevent alien invasions and terrorist attacks all while juggling UN meetings. He’s under no obligation to respond to Peter’s texts. Peter had given up on his daily messages to Happy after DC, and while Spider-Man’s been gone long enough for people online to take note, they have yet to express any concern about it. 

So what tipped Mr. Stark off? If Mr. Castle had known by the time he contacted Matt, that means… Peter squints into the window. Ned had helped him remove the suit’s tracker back in DC. He hadn’t thought to check if Mr. Stark put it back in.

Maybe it wasn’t Gargan’s men who took David’s computer and Peter’s suit from the warehouse. What was it Mr. Castle had said? Something about them using “high-tech shit” to break in, if memory serves. It’d been vague enough he hadn’t thought to question it, and the explanation that it was an “asshole that thinks knowing a few computer tricks means he’s clever” who made the ensuing phone call was reasonable enough to him. If he’s got everything lined up correctly, Mr. Castle didn’t find out about Mr. Stark until the parking garage incident. Which means… The guys after you think you're with me, kid. You're safe as long as they're wrong.

He hadn't been talking about Gargan.

God. Peter scrunches his eyes shut. He should’ve told him. He should’ve said it the moment Mr. Castle tossed him the phone and pressed about his parents, just spit out something along the lines of ‘I don’t remember the number, but if you could drive me upstate and drop me outside the Avenger’s facility, that’d be swell.’ But hindsight can’t help him now, and Mr. Castle still had that skull on his chest and telling the Punisher who he’s associated with felt like something that could bite him in the ass later. Not to mention that at the time, May’s- what happened to May hadn’t been real either. All that considered, Mr. Stark’s done little to indicate that he’d even open the facility gate for him.

Mr. Stark had pointed to the upgraded Spider Suit and asked Last chance: yes or no? and Peter made his choice. Last chance. Not a ‘Get back to me later’ or an ‘I’ll keep a slot open in case you change your mind.’ Peter’s got no guarantee that the quarters Mr. Stark had set aside for him are still available, no guarantee that his response would be anything other than a pat on the back and a ‘Tough luck, kid. Happy’ll find a good social worker for you. Maybe I’ll give you the suit back once you’re eighteen.’

But that can't be it, can it? If you die, I feel like that’s on me, Peter recalls. I don’t need that on my conscience. He wouldn’t just say that. Finally, the ‘Tony Stark is looking for you’ clicks into place. Mr. Stark didn’t bat an eye when he tried to take Spider-Man away that first time, didn’t answer any of the texts, but as long as Peter’s heart is beating his conscience can remain clear. 

Peter blinks at the bitter thought and pushes himself up. Mr. Stark’s not… He wouldn’t have given the suit back if he didn’t care. Then again, that could be chalked up to the fact that his Stark-made suit has a better chance of keeping him alive. But Mr. Stark did call at the ferry to praise him for DC, which… meant something, right? Or was that just Mr. Stark’s way of just getting the door for him?

That’s not a hug. We’re not there yet. He’s known Mr. Stark for months and he still doesn’t know if they were ever there. 

Peter grabs Mr. Castle’s jacket from the bedpost and pulls it back on. 

His burner tells him that it's almost noon, and the part of him that still cares about his screwed-over sleep schedule dies a little as he slides open the bedroom door.

He hadn't been expecting Matt to still be in his Daredevil get-up, so he's not entirely sure why he feels off-kilter when he sees him back in the suit and tie. His hair is combed and he's standing at the end of the counter, listening to something on his laptop with a single earbud and a concentrated expression. His glasses are set off to the side, and Peter’s having trouble deciding if that’s a deliberate choice or not. Come to think of it, he doesn't remember Matt entering to retrieve the suit from his room. The silence from his Spider Sense might explain that, yet there's still a tension in the air that he desperately wants to break.

Matt’s voice cuts through the silence before Peter can settle on a quip. “How’s your hand?” 

“My—?” Right. The glass. Peter grabs a hold of the gauze and unravels it around his palm to find a scratch where a gash used to be. He clenches his fist experimentally, wincing more from anticipation of the pain than the pain itself. “Uh, yeah. Fine. Hey, um-” 

Peter draws a blank as Matt removes the earbud and turns to face him. There are lines under his eyes that weren’t there yesterday and Peter’s hit with the realization that Matt’s probably only running on the empty coffee pot by the sink. If he’d spent the morning working on Peter’s case while letting Peter rest in his bed… The anger feels distant now, muffled by layers of guilt and the exhaustion that comes from the effort it takes to hold onto it. 

Matt raises his eyebrows expectantly, and Peter should probably say something to get the ball rolling. “You going somewhere?” he asks with a nod at Matt’s suit and the confidence of someone who totally intended on asking that question.

“Gone somewhere,” Matt corrects. He takes a sip from a paper coffee cup that’d been hidden behind the screen. “Sunday Mass. There’s a muffin on the table for you, if you want it.”

There’s a joke to be made about the Devil of Hell’s Kitchen being Catholic, though Peter’s too relieved by the olive branch to risk it. The muffin smells good, too, so he takes hold of the brown paper bag on the table with a mumbled “thanks.” As Peter deliberates on how to mold the guilt into an apology, Matt quietly clears his throat before he gets the chance.

“That was Detective Mahoney,” Matt says with a nod to his phone. It takes Peter a moment to tear his thoughts away from how Matt knew that he was awake for that. “He was assigned the Punisher case for the past few years. Mahoney and Foggy go way back, and Foggy remembered Mahoney mentioning to him that Stark gave him his number when he took over the case.”

“You talked to Foggy?” Peter asks, then the implications register and the ground does a small lurch. “Wait, you—” Peter finds his voice dropping to a whisper “—you got Mr. Stark’s number?”

The corner of Matt's mouth twitches upward in a fleeting smirk. “Once Mahoney sends it to me, yeah. Foggy went to explain everything else to him in person. He called me to ask if you knew anything about Castle’s whereabouts, and no, he doesn’t know about Spider-Man,” he adds the second Peter takes a breath. 

Peter pulls out the chair and takes a seat to lean against the back. Logically, he knows that this is good news, that the sooner that they can clear everything up with Mr. Stark, the better. He should be feeling alleviated right now, so he’s not sure why something in his gut twists tighter. 

“I’m reaching out to him tonight,” Matt continues, but his words sound distant. “I’ll set up a meeting in our office for tomorrow morning. I’d have it earlier, but I need to make a few arrangements before I put myself on Stark’s radar.” He tips his head toward the closet and the chest inside.

Set up a meeting. Something about that feels off to him. When they first met, Mr. Stark had been sitting on Peter’s couch with no forewarning and all that I’m Tony Stark swagger that Peter sees in the news. The second time had been after the impromptu swim he took courtesy of Toomes, followed by the surprise call during the ferry fiasco. The last time was when Happy picked him up from school to take him upstate for that Avenger’s offer, and that was the only time he ever had longer than a minute of forethought to figure out what he wanted to say to the man. The idea that he has a whole day to decide what he needs to get out leaves his mind oddly blank. What if all Mr. Stark needed was proof that Peter was alive and out of danger before flying off with a Mr. Stark is no longer connected?

“You don’t have to speak with him if you don’t want to, Peter,” Matt says softly, which is probably Peter’s cue that he’s been quiet for too long.

"Can I ask you something?" The words slip out of Peter's mouth before he can pick the answer he wants to hear.

Matt pushes the laptop closed. The way he tilts his head is just as much Daredevil as it is the blind lawyer who asked Peter to guide him down the street.

“Last night—if you hadn’t known I was Spider-Man…” He has to muster up the courage to continue when Matt’s brow tightens. “What would you think?”

“You’re asking what I would think if I found a masked kid jumping between buildings past midnight?” Matt’s smile doesn’t reach his eyes.

Peter grips tight onto the cuffs of the jacket. “I… I’m asking what you’d think if you found Spider-Man jumping between buildings past midnight.”

Matt’s expression falls back into a mask that wouldn’t tell Peter anything more than if he were wearing the real thing. He grabs his coffee and moves around to the table, throwing Peter off a bit when he reaches for the chair opposite of him without fumbling with it first. He rests his forearms on the table once he takes a seat, proceeding to clasp his hands together and flick his tongue between his lips. “You have good instincts,” he says after a beat. “You’re quick. You know how to keep your center of balance.”

That’s just a list of facts, yet at the same time, it might be the best answer Peter’s going to get. Mr. Stark’s pragmatic; maybe that bullet-pointed list was all that was going through his head when he decided to take Peter to Germany. Quick. Shoots webs. Great for binding Captain America and great for dodging Captain America. Neither of which ended up working out in the long run, but in Peter's defense, it was Captain America. And after tomorrow morning, maybe that bullet-pointed list will be what Mr. Stark uses to determine if his suit goes back in his hands or sealed in a vault.

“And you have enhanced senses that you don’t know how to use.”

Peter snaps his head up.

Matt’s tapping his thumbs with his jaw locked tight, leaving him to use his nose when he lets out a small breath. 

“I… used them to find you," Peter says slowly.

It’s treading far too close to their earlier conflict for Peter’s comfort, a feeling Matt seems to echo if his swallow is anything to go by. But when he leans back into the chair, there’s nothing but an air of casualness that makes Peter wonder if he’d imagined it. “Sure. After the second time you heard me.”

What?

“The first time—you stopped, looked around, and when your sight didn’t corroborate your hearing, you moved on. Your senses should work together to create… a picture of your surroundings. They can’t help you if you don’t listen to them.”

That… isn’t something Peter has considered before. His solution to the assault of sensory input on his brain after the spider bite had been goggles to help blur the picture to ensure he didn't get lost in the details. The city's sirens got louder, too, but the easiest answer to that problem was to head for whichever one his Spider Sense tugged him towards as opposed to trying to puzzle out what they all meant. He’d tried sorting through it all early on, but it was like staring at an I Spy book. All the wrong details stood out. Besides, once he’d figured out Reconnaissance Mode, stretching out his own senses felt less and less like a necessity. “I guess I’m used to my suit helping with that.”

“I didn’t think Stark knew about your senses,” he says lightly, but there’s an undertone in his voice that Peter’s not sure what to make of. “It couldn’t have been easy when he took the suit away.”

He’s not wrong, but something about the way Matt says it makes Peter supplant the agreement rising in his throat with a shrug last second. He draws in a slow breath. “So… What’s the best way to create the picture?”

Something flickers across Matt’s face. “Practice.”

“Oh.” Peter drops his gaze to the table. “I guess I was hoping there'd be a secret ninja shortcut or something.”

Matt lets out a short huff. “Is that what Stark put in your suit?” he asks in that same moderated tone. “Shortcuts?”

Despite his laid back posture, Matt says the word through his teeth. He chases it down with coffee as if it’d left an unpleasant taste in his mouth. But when Peter tries to suss out what he means, Matt’s already giving a dismissive shake of his head. His lips are pressed in a thin line as he taps his thumb against the side of his cup, a tension in his jaw that only disappears after he lets out a long sigh.

"You're not going to stop." His voice is quiet, but that doesn’t change how the words make Peter’s heart pound against his ribs. "You're not going to stop because I didn't stop. And if you keep this up, you can't keep relying on shortcuts."

Peter's breath catches in his throat. No way. He’s not… is he? “Are you—?”

“And if I was?” Matt’s eyebrows raise the slightest amount.

Holy crap. He’s actually- Peter presses his lips together to keep them from falling open. He’d felt something similar to this, the excited hammering in his chest back when he successfully disarmed Mr. Castle in that motel room, and he almost let himself get carried away with the possibilities before Mr. Castle told him to pull the trigger. Looking back, it was his own fault for forgetting about the disparity between what he and the Punisher thinks he should know. But Daredevil-  

-is in the middle of saying something. “… before. It won’t be smooth right away. There will be times you’ll want to quit. But I think I know how to help you. I don’t expect an answer now-”

“I won’t quit.”

Matt looks caught off guard. 

It’s enough to give Peter pause, but only for a moment. He wouldn’t have hesitated at the offer a year ago, though not for the same reason he’s not hesitating now. The childish giddiness at the fact that Daredevil wants to teach him is still bubbling in his chest, but only on the surface of something else. Matt wants to teach him. After the lies, after their conflict—something Matt anticipates more of—he still wants to teach him. 

Peter raises his head and meets Matt’s eyes. “I won’t quit.”

Notes:

~meanwhile~

*knock knock knock*

Brett: foggy pls
Foggy: heyyy buddy i need a favor
Brett: ಠ_ಠ
Foggy: so you'll never guess who our new client is-
Brett: if you say frank castle i swear to god-
Foggy: :)

Chapter 22: The Prodigal Son

Notes:

HAPPY 2021 Y'ALL!!

I really meant to have this out before 2021, but this ended up being my longest chapter, oops

Once again, thanks to Sushisashimi for beta-ing!

Pepper: [Are you still in the workshop? Takeout just arrived for you.]
11:15 PM

Pepper: [I didn’t see you eat. Just come up for 10 mins.]
11:16 PM

Tony gives a shake of his head and places his phone face-down before pushing it out of his arm’s reach. He moves around to the opposite side of the holotable and scans over the projected screens, trying to shift his attention away from the fact that he has about half an hour before Pepper’s heels click down the stairs and she looks at him with that expression even his best smile’s never been able to chase away. It’s become something of a dance these past few nights; she’d urge him to bed, he’d gesture to the projections, and she wouldn’t stop looking at him like that until he promises only five more minutes that inevitably turn into three more hours after she leaves.

But Pepper knows that Peter’s been gone for almost a week now, and she also knows Tony’s not any fucking closer to changing that.

There have been six homicides in Queens the past couple of days he can attribute to Castle, but the display of it makes it look like the Punisher had blindfolded himself and proceeded to toss darts at a map. Courtesy of their phone call, Tony bets, because any semblance of a pattern had disappeared once he found the flip phone with a bullet hole on that warehouse floor. No doubt Castle’s been busy, but FRIDAY comes up with nothing every time Tony asks her for updates on the borough’s security cameras. The only relief that comes from that is the knowledge that no way in hell would Castle be able to string Peter along with him. Wherever Castle stashed him, at least the kid’s alone.

God, that’s not supposed to be a good thing.

Tony leans forward onto the table and runs his hand down his face. You are never gonna find that kid again. It hadn’t been a threat—he’d said it like a fucking promise. Yet the sergeant seemed confident Castle wouldn’t kill a kid and Tony triple-checked his sources to confirm the youngest person Castle’s ever decided to put a bullet between the eyes of was nineteen. It’s not a comfortable number, but it’s a big leap from fifteen. And right now, it’s all he has. But Tony’s not the first person who’s tried to figure out what the hell is going on in Frank Castle’s head, and there’s no point in doing work that’s already been done for him.

The “Sympathetic Storming” bit Castle’s legal team tried to sell at his trial reeks of bullshit before Tony even spent five minutes looking into it. He almost wants to give them credit for not going the PTSD route, but he quickly determines there’s no insight to be found there. The Homeland files are more promising, evidently due to one current CIA Agent Madani, but she must not be a fan of unknown numbers if how quickly he was sent to voicemail is anything to go by. So he’d played by the rules and sent her an email only to get an automatic response saying she’d get back to him in four to five business days. Goddamn CIA.

He’d thought about tugging that thread more before something caught his eye upon revisiting some Bulletin articles. A paralegal on Castle’s defense team getting kidnapped by the Punisher and released without a scratch twice after the trial was over and done with rings as more than a little suspicious. Karen Page. Former New York Bulletin reporter, currently the Page in Nelson, Murdock and Page. Not a half-bad journalist either, and Tony’s hoping her article on heroes means he has at least one foot in the door in regards to her cooperation. Dealing with reporters isn’t anything new to him, and if she likes heroes as much as she says she does, getting her assistance in tracking Castle down in order to save a kid should be manageable. 

Then again, for someone who’s been in so much contact with the man, there’s an odd lack of articles about him under her name. Tony doesn’t peg her as a secret Punisher fanatic, but he has a feeling the records and articles left a few vital details out. Either way, a reporter’s a reporter, and he has no doubt an invite to chat with him would be accepted the moment she spots it in her inbox.

“FRIDAY, compose a message to Karen Page. High priority, personal email.” Tony crosses his arms as a new screen opens in front of him and purses his lips. “You know, on second thought-” He swipes a hand through the screen and dismisses it. He doesn’t have time for her to take the drive upstate and a conflicting schedule isn’t something he’s willing to risk. Stopping by her apartment tomorrow morning would catch her off guard, but it’d be private and patience isn’t something he can afford. 

Tony paces around the holotable, looking over the screens and waiting for something to jump out. It’s all a waiting game now—waiting for tomorrow morning while trying to rid his mind of the image of Castle cornering Peter against the wall, gun to the kid’s head as streams of tears streak through the blood splattered on his cheeks. It’d been almost four days since then. Tony had stopped his protests against building the Jericho missile in the cave after one. 

Castle was also in Afghanistan around that time, occupied with getting those same kinds of terrorists to spill their own guts.

Tony rubs at the back of his neck as he debates how amenable Karen Page would be if he were to pay her a visit now. Considering the surprising amount of attempts on her life paired with the fact that he’d be knocking on her door near midnight, probably not very. Shit, he hopes Peter’s age means something. The kid better not have lied about it, or tried to tough out whatever Castle-

A buzzing from the opposite end of the table freezes him in place.

Tony rushes around to his phone, flipping it over with shaking fingers. When the words Unknown Number shine back at him, his heart drops.

“Trace it. FRIDAY, trace it now,” he manages to get out. Something between dread and fury rolls in his chest as he raises the phone to his ear. Fuck. When he swipes to answer, he finds himself holding his breath.

Castle never talks first. Paranoia that comes with the territory, Tony bets, but Castle dialed him. So he bides his time and hates how the silence makes his pulse roar in his ears. He glances over at the map that’s too slowly narrowing in on the location and silently begs that Castle stays on the line.

“Tony Stark?” 

The hell?

“Is this Tony-”

“Who-” Tony blinks, steels himself, and snaps his thoughts back in focus. “How did you get this number?”

“We have a mutual friend at the Fifteenth Precinct.”

Fifteenth Precinct? He’s never even been to- Tony stops in his tracks, only then realizing he’s been pacing. Mahoney. Shit. He eyes the map, tapping his finger against the table as it continues to narrow. “And to what do I owe the pleasure?”

“Mr. Stark, my name is Matthew Murdock of Nelson, Murdock and Page. As I understand it, we’ve recently acquired a client you’ve been looking for.”

Tony’s vision tunnels. His hand trembles as he swipes at the holographic screen and the whirring of his suit doesn’t come quickly enough. He pulls the phone away from his face to suck in a breath before pressing it back against his ear. “A client?”

“Peter Parker,” Murdock clarifies. Then, after a beat, “Spider-Man.”

It’s a trap. It’s a fucking trap. Tony doesn't know if Castle's feeding him words with a gun to his head or if the lawyer sided with him by choice, but no way in hell would Castle make it this easy. An apartment in Hell's Kitchen glows red on the screen in front of him the same moment his faceplate falls over his eyes. Trap or not, it's the only lead he's got. Another swipe at the projection is all it takes to transfer the call to his HUD and his phone slips out of his hand with a thud when he goes to set it down. Tony mutes himself in the fifteen seconds it takes him to fire up his repulsors and make the Avenger’s Compound into a speck below him.

‘Is he with you?’ burns on his tongue, but the urge to ask is outweighed by the dread that a gunshot will be his answer. “What’s Spider-Man need a lawyer for?” he tries instead. 

“I think you know,” Murdock says slowly, an undertone to his voice that he wouldn’t have if his words were anything but his own. The same kind of undertone that means I know, too. As for what that means for the kid, Tony’s less sure. Aiding and abetting is a one-way ticket to getting disbarred, and Tony has yet to find a lawyer who’s stupid enough to admit it to the guy with the pull to make it happen. The hell is Castle playing at? 

“It’s part of the reason I’d like to meet with you at our firm tomorrow morning,” Murdock continues, and for a moment Tony’s frozen in the air. “But right now, I want you to know Peter Parker is safe with me.” 

Those are the exact words Tony wants to hear and the exact words Tony trusts the least. It’s a bold game Murdock’s playing if he’s lying, and he should be smart enough to know it. “Yeah? How about you put him on and let him tell me himself?”

His stomach churns at Murdock's response. “He can tell you in person at our firm tomorrow morning.”

“All right. Sure.” Tony allocates more power to his thrusters until the ground beneath him becomes a blur. “I'll stop by. Pretty sure all parties want to avoid the paparazzi on this one, so you got any other clients there I should worry about?”

Tony’s real question isn’t lost on him and there's no humor in Murdock's chuckle. “Frank Castle isn't my client. I don't know where he is or where he will be. But he's not the man you should be worried about. Frank Castle-”

“Frank Castle killed nearly thirty people in the past week. You ask your client about that?” Dammit. Tony presses his mouth in a tight line and tries to come up with something that would return his cards back to his chest, but Murdock doesn’t give him the chance.

“Mr. Stark, I will readily clear up any misconstructions you have tomorrow morning. But Frank Castle does not, and never has posed any danger to Peter.”

Tony has to withhold a scoff as the distant city lights rapidly grow nearer. For a guy who never posed any danger to the kid, he held the gun to his head for an awfully long time. Then again, that’s not something Murdock would know about unless Castle or Peter told him. Fuck, Castle could have threatened the kid to keep him from speaking out against him. Or there’s the more likely possibility that Murdock’s well-aware and Tony’s flying into an ambush, and frankly, he has yet to decide which one is more likely to end with Peter breathing. 

If he still is.

Tony squeezes his eyes shut and shoves the thought away. “Huh, look at that. Turns out my tomorrow morning’s full. Here’s my counter-proposal.” He holds out his hands to slow his descent as FRIDAY highlights the rooftop of the apartment in question. A corner penthouse. Fits with the occupation, though Tony’s more concerned with what all Castle pried out of the kid that Murdock’s using to keep him confined to a penthouse with a roof-access door. “I’ll give you ten seconds to open the roof-access door before I blow it off its hinges.”

The call ends with a click and gravel grinding beneath his boots. Tony shifts his stance and opens his palm to the door, the whine of the repulsors successfully drowning out the thundering of his heartbeat in his ears. 

The doorknob twists and Tony anticipates the pattering of bullets against his chest. 

Nothing happens. Murdock is unarmed, save for the phone clutched in his hand. His white button-up doesn't have any bloodstains, though that'd be a level of obvious straight out of a low-budget horror movie. Sunglasses at night is a choice, but Tony’s not about to—ah, shit. Well, he hopes the repulsor is loud enough to give Murdock a hint at where it’s being pointed. 

Murdock shifts his jaw as he tilts his head to the side. “Stark.”

The lawyer grabs the edge of the door and moves to step outside, but he goes stiff when Tony places a gauntlet-fitted hand against the door to stop it in place. “Kinda chilly for a rooftop chat, don’t you think?”

He watches the decision flit across Murdock’s face, and after a brief pause, the man turns out to be wise enough to step aside. Tony passes through the door and closes it behind him.

“Murdock, is it?” Tony asks, though the question isn’t directed at the lawyer. “I gotta say, I didn’t see you coming back for round two after Castle’s trigger-happy murder speech, but I admire the commitment.” 

“There’s no criminal record for Matthew Murdock, boss,” FRIDAY reports to him. “According to my records, he was blinded in a car accident at age nine and graduated summa cum laude from Columbia Law.”

A clean record bodes better for Peter, but Tony’s met enough crazies to know not to put any stock in it. He turns to descend the stairs and the only response Murdock gives comes in the form of wetting his lips after a measured exhale.

The lights aren’t on, but the glow from the billboard across the street is enough to make up for it. It has to violate a number of building regulations, not that Murdock would take issue with it. And at the moment, Tony doesn’t either. It lets him make out the folded blanket and pillow tucked next to the armrest of the couch. Peter or not, Murdock’s had someone spend the night. It’s a theory also supported by the two sets of silverware and plates stacked on the counter that Tony takes note of once he reaches the bottom of the steps, along with the-

Tony’s heart jumps. 

In the center of the living room, sitting inconspicuously on the coffee table, is a Lego X-Wing.

“FRIDAY, where is he?” The question comes out between shaky breaths.

“Stark, listen to me.” Footsteps approach from behind him and he can see a hand trailing against the wall in his periphery. “Peter’s not-”

“I’m detecting heat signatures from the bedroom. Vital signs indicate fourteen to seventeen years old.”

Vital signs. Relief pounds in Tony’s head. He takes a single step toward the bedroom door before freezing in his tracks. “Any sign of Castle?”

Murdock places himself in front of the bedroom door before FRIDAY can respond. “Stark, wait. He’s not ready to-”

“Negative, boss.”

Murdock doesn't flinch when the armor opens and he doesn't move back when Tony steps out. He must’ve grabbed his cane at some point, because he’s holding it perpendicular to the floor with a white-knuckled grip. His expression is stony when he opens his mouth to speak, but bold of him to think Tony’s willing to waste a single extra second.

“FRIDAY, Sentry Mode. Don’t let him try anything.” Tony’s prepared to inform the lawyer exactly where the suit’s palm is aiming once the faceplate clinks shut behind him, but judging by the look that flashes across his repulsor-lit face, Murdock has no trouble grasping where he stands. A muscle pops in Murdock’s jaw before he lets out a breath through his nose and takes a slow step away from the door. 

Tony reaches out to clasp the handle. The metal’s warmer than it should be—or maybe it’s him. Shit, he should’ve brought a medkit. The kid could be bruised and battered, bleeding out on the ground, and all Tony’s got is a suit of armor that can’t fix what matters. He could fly him back to the compound with his doctors on-call, but it’d be a cold and bumpy ride that might not make up for the prospect of waiting for Happy to make the drive. Yet after Afghanistan, when Tony was in Peter’s shoes, he’d have taken a familiar face over a doctor any day. And after losing May the way he did- fuck. Tony braces himself and pulls the door open.

His breath catches in his throat. 

Peter’s on his feet.

It’s him. His brown hair has more curls than Tony remembers and it’s pressed flat against the side of his head, but it’s his. His weight is distributed throughout both of his feet where he stands close to the side of the bed. He’s rubbing at his eyes, though Tony can make out the bruiseless cheeks and the unbloodied nose. When the kid’s hands drop and his eyes land on Tony, despite the little light the room has to offer, they’re the same brown he’s used to. 

He doesn’t look real. The kid looks like something BARF would conjure up for him, something meant to distract him from reality before it flickered under his touch.

“Mr. Star-?”

Tony’s legs carry him forward. He reaches out for the kid’s upper arm, and it connects, the fabric of his shirt soft and solid in his fist. Peter’s there, and the second Tony tugs him closer, the kid's whole body goes tense. His mind blanks with panic, scrambling for what the hell Castle did to him, but then the kid's holding him back.

Peter's chin fits into the crook of Tony’s neck and his hands clasp firm around his torso. His hair feels damp where it brushes against the side of Tony’s cheek and the rage flares up within him as the cave flashes in his head before he catches the faint scent of shampoo. Thank God. Tony hones in on the kid’s steady heartbeat drumming under his fingers. “You’re all right,” he tells the kid, and if he isn’t, Tony’ll be damned if he doesn’t make it true.

Peter's in his arms, in his arms, so he doesn't know why Castle's words are still prickling the back of his mind. You are never gonna find that kid again. Goddamn him. With a long breath, Tony lets his eyes fall closed.

“Mr. Stark, you- I don’t-” Peter breaks off, hands slackening. “Do you hear that?”

Tony’s heart does a flip as his mind darts to the beeping of a bomb or the cocking of a gun that only enhanced senses would be able to pick out, yet all that meets his ears beyond the ambiance of the city is the whine from his repulsors in the neighboring room. Right. 

C’mon, Stark, get your shit together. Maybe Murdock isn’t working with Castle. The spiel about Castle ‘not posing a danger’ to anybody is something to be examined, but Peter’s uninjured, he has a Lego X-Wing in the living room, and as far as Tony can tell, his mission just ended ahead of schedule. It’s all undeniably good news on the surface, yet Peter’s watched his aunt die along with at least eighteen people that Castle murdered in front of him and he’s standing in front of Tony with dry eyes and a curious expression. There’s something he’s missing, and if Murdock wants to explain, Tony has no interest in discouraging him.

“That, uh, lawyer of yours—he helping you out?”

Peter’s brow scrunches at that, and he’s off to the living room before Tony can react. He’s quick to trail after the kid, who lets out a small gasp when he spots the suit training a repulsor on Murdock’s face. “Woah, Mr. Stark, he’s not- Yeah, he’s helping me out, you don’t have to-”

To the man’s credit, Peter looks considerably more worried about it than he does. The only thing Tony can read on him is his slight frown that indicates he’s somewhere between thoughtful and confused. His head swivels until he’s facing Tony and he pointedly raises his eyebrows, which, fair. 

“My bad. FRIDAY, stand down.” Tony circles around the couch as the suit’s arm drops, and it goes from hovering to both feet on the floor after a metallic hiss. “Can’t say I would’ve believed you if you’d said it was past his bedtime, but I’d have appreciated the specificity. Speaking of which, if you’re in the mood to ‘clear up any misconstructions,’” Tony grabs the X-Wing off the table and uses it to gesture between them, “start with why you only called me now.”

Peter opens his mouth and takes a breath, but he clamps it shut the second Murdock clears his throat. Though the question had been directed at the lawyer, something about how immediately he got the kid to go silent rubs him the wrong way. 

“Frank Castle contacted me after he confronted Mac Gargan in the parking garage, which I understand you're aware of.” Murdock props his cane against the wall and strides to the center of the living room, skimming his hand over the back of an armchair before giving an inviting wave to the furniture. “Please.”

The formality's almost funny, but Peter doesn't hesitate to plant himself in the center of the couch, so Tony returns the X-Wing to its spot on the table and takes a seat in the second armchair. Murdock pushes his glasses up the bridge of his nose before following suit. 

“At the time, we were under the impression your interest in Peter stemmed from the recent passing of the Sokovia Accords. We believed that because he's too young to sign-”

“What, that I'd throw him in the Raft?” Jesus Christ. Why the fuck- wait. Tony narrows his eyes as the pieces start clicking into place. “Who’s ‘we?’ Is that what Castle told you?” 

It’s smart, Tony will give him that. Call up his lawyer, the one guy who wouldn't call the cops on him and would be legally obligated to keep Peter's identity under wraps, then spin a story convincing enough to get Peter holed away somewhere Tony wouldn't think to look. It adds up, but he’d forgotten how allergic lawyers were to yes-or-no answers. “It's the conclusion Frank came to, and I had no reason to challenge it,” Murdock replies evenly.

“He did.” Tony nods in Peter's direction—a gesture Murdock can't see. “Peter did,” he amends. 

The kid’s gaze drops to his lap. “I didn’t th-” Peter cuts himself off with a swallow. “Didn’t know you were looking.”

Tony grits his teeth. Of course Castle wouldn’t tell him; it’s better to keep the kid in the dark than give him more motivation to fight back, then feed Murdock just the right bullshit to keep up the charade. It’s good for the short term, but Castle had to have known Peter and Murdock would put their heads together eventually. What matters is that, in the end, Tony made his way here before Castle did.

“Okay, so for clarity’s sake,” Tony angles himself toward Murdock and leans forward, clasping his hands in his lap, “Castle passed off Spider-Man to you in order to throw me off his scent. You figure out I’m not trying to throw a kid in the Raft, ergo…” He waves a hand to encapsulate this. “And Mac Gargan is, what, the latest addition to the Punisher’s naughty list?”

“Mac Gargan wants Peter dead,” Murdock states, an edge to his voice that Tony’s not sure what to make of beyond the fact it isn’t a good edge. But it’s Peter’s reaction that catches his attention. The kid shifts between the cushions and dips his head, his leg starting to bounce against the floor. 

Murdock clears his throat and pushes himself out of his chair to begin pacing a small circle, his white shirt turning a soft red in the billboard’s glow. “More importantly, Gargan knows his identity. Now, Article Five, Subsection B of the Sokovia Accords states that the use and distribution of Chitauri weaponry is strictly regulated, as possession of them would, in the eyes of the UN, qualify someone as an enhanced individual. Due to the precedent set by the containment of individuals such as Sam Wilson and Scott Lang in the Raft, whose enhancements are entirely dependent on their technology, I believe there is a case to be made regarding Gargan’s imprisonment on the Raft.”

Lawyers. “You did your homework,” Tony comments. 

Not bad, either. Pretty air-tight, in fact, except for the one thing Murdock couldn’t have accounted for. If Gargan gets sent to the Raft, it’s only a matter of time before he goes to Ross and tries to use Spider-Man’s identity as a bargaining chip. Castle and Gargan knowing Spider-Man’s identity is bad enough, but he doesn’t want to think about what their esteemed Secretary of State would do with it considering he plays with genetics as a hobby. If Castle got to Gargan first, that’s one less problem to worry about.

“And Phineas Mason is the witness we need,” Peter adds, earning a tiny nod from Murdock that makes Tony wonder exactly how rehearsed this is. “He was the- the weapons and tech guy for Toomes. The vulture guy. He’s supposed to be somewhere in Bushwick, which… is enough for you to be able to find him, right?”

“Yeah, should be.” Finding him before giving Castle his shot is a different matter entirely. But the fact the kid wants Gargan imprisoned at all instead of having Castle finish the job… Tony's surprised, though maybe he shouldn't be. Gargan got his aunt killed in a building collapse and Peter would rather have him pay behind bars instead of in the ground. The feasibility of it is less than slim, but the fact that he wants it brings Tony a relief that he hadn't known he'd been looking for. 

Tony places his elbow on the armrest and props up his chin in his hand. Murdock’s story adds up and Peter’s not objecting to it, but there’s still a piece that doesn’t slot in place. Mahoney said it himself; it’s not like Castle to be sloppy. For the lynchpin in his plan to be the assumption that Murdock and Peter would never get around to talking about Tony feels immeasurably off. Castle had an enemy in his hold, the kind of enemy who had the will and way to put a stop to him, and Tony’s supposed to believe Castle just let that enemy go. Spider-Man’s a ticking time bomb to a man like Castle, and Tony knows the Punisher doesn’t walk away from a threat without neutralizing it. 

Whatever role Castle planned for Peter to play, he’s not done playing it.

Tony swallows. “Help me out here. After Castle kidnapped Peter-”

Murdock doesn’t let him finish. “Frank didn’t kidnap Peter.”

Uh-huh. Well, Tony knows better than to provoke an argument with an attorney when he’s got places to be, especially when said argument constitutes how Castle drugged and held a gun to the head of the kid who definitely doesn’t need a review. If Castle kept that bit from Murdock, it’s not Tony’s job to fill him in. Besides, said kid is currently hunched forward with his mouth pressed in a tight line, eyes fixed on the floor like he’s trying to burn a hole in it to disappear into the apartment below.

Tony offers Murdock a tight-lipped smile and a non-committal hum before pushing himself to his feet. Peter takes it as a cue and copies the movement a second after. “Misconstructions cleared,” he announces with a clap of his hands, then turns to his suit waiting near the edge of the room. “FRIDAY, get Happy over here. C’mon, kid.” With that, Tony jerks his head to the door and starts to make his way toward it.

Then the footfalls behind him halt.

Tony turns back to find Peter frozen midstep, mouth parted and back ramrod-straight. The kid casts a glance behind him at Murdock before facing back to Tony, his jaw locking shut as his eyes flicker.

The corner of Murdock’s mouth twitches upward in a way that makes Tony’s blood boil.

“I, um—” Peter crosses an arm over his stomach to grip at his elbow “—I don’t…” 

The lawyer cocks his head to the side as Peter’s voice dies in the back of his throat. “Mr. Stark,” he starts smoothly, then raises his chin and intones, “what is it you want with my client?”

A scoff escapes past Tony’s lips and the retort is spilling out before he can reconsider. “Well I’d have brought the adoption forms if you’d asked, but they’re a real pain to keep a hold of at Mach two.”

Shit, he didn’t want it to go like this. The surprise on Murdock’s face isn’t worth the matching expression on Peter’s that twists the knife in his chest. He can’t even fault the kid for it—Pepper hadn’t seen it coming either. But she’d known just as well as he had that the alternative is sending a grief-stricken Spider-Man into a system that might not notice if he doesn’t come home one night. When you can do the things that I can, but you don’t, and then the bad things happen, they happen because of you.  

Tony lets out a sigh and runs a hand down the lower half of his face, forcing his attention away from Murdock and to the kid who actually warrants it. “I know it’s not-” Tony cuts himself off to soften his tone and run his words over in his head as he meets Peter’s eyes. “Pepper and I talked it over. Happy packed up most of your room a few days ago. When you’re ready to go through the rest of your apartment…” Tony trails off at Peter’s thick swallow. 

Sorting through his parents’ things after the car crash that wasn’t a car crash had been a different kind of rough. It was the little things; the vacant piano bench, the unfinished blueprints at his father’s desk. God knows if it’d be the dirty dishes in the sink or the half-empty laundry basket that would cut the kid back open. 

“I…” Peter gives a wet sniff and takes a breath that makes his chest shudder. “I can stay with you?”

Peter’s voice is barely above a whisper, full of trepidation as if he needs to hear Tony say it again. So Tony searches his face and asks, “Do you want to?”

Peter’s small nods grow more pronounced before stopping all at once, sending Tony’s heart stuttering with it. The kid draws in a quick breath, then opts instead to bite back his lip when he turns back to Murdock like he’s waiting for fucking permission.

“Peter.” Murdock’s expression gives nothing away. “I need a word with Mr. Stark.”

The kid looks uncharacteristically relieved at the dismissal as his gaze darts between them. It’s not long before he’s backing up to the door. “Should I, uh, wait out in the hallway?”

Murdock gives a single nod without bothering to face him. 

It’s only when the front door clicks shut that Murdock moves. Tony follows him with his eyes as he strolls around furniture, tracing a hand along the back of the couch until he comes to a stop a good six feet away. Instead of starting on whatever words that are so vital he needs privacy for them, Murdock spends a long moment doing what Tony would label spacing off if he didn’t know better. Tony doesn’t know if he hopes or dreads that it’s about Castle, but either way, he finds himself disappointed.

“I know about the airport,” he says quietly, just before Tony’s patience runs out. Murdock takes a slow step forward. “I know about the ferry, and I know about Peter’s invitation to join the Avengers. What I want to know is if he’d accepted—” Murdock takes another step “—at which point would you have told his aunt?”

Tony lowers his chin and raises his brow. He’s proud of himself for opting for civility when he says “Excuse me?” instead of what the fuck?

“Peter informed me that you threatened to tell his aunt about Spider-Man if he didn’t assist you in Germany. I think we both know she wouldn’t have allowed that.” Murdock’s voice drops to a whisper. “But she’s out of the picture now, isn’t she?”

For a moment, the red in Murdock’s glasses is all he can see. “If you’re suggesting that I wanted this-”

“No,” Murdock interrupts. “But you’re an opportunist. You wanted a fifteen-year-old to fight for you, and now there’s nothing-”

Tony doesn’t bother unclenching his fists as he strides into Murdock’s space. “You don’t know shit about what I want,” he hisses. “Do you think I brought along the most non-lethal vigilante because I wanted a fight? Huh? If I had known that-” Tony cuts himself off. What happened in Berlin isn’t any of Murdock’s fucking business. “If I could go back and save May Parker, I would. But his ticket’s punched for the foster system, so all I can do now is step up.”

“Step up?” Murdock echoes, his infuriatingly level tone grating in Tony’s ears. “Like how you stepped up after you dragged him into your war, or is it going to be different this time?” His lip curls as a note of derision sneaks into his voice, but it's gratifying to see the mask slip.

“I stepped up,” Tony grits out. “He tell you where he got his suit? Or who set up the sting on the boat? What’s different is that his aunt’s dead and I’m not gonna let his life fall apart because of it.”

It takes the silence that stretches between them for Tony to realize how heavy his breathing has become through his tightening throat. Jesus. He threatened to tell his aunt? Those couldn’t have been Peter’s words. What did the kid tell him, and why the hell did Murdock conclude that from it? Shit, did the kid think that Tony…? Shit. A small line forms between Murdock’s eyes as he shifts his head so his ear is angled to him, maybe anticipating something Tony can’t begin to guess at. But when Tony waits a beat for a response that doesn’t come, he takes a small step closer.

“Peter’s leaving with me. Tonight.” 

Murdock gives a slow nod, but Tony can’t determine if it's a nod that means he’s come to a decision or come to an agreement. “All right, Mr. Stark,” he says evenly.

Tony’s suspicion at the sudden assent proves true when Murdock leans in, his voice ice.

“But understand this: I will be keeping in contact with him. And if Peter gives me a single reason to believe he is not safe with you, I will use every legal avenue at my disposal to ensure he never sets foot under your roof again.”

Tony’s heart batters against his rib cage. Un-fucking-believable. Not safe with him? Murdock got the kid hand-delivered by the Punisher and it’s Tony he thinks he should worry about Peter’s safety with. But the kid’s still waiting in the hallway, so Tony measures his breath until it’s back under his control. 

“We’re done here,” he says through his teeth. “FRIDAY, keep a loose follow on us once Happy shows.” 

He doesn’t check if Murdock’s on his tail when he heads for the door. For a moment he wishes for the simplicity that’d come if it had been Castle who called with the kid, but only for a moment. Peter spent far too much time in the hands of Castle already, and asshole or not, Tony can be grateful Murdock got the kid away from him. Then again, better than the Punisher is a bar so low that he’s not inclined to give the lawyer much credit for making it over.

Peter glances up at him the moment Tony pushes the door open. He’s sitting against an old radiator with his back against the wall and stops wringing his hands together when his round gaze meets Tony’s. He’s quick to stand up straight, trying to conceal the confusion and anxiety fighting for dominance on his face when he crosses his arms over his chest. 

“Get your shoes on, kid,” Tony orders, and immediately fights back a wince at his clipped tone. 

Peter shrinks a little as confusion wins out. “Now?”

“Posthaste, Mr. Parker.”

“Wait- But I-” Peter cranes his neck to peer around Tony’s shoulder, and a glimpse behind him confirms Murdock waiting in the doorframe, cane back in hand. Whatever’s on Peter’s mind, it has anxiety making a comeback. “Matt, what about the, um-”

“You have my number, Peter,” Murdock interjects without any trace of the ice from before. “You can let me know when you’re ready to start your internship.”

It takes an extraordinary amount of willpower for Tony to stifle his sigh. 

Something he can’t quite identify flashes across Peter’s face and he wavers as if he’s about to say something. But all at once the kid decides against it, and he’s back inside and putting on his shoes before Tony can dwell on it. Tony’s already leaning for the stairs by the time he returns to his feet, yet instead of following the cue, Peter disappears further into the apartment before Tony can object and emerges before he can make up his mind to fetch him. 

Peter’s got a flip phone in his hand and Tony glimpses the silver of web-shooters under the cuffs of the black jacket he’s zipping up—one of Murdock’s, if how loosely it fits his frame is anything to go by. But Tony didn’t think to bring an alternative, so he dismisses his annoyance and focuses instead on the fact Peter has his web-shooters on hand. Disarming your captive is usually the first step, but Tony knows better than to press at it with Murdock in earshot.

Tony clears his throat. “All set?”

Peter gives a tiny nod, but he still turns back to Murdock once he’s out the door. “See you later?”

Tony wonders if it was supposed to come out like a question. Regardless, the small smile Murdock offers the kid actually looks like a genuine one. “I’ll see you around, Peter.”

There’s a sharp undertone in his voice that Tony doubts is directed at the kid. 

 “C’mon.” Tony reaches an arm around the back of Peter’s shoulders and guides him to the stairs, silently relieved when he doesn’t push back. “Happy’ll have a heart attack if we keep him waiting.”

Blind or not, Tony swears he can feel Murdock’s gaze burning into the back of his skull.

---

Happy, as it turns out, is just as surprised as Tony was. 

Peter’s quiet “Hey, Happy,” and subsequent insistings of “I’m fine” only make Happy’s brow furrow tighter, and Tony doesn’t have much to offer him when he redirects his puzzled gaze toward him. A large first aid kit catches his eye on the passenger seat, and the only thing Tony can give Happy for certain is a shake of his head when he points his thumb back at it with a questioning look. Once Peter’s ushered into the car, the best response Tony has to Happy’s mouthed is he okay? is a gesture to put up the window dividing the driver from the backseat.

God, Tony doesn’t know where to start.

For the first time in Tony’s memory, Peter doesn’t break the quiet. He’s got his elbow resting on the car’s windowsill, leaning his chin into his palm as the city lights shift across his face. He looks just about as lost as Tony would expect him to look, but Tony’s brain offers him nothing on how to break him out of it. He’d rehearsed the questions and reassurances over and over in his head, but none of the latter seems to fit and the kid looks like the last thing he’s ready to be asked is how long of a break he needs from school or if he’d like for Tony to take over planning his aunt’s funeral.

Then again, that first question depends entirely on how long it takes him to remove Castle and Gargan from the picture. And with Murdock gone…

Shit, the kid doesn’t need this right now. But they’re the questions Tony needs answered, and the sooner he gets them, the sooner he’ll be able to clean this up. 

“Hey, kid,” Tony starts, attempting to quash down the guilt rising in his chest when Peter looks over. The guilt ends up winning, because the only thing he can get out ends up being, “How’re you holding up?”

“Uh, yeah, I’m- I’m fine,” Peter says, which is the same response Tony’s been giving Pepper for the past week. 

Get it out, Stark. “Look, there isn’t- there’s no easy way to say this,” Tony begins, and he has to force himself to continue at Peter’s swallow. “I saw the security footage from the parking garage.”

Peter’s eyes drop down to his lap and his hands ball up around the jacket’s sleeves.

“You don’t have to talk to me about Castle if you don’t want to,” Tony quickly adds. After all, Yinsen was the only person who knew all that the Ten Rings did to him, and Tony can’t say if he’ll ever get the courage to change that. “But if you picked up on anything—where he is, what he’s planning—I gotta know, kid.”

He says it in the softest voice he has, but it doesn’t change the way Peter bites his lip or folds his hands together tight between his thighs. When he finally responds, Tony has to strain to hear it. “I- Could you focus on Gargan instead?”

“Yeah. Yeah, okay,” Tony assures, because no matter what Castle did to him, Gargan was the one who murdered his aunt. Tony gets that. But Mac Gargan isn’t the one who has military training and expertise on how to kill people while avoiding government detection. More importantly, despite his efforts, Gargan never laid a hand on the kid. And if Peter has intel on the man who did, it won’t be useful for long. “Just- Castle’s not getting to you again. So whatever it is, you can tell me, all right?”

He waits for Peter to meet his gaze, for the kid to at least get through his head that he’s out of the fire and Tony’s going to keep it that way. It cuts him when Peter starts giving tiny shakes of his head, but he’d rather have the doubt than what comes out of Peter’s mouth next.

“He… didn’t kidnap me.”

Tony lets out a short huff that covers up the way his heart drops.

“I mean- yeah, he kidnapped me, but he- the building was coming down. He saved my life.”

Okay. That could be true. Peter can’t be bait for Gargan if he’s dead. But something about the way Peter says it, the way he won't meet his eyes, has Tony’s mouth going dry. “So he never hurt you?” he asks, forcing his voice to remain steady. 

He knows the answer. Peter knows he saw the footage. For once, all he wants is for Peter to tell him something he already knows.

Peter’s response almost comes out a mumble, but not without a conviction that makes Tony’s blood run cold. “He’s not a bad guy.”

The final piece snaps into place.

Castle, you bastard.

The kid reads it on his face. “I don’t have Stockholm Syndrome.”

Because Peter’s smart enough to be aware of it and know how it happens, but not smart enough to realize that intelligence has nothing to do with stopping it. Castle wouldn’t even have had to do the breaking; the kid lost the closest person in the world to him, and Castle was the only other person in the room. God, Tony should’ve seen it coming.

“Mr. Stark-”

“He used you for bait and held a gun to your head.”

“I know how it looks, but he didn’t set up the meeting with Gargan, okay? I did. Mr. Castle was going to kill him-”

Mr. Castle. Jesus Christ. “So he told you—Spider-Man—that he was going to kill somebody, somebody you expressed you don’t want killed, and you really think he expected you to do nothing about it?”

Peter’s jaw drops. “That’s not- He saved my life. If he was just planning to- to use me-” The kid’s voice cracks, his Adam’s apple bobbing as he swallows. “He couldn’t have known I was at the first warehouse. When it collapsed, May was- I’d be dead if he hadn’t dragged me out.”

Tony closes his eyes and takes a deep breath. “He was in the warehouse because he was after Gargan, yeah? And it was in the warehouse he learned that Gargan’s after you. Kid, you know-”

“You don’t!” Peter snaps, a finger jabbing into Tony’s space. 

“I know that Castle gave you to Murdock as soon as he learned using you as bait doesn’t work out,” Tony replies, struggling to remind himself Peter’s words aren’t really his own.

It doesn't stop the heat of Peter’s glare from burning at his skin. “He gave me to Murdock to keep me safe.”

Goddamnit. “He’s Special Ops, and you’re a fifteen-year-old kid,” he bites out. “You think he doesn’t know how to get in your head?”

“He didn’t-” Peter cuts himself off, his chest rising and falling with each breath. “Mr. Stark, listen to me- I don’t- I don’t approve of what he does. But everything he did, he did for me.”

“The only thing he did for you is decide to get you a lawyer instead of putting a bullet between your eyes.”

Fuck. Too far. Tony can make out the shine of tears welling up in Peter's eyes as they pass under the next streetlamp, and shit, he knows better. Shoving the cognitive dissonance in the kid's face now isn’t going to do anything except get him to cling to it tighter. This is the kind of knot he has to be patient to untangle, and he'd never get there if he made himself out to be the enemy. An enemy's the last thing the kid needs right now.

So Tony raises a palm and forces his expression back to neutral. “I'm sorry, kid. Shouldn't have said that.”

But you meant it hangs heavy in the air between them.

“If you wanna talk to me, I'll listen. No running commentary. Just…” Damn, he's a hypocrite. But breaking the cycle of shame has to start somewhere. “Don't think you have to go through this by yourself.”

Peter wipes his eyes on the jacket's sleeve. But instead of talking, all he does is angle his back toward Tony and go straight back to staring out the window.

You are never gonna find that kid again.

Castle will find that Tony's always been more stubborn than his adversaries give him credit for.

Notes:

To those of you worried that this development means that there's going to be 10 or so more Peter & Tony bonding chapters like there was with Frank & Peter and Matt & Peter—don't worry. Rest assured, I've finally got all my seeds planted and watered, *Dr. Strange voice* we're in the endgame now.

:)

Chapter 23: Sins of the Father

Summary:

never in a million years would i have thought daredevil return before i do

Notes:

i can't believe it took me less time to get two english & writing degrees than it took me to update this fanfic

(on account of it being a verifiable Hot Minute, consider re-reading the first half of chapter 21 and all of 22 for a relevant info refresher. so, without further further ado-)

Tony thought he’d planned for everything. 

Between bouts of combing through NYPD tactical frequencies and digging up increasingly unsettling intel in the Punisher files, it’d helped to step back and work on filling in the more glaring holes in Peter’s future to assure himself the kid would still be alive to have one. He started by double-checking that he hadn’t repurposed the quarters he set aside for Peter a few months back before recalling how adamant the kid had been when he turned him down. As far as Tony knows, the sentiment hasn't changed. Friendly, neighborhood Spider-Man doesn't quite mesh when said neighborhood is an hour's drive away on a good day in New York traffic, and that's only addressing the Spider-Man part.

The Peter part is… messier, if he’s putting it lightly. A clusterfuck, if he’s putting it accurately, but he’s making the effort to be optimistic. Hiring a tutor would be easy enough, though taking away the structure high school provides after everything else Peter had taken away doesn’t sit right with him. And if Tony did opt for that route, it wouldn’t take an observant classmate of Peter’s to note he left Queens at the same time Spider-Man did. The kid’s already had enough secret identity debacles to last a lifetime. If he wants to maintain it, the least Tony can do is make sure putting the pieces together isn’t any easier than it’d been for him. 

The conclusions that follow are A) he and Pepper are going to have to really play up their engagement if he wants to keep everything else under wraps and B) Queens is a lot quieter than Tony’s used to. Not that he’s complaining; Pepper never saw the Avengers Compound as a home, and as of four months ago, Tony doubts he ever could. So if this penthouse of the building he bought out is a whole five minutes away from the compound as the Mark 47 flies, that suits him just fine.

All things considered, he probably should have seen the cold shoulder coming.

The kid’s resolute, he’ll give him that. He was sure Peter would be over it come morning, but it was Tony who relented to leave the kitchen when the kid made it clear he’d rather starve himself than exist in the same room. The fact that Tony returned to a stack of clean dishes either means that at least the kid’s not pissed off enough to be petty, or it isn’t simply pissed off that has him acting out. Given that the only other clue Peter offers comes in the form of a door Tony has to actively resist the urge to unlock (establishing boundaries is good), he doesn’t anticipate figuring it out anytime soon.

Then again, a pissed-off Spider-Man isn’t new to him. Peter barrelled headfirst into an argument after the ferry fiasco, though Tony can see how a week between a lawyer and the Punisher can stifle a penchant for talking back. 

Whatever the reason, Peter still had to have seen the adoption forms on the counter. 

The line where the kid’s signature goes isn’t any less blank.

Tony runs a hand down his face. It’s not a coincidence the kid picked up the shunning act right after Tony said something Peter didn’t like about his kidnapper. It’s far from the smartest play if he wants Tony to buy that he doesn’t have Stockholm Syndrome, though odds are his actions have less to do with smart and more to do with the fucking Stockholm Syndrome.  

If Castle’s goal was to keep Spider-Man from ever turning him in, mission accomplished. It’s not Spider-Man Castle has to worry about. 

Of the two ways Castle could’ve got Peter off his case, at least he picked the one that isn’t permanent. Tony had FRIDAY compile a list of the best child psychiatrists New York has to offer, yet he hadn’t even been halfway through relaying it to Pepper before she cut him off. 

“I’m not saying that’s a bad idea, but Tony,” she’d started, locking his gaze with that same doleful look she’d been giving him every sleepless night prior, “he’s not something you can fix.”

Before, he would’ve taken that as a challenge. Now, he’s stuck hovering outside a pissed-off teenager’s door on the off chance this won’t end with Tony pissing him off more. Not to fix, but to… 

Well, he’s bound to figure that out soon enough.

Tony raps a knuckle against the wood. 

“Hey, kid.” He waits a moment for a response that won’t come. “Think we could talk?”

Expecting the silence does nothing to ease the sinking disappointment in his stomach. 

“I, ah, get that you’re committed to the vow of silence, but I really need to-” Tony clicks his tongue against his teeth. Shit, does that sound mocking? That’s the last thing he needs, but he’s not sure how the hell he’s meant to navigate the proverbial minefield with a door as a substitute for Peter’s face. “Five minutes. Just give me five minutes to hash things out.”

The door stays in place. 

Damn. He didn’t think he’d need a monologue ready. Maybe he should’ve known better than to assume he was walking into a conversation. “You gotta give me something, kid. I can’t be halfway through my heart-to-heart when I find out you have headphones on.”

Had he—? Yes, Tony did try out the silent treatment on his dad, once. Once, because Howard hadn’t seemed to notice a difference.

Tony raises his hand for a second knock, yet before he gets the chance, the knob clicks.

He takes a deft step back as the door swings open. Relief expands in his chest, then warps into something else when the kid opts to stare straight past him instead of meeting his eyes. There’s no trace of the fiery glare from back in the car, which Tony would almost prefer over the flat expression Peter has on now. The kid doesn’t say a word before he turns back into his room, leaving the door gaping behind him.

Tony takes it as an invitation, which must be the right call given that he’s not greeted by a faceful of webbing the second he steps inside. Instead, he’s met with a mountain of unopened boxes in the corner and a bedroom that’s only a bedroom in the most literal sense of the word. He has to withhold a huff when his gaze flits past Murdock’s jacket hanging off the bedpost, but it’s less grating when he notes that Peter’s changed out of whatever clothes Castle grabbed for him in favor of his Midtown Tech sweatshirt. The kid plants himself on the edge of the bed, his eyes firmly fixed on anything that isn’t Tony.

“Still haven’t unpacked?” Tony skims a hand along the edge of the nearest box and suppresses a grimace when the implications of his words simmer in Peter’s silence. “That’s all right. No rush.” 

Nothing. Peter doesn’t so much as twitch. 

“I’ve got your suit up in the workshop,” he tries, stuffing his hands in his pockets as he surveys the boxes. “I’ll admit I debated scrapping it for a Mark Three, but it’s not beyond a patch-up. We’re probably looking at a Mark Two-point-five if your AI keeps checking out of the mask. Apropos of that…” 

Tony crosses the room once he’s eighty percent sure he’s identified the right box and pries it open to find the white goggles staring up at him. He unfolds the hoodie over the top of the box, but when he steps aside to ensure the kid can see, Peter doesn’t bother with even a glance in his direction. 

“I had to make Happy go back for Mark One. He was using his lying voice when he told me he remembered it.”

Peter’s never passed up the chance to ask about his suit before, yet the clenching of his jaw and the flash in his eyes indicate he knows that’s exactly what Tony was vying for. 

C’mon, Stark. Peter let him in for a reason. Maybe all he wants is for Tony to take back what he said last night, but in the case he wants something that Tony can actually-

Tony’s thoughts scatter as his eyes drift beyond the jacket on the bedpost to the framed photograph on the nightstand beside it. 

May has her temple resting on the uncle’s shoulder with her arms around his torso. Laugh lines reside at the corner of her eyes that Tony can’t recall on her face. The uncle’s hands encircle the ankles of the little boy perched atop his shoulders, tiny forearms pressing into matching brown hair. All three of them are beaming into the camera. The frame is angled toward the pillow and the way the light hits the glass exposes the fingerprints around their faces that Tony doubts were there before. 

Pepper is right. 

There’s no fixing this.

Tony drums his fingers against the cardboard, steels himself, then gets out, “I was nineteen when my parents died.”

Peter doesn’t shift as much as the air around him does. That stubbornness wavers in favor of surprise when his gaze darts to Tony’s face. Perhaps it’s a good thing he remembers he’s supposed to be shunning Tony a moment later, because Tony’s not sure he could meet his eyes back.

“Not that I was ever standing,” Tony waves a hand in Peter’s direction, “sitting where you are,” he amends, making an effort to keep his casual tone. “I was grown-up enough that I didn't have to worry about—” Obadiah, most likely “—some jackass taking me in and trying to change how I live my life. God, I’d have hated that.” 

Thank the stars he’d been nineteen, come to think of it, because it was almost too late for Tony by the time he found out he’d never been more than a golden goose to the man. If things had played out differently and he’d wound up in Obadiah’s custody… Tony curls his fingers over the edge of the box and leans back, gritting his teeth as he forces his attention away from Murdock’s accusation ringing unbidden in the back of his brain. Hell, as far as he knows, the lawyer put the same thing in Peter’s head, too.

“I was a smart kid. Everyone could see it. Bright future, lotta potential.” He eyes Peter out of his periphery. “Maybe I’d start wondering if that’s the reason they want me around.”

“How would you know that it’s not?”

It’s quiet and directed more at the ground than Tony’s face. It does nothing to diminish the blow. The way the kid finally speaks has this feeling less like a victory and more like a pang where the arc reactor used to be, and Tony’s not sure if his shrug manages to cover it up. “Guess I’d have to give them a chance to prove it.”

Peter scoffs.

The sound is cold and scathing and unlike anything Tony’s heard from the kid before. But before he can suss out what it’s stemming from, Peter dips his head and closes his eyes. He opens them after letting out a slow exhale through his nose, then takes a breath that leaves Tony holding his own until the kid finally speaks. 

“One of my friends… she’s really into, like, true crime stuff,” he starts. “She knows a lot. And she was telling me about this case she was reading up on one time, and—” Peter wets his lips “—and Stockholm Syndrome came up.”

Tony’s heart sinks in his chest.

“She said it's based in survival instincts. The more someone cooperates with their kidnapper, the less likely their kidnapper will hurt them, right? So they play nice, their captor hurts them less, and their subconscious tricks them into thinking that that means they’re a good person.” Peter meets Tony’s eyes. “I was never afraid of Frank Castle hurting me. And I didn't exactly play nice.”

“Is that what you think?” Tony asks carefully. “That he’s a good person?”

Peter can’t hold his gaze. 

And to think he was naïve enough to believe that they’d both want to bury the hatchet. “Kid-”

“Mr. Stark- He wasn’t even my kidnapper, okay? Not really. I chose to lie low with him because it was the best way to keep my friends safe. And after he stitched me up, the first thing he did was give me a phone so I could call my parents to pick me up. He- He didn’t know about them, but if he wanted me for bait, he wouldn’t have-” 

“He didn’t know about them?”

Peter’s brow furrows.

“Castle drugged you,” Tony spells out, but Peter either can’t or won’t put the pieces together himself. “Kid, you can’t know what you told him.”

For a split second Peter’s expression twists back to what it was in the car, yet the next second all that remains of it is a muscle popping in his jaw and a voice too even to hint at what’s going on in his head. “You don’t know him. I know you think you do, but you don’t.”

The gigabytes the Castle folder takes up on his hard drive would suggest otherwise.

“Back in the parking garage—he wasn’t going to pull the trigger. I knew he wasn’t gonna pull the trigger.” A tinge of desperation creeps into the kid’s tone; maybe because he needs Tony to believe him, maybe because he needs to believe himself. “He was just- I went behind his back to set it up. And if he hadn’t shown up when he did- He was scared.”

Last he checked the footage, Castle wasn’t the one crying on the ground after a face-to-face meeting with a Glock 19. “Were you?” 

“Not of him shooting me,” Peter snaps, then quickly reels himself back with the visible rise and fall of his chest. “Mr. Stark, I’m not defending him. He apologized, so he didn’t-”

The remark slips past Tony’s lips. “Well, if he apologized-”

“I’m not saying that makes it okay. I know it doesn’t make it okay!” Peter rises with his voice. “But he apologized and that means something to me.”

Shit. They’re veering right back to where they were in the car and Peter’s not giving him the window to change course.

“You- You can’t tell me what happened. You weren’t there.” The kid’s bottom lip trembles as he strides into Tony’s space. “You thought I was ready to be an Avenger. But now, since I’m just a fifteen-year-old kid, you expect me to believe I’m a pawn to Mr. Castle because the only people who could ever give a shit about me are dead or you!”

Tony doesn’t get the chance to slam the brakes before they crash.

A shaky breath escapes Peter’s mouth and Tony can see the whites of his eyes, yet the kid does nothing to keep the diatribe reverberating around them from rooting them both to the spot.

Every protest and rationalization swirling in Tony’s head from a moment ago scatters when he tries to summon one to his tongue. Peter, for his part, manages to falter back onto the mattress. In the swelling silence between them, all the kid does is dart his eyes to the picture frame before averting them to his lap. 

For all the bullshit the Punisher forced into Peter’s skull, it’s not ‘I was wrong about Frank Castle’ that the kid needs to hear.

Tony takes a slow step forward. When the kid doesn’t react, he keeps stepping forward until he’s at the edge of the bed. He’s pushing his luck, but as he lowers himself to sit, Peter doesn’t shy away.

That little boy looks nothing like the teenager beside him.

“I’m sorry, Pete.”

Peter’s head snaps up. 

“Avenger, not an Avenger... I thought I’d be, uh,” Tony fishes for the right words as the kid traps him in those brown doe-eyes, “picking up where your aunt left off. Dig up a Peter Parker manual she had stashed away.”

They're not the right words, not if the small line in Peter’s brow is any indication. Regardless, it doesn’t change that he wouldn't pass up a Peter Parker manual about now. He’d been in Spider-Man’s company for the whole of ten minutes the last time they were sat like this, and that’s all it took for him to piece together what made that kid tick. This kid… 

No. Even if Castle’s right, even if that kid isn’t there anymore, he’s not about to abandon this one.

“I don’t know what she’d do.” Tony nods at the picture. “I can only do… what I think is right.”

It’s different this time, when Peter looks away. For the first time since Tony entered the room, the kid unfurls. His throat bobs as he swallows and his eyes scrunch up before he’s looking at the wall like he’s seeing something else. 

Tony follows his gaze. 

Once, for the worst five minutes of his life, he thought he saw Pepper die. She’d slipped past his grip into the inferno below because he wasn’t able to catch her, because of his enemies and his fuck-ups. For one of those five minutes, between the falling and the explosions and the flames, he thought he’d killed the man who killed her. For one of those five minutes, Pepper was avenged.

Being an Avenger never felt so hollow. 

He’d been too charred and chock-full of adrenaline for the what now question to really sink in. It was only after he started wondering if he might've been grateful his Malibu home was reduced to rubble if only to ensure that he wouldn’t have to see her name on the collar of that stuffed rabbit. All the paintings on the walls he’d purchased because of the way she eyed them, the bottle of citrus shampoo in their shower, her steady stash of Greek yogurt in the fridge—he’d have burned the house down himself if it meant he didn’t have to extract every piece of her from it. 

Not that it’d make a difference. Not when he doesn’t know if he’d still wipe his shoes every time he exits the workshop when he only made it a habit to stop her from chastising him for tracking grease around. She doesn’t have to be a ghost to haunt him. 

Pepper knows this, for the most part. She does what she can. 

May Parker doesn’t have a say in how she haunts her kid.

“She set my curfew for ten.” Peter reaches for the picture frame to fold it face-down on his lap. “She was gonna move it to eleven when I turned sixteen.”

Tony gives a slow nod. “We can do that.”

“She, um, she also said that I had to have my homework done before going out. She’s- She was strict about that.”

“Mm, you’ll regret sharing that one. I’ll get FRIDAY on your back, too. We’ll be insufferable.” 

There’s a tug at the corner of Peter’s mouth. It’s a start.

“How about it?” Tony places his palms on his thighs, preparing to stand. “Think you’re ready to sign those forms?”

Peter wrings his hands and the pit grows in Tony’s stomach. “I want to go over it with Matt first.” 

God, this internship’s going to be the death of him. “It’s the standard form. There aren’t any Spider-Man clauses, if that’s what you’re worried about.”

“No, I know, I just-” Peter breaks off to meet his eyes. “I want to talk with him about it.”

He doesn’t need the undertone in Peter’s voice to know this is a test. Still, despite ample evidence to the contrary, Murdock’s not an idiot. Whether the lawyer has it out for him or not, he can’t deny that Tony’s the best option the kid has. “Sure. I’ll call. Set up a meeting.” 

His answer passes. The kid’s shoulders dip as he gives a series of tiny nods. When Tony gets to his feet, Peter stands with him. 

“I’m feeling Chinese. You feeling Chinese?”

“Yeah,” Peter says. “Yeah, I can do Chinese.”

If his tone is anything to go by, the kid just might be able to do it at the dining table this time. Tony taps at the frame of his glasses. “FRIDAY, you get that?”  

“Already on it. ETA is thirty-four minutes.”

“Chinese. Thirty-four minutes,” Tony relays as he turns for the door. “You haven’t met Pepper. Have you met Pepper? She’ll be back before-”

A crash stops him dead in his tracks.

Tony’s watch is almost a gauntlet by the time he jolts back around.

There’s no shattered window and there’s no missile at his feet. There’s only the picture frame on the floor under Peter’s loose palm, fissures spiderwebbing across the pane. 

“Shit,” Tony breathes. He doubles back for the picture, but Peter beats him to it. The kid snaps into action to snatch the frame the second Tony reaches out.

The hairs on the back of his neck are standing straight up.

“Hey, you okay?”

Peter’s response comes in the form of a creased brow and open-mouthed breaths. His eyes are fixed on the picture, though Tony can’t decide if he’s staring at it or through it. 

“Don’t worry about it. I’ll replace the pane-”

“It’s fine,” Peter interrupts, blinking rapidly as he lays the frame on the nightstand. “I mean- Yeah. Thanks. But the photo’s okay. I’m fine.”

It takes approximately three seconds for the bullshit coming out of the kid’s mouth to register to his own ears. 

“Sorry,” Peter rubs at the base of his skull, “I just-” 

Peter breaks off when he’s unable to conjure an excuse in the brief window there would be any hope that Tony might buy it. Shit, this isn’t an anxiety attack, is it? By the looks of him, it might be the tail end of one. At least, as far as Tony can tell, because he’s only ever dealt with those from the receiving end. Upon which Pepper would grab his hand, tell him to breathe, and ask him if he wanted to talk about it on the off chance the answer would stop being I’m fine.

Tony takes a step toward the kid and tries to ignore the twinge in his chest as Peter matches it with a step back. 

“You wanna talk about it?” The words feel foreign on his tongue.

“I’m okay, Mr. Stark. Really.” 

Peter’s still rubbing the back of his neck.

“Okay,” Tony decides. He faces back to the door and blows out a silent breath through his nose. “I’ll grab you in thirty.”

“Thirty-two,” FRIDAY corrects.

“Thirty-two,” he amends. “I was rounding. You knew I was rounding.” 

With that, save for a final glance at the kid, Tony exits into the hallway. Not ten seconds pass before the door clicks shut behind him.

Tony presses his spine against the wall and tilts back his head.

Dammit.

It felt like progress for a minute there. It is progress, objectively, because if nothing else, speaking terms beats non-speaking terms any day of the week. He didn’t count on getting even that far, so it stands to reason he shouldn’t feel like he just took one step forward and two steps back.

He doesn’t need the fact that something slipped out of Spider-Man’s grip to know the kid isn’t fine. Understatement of the fucking century. He knows it, Peter knows it, and the only thing pressing him about it would do is send Tony straight back to square one. 

Better known as right outside of Peter’s locked door.

When Tony was eight—seven, on second thought—he built his first robot. Granted, not his first, but the first one actually complex enough to warrant his scribbled-up blueprints. Dad’s steadfast no dogs policy combined with Tony’s Space Race phase paved the road to a solution Tony called Fido. Fido resembled a Rover more than anything else, albeit at a much more house-friendly size and programmed with markedly more fun commands. He could sit, stay, fetch, and spent about four months heeling at Tony's ankles before getting into an altercation with the wheels of his dad’s Cadillac. 

Unlike most dogs, Fido couldn’t have been sent to a farm upstate. Jarvis broke the news to him, assured him it was an accident, and waited for his eyes to dry before fetching his dad. Howard had frowned at him before offering up a stiff apology, then asked if Tony was all right. With tear-stained cheeks, Tony had said yes.

Howard gave a single nod and left the room. 

It’s not too late for Tony to step back in.

“Boss,” FRIDAY murmurs, “I just received signal from StarkWatch Eleven. No heartbeat detected.”

Shit.

Tony turns on his heels and beelines for the kitchen.

He all but throws his phone on the counter, the impact barely audible over the thundering of his pulse. He swipes at the holographic display until it matches the watch with a face and a name just recognizable enough to assure him Frank Castle fucked up.

Provided that’s not what Castle wants him to think.

The StarkWatches function as alarm bells, sure, but Tony never really imagined them to be anything more than deterrents. Castle’s been made aware of what they’re capable of and Tony can’t see him willing to cross out the names near the bottom of his list if it means he has to forgo the one at the top. If Tony’s lucky, Castle had already offed Gargan and it just slipped past his radar. More likely, this is a torture session gone overboard. Even more likely… 

Tony taps at the location pin and presses his palms onto the counter, leaning in as each second drags out longer than the last. When the map calibrates, Tony blinks, straightens, and then blinks again. 

“FRIDAY, refresh it. It’s saying Keeseville.”

“That’s because it is Keeseville.”

A street-view image of a small, dilapidated house pops up to further FRIDAY’s point. 

One of Castle’s safehouses, then. Just under three hundred miles north of the city—about ten minutes as the Iron Man flies. Barely enough time to get the hell out of Dodge if one knows what they’re doing, but not enough time to avoid every traffic camera while doing it. 

Or more than enough time to hide and wait.

“What are we at, FRIDAY? Thirty minutes?”

“Twenty-eight.”

“So ten minutes there, ten minutes back, and eight minutes to find him,” Tony muses. “What do you think?”

“I think it’s a trap.”

Tony hums. “Draw up a flight plan.”

With one last glimpse down the hallway, Tony strides for the roof-access door.

---

He makes it in nine.

The house has seen better days. The siding looks like it used to be beige once upon a time, but it's far too mottled now for Tony to say for sure. The roof is an abandoned patchwork of shingles and he can count at least two boarded-up window frames on the face of the house alone. The neighboring homes aren't in much better shape. Overall, a solid place to dispatch a lowlife no one would miss. A less solid place to take out Iron Man, but Tony’s been met with worse. 

Castle has to know that a rifle through the window won’t do him any good. Explosives are a safer bet. Far from original, but it's the best he could reasonably pull off without getting creative. Doesn't change the fact a rigged building is a one-trick pony, and Castle doesn't seem the type to put all his stock in something so predictable. Black market alien tech is the only thing Tony can come up with that he might have to worry about, and while he has no doubt Castle could get his hands on some if he wanted to, whether or not he would be willing to use such a volatile weapon is a different matter entirely.

Tony lands on the sidewalk to the front door. He anticipates a hail of gunfire and is greeted by a rabbit bolting at his feet.

He's just able to stop himself from firing a repulsor blast at the thing as it vanishes into the bushes.

“FRIDAY, give me an IR scan.”

For a second his vision blacks out, only to be replaced by the faint outline of the house in front of him. It's barely any warmer than the frigid air outside, save for a faint, misshapen glow coming from what Tony wagers is the basement. 

He tries and fails to get a sense of the glow's outline. “What are we thinkin’, FRI?”

“Temperature readings indicate that it's not warm enough to be a human heat signature.”

Well, not a living one. “Do me a favor and ping Watch Eleven.”

Tony's vision returns to normal as he makes his way up the front steps. He eyes the door frame for wiring, finds none, then aims his palm at the wall and blasts a hole where the window used to be.

When the dust clears, Tony's met with a misnomer of a living room. It's practically desolate save for a couch not even a junkyard could love facing a TV stand sans TV. Cobwebs layer upon themselves in the corners and grime is embedded so deeply in the carpet that it’s reason enough for Tony to stay in his suit. Slowly, Tony treads past the threshold and into the room.

“You auditioning for another Dateline special, Castle?” Tony calls, giving the space a once-over, then a twice-over. 

No response. He has yet to determine if that's for the better or not. 

“Check all traffic cams in a five-mile radius for any cars in the past fifteen minutes,” Tony decides. “Actually, make that ten miles. Run the plates against NYC cameras up to forty-eight hours ago until you get a match. And put the ping on max volume.”

FRIDAY’s affirmation comes in the form of a creeping percentage bar on his HUD and rhythmic beeping from below his boots.

Slowly, Tony paces a tight circle around the perimeter of the living room, turning the corner the second time around to find a closed door with bloodied fingerprints decorating the knob. Tony's hardly surprised, but the knot still tightens in his stomach. Castle's not being subtle. 

What was it Mahoney said? Something about the parking garage massacre being an outlier for the Punisher’s MO, something about how he mowed down the Kitchen Irish and Dogs of Hell. Didn't waste any time making it clean.

This isn't clean.

The percentage bar reads twenty percent. 

“How are we on the takeout ETA?” Tony asks, narrowing his eyes at the door.

“Fifteen minutes, boss.”

Tony grabs the knob and twists.

The intensity of the beeping increases twofold as a wooden staircase descends before him. He can barely make out the cement beyond the door frame at the bottom. If the basement has any windows, they're well blacked out. Also not a surprise, given that Tony’s approximately twenty feet from a fresh corpse in the worst game of Hot and Cold he's ever played in his life. He charges up his repulsor and holds his palm out in front of him, following the blood spatters on his way down.

It’s only when he’s a step away from the ground that, past the beeping and the high-pitched whine, he makes out the faint trickling of water.

Tony frowns. He aims his repulsor around the basement, over the dusty boarded-up windows and the corpse-less unfinished floor, and pauses on the ajar fuse box in the corner that he’d pay more than a glance if he weren’t on a time crunch. As is, the steady beeping and trail of blood coming from behind the opposite door seem like a surefire sign he’s about to find what he’s looking for.

“Last chance to play nice,” Tony says. “Or don’t. Your funeral.”

He half hopes the door will open with a storm of bullets. Instead, Tony opens it to a running shower and a dangling body. 

Tony braced himself, but there’s only so much bracing can do. The outline is blurred through the frosted glass door, which isn’t tall enough to obscure the limp wrists handcuffed to the showerhead or the blinking StarkWatch. A thick electrical cord is closed in the shower door near the ground, and Tony traces it back to where it’s plugged into an adjacent wall. Water and a live wire might've disagreed with his suit some years back, but one Ivan Vanko was a massive assist in mending that. He yanks the cord free, notes how it ends in frayed wires and jagged plastic, then opens the glass door.

The percentage bar reads seventy-five percent.

Tony swallows to rid the dryness from the back of his throat as he turns off the shower valve on the opposite wall. It’s distinctly out of the poor bastard’s reach, what with his strung-up hands and bound ankles. His feet are bare and there’s a dishtowel over his mouth tied at the back of his head. It’s stained red on the side from a scrape on his temple and accompanied by a whole rainbow of bruises on his face.

Jesus Christ.

“Nicholas ‘Nicky’ Cavella,” FRIDAY says quietly. “He has a warrant for sexual assault and felony murder.”

“That tracks,” Tony mutters. It’s about the only thing that tracks. Castle has zero qualms with headshots. This is creative. He took all the time and effort to rig this up without giving a shit about leaving behind bloody fingerprints on the door. “C’mon FRIDAY, where are we at with the plates?”

“I’ve almost finished,” she placates, then, “Zero matches.”

Tony blinks. “Zero?”

That can’t be right. Unless Castle hotwired a different car for the trip back. But he’d have to have done that before Cavella’s death, and Tony can’t place how-

His eyes drift to the electrical cord and his blood runs cold.

Right between the plug end of the cord and the wall outlet is an electric timer.

A quick look over the clock face confirms the timer was programmed to activate about fifteen minutes ago. Tony could’ve figured that. What has his breath catching in his throat is that it was programmed to stay off for five hours until then.

“FRIDAY,” he asks, trying to keep the tremble out of his jaw, “how long is the drive from Keeseville to the city?”

“Just under five hours.”

His vision tunnels.

Tony flies up the stairway and blasts a hole through the roof. In thirty seconds the house is entirely shrouded by the heavy clouds.

“Check- Check the city. Social media, police frequencies. Anything that could point to Castle,” he rushes out.

“On it,” FRIDAY says. “Reports indicate the fire alarm at the Milton Hotel in Long Island City was triggered seventeen minutes ago. More officers and fire are en route.”

“The hell does that have to do with Castle?”

“I can't say, boss. But this traffic footage was captured ten minutes ago from two blocks away.”

A busy street corner pops up at the edge of his HUD. It’s just the congestion of a normal New York street in the afternoon, and Tony’s about to ask what he’s supposed to be looking at before a streak of red and blue obscures the camera before it swings away. 

Tony’s heart drops to his stomach.

Notes:

so this chapter was actually originally supposed to be from peter's perspective, and there's a version i wrote with the entire first half in peter's perspective, but i had to change it to tony's for Reasons You Will Soon Find Out. fun fact: pretty much every chapter since chapter 12 has an alternate version from a different character's perspective because indecision is a lifestyle 😎

i just gotta mention how grateful i am for the comments on the last chapter over the past few years. i'm absolutely floored by all the compliments and well-wishes you guys offered, especially those of you who have stuck around since the beginning. my usual method is to reply to comments once i update, and by God am i going to try keep my replying streak going if it's the last thing i do, just give me a hooooot minute. so if you get an email reply notif from me 4 years later no you didn't, you actually just lost it in your inbox 4 years ago and are just noticing it now! crazy coincidence!

so yeah, the past couple years were kinda hectic! in no particular order, i:
• did archeology and licked bones in a late antiquity church (it's okay to eat cookies off a floor that hasn't been swept in 1500 years it's cool and good for you)
• got sick at least 7 separate times last year
• got professionally diagnosed with adhd by a popular youtuber
• broke off the end of my elbow upon crashing my bike into the curb of an ER and they screwed metal in my bones during finals week
• accidentally went to a pokemon-themed strip show with my dad (magikarp flashed us :/ )
• learned at the family reunion my distant cousin was finally beatified after getting martyred in guatemala by a paramilitary death squad trained by the cia
• got defrauded
• became lactose intolerant :(
• had elbow surgery 2: electric boogaloo to remove metal from my bones (if ur a blade/blacksmith who takes commissions hmu fr)
• was almost denied my bachelor's degrees bc i am allowed 2 unexcused absences from brazilian jiu-jitsu and i had 3 (do NOT skip fight club!!!)
• found out from an old man giving away pears on facebook marketplace that my landlord hired a hitman from chicago to kill his dad

oh yeah i'm going to try to be active on my tumblr again soon, so feel free to drop by!