Chapter Text
When Spider-Man fought, he was always cautious about his strength. He could break someone’s bones just by poking them too hard; he could dent steel with a flick of his wrist. Killing someone would be easy, if he wasn’t careful.
Spider-Man was always careful.
He wasn’t like Daredevil, who beats the ever-loving-shit out of the criminals he catches (there was a reason why the criminals of Hell’s Kitchen were too scared to say his name, and why the first thing anyone in trouble in that city did was scream for the Devil to save them); he couldn’t be, with his strength. It was too dangerous, too risky. Spider-Man was more of the humiliate them, incapacitate them, and web them brand. Granted, he did get in physical confrontations past simply webbing them, but he was always - always - careful to only use the barest fraction of his strength.
He always hit the attempted rapists the hardest, though.
Where a simple mugger would have gotten harsh bruises and sprained muscles, rapists got fractured ribs and broken bones. He didn’t mean to hit them the hardest per se - Peter had never gone out with the explicit intention of hurting them the most - but his strength always seemed to be more difficult to control around them.
It didn’t mean anything, though.
Anybody would punch those types of criminals the hardest, Peter justified. There was an entire YouTube channel dedicated to Daredevil’s exploits, for instance, and when they graphed out the injuries of his opponents - literally graphed them out, on a chart and everything, as if it was for school - the human traffickers and the sexual predators always had the highest injury count. Jessica Jones had snapped the neck of her rapist. It was a human, visceral reaction to act harshest towards those types of violations.
It didn’t mean anything.
It didn’t mean anything to him.
It wasn’t personal.
It wasn’t.
When Peter was seven, Skip became his babysitter.
Steven Westcott - Skip - was a much older, much cooler boy that lived a few streets down from Peter, and he was the only kid in a fifteen mile radius that didn’t avoid strange little Peter Parker for the sole reason that the seven year old could solve equations that gave college professors trouble.
“Aren’t you that kid whose nose is always buried in a textbook?” he had greeted. “Name’s Steven Westcott; call me Skip.”
Peter had glanced over the rim of his glasses to see a taller, older boy staring down at him with a cocky grin and quirk to his eyebrows. The seven year old had anticipated a short, empty conversation that ended the moment Peter said something that sounded a bit off coming from someone without a PhD, or a less short, painful confrontation that ended with a bloody nose and another pair of broken glasses.
He hadn’t expected the older boy to actually try to befriend him.
He definitely hadn’t expected him to succeed.
“Which way do you live? I never walked Einstein home before.”
“You don’t have to, Skip.”
“I want to. Einstein, this is the beginning of a beautiful friendship!”
And, strangely enough, it had been. Peter honestly couldn’t understand why Skip hung around him; most children wouldn’t be caught dead hanging out with someone so much younger than them, let alone one that was so weird that kids his own age hated him. He never asked why Skip kept coming around; he was too afraid of doing anything that could end the friendship just as it began.
Skip had been Peter’s first, best, and only friend.
Three weeks after he met Skip, May and Ben made him his babysitter.
They had been hesitant, at first. May and Ben had been so young when they received the orphaned Peter, newlyweds, really, and hadn’t been ready for a child, let alone the pint-sized genius they were aunt and uncle to. While Peter knew they loved him, they were stumbling through parenthood, and had overanalyzed every little decision - and regretted every decision they hadn’t, like when they impulsively told Peter to call them May and Ben instead of Aunt May and Uncle Ben. The idea of leaving their nephew with an older boy they didn’t know very well had grated on them, friend or no, and it had eventually been necessity that had persuaded them to accept Skip’s offer of free babysitting.
(“It’ll be fun,” Skip had informed Peter with a wink. “Not really babysitting at all, just the two of us, hanging out.”)
May and Ben had dropped Peter off at Skip’s house before leaving for their weekend shifts, hovering uncertainly before departing.
“Don’t worry, Mr. and Mrs. Parker, “ Skip had beamed, ruffling Peter’s hair. “I’ll take good care of him.”
Peter ran into Captain America while he was patrolling Brooklyn.
“Captain,” he greeted awkwardly. “You’re back.”
“Uh, yeah. Been back for a few days now; I understand I have you and your friends to thank for that.”
Peter shrugged noncommittally. “The Accords were crashing and burning on their own pretty well. We just sped up the process a bit. It was all just a coincidence, really.”
The Accords had crashed and burned, in a massive, fiery kind of way that would have been almost funny, if it didn't take so many innocents down with it.
Massive amounts of bureaucracy was never conducive to fast response times, and when aliens were falling from the sky, or mad scientists were making their bid for world domination, or Nazi organizations that resurrected phoenix style were trying to kill half of the planet’s population, sooner was always better than later. The world became painfully aware of this fact when disaster after disaster occurred with no Avenger in sight. Countries began to pull out of the Accords one by one, starting with Wakanda and continuing from there.
First, it had been some deranged mad scientist with some kind of laser tech in Minsk. The Avengers had stopped him before with very little trouble (he just kept escaping, resulting in them having to catch him again), but this time, the Oversight Committee in charge of deploying the remaining Avengers had decided their help wasn’t needed.
In the past three attempts the villain had made, only one person had died, and that was before the Avengers even showed up.
This time, seventeen people died.
Belarus, Poland, the Ukraine, and Germany left the Accords less than a week later.
Next, it was some lunatic lobbing grenades and an unknown, highly destructive concussive device around London. The local authorities couldn’t stop him due to the near-indestructible armor he was wearing. They requested the help of Iron Man and the Vision, and thus, the debates began. The Oversight Committee was still debating when the crisis was eventually stopped - after forty-seven deaths and countless injuries - when an everyday citizen revealed themselves to be powered and took down the madman with very little trouble. Instead of being thankful that lives were saved, the Committee tried to imprison the hero without a trial because she had never signed the Accords and didn’t wait until they gave the okay for superhuman intervention. England closed ranks around their new favorite hero, left the Accords, and basically gave the middle finger to anyone who tried to prosecute her.
And it so continued, one by one, until the only big holdout left was America.
Honestly, Peter was surprised it had taken so long. When Captain America was more welcome anywhere but America, you know something’s gonna snap. He just hadn’t expected it to snap with him in the center of it.
Hydra attacked Times Square less than six months after Captain America and Co. had become fugitives. Despite being only two blocks away, Stark was unable to intervene, stuck in his tower because the Oversight Committee was withholding his suits from him until they made a decision regarding intervention, all while Hydra rampaged through the city.
Spider-Man suited up, swung by Hell’s Kitchen to pick up Daredevil - marking the first time the man had ever fought outside of Hell’s Kitchen - and arrived in time to stop an armored Jeep Wrangler from crashing into a crowd at sixty miles per hour. He then proceeded to rip the door to the car off its hinges, yank out the Hydra agents - who Daredevil proceeded to beat the daylights out of - and throw said Jeep into the gun turret they had set up on the other end of Times Square.
It really went downhill from there. For Hydra.
Jessica Jones and Luke Cage pulled up in a taxi - a freaking taxi - halfway through the fight, and pretty much sealed the coffin on the already dwindling Hydra forces. Unlike Daredevil and Spider-Man, however, neither of them wore a mask. Apparently, any attempt at a secret identity for Jones had already been shot to Hell, due to the small fact that she had a tendency to casually crumple steel with her bare hands as an intimidation technique, and since she ran around throwing goons through walls and claiming to have laser eyes (she didn’t, Peter asked) whenever she delivered court summons for Hogarth. On top of all that, everyone and their cousin knew who she was after the Kilgrave debacle. Cage had an equally unlikely chance of ever maintaining a secret identity, since he had walked out of exploding buildings and bar fights alike without a scratch.
By the end of the battle, four exhausted superhumans were still standing, dozens of Hydra forces were on the ground, and a helicopter with mounted Chitauri weapons was dangling between buildings, caught in a web of Peter’s creation.
“You have three fractured ribs,” Matt informed him. “There’s also a few minor lacerations, major bruising, and a torn ligament.”
“You aren’t looking too hot yourself,” Peter shot back. It was true. The man had a cut cheek, bruises scattered across his visible skin, a split lip, and a limp.
Daredevil grinned, blood leaking across his teeth in a way that made Peter understand why there were criminals convinced he was Satan incarnate. “I wouldn’t know.”
“Oh, hardy har har. You’re so very funny. You know, those jokes only make sense when people know who you are; other people have no idea what you’re talking about.”
“That’s what makes it so funny.”
Peter reached out to shove the man, then groaned at the movement. “That sucked. That sucked so hard. Can I borrow concealer or something from Karen? My aunt’s gonna wonder why I got hurt, and then she’s gonna wonder why the bruises disappeared overnight.” Peter had had enough trouble trying to explain why his war wounds from Steve from Brooklyn had healed during the half-hour he had an icepack on them; he didn’t need anymore trouble.
“Yes, tell me more about the troubles of accelerated healing,” Daredevil intoned dryly. “The cross you bear must be so heavy. I’ll just go home and count myself lucky that I’ll have to spend the next few weeks claiming I fell down the stairs.”
“Man, you don’t need an advanced healing factor; you’ve got Catholicism. Pain just kind of rolls off you.”
“The Devil of Hell’s Kitchen is Catholic?” Jones interrupted. Peter turned around. The pair had crossed the Square while they had been talking, coming up behind them.
Matt cocked his head. “And if he is?”
Jones shrugged. “Nothing. Just thought Catholics had something against dressing up in bright red fetish gear before hanging around in dark alleys.”
Peter snorted a laugh. “I like you,” he declared. “Spider-Man,” he introduced, before pointing at Matt. “Daredevil.”
“We know who you are,” Cage said. He cast a surveying glance around the destroyed area. “What a mess.”
“Coulda used Stark or some shit,” Jones agreed. “Pizza?”
“Sure,” Peter shrugged. Behind them, the helicopter creaked and groaned ominously. “I... should probably get that down now; those webs dissolve after an hour, and I don’t want falling on someone.”
They ended up on the floor of Jones apartment, eight large pizza boxes set between them as they watched the news role in.
By the time the Council approved the use of Iron Man and Vision, six out of the eight pizzas were gone, Spider-Man had beaten both Jones and Cage in an arm wrestling contest, and Daredevil had beaten all of them at darts. (That in itself wasn’t very impressive to the other two, but Peter knew Matt was blind, just like he knew that the man was listening to the air currents or something to figure out the best way to hit the bullseye.) By the time the Council found out that the crisis had been resolved by four non-signed individuals, all the pizza was gone, and Jones had broken out her booze stash.
“Absolutely not,” Daredevil declared, not even looking up at the proffered bottle. “If you so much as look at an alcohol bottle, Webhead, I’m dragging you out of here.”
“You know, it’s highly unlikely I can even get drunk.”
“Don’t care. Until you’re twenty-one, you’re sticking to water.”
Jones looked at them incredulously. “He’s not twenty-one yet?”
Cage looked slightly disturbed. “You’re over eighteen though?”
“I plead the fifth,” Peter grumbled.
The bottle clunked on the floor. Jones spun on Daredevil. “Why the Hell are you letting him go out?”
“He doesn’t let me do anything,” Peter protested. “When we first met, he tried to duct tape me to a fire escape to keep me from fighting. He hadn’t figured out I had super strength yet.”
“You can’t really keep Spider-Man from doing anything,” Daredevil agreed reluctantly. “He’s too stubborn for that.”
By the time the Oversight Committee had issued warrants for their arrest, Jessica and Luke had mostly gotten over Peter’s age, and Matt and Peter were about to leave.
“They’ll have to figure out who we are before they can get close,” Matt pointed out, “but you two don’t have the same luxury. You were caught on camera fighting; they’ll find out where you live. You may want to get lawyers.”
“I’ve got one,” Jones replied. “Real shark, too. She’ll run circles around them.”
What followed was, quite frankly, a train wreck.
The NYPD refused to go after them. The police force - the people who had been shooting at them since day dot - would not fulfill the warrants for any of them, and even dropped the warrants they already had for Spider-Man and Daredevil.
“Why should we arrest them for saving our asses?” one officer scoffed, on live TV. “It’s more than the ‘official’ forces did.”
Frustrated, the Joint Counter Terrorist Center sent out their own forces, who were easily dodged by Matt and Peter, and buried in legal precedents by Jessica’s attorney, Hogarth, who, according to Matt, could smell the blood in the water better than an actual shark. Then, the videos of the fight hit YouTube, where one could find clear images of Daredevil single-handedly fighting off six men trying to attack a group of kids of a field trip, Jones throwing Hydra goons into one another, Cage shielding bystanders with his body, and Spider-Man physically catching a crashing bus before it could ram into a building. That resulted in protests from the New Yorkers, who were immediately offended that someone was being arrested for saving their lives. The Accords began to teeter in their last stronghold, and, as a last ditch effort, the Oversight Committee ordered Iron Man to bring in Daredevil and Spider-Man (they were still wading their way through red tape when it came to Jones and Cage).
Tony complied, then texted his completely normal grant receiver Peter Parker what neighborhoods he would be searching before taking off, merrily blasting ACDC as he went.
Say what you will about politicians, but they always know which way the wind was blowing. The second there was higher approval ratings for a mouthy kid in brightly colored spandex, a couple of alcoholics who literally stopped mid-fight to take a swig from a flask, and a man that half of the criminal underworld is convinced to be the Devil himself than for the heroes they championed, they changed their tune. Congress pulled out of the Accords in record time, as soon as the public pressure grew to the point it threatened their reelections.
The warrants out for Spider-Man, Daredevil, Jessica Jones, Luke Cage, Captain America, and the rest of the rogue Avengers were cancelled. Rumor had it that Captain America was returning to New York, but nothing had been substantiated. Peter had pushed the issue to the back of his mind, seeing as he had never expected to see the man again.
And now, of course, he had no idea what to say to him. Sorry for stealing your shield and webbing your hands? I didn’t realize how stupid the Accords were when I helped Stark, I just didn’t want him to tell my aunt on me? Totally not sorry for taking down your huge friend, that was awesome? Please don’t smack me in the face with your patriotic frisbee of justice?
In the end, the Captain spoke first. “What brings you to Brooklyn? I thought you were a Queens boy.”
“I am. I try to take care of all parts of New York, except its huge. I don’t have to worry about Hell’s Kitchen, Daredevil’s got it handled, but other parts don’t have their own vigilante. Mostly, I hang around Queens and Midtown, but I swing by Brooklyn, Manhattan, and a few other places whenever I can. Crime’s pretty bad around here.”
“Hopefully not for much longer,” Captain America replied. “I was planning on keeping an eye on the place.”
Peter’s eyebrows shot up from behind his mask. “Seriously? I guess I’ll head to the Bronx for a while, check out things around there. Oh, but make sure to check on Vinegar Hill, there have been some guys causing trouble the past few days, and they may be back. And there’s a group out in Fort Greene who keeps stealing cars, they seem to be dragging them back to a shop somewhere but I haven’t been able to find it yet. Also, a few gangs in Downtown have been acting up, but if you go after any of them, make sure they don’t find out where you live, because they’ll burn your house down. And -” Peter paused. The Captain was looking at him a tad bewildered, and a bit overwhelmed. “You’ve never been a vigilante before, have you?”
“Does everything that went down from Lagos to Siberia count?”
“No.”
“Then no.”
“Okay,” Peter breathed. “You’re more prepared than any of us were when we started out, so you shouldn’t have much trouble getting the hang of things. You’ll probably have your fair share of mishaps though, so be careful. Don’t piss off the police, or they’ll put warrants out for your arrest and shoot at you. When Daredevil started out, he got thrown into a lot of dumpsters - and I mean a lot - so if you want tips on how to avoid that, talk to him; they’re more helpful than you think. But for the love of all that is good and sweet, don’t drag trouble after you into Hell’s Kitchen unless you want to get the crud beaten out of you. Some of the us vigilantes meet every Thursday to spar; you’re welcome to come if you want. We keep burner phones in case we need backup; you might want to consider investing in one.”
“You’ve all really thought this out, haven’t you?”
“Trial and error, mostly. I - I heard that they’re still considering prosecuting Sergeant Barnes.”
“We don’t know yet,” he admitted. “But it looks like it’s heading that way.”
“Well, I’m guessing you’re not about to use Mr. Stark’s lawyers.”
Captain Rogers looked down. “No, I’m not. It wouldn’t be right to ask him that.”
Quickly, Peter reached down and pulled a worn business card from his boot. “Here. They’re good attorneys, someone to at least consider. They only represent the innocent in their cases, and they do a lot of pro bono work.” Peter paused. “Can you pay them? Because they’ll probably take your case either way, but innocent isn’t always synonymous with financially secure, and they get paid in bananas a lot.”
Rogers chuckled. “I can pay them. Nelson and Murdock,” he read. “I’ll check them out. Uh… You carry their business card in your boot?”
“...Yes.”
Sirens began blaring through the air, and if Peter concentrated, he could just make out the red glare of the lights. “Duty calls.”
“Spider-Man?” the Captain called after him. “Thanks. For looking out for this place, that is.”
Peter paused. “Have you spoken to Mr. Stark since you got back?”
He looked down. “Not yet. My shield was already in my apartment when I got back, but that’s the closest thing we’ve had to a communication. I didn’t want to push him if he didn’t want to see me.”
“Maybe… maybe you should consider it. I may not know what went down between the two of you, but I know that it can’t all be because of the Accords.” More sirens joined those already blaring. “I should go. Good luck, Captain.”
“Come on, Einstein. I want to show you something.”
Peter followed, curious. “What is it?”
Skip led him to his room, letting Peter sit on his bed while he rooted through his closet. Eventually, he let out a cry of victory and pulled out a magazine from the top shelf before offering it to Peter. “Bet you’ve never seen pictures like those in a stuffy textbook.”
“Uh, no…” Peter admitted. Frankly, he had never seen pictures like that anywhere. They looked like something May would ground him for knowing of their existence, let alone looking at them. Feeling uncomfortable, he shoved the magazine away.
Peter hadn’t noticed Skip sitting down next to him; the older boy was suddenly there, a bit too close for comfort.
“What do you say we conduct a little experiment of our own, Einstein?”
Skip put his hand on Peter’s tigh.
“Let’s see if we can touch each other like the people in that magazine.”
“Don’t, Skip,” Peter stuttered. “I - I have to go,” he scrambled. Then, he paused. Where would he go? His aunt and uncle wouldn’t be home for hours.
The call came while Spider-Man was swinging between buildings. Quickly, he flipped to a stop, landing on the rooftop to an apartment building.
“Hello?” he answered.
“Peter Benjamin Parker,” Foggy Nelson hissed. “Did you give Steve Rogers our business card?”
“Based on your tone, that question is rhetorical.”
“Captain freaking America just asked Nelson and Murdock to represent James Buchanan Barnes, Peter! And he says he heard about us from Spider-Man.”
“You sound mad,” Peter observed. “Does this mean you’re not taking the case?”
“Of course we’re taking the case,” Foggy said. “But a little warning that Truth, Justice, and the American Way was about to walk in our doors would have been nice.”
Peter paused. He hadn’t considered that. “Oh. Yeah, I suppose so. Sorry.”
Foggy sighed. “I’m a flexible person; I feel I’ve learned how to handle the weird pretty well these past few months. My blind best friend turns out to be a ninja vigilante with freaky heightened senses? Sure! He drags back another vigilante with a similar coloring scheme one day to mentor, as if Spider-Man’s some kind of little lost puppy? Why not? But right now there’s a superpowered World War II vet sitting in my waiting room, and damn it, I have earned the right to a heads up!”
“I am not some kind of lost puppy - wait Rogers is there right now?”
“Uh, yeah,” Foggy replied. “Matt’s not in yet, and Captain Rogers didn’t want to have to repeat everything twice, so Karen’s waiting with him while I ducked in my office to make a few phone calls.”
“Foggy!” Peter hissed. “I’ve been to your offices; the waiting room is literally right outside of your office!”
“So?”
“Captain Rogers has heightened senses; Stark warned me about them before Germany! They’re not close to Matt’s level, but they’re still jacked up! He’s probably heard every single word of this conversation!”
“What? Oh God, oh God, I’ve mentioned Matt in this conversation! I’ve mentioned Matt as Daredevil in this conversation!”
“Technically, you never pointed out that he was specifically Daredevil until right now.”
Foggy swore. “Heightened senses were not on his Wikipedia page!”
“Calm down,” Peter soothed. “We don’t know that he heard anything.”
Foggy groaned. “No, he definitely heard everything. His face has gone really red and he keeps glancing over at the office.” Foggy groaned again. “And now he’s even redder, and he’s flat out staring at the office. And he just waved. And now Matt’s walking in. I am screwed. I am so screwed. I blame you for this, Parker.”
“You’ve mentioned my name in this conversation too, along with the fact that I’m Spider-Man. This is not my fault!”
Across the line, Peter could hear the sound of a door opening.
“Foggy, why did Captain America just greet me as Mr. Daredevil?”
Peter wisely decided that this was the best time to hang up.
The fact that his encounter with Rogers may or may not have led to the reveal of both his and Matt’s secret identities was potentially bad, but not disastrous. Tony “I am Iron Man” Stark had figured out his identity months ago, and it was still safe; Rogers seemed to be cut from an even more secretive cloth. Even though the situation wasn’t ideal, he probably wouldn’t tell anybody.
Either way, freaking out about it wouldn’t do anything.
Sucking in a deep breath, Peter attempted to center himself. Whenever his emotions ran high, his senses went haywire. Matt had been teaching him how to handle his enhanced awareness, but he had nowhere near the effortless control of the man; he still needed time to get them in hand.
He breathed in.
He breathed out.
He listened to the sounds of the city.
And he heard something.
The hand inched higher.
By the time Peter truly realized what was happening, he was too scared to run.
Everything had spiralled out of control so quickly.
One second, Peter had been sitting on the roof of the apartment building, the next a noise from the structure itself had him spinning into motion without a thought, and suddenly, a window was in pieces and Peter was standing in somebody’s living room.
And Peter found that none of that mattered, because there was a trembling boy named Tony in front of him, no more than ten years old, and he was pinned to the ground by an older woman, his belt already unbuckled and his pants halfway down his legs.
The woman jumped away as if she had been burnt. “What the Hell do you think you’re doing?” she snapped.
Peter had heard her speak from the roof, had heard every word of the horrific, disgusting conversation that had just occurred. He had heard Tony’s laughter as she played with him, heard his innocent request to watch Star Wars together. He had heard promise that they could if he just did one little thing for her: if he just took off all his clothes.
He had heard naive laughter morph into confused stammers as harmless tickles turned into disturbing touches.
Suddenly, Peter wanted to snap back at her. He wanted to shoot webs over her mouth so she could never make such a disgusting request again, wanted to treat this as if were just another back alley crime.
Except this wasn’t some random rapist in the dead of night; this wasn’t just another back alley crime. This was Tony’s mom, or aunt, or cousin, or neighbor, or babysitter, and it was suddenly so close to memories better left forgotten that Peter couldn’t breathe.
What he wanted more than anything, he realized, was to get Tony away from this ugly scene that could only cause pain.
And so he turned away from the woman, and back towards the boy. “It’s okay,” he began.
“Don’t talk to him! This is trespassing, get out!”
Peter ignored her. He focused on Tony, who was glancing between Spider-Man and his attacker with undisguised fear. “You don’t have to be afraid.”
“Tony, go to your room!”
Peter wanted him to understand, to understand better than little, seven-year-old Peter ever had. “You can leave. You don’t have to stay with her. You can go.”
Tony made a decision.
He scrambled to his feet and hiked up his pants, cheeks burning red with shame. Then, he ran to Spider-Man, casting a wary glance at the panicking woman. “I - I want to go.”
Peter didn’t think twice.
They were back out the window and over the city in moments, thin arms wrapped around Peter’s neck as he swung through the air. Peter set the two of them down on a rooftop a block away. The minute his feet touched the ground, Tony scrambled away, stumbling to a stop and falling to the ground.
He started to cry.
Awkwardly, Peter hovered next to him, silently freaking out. He was terrible at comforting people, and he didn’t even have the foggiest clue as to how to make this better. He was standing on the rooftop with a crying little kid who had just been assaulted, and Peter still needed to talk to him and find out just how long it had been going on and how far it had gone and a million others things, but he had no idea how to do any of that.
Oh, and it was possible that he had technically kidnapped this kid. Couldn’t forget that part.
Peter carefully raised his hand to touch the boy’s shoulder in a hopefully comforting way, but dropped it again instead. Shifting awkwardly, Spider-Man crouched down next to the crying child, flinching internally when the boy sobbed harder and shrank in on himself.
Eventually, the tears dwindled. Tony began to abruptly tear at his skin in a frantic manner, red scratches appearing along his arms.
Peter gently placed a gloved hand over the boy’s. “Stop,” he warned softly.
Tony shook his head. “I feel dirty.”
“I know, Tony, but you can’t -”
“Know?” the boy snapped, tears forming in his eyes again. “How could you know? You’re a superhero! You’re Spider-Man!” he stated with a watery hysteria. “You don’t understand!”
Peter swallowed.
He could speak in hypotheticals, could tell Tony about a “friend” he once knew. He could walk away without ever voicing a terrible truth aloud.
He couldn’t.
“I do understand,” Peter answered slowly. “I - I understand perfectly.”
Comprehension dawned in Tony’s eyes.
“But - but you’re a superhero,” he stuttered slowly. “You have powers.”
“I didn’t always. I used to be just a scrawny little kid, too scared to run, too embarrassed to ask for help.”
Tony watched him through red-rimmed eyes. “You - you were scared?”
Beneath the mask, Peter smiled humorlessly. “Terrified,” he answered honestly. “More terrified than I had ever been in my entire life.”
“Did you ever tell?”
“Eventually,” Peter nodded.
“Why?” Tony glanced up, looking simultaneously hopeful and scared for the answer. “If you were embarrassed, why did you tell people?”
“Because I was even more scared that if I didn’t, it would never stop.”
By the time May and Ben returned, Peter’s clothes were back on.
His belt was buckled.
His pants weren’t even rumpled.
(Skip had made sure to finish with him long before his aunt and uncle came back.)
“Did you boys have fun?” Ben questioned.
“We had a great time!” Skip beamed, innocent, charismatic grin in place.
Peter didn’t answer.
(But he also didn’t tell.)
Tony’s parents worked as lawyers at Hogarth, Chao, and Benowitz.
Because of course.
Peter had to give this to the law firm: soulless sharks or not, they knew how to hire some impressive help.
The receptionist was giving Peter a look that was part bored, part pure, unadulterated steel, as if it was completely normal to have Spider-Man standing in your waiting room, clutching the hand of a young boy. Then again, this was the firm that Jones worked with, so it probably wasn't the strangest thing she had ever seen. “Mr. and Mrs. Lewis are in a meeting at the moment,” she said, barely glancing up. “They're not to be disturbed.”
If they wanted to play hard ball, that was fine by Peter; he could be just as stubborn as them. ‘Disturb them’ had almost left his lips when Tony interrupted.
“We can wait,” he hurriedly said, dragging Peter back to the waiting area. Reluctantly, he followed.
It had been a long, painful talk with Tony on that rooftop. While Peter didn't force him to say anything he was uncomfortable with, he did find out the important things, namely that it was the first time his babysitter, Judy, had ever tried anything, she had only just begun to touch him when Spider-Man showed up, and he really, really didn't want to tell his parents.
That last part held a bit more difficulty than the others.
It had taken over three hours of hesitant conversation, soft arguments, and a thousand repetitions of “It’s not your fault” in order to convince Tony that his parents wouldn’t be upset with him.
They would be upset with Judy, granted, but not with him.
When Tony finally seemed to come to terms with the fact that it wasn’t his fault (something Peter had struggled with much longer than him), Spider-Man web-slung the two of them over to his parents’ work; this wasn’t the type of thing you sat on.
Tony was clutching Peter’s arm with a strength that would have been impressive if he wasn’t, you know, Spider-Man. Peter glanced down at him with concern. “You okay?”
Tony swallowed. Hard. “Yeah,” he stuttered. “Just fine.”
Okay, stupid question, Parker.
“How did your parents take it?” Tony asked suddenly, his voice hushed.
“They weren’t upset with me, Tony,” Peter promised. “And yours won’t be either.”
“I know that,” he rushed to respond, though he didn’t sound all that convinced. “But how did they, you know, react?”
“Well,” Peter said thoughtfully, thinking back to that day he had finally said something, “they did cry. And then my au - mom tried to take a tire iron to my babysitter's head.” She didn’t make it out the front door or anything, thank God - the last thing they had needed was assault with a weapon charges. When May had rooted up the heavy metal tire iron from the basement before walking towards the door with obvious intent, Ben had intervened, grabbing away the bludgeoning device and holding her. She had fought him briefly, still trying to get to the door, before bursting into tears.
Neither of them had realized that Peter was watching from the top of the stairs.
“And then they called the police,” he finished.
Tony looked worried.
Frankly, Peter wasn’t really sure which part was worrying the kid more: the tire iron part or the police part.
He wasn’t really sure how to reassure him either, in all honesty. The tire iron probably wouldn’t happen for him, and the police definitely would, but there was no getting around that.
“What the Hell?”
Peter snorted, not even bothering to turn around. “Eloquent as always, Miss Jones.”
“What are you doing here, Webs? Hogarth didn’t manage to get her claws into you, did she?”
“Nah, I’m here for something else,” Peter responded. Nodding at his companion, he said, “Jones, this is Tony. Tony, this is my friend Jessica.”
“Nice to meet you,” he piped up, giving a wane smile before glancing back down at the ground.
Jessica shot him a questioning look; Peter shook his head in response.
“Tony?”
Tony jumped to his feet. “Hi, Mom.”
There was a pretty, dark-skinned woman staring at the pair of them, her elegant features pulled back into an expression of sheer worry. A tall man dressed in a dark business suit was coming up behind her, and, based on his likeness to the boy, he was Tony’s father.
“Are you alright? Why aren’t you with Judy?” Her gaze fell to the brightly colored vigilante sitting next to her son. Awkwardly, Peter gave her a small wave. “Why are you here? Did something happen?” she demanded, her sight locked on the vigilante, her eyebrows furrowed, and her gaze dissecting Peter’s every move.
“Mr. and Mrs. Lewis, hi,” Peter responded. “There’s - there’s something Tony needs to talk to you about. In private.”
Concern prickled at the corners of her eyes. “We can go to my office. Come on, Tony.”
As she reached for her son, Tony dug in his heels and clenched Peter’s hand tighter. “You said you wouldn’t leave,” he accused, staring at Spider-Man. “You said you’d stay until I so it was okay.”
“And I won’t leave,” Peter promised.
Visibly, the boy relaxed, and Peter suspected it was more due to the fact that he was someone who knew what he was going through rather than the fact that he was Spider-Man.
“What did you want to tell us?” Mr. Lewis asked, his deep voice pinched with worry.
And, in short, painful sentences, Tony told him.
What happened next was much of what Peter remembered of when he told his aunt and uncle: horrified gasps, tears, and the completely and utterly devastated look of someone trying to figure out how the Hell this had happened.
When Peter finally left, they asked him what they could ever do to repay him.
“You - you already have,” Peter answered with a slight, barely noticeable tremor in his voice. “It may not seem that way, but you’ve done more than repay me.”
And then he was gone.
When Peter got home, he went upstairs, turned on the shower as hot as it could go, and scrubbed at his arms until they bled.
No matter how hard he scrubbed, it never seemed to wash Skip away from him.
But with the burning water raining down on him, Peter could pretend the warm streaks flowing down his cheeks were from the shower.
Peter cried.
He left Tony behind, found a tall, abandoned rooftop far enough from Hell’s Kitchen that Daredevil could never hear him, and sank to the ground and cried.
Peter had always liked to shove his past to the back of his mind, pretend like what had happened had gone away the moment Skip finally left his life. But, deep down, it had been there every step of the way, dogging him from the shadows of his mind.
Deep down, there had always been a dark, ugly part of him whispering itwasyourfaultyourfault yourfault.
It wasn’t until he met Tony, saw the parallels between the two of them, that he truly realized he hadn’t done anything wrong.
He wasn’t responsible; he didn’t need to feel ashamed or disgusted with himself anymore. It wasn’t his fault.
It really hadn’t been his fault.
It was as if a weight had been lifted from Peter’s mind. For the first time since Skip had touched him, Peter felt whole again. It was finally over.
The relief of it was enough to make him cry.
When he stopped, he felt different. Cleansed. As if a black film of disgust had finally been removed from his mind, freeing him.
Peter got up, changed out of his costume had went home, feeling lighter than he had in a long, long time.
“Peter?” May questioned, her worried gaze dropping from his red-rimmed eyes to his haggard appearance. Instantly, the overprotective lioness that had hovered just beneath the surface since the day he told her what had happened resurfaced. Granted, she didn’t believe in helicoptering over every little thing he did, but she had also developed a keen radar for BS after Skip slipped under hers. She had never really forgiven herself for falling for his only-child, Peter-is-the-brother-I-never-had act, despite Peter’s insistence that it wasn’t her fault. Unfortunately, that same overprotective lioness was the reason he could never tell her about Spider-Man: Peter hadn’t exaggerating when he told Mr. Stark she would freak out. “What happened?” she demanded. “Did someone hurt you?”
Peter remembered the way she had cried when she found out what Skip had done to him, remembered the scorching fury in her voice and the “damn straight we are pressing charges” she had snapped out at the police officer who dared ask. Smiling, he hugged her, wishing for a moment that he didn’t have super strength, because it made everyone else delicate porcelain he could so easily break, and he didn't want to risk that with May. “I’m okay, May,” he promised, pulling back. “I’m really, really okay.”
It would never happen again, Peter vowed.
What had happened with Skip had been a dirty, foreign thing that he - despite his high IQ and above average intelligence - didn’t understand. Somehow, Peter doubted that he ever would. It felt like something that he could never make sense of because it didn’t make sense, and would never make sense. All that he knew was that it made him feel filthy and ashamed, and he never, ever wanted it to happen again.
And it wouldn’t. He would avoid Skip; take away the cause, and the problem would disappear with it. Eventually, Peter told himself, he would forget. It would be nothing but a distant, foggy memory that didn’t affect him anymore. It was over.
It didn’t matter anymore.
It didn’t.
It didn’t.
(It did.)
He could be okay again, Peter vowed. He would be okay again.
(Peter didn’t really believe this, not yet.)
He wasn’t okay.
He had been okay, had been better than okay. Peter had been free. He was free of the disgust, free of the crawling feeling of someone’s hands where they weren’t supposed to be, free of Skip.
It should have gotten better from there.
But instead, Peter had fallen asleep early that night, mentally, physically, and emotionally exhausted, and ended up sleeping through the night and straight through the morning as well, not waking until past noon.
When he woke up, Peter couldn’t even bring himself to be mad at himself for missing out on patrol that night. He was still stuck in the languid, floating sense of freedom, too drunk on relief to imagine all the people he could have helped if he had patrolled rather than slept. He got up, poured himself a bowl of slightly stale cereal, and vowed to go out as soon as he finished eating. Absently, Peter trailed into the living room, noting that May hadn’t picked up the newspaper before she left for her Saturday morning shift at the hospital; it may be old fashioned, but both Peter and May loved reading the fine print, and most mornings the paper could be found on their coffee table, defiantly displayed against everyone that said print was an outdated form of media.
(*cough* Stark *cough*)
Plopping solidly down on the sofa, Peter grabbed the remote and flipped on the TV at random, barely noting that it had landed on the news station before he noticed the headlines.
Scrawled against the bottom of the screen in massive, unmistakable block letters, it read: Spider-Man’s Tragic Story, Shocking Abuse Scandal Rattles New York.
The bowl shattered in his hands.
Peter barely noticed the ceramic shards cutting into his fingers, didn’t register the milk and knock-off brand Corn Flakes splashing all over the floor. Instead, he listened as the over-dressed newscaster spoke in a fake-devastated tone about how one of New York’s favorite heroes had been raped as a child, an unmistakable gleam of excitement in her eyes at having such a scandalous story at her fingertips.
Peter’s hands became clammy and his heart began to race. This wasn’t supposed to happen; he was supposed to get better from here; no one was supposed to find out.
(They still did.)
Peter could barely hear that stupid, obnoxious reporter over the wave roaring in his ears; he didn’t want to hear her. But his super-hearing obviously didn’t get the message, as he managed to pick up her gleeful voice soliloquizing about how the Amazing Spider-Man had rescued a poor little victim of sexual abuse yesterday - whose name had not been revealed, thank God - and how an “unnamed source” had overheard the boy talking to his parents at the police station about how he wouldn’t have told them what happened if it hadn’t been for Spider-Man, who convinced him it would be okay after telling him how his sexual abuse had stopped when he went to an adult.
Oh.
Oh.
Peter sucked in a shaky breath before sinking to his knees and starting to pick up the shards on the ground. He wasn’t mad at Tony; he really wasn’t; after all, he had straight up told the kid to be honest with his parents about everything. He just hadn’t exactly expected one of those things to include what he had told him.
People finding out, it didn’t matter. It didn’t affect what he did as Spider-Man, and it certainly didn’t affect what he did as Peter Parker. He would just keep doing what he was doing, and people would forget about it in a few weeks. It didn’t matter.
It didn’t.
It didn’t.
(It did.)
Peter’s jacket began to buzz. Startled, he cut his finger on a shard and, swearing, he jerked the burner phone from his pocket. When he saw the blinking display flash up at him, Peter swore again. Matt was calling him, and he had had apparently been doing it all morning, if the twelve missed calls were an indication. Peter had put it on vibrate the day before - he had been searching through a warehouse that was a suspected front for arms-dealing, and he hadn’t wanted to alert anybody of his presence by something as ridiculous as his phone ringing - and had forgotten to turn it back to sound. Quickly, he punched the answer button, praying that Matt wasn’t calling because he had been kidnapped or shot or was dying in a dark alley somewhere.
“- don’t know, Karen, he’s not picking up, calm down and let me listen-”
“Matt?”
“Peter! Are you okay? I’ve been calling all morning; you haven’t been picking.”
“I was asleep,” he explained numbly. “Sorry, I didn’t realize.”
“Karen and Foggy were worried,” Matt explained. The ‘so was I’ went unspoken. “Karen was about to head to Queens and break down your door.”
A smile tweaked at the edges of Peter’s lips. “I think that would be a little hard to explain to my aunt.”
“Peter... Have you seen the news?”
Peter slumped backwards. Of course it would be about this. “Yeah,” he answered, closing his eyes. “Yeah, I have.”
A pause. Then, “Is it true?”
“Yes.”
Silence.
Peter sighed. “If you keep clenching the phone that hard, you’re going to break it, and then Foggy will give you the 'Matt Murdock, why must you do these things' look, and Karen will give you the 'we have no money, damnit Matt, this is why we can’t have nice things' look, and you will be able to sense them somehow despite the fact that you’re blind and sensing the disappointed looks of your coworkers is not part of the other four senses, and then you’ll be upset and go beat up the Bulgarian mafia or something, which is bad for both the Bulgarian mafia and you, because they’ll be in the hospital and you should be in a hospital but you’ll be too Catholic to go, and then poor Claire will be called and she’ll give you the 'I’m a nurse not a miracle worker, Murdock' look before she calls Foggy and Karen, and then there will be all new looks and you’ll go out and beat up even more people. Don’t break the phone, Matt. It’ll cause a vicious cycle.”
It’s a point of personal pride that, despite everything that was going on, that sentence managed to pull a bewildered “What?” from Matt’s lips.
“Vicious. Cycle.”
“I’m not clenching my phone, Peter,” Matt, the lying liar who lies, lied.
“You totally are. Whenever you are pissed, but there’s no one around you can punch, you clench whatever you’re holding really tight and it breaks. Always. I’ve seen you break a cane handle like that, which is really impressive seeing as those canes have survived you chucking them in every alley under the sun.”
A tired sigh. “Don’t change the subject, Peter.”
Quickly, Peter’s heart picked up, beating to the tune of he’snotsupposedtoknownoone’ssupposedtoknowhecan’tknowhecan’tknowhecan’tknow. “Subject?” he evaded. “What subject? Pretty sure I’m on subject. We were talking about your phone, and how you’re totally going to break another one of them - which, come one, happens a lot, you really didn’t need to throw that last one at that guy’s head, it didn’t even hit him that hard - which segues nicely into how you do that with everything, an excellent example of which is that perfectly good cane you broke last week. So, really, I’m not changing any subject,” he rambled.
“Peter,” Matt started again. “Are - are you okay?”
Which, for Matt “Of course I’m okay, it’s only a slight ninja sword on freaking chains wound” Murdock, roughly translated to: You’re totally hurt and we both know it, but we also will never admit it, so please, please don’t do something stupid that will end with you getting mortally wounded, because God knows I will have to come running in after you like the overprotective mama bear that I am, and we do not need to fuel anymore rumors that Daredevil and Spider-Man are dating, you are fifteen and that is a freaking felony.
Instantly, he deflated. “I will be,” he promised.
“Do you want us to come over?”
When he had first started vigilante-ing, the very idea of someone knowing his secret identity, let alone knowing where he lived, would have been enough to send him into a nervous breakdown. Of course, that was before he met Tony “Privacy? What is this privacy you speak of?” Stark and Matt “I can hear your heartbeat from ten miles away, and it’s not creepy at all” Murdock.
Secret identities kind of go to Hell around those two.
Briefly, he considered letting them come over. Matt had had his fair share of people defining him by only one aspect of himself, so it was highly unlikely he would treat Peter any different now that he knew. Karen would definitely be her usual badass self - really, Karen only had one setting, and that was badass - and bulldoze anything she deemed stupid, harmful to her loved ones, or stupid. Foggy would be, well, Foggy: He would march in ready to impose something he called “self-preservation skills” on the reckless, dumbass vigilantes he surrounded himself with, viciously mother everything in sight, and probably call someone a handsome duck. Because that was how Nelson and Murdock (and Page, damnit, I put up with way too much of your crap for way too little pay, I deserve my name on that door) rolled. It would be nice, he supposed, to hang out with them without it involving crime fighting and copious injuries.
“Nah,” he dismissed. “I’ll be fine.”
Matt didn’t ask if he was sure, which Peter was grateful for. Instead, he made him promise to call if he needed anything before passing the phone to Karen and Foggy, who somehow managed to talk about absolutely everything except what was on the news without making it sound like they were avoiding the elephant in the room, God bless them.
Eventually, they hung up, leaving Peter sitting on the floor, little shards scattered around him as the news gleefully broadcasted about the worst thing that had ever happened to him.
He had been such a fool to think it was over.
Peter stuttered to a stop at the foot of his staircase.
Skip was standing at the his front door, platnium blond hair neatly combed and that too-innocent, oh-God-how-did-I-not-see-how-fake-it-was smile on his lips.
“Hey, Einstein,” he grinned. “Come on, your aunt and uncle asked me to babysit again.”
And Peter realized that he had been a complete and utter idiot to think it was over just because he wanted it to be.
After all, Skip hadn’t stopped before just because Peter wanted him to. Why would he start now?