Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Spider-man wasn't there when the Sokovia Accords were signed, when pen was put to paper by the hands of those who were supposed to be their saviours. He wasn't there when the implications of what they had just agreed to hit the Avengers like a freight train.

James ‘Bucky’ Barnes was trialled and sentenced to death row for committing at least 24 murders, executed via the electric chair one and a half months into his stay. Wikipedia says his last meal was pancakes, Steve Rogers agrees.

Spider-man wasn't there when the Avengers broke up, when former teammates turned their backs on each other and went their separate ways only to return at the infrequent calls of the government. Spider-man wasn't there when Steve went half crazy with grief, turning into a shell of the man he once was. A robot on the battlefield, just working through the motions. 

Spider-man was there however, in the aftermath. 

With the Avengers now under the control of more than 117 separate governments and sovereigns it was not unusual for the disbanded super team to be told to sit out a fight. Those in charge citing that there was no need for more ‘unnecessary’ damage to the city despite the fact that the oncoming threat would likely destroy half of it anyways.

Peter Parker was also there in the aftermath. Wading through rubble and debris both in and out of his suit. The first months were hard. They were gritty and dark and he quickly became accustomed to the thick, dust-heavy air getting stuck in his lungs, the long nights of waking up wheezing, tar-like mucus escaping from his lungs in stringy black threads that pulled deep from his chest as he coughed and heaved.

May is working all the time. Getting more and more frequent 12-24 hour shifts at the hospital to accommodate the influx of injured people that come with the Avengers forced absence.

It helps with Peter's secrets but not his health.

He plays it off as a growth spurt on the rare occasions May is home at the same time as him. He can feel her worried eyes hanging onto his thinning frame from over the table, her concern draping itself across his shoulders like a too warm blanket.

He can’t hide behind baggy clothes and infrequent contact forever, and it doesn’t take a genius to notice that while his plate is getting fuller her plate is not. 

🕸

The first few weeks after the Sokovia Accords are signed are the hardest. The people of New York distrust him, even more so than they did at the very start. Civilians both fear and despise him, no matter how hard he works to protect them. They see Spider-man as the next Winter Soldier, a criminal waiting to happen just because he didn't sign the Accords.

Peter gets hollered at from cars on the street as he swings by, called a monster and a murderer from behind glowing screens and television sets. They ignore the blood in his mouth, the shoulder he sets back into place as he stands up again and again, the gaping wound in his side that throbs painfully in his suit. They ignore all he has lost while fighting for them. All he has given up.

They don't know him though and he tries not to take it to heart.

He's on the police’s Wanted list again. That isn't too different from usual though as he had only just been taken off of it before this all went down and he wasn't yet out of the habit of avoiding them.

It takes about a week before someone starts tailing him. They’re clumsy, easy to lose and inexperienced, he isn't sure if it's someone from the police or a misguided civilian but he doesn't stop to find out. 

He still takes a roundabout way home though, just to be safe. Between school and his vigilante duties he doesn't exactly have enough time to stop and figure out who it is.

Peter does understand why the citizens of New York had believed that the Sokovia Accords would be for the better. When whole suburbs are being flattened weekly by suspectedly uncaring supers as they fight the villain of the month it isn't hard to think things will be better when the government offers to control those doing the damage.

Not even Peter himself had realised how little the Avengers would actually be deployed until after the fact.

To be fair, this life isn't too much of a change from the way things have been for the past two years.

Peter still fights. Still punches creepy men in back alleys in the face. Still tunes into New York City's Police radios and medical lines so he can get there first and limit the casualties.

There's just a little more… spice in the way that everyone now hates him. A little more danger in the way he gets followed.

A little more uncertainty now that the Avengers aren't there to lean on.

The Avengers had always been Peter's last resort despite the ease in which he could contact them. He had always assumed they would be there and he found this attitude to be a fatal mistake in the first weeks of the Accords. They had been a failsafe that had rarely been used but had always been there. The safety net beneath his feet. The cushion on the way down. 

Now there's nothing but police radio broadcasts and an empty skyline.

He rips down the Ironman poster in his bedroom and May doesn't even ask why. Eyes only halting for a moment on the lighter patch of wall that it had hung on previously as she collects his dirty laundry. 

Their rare dinners together are quiet, filled only with the scrape of cutlery and the wail of sirens in the distance. Peter itches to go, to chase those faint alarms through the streets already tuned in on what's happening. He is the only one left to defend this city and that fact leaves his heart cold and his hands jittery.

After the Sokovia Accords things change, not all at once, and not necessarily for the better.

But they do change.

Slowly. Slowly Spider-man starts to earn back the trust of his city. Slowly people begin to respect him. The sun looks brighter and the grass seems greener as he swings through parks and over bustling streets.

He works.

And works. And works some more.

The streets aren't always safe, some people will always be the same and his ribs ache from a heavy punch given to him by someone or the other more often than not. Peter's still alone but at least he's not hated.

Eventually, after about several weeks of work, an old woman Peter helps across the street gifts him a churro from the depths of her handbag and as he sits atop a skyscraper, mask pulled up to munch happily on the treat he finally breathes.

The air is smoggy, thick with pollution and danger alike but the skyline seems clearer, brighter, warmer, as the people accept him.

Sure it’s still fairly normal for Peter to come home with a new insult stuck in his lungs. A little jab that rattles around his chest or swirls in his stomach but things are getting better.

He notices as New York's residents begin to go outside again. Parks and cafes filling as trust is thrust further onto the lap of Spider-man. People placing their healthiness and safety in the hands of their local vigilante once more.

People call out to him as he swings by. Without his systems he wouldn’t hear half of them considering the fact he's focusing more on aiming his webs than whatever is being yelled. Usually it's someone saying thank you and all it takes is Peter waving at them to make their day.

Less and less often does he have to stop. The days of pausing mid-swing because someone screamed his name, begged for a photo, or shoved a pen in his direction for an autograph are growing fewer. The novelty is wearing off. Some people still see him as a celebrity, but most? Most see him as a problem.  

That’s fine.  

Peter learned a long time ago that he doesn’t do this for approval. He doesn’t need the key to the city or a parade in his honor. What he needs is to keep people safe. And if that means dealing with a few scornful looks, a few more doors slammed in his face? So be it.  

Because while the people might be split on him, the government is not. They hate him. The authorities by extension, too. That’s to be expected—especially when he’s the one hero left in the city who isn’t a government asset, who didn’t sign away his freedom to a panel of people who care more about political optics than human lives.  

The Avengers might have agreed to oversight, to waiting for approval before stepping in. But Peter?  

Peter still swings through the streets at night. He still stops muggings in alleyways before the cops even get a chance to respond to the call. He still helps, and he doesn’t have to wait for permission from some international committee full of people he doesn’t even know the names of.  

He’s still free.  

And that makes him dangerous.

Peter thinks he has earned the right to be a bit of an ass to the police officers that harass him as he tries to help. Though the occasional hand being webbed to a patrol car seems to keep them cautious enough to do nothing more than send infrequent sprays of bullets after him as he swings through a crime scene.

Several times as he webs petty criminals to the tarmac in front of patrol cars an angry question or statement will be thrown his way.

“Just take the suit off,” a particularly hairy lipped cop had yelled at him as he crouched atop a light pole after a particularly hectic robbery, “We’re better off without Spider-man anyway.” 

Peter had grinned beneath the mask, spandex encased hand flying up to clutch at his pearls in mock disgust like an old timey noblewoman, “Take off my clothes?!” he had shrieked, “My, my,” he’d shaken his head roughly, eyes closing for effect, “Men these days don't even have the courtesy to ask you out to dinner beforehand.”

That particular officer hadn't taken Peter's banter very well and instead pulled his gun out of its halter, pointing it at him as a warning.

“Get out of here, Spidey,” the man had growled, face darkening as he stared up at the red and blue clad vigilante, “If you have to be in this godforsaken city at least get out of my sight.”

Peter had taken the man's hint, sending a last spray of web at the struggling thieves laying below him before swinging off.

He watches over the people like a guardian angel from the rooftops of skyscrapers and apartment complexes alike. Going out every night regardless of the hour to fight the bad guys no-one else can see. Peter is a vigilante. He protects. He hopes and prays and tries.

For the ones who deserve it, for the people who need him.

At the ripe old age of fifteen Spider-man has taken the burden of New York on his shoulders and he will not falter.

He is many things.

Some may call him brave, some may call him foolish, his uncle had called him reckless, even before his powers and his aunt cries from a fear not previously known to her each time he disappeared. Peter is too young to be doing the things he does yet there's no one else to do it.

So as he sits atop an apartment building one night, watching over his city he vows to try, to help, to do whatever it takes even if he ends up dead.

He is Spider-man after all, what else can he do?

Chapter Text

Peter wasn't ashamed to admit that his first suit had been shit. It had probably looked ok when he had made it, sure. But after a combination of getting the shit kicked out of him multiple times, a few rounds in the washing machine, and his re-stitching being absolutely horrendous, well, to say it had been a mess was an understatement.

To be completely honest Peter wasn’t entirely sure how the thing had survived any longer than five minutes, especially with his aggressive movements and such. He really wouldn’t have been that surprised if, at the end, the entire thing had just kind of disintegrated while he was swinging through New York.

It had been pretty tight on him to begin anyways with due to its poor construction, not exactly the most comfortable thing to be wearing mid flight or crouched on a streetlight. The homemade goggles had rubbed his eyes to the point of irritation, leaving him looking like he had pinkeye on the worst nights, and the meshy fabric of the thin clothes he wore had gotten worn pretty early on and left his suit unravelled in a few too many places. And after a while it was just simply too tight to wear. 

Now, he does understand he had been trying his best with limited skills and materials but it's almost humorous looking back on the state of that original costume. God, he'd been out in a glorified hoodie and track pants when he was trying to kick supervillain ass.

Peter hadn't been all that surprised when at the very start, before he had made a proper name for himself, people had laughed at him. Not only did he look like a twig but his suit was budget enough that one or two of the thugs he had fought had actually said they felt sorry for him.

(Which was very embarrassing. Especially when someone said it in front of Captain America.)

But low and behold even in his silly little thrown together suit he did end up making a name for himself.

The second time around, shortly after the accords had been signed, he enlisted the help of Ned.

Ned had never been very good at detecting lies and due to the fact that he was as over-excitable. as a dog on a walk he jumped at any opportunity to do something fun, even without any context or any cohesive reason to be doing said task.

Peter had never been as good as Ned at hacking and computer work, not without a rough guide of what to put where at least. He understood the basics, sure, like he knew how to make a website and he had even made his own little spider bot that he could code to do pretty much anything he wanted not too long ago.

But he had just never really understood the more complex problems that showed up during coding, instead preferring hands-on tasks such as building compact little mechanisms like his web shooters (or, after a lot of practice, sewing his own suits) more and more since he had developed his powers.

So, under the guise of wanting to conduct a little bit of mischief he had instructed his rather tech savvy friend to hack into Tony Stark's files.

( “What?”

“You heard me, hack into Tony Stark's files.”

“But- why?”

“Just to cause some trouble,” he had shrugged, “He isn't doing anything to help anymore so he needs something to keep him busy.” )

Peter, while never having been one for stealing, had reasoned with himself late last night that with the limited help being provided by the billionaire playboy philanthropist it was only fair that Tony's designs be used by someone who wasn't bound by law to listen to ill-advised governments. 

Someone meaning himself. Because he wasn't being told to sit on his cushy little backside eating canapes off of trays carried around by probably underpaid waiters while people were getting slaughtered. 

And that was putting it nicely.

Peter's smile was sharp as Ned tapped away on his computer. He wasn't normally this cynical but it was hard to not be when the Avengers hadn't been seen in a month. When he didn't think they were doing enough.

It took a fair while for Ned to get through Tony's AI’s security, the two teens hadn't expected an AI at all, let alone one so complex. It's firewalls were thick and unyielding even as Ned attempted to wriggle through them by bypassing the codes manually, replacing individual digits in long binary code chains on a wild hope that might do something before moving on to trying to re-constructing Tony Stark's work in order to try to break through and into the more heavily fortified and complicated higher level coding.

The AI controlling Stark's files seemed a lot smarter, and more importantly, sassier, than the pair had expected and as they got further into their attack on its systems they found out that it's name was FRIDAY.

Every time Ned got somewhere she managed to stop him, cutting the connection to her server before Ned's laptop even had a chance to download codes, Ned unable to copy and paste fast enough to do anything worthwhile as FRIDAY re-establishes her network and burns the pair out again.

The sight of Ned would have been quite concerning to anyone who could have seen the way his fingers flew over the keys, gritting his teeth as the AI gained on him, though she was unable to trace where he was coming from as Ned bounced their signal off seemingly random places that left FRIDAY unsure where they were, and unable to completely block them out because of that as Ned continued to direct the web browsers.

Several times Ned was about to close the connection, the stress building within him as he slammed on the keys with a renewed vigour as he found a new opening that would bring him back in and further into her databases before he was halted. The web page cuts off suddenly as they were on the verge of accessing Tony's files.

If Peter hadn't been frantically tapping along on his own computer from atop his bunk bed in order to try and distract the AI long enough to give Ned time to actually find the files he needed he doubts that his friend would have been able to crack the extremely well-defended network at all.

For once the coding he was panic writing was a step ahead of FRIDAY, Peter had managed to distract her, a minor delay at best, as he had input his own firewall type structure to try and block FRIDAY's progress while they worked. It had been a desperate move but the sloppy code seemed to hinder the AI more than anything else they had thrown at her.

Ned didn't have too long though before the AI would be able to cut him off again but the diversion had given Ned just enough time to download the files he needed. He uploaded an encrypted copy of the stolen information onto both his computer and Peter's, snapping a picture of the contents of each plundered file as a backup just in case of corruption and deleting everything he had left as evidence as he disconnected from FRIDAY's servers as quickly and seamlessly as possible.

All in all, as the pair leaned back on their respective chair and bed and sighed deeply, they had gained exactly the pieces of Stark's research they needed as well as several other documents that weren't important to what Peter wanted to do so he didn't need.

What he did need though was the blueprints of Tony Stark's latest prototype of nanobots as well as design notes for possible substitutes for more expensive materials; which he found buried in a pile of Ironman suit designs.

After shooing Ned out of his room with excuses of needing a good sleep the two had parted ways, Peter pulling up the files he had found the second his friend was out the door.

Everything he needed was right here. From the source material to the final design the blueprint was a complete instruction manual on how to make an advanced system that could control the nanobots that Peter was looking to incorporate into his new suit.

It was perfect.

Hours were spent looking over blueprints and reading the little italicised notes, by three that morning Peter had set out a shopping list for the products and things he needed to actually design these things.

On one side of Peter's desk lay the pencilled out plans for his new costume, lined with notes on where materials would need to be cut, what places would harbour nanobots and the materials that could possibly take the beatings he would likely endure.

It would cost a lot, he had known that before he’d even opened the files, but Peter had been saving up since he was 10 and had managed to scrape together a whopping $1674 from babysitting, car washing and an array of other household jobs that the neighbourhood had paid him for. It should be enough for the materials and components he needed if he was careful and stuck to the cheaper shops in town.

🕸

Peter ended up with three lists, one for the fabric components of his suit, one for the nanobots and one for the tools he would need to complete his work.

He'd started that week off with a trip to the closest discount store to check out the fabrics he needed, $600 crumpled in his pocket and his list held tightly in his hand as he had walked through the heavy automated doors of the store with a slight pep in his step.

The fabric he had found during his hurried googling that morning had, ironically, been called ‘Spiders Silk’. However, due to it costing a whopping $80 per yard Peter had also found the most viable alternative which, while still expensive, cost $20 less than its predecessor.

Kevlar.

The fabric was almost perfect for what Peter needed though it was a polyaramid fibre whereas the Spiders Silk fabric had been a polypeptide fibre but the molecular structure of the two was actually quite similar and the elasticity was surprisingly better in the Kevlar though the fabric wasn't as durable.

The Kevlar was still strong though and would provide a lot more protection than the flimsy cotton blend of his hoodie, something Peter was looking for, and would be better against sharp blades, something he knew his last suit hadn't been able to cope with.

His previous costume had been torn to pieces on more than one occasion by a particularly nasty knife-wielding robber.

(Or the occasional small building collapsing on him, not that the specifics mattered.)

Peter had ended up taking about half an hour browsing the aisles, picking up different fabrics and holding them up to the light, running his hands over the different materials in the search for the right kind of weave for his suit so that the nanobots had something to grab onto and so he didn't get a sensory overload from being rubbed in the wrong places. Despite having found a fabric that would work it didn't hurt to take a look at more options and, after all, you could never have too much information.

It didn't take long for Peter to find his favourite material by far, a soft, silky mix of Kevlar and carbon fibres woven together into a thin yet durable sheet that not only had a four way stretch but was also a very lightweight, flame retardant, and tear resistant material.

In the end Peter settled on six yards of the carbon fibre Kevlar blend in red for the main body as well as two yards of blue and red reinforced spandex for the joints and other bits that needed more room. In order to save money he had opted to not buy the best quality fabric. It still ended up costing him almost $400 but at least he had a spare $1200 leftover to spend on the rest of the suit. 

The nanobots would be harder to purchase due to them needing an obscene amount of materials for their size as well as an intricate set of wiring and a number of other things. They were expensive, more expensive than any of the other components as Tony's files clearly stated that if Vibranium was unobtainable then Graphite or a material like it could be used as a replacement.

Luckily for Peter as he searched the discount hardware store he had visited later that week he found a substance called nano carbon fibre which, while not being Vibranium, had an atomic structure very near to it. It was also relatively cheap and easily found.

Unfortunately, the nano carbon fibre wasn't the only thing he had needed for the nanobots, in fact it was one of the cheaper components of the entire design, the small 45cm x 45cm sheet he needed only costing him $200 out of the $800 he had brought with himself.

Magnetised graphite shavings are the next material Peter finds himself looking for next, though his mind is spinning as he searches for it.

The only time graphite can become a permanent magnet is if it is kept at room temperature and due to the nanobots rubbing not only against his suit but against each other they would be more likely to run hot due to the friction then anything else. Peter assumes that Tony's suits have built in cooling and because he is skin to skin with the nanobots they stay room temperature because of that cooling.

The hand Peter grabs at the bridge of his nose with is shaking slightly. 

Not only does he have to put these nanobots together with cheap materials and only half decent tools but now he has to find a way to either but a miniature fucking cooling system in each bot or to have the one he is planning to put in his suit blow cool air on the nanobots when they start to get to hot.

He doesn’t even know what would happen if the graphite shavings became demagnetised and he would rather not have them explode or disintegrate or something at a random moment.

Peter ends up finding the shavings at the back of the store in a small glass bottle, it’s cheap enough, only $390 for 350 grams and the nanobots only need one gram per bot so it will definitely be enough for how many he is making.

The next thing to get is silicone, which is both easier and cheaper to get than any other material so far. One step back however is the large, bulky tube the substance comes in. Peter supposes he could buy or make a piping bag type thing and scope the silicone into that so he could use it more delicately but to be honest that sounded like a lot of work he did not want to do.

(He'd probably end up doing it anyway though. He is Peter.)

At least silicone is heat retardant so hopefully it would help with keeping the nanobots cool.

He finds it in an aisle with plaster seal and other home renovation things, chucking it in his little green basket with the graphite shavings and nano carbon fibre Peter continues his search for the other materials.

The wires Peter needed unfortunately were not available on their own, instead they were the inside of ‘stranded wires’ which were easily obtainable but a struggle to pull apart without damaging the smaller wires inside. He would probably need a new set of needle or round nosed pliers (his old ones' ends had been melted during his latest web shooters making) to complete that job without ripping his fingers off on the sharp ends of the wires.

(He chucks a pair of hard leather gloves along with the three metre length of wire into his basket just to be safe.)

A tiny, itty bitty motherboard Peter comes across as he is walking to the counter to check out his items is perfect for the nanobots. He is lucky that when one nano has a motherboard all compatible nanobots can connect to it through the one directly plugged into it.

The total cost of his little hardware store adventure only hits $586 of the $800 he had on him, not too bad if he says so himself (and he does, cause this is his monologue).

And now there's only one more list to tick off!

The tools.

So far he had gotten by with the tools he had lying around, he had a decent amount already but his old needle and round nosed pliers were in an awful state though he did have screwdrivers, pliers, wrenches, hammers and an old soldering iron Ben had gifted him a year or so before his death as well as some other things but not only did the soldering iron need replacing but due to the tough nature of Kevlar and Spandex he couldn’t make this suit without either an industrial strength sewing machine or at the very least a heavily modified one.

So he sets out again, this time with a budget of $450 and a list of items that are all a little bit too expensive for his taste.

His first stop ends up being the second hand electronics store. It's small, dark and dirty but it's cheaper than most places Peter had come across.

He spends 20 minutes scouring the dusty shelves and tables, looking for a decent enough sewing machine so when he tacked on his 'improvements' it didn't completely destroy its ability to do its job.

It's a cream coloured machine that reminds him of the one May used to have before Ben had died that ends up catching Peter's eye, the brand is one that was made back in the early 2000s but is still fully functional. He knows for a fact that if he took this home and cleaned it up, fixed the parts that have been worn out by age and replaced those that prevented it from piercing through tougher materials then it could still do the job he needed it to.

The price is a little steep at $120, it's a bit more expensive than Peter had wanted but the machine would likely last him for years and years considering how well it had aged and the fact he was a) going to upgrade the fuck out of it and b) was going to treat it like the precious treasure it was boded pretty well for its continued survival.

Still though, the full price was $160 including the $120, the other forty being for the tools and a couple of spools of reinforced thread he would need to actually sew the suit in the first place and for its maintenance.

Peter spends about another $100 on an assortment of components and things for the machine; larger multi toothed cogs, a fast charge battery pack, an assortments of big, sharp, strong needles, as well as a pack of little pulleys and things to generate enough force in the machine to actually push the needle through the reinforced fabric of his suit.

All in all it only takes about a week and $1246 to get all the stuff he needs together. It's a lot and he knows that, wincing slightly as he recounts the amount of money he had spent.

Nothing he can do about it though, it's a necessary expense when he is the only one left to fight.

He starts on the suit that night, May is away, called in for another night shift at the hospital so he has the silent apartment to himself once again.

He had spent about an hour earlier that afternoon putting together his sewing machine contraption, fitting the thing out with all the parts and pieces that would make it able to work on the tougher materials he wanted to sew.

It looks a bit idiotic if he's honest with himself. The fact he had replaced half the things inside it with bigger cogs and pulleys then was previously in there meant that the cover couldn't close anymore, exposing the mechanics of the machine to the outside world of Peter's bedroom.

(The red paint he had slathered it in did look quite good though.)

He starts on the suit itself first. The intricacy and delicacy required when making the nanobots leaving him slightly apprehensive of his mechanical abilities.

The measurements of his body had already been recorded during Peter's preplanning, circumferences of arms and torsos and other equally important things written neatly on a notepad next to their respective area to make it easier on his half-fried brain.

First is the main body, cut from the red carbon fibre Kevlar weave Peter had selected from the hardware store as well as the blue spandex for the stretcher sides. The chest and torso part of the body itself is a simple enough shape, an upside down tringleish shape with two slits at the top and a few others running around the edge. He's planning to have a spider insignia on the front made out of extra nanobots so he can move them to vital places if he needs them.

The sleeves and gloves come next, cut half from the reinforced spandex and half from the Kevlar, stitched onto the body with his new and improved machine, the seams and lines of his design are held together with strong thread he had bought.

He falls into a sort of rhythm, hands following the contours of the armoured fabric as it runs through the sewing machine, the hum of the motor and the whirring of the cogs and the thump of the needle pushing through the thick material a welcome melody to his ears as his fingers trace the outline of his design, he sews both a cooling and heating system and a layer of wires for power into the suit while he's working.

His next course of action includes making the legs and a pair of boots, both done in the same method, reinforced Kevlar with a blue spandex stripe on the inside of the thighs.

After the legs and boots are completed Peter is able to fit the whole thing together, the legs and arms are attached to the rest of the costume via the reinforced spandex that will sit under the main armour while the boots remain seperate for easier wearing.

The tricky part was the mask. Peter had decided last minute he wanted the eye pieces to move, to convey his emotions so those on the other side of the mask could tell how he felt without him having to tell them.

He did end up figuring out how to do it, rigid plastic lenses painted with chrome so he can see our but others cannot see in seemed to do the job for lenses and by making them slightly bigger than they needed to be and sticking them between two layers of the Kevlar fabric he used for his mask he had efficiently created a way for the eyes to get bigger without just falling out.

What was more of a struggle was the mechanics of the rims he put around the lenses that would contract and bend and change shape to convey his emotions. They needed to be on different power grids so they wouldn’t just copy each other and Parker luck seemed to have died down for the day because it turned out he had put in an extra grid earlier that day just in case one got fried.

He hooked the lenses up to their respective power grids and put the mask away for now; he would have to find a way for it to actually register his emotions later.

All in all it actually looks pretty good, the layering of the spandex and Kevlar giving it a depth that it otherwise would have lacked and after he finishes on the nanobots it should look even better, especially with his signature spider emblem blared across the chest.

Speaking of nanobots Peter had a lot to make and along with that he had figured out he needed at least a basic AI to control said nanites or he would literally just be wearing a block of graphite shavings and nano carbon fibre. He could also design a way for the AI to recognise his emotions and contort the eye pieces to reflect them.

The AI was fairly easy to make, just a few blocks of code on a small motherboard that he could download onto his suit, the ability to recognise expressions and a connection to the mechanics of his masks lenses is pretty much all he needs to do for now because he hasn’t finished any nanobots yet so they don’t have a frequency to connect to at the moment.

Peter allows the AI to have access to the schematics of his suit, it can now tell him how damaged the suit is, how full his web cartridges are, his body's readings and when the nanobots are finished it will be able to tell him their internal temperature.

He leaves it at that for now, if he needs a better AI he can always add more abilities. He names her Karen, refusing to just call her suit lady because ‘he was raised to be a polite young man thank you very much’.

The nanobots are harder, they are tiny, incredibly hard to put together, idiotically delicate when not powered up and are made out of cheapish and finicky materials.

They have to be perfectly shaped, perfectly aligned, perfectly connected and perfectly placed. One slip up could mean the destruction of the entire batch all because one couldn't connect to another.

Tony's plans call for a robot arm of some kind but Peter being Peter, doesn't have a robot arm, only his own, slightly shaky hands that he's hoping can get the job done well enough for the small bots to function decently.

He has his new soldering kit laid out on the desk next to him, other components of the nanobots scattered on the bare spots of the desk around him. He can't let the graphite shavings get too hot or they will demagnetise, can't let the nanobots get too cold or the circuitry inside them will be damaged before he can even get it properly inside of them.

The wiring, despite the fact the nanobots were very small, is quite thick and hard to put together in a small space. The graphite shavings themselves are a similar size, a quarter of a millimetre each but having to be forced into the interior of the bot with precise hands and needle-like tweezers so the magnetic field doesn't become disrupted by the thick wiring and metallic sheet encasing it.

At least he has figured out a way to dye a portion of the nanobots red to suit his outfit.

He ends up using an old paint knife he had found in the back of his closet to apply a thin layer of silicone to the nanobots seams. The spread has to be thick enough to ensure that the graphite doesn't rub against the nano carbon fibre yet thin enough that the bot isn’t too bulky and doesn't fall apart or get damaged during the application onto his suit.

When he's done the first one looks rather nice, a small, metallic hexagonal shaped thing that's about one centimetre squared and surrounded by velcro-like hooks that sprout from the bots to hold them together with the others on its frequency and so it can grab into the material of his suit.

He ends up with fifty in total after the first night, the several hours of work sat delicately in a plastic tub and was placed with exaggerated care into the back of his wardrobe.

It takes just under two more days to finish the next three hundred nanobots he had planned on making, each one looking fairly similar as he turns several of the bots over in his hand, inspecting his handiwork with a practised eye and careful hands.

Satisfied with his assemblage he connects them on their respective frequency and powers them all up, they are fully functional, each one able to connect and disconnect as is needed so now it's time to integrate them into his suit.

The first place he codes some of the nanobots to be on is his chest. The metallic, shiny black material of the nano carbon fibre is perfect for his signature spider emblem and due to the nanotech being actually really strong it should help provide protection to his more vital organs, especially if he gets thrown around or stabbed.

The next places he codes are the back of his neck and the outer sides of his legs, the nanotech would make a protective covering over his back and thighs, protecting his joints and spine from getting damaged in a fight, the same going for his knees.

After that Peter lets the extra bots flow over his shoulders and arms, he looks like he has armoured plating where the bots rest and the dark red sheen of the ones he had dyed are actually looking pretty cool.

Karen confirms her connection with the small bots by rushing them down his arm to create a small, pentagonal shield connected to the outer face of his hand.

His first thought is that Tony Stark was a genius. His second is that this is fucking awesome.

The air blowing through his suit to cool the nanobots seems to be working, Karen's display on his HUD showing him that they are staying at an average 22°C.

The nanotech is light and flexible, Peter finds as he flexes his wrist, the shield moving along with his hand as he waves it around. Its stronger then he had thought it would be, especially considering the care he had to use when handling them deactivated.

With a word the shield is detaching from his hand and returning to spread out across his wrist and arm, the maroon material flowing like water up his arm and over his shoulder, connecting to the nanobots already resting there and reforming his original look.

He spends the next ten minutes coding the bots to move and reform as they need, telling them where his joints are, what areas to avoid and how they are supposed to form around his body.

Karen tells him the temperature is holding steady as the nanobots form their shapes, a light pressure against his skin.

He tests out his flexibility, a wide grin on his face as the nanotech follows his movements, staying close enough that he doesn't feel the cool air but far enough away that his muscles can still stretch. The little things are fast, tracking his moves and flowing with them even as he ups his speed.

Everything is working perfectly.

(Thank god.)

He should probably test it out now.

Chapter Text

Peter is halfway out the window before the thought even fully forms, his palm pressed flat against the rough brick to steady himself as he carefully pulls the pane shut behind him. His fingers curl instinctively over the lock, and then he’s gone, pushing off with a fluid motion. The icy air of New York in January bites against his exposed neck, but he doesn’t pause, launching himself into the open night with a series of effortless flips and tumbles. Movements like these are second nature now—part of the Spider-Man persona, as natural as breathing.

The swing of his body through the air is a comforting rhythm, the kind of ritual that grounds him even as he soars. Muscle memory takes over, his limbs moving with precision while his thoughts drift. Each leap, each arc, is like a heartbeat - steady, familiar, and just as vital. The weightless pull of gravity as he dives, the tension in the webline as he snaps upward again, leaves a grin tugging at his lips. It’s a freedom that fills his chest, a rare, unburdened breath in a city that never sleeps.

The wind tears past him, muffled by the thicker fabric of his upgraded suit, leaving him with only the reassuring, rhythmic thwip of his web-shooters. It’s quieter than he’s used to, but in a strange way, it amplifies the serenity of the moment. The city sprawls out beneath him, a blur of glowing windows and streetlights, and for just a second, it almost feels like the chaos is far away.

There’s a bounce in his step that wasn’t there a month ago. Back then, everything had felt too heavy, the weight of the Avengers’ inaction pressing down on him like an anvil. The frustration had consumed him - anger simmering every time Tony Stark’s name crossed his mind, resentment boiling as his city burned and the people who could have helped sat back.

But something’s shifted now. The weight isn’t gone, but it’s lighter, easier to carry. He’s not just reacting anymore; he’s learning, growing, adapting. The last month or two has been a crash course in survival, in resilience, and for once, it feels like he’s finally hitting his stride.

So, as Peter Parker swings between the towering skyscrapers, he lets himself savor it - the rhythm, the wind, the pulse of the city that he loves and fights for. He dances across the skyline with a confidence that had once felt impossible, a boy who has learned, in more ways than one, how to fly.

Some distant part of his mind counts the beats of his heart, the flashes of movement, of colour, of danger. He takes a note of his position and tries to go by the general way he feels, his senses tingling in the back of his head. He continues. This area of Brooklyn feels okay. Not fine, not good but tolerable, his senses only whisper of warnings. He isn't needed here.

Not yet, not quite.

He pauses for a moment, contemplating the best direction to go, before launching himself back into the breeze, leaving behind the more silent part of the neighbourhood.

He can already feel it in his bones that it's going to be a long night. It's a dull, throbbing ache accompanied by the faint buzzing of his senses that leaves him on edge and flighty.

His breath is sharp, in and out, in time with his heart, blood hums under his skin. The first sign of anything being wrong comes in the shape of his senses firing up abruptly and without mercy.

down hurt scared fight

Something in Peter's body tenses as he touches down, feet planted wide to steady himself before he lets go of his web.

There's an alley ahead, gaping wide and dark like an open maw. It seems to ooze anger and contempt. The nauseatingly familiar smell of rotting garbage wafting out. As he steps closer the sound of a voice reaches him, the words are a blur, indecipherable even to his ears.

A whimper.

There's something there, something wrong, he can feel it.

!!!

His body moves faster than his brain, the suit reacting smoothly to his movements, the nanobots shifting with him as he runs into the waiting gullet of the alley.

It's dark and cold, the shadows stretching high and wide, reaching into the street behind him. The walls are tall and imposing, boxing him in, the stench is overwhelming even through his mask.

scared

The crunch of glass underfoot comes from his left, the sound echoing loudly in the mostly empty alley.

hurt

His eyes flick back and forth, scanning the darkness until a soft whimper sounds from ahead of him. Peter slinks forward, senses both normal and strange reaching around, groping through the darkness.

Four heartbeats.

Three people are standing around a figure slumped on the floor. They are large and burly and reek of sweat and alcohol. Angry music beats through the bricks of the building beside them and Peter wrinkles his nose.

"Get up bitch!"

One of the men snarls at the person on the ground. The figure - a young woman - whimpers, trying to crawl away but she can't get very far with a hand tangled in her hair.

"Please," her voice is quiet, pleading, "Please don't."

The words are followed by the sound of a fist hitting flesh, the sickening squelch of a foot colliding with an abdomen, a wheeze of pain and stuttered breathing.

Peter's hands are trembling. He doesn't know whether it's from the cold or something else.

The woman's voice is louder this time. She's begging, pleading. The words are a mess, a jumbled blur of fear and tears and something primal that seems to claw at Peter's throat.

hurt hurt hurt

"Shut the fuck up you fucking bitch!"

Peter can't tell which one of them speaks, the words are slurred and distorted. His instincts pulse in the back of his head, nerves a live wire.

It will all go terribly wrong if he doesn't do something now.

"Hey, fellas!"

His voice rings out clearly, bouncing between the buildings, forcing its way through the music like a boat cutting through the water, he saunters out from behind the dumpster he had been hiding behind, hands on hips and eyebrow raise translated neatly onto his new mask's eyepieces.

fight

Three heads whip around, faces twisted into an ugly expression. Spider-man's head tilts idly as he sizes up his opponents.

hurt! fight! fight!

The men are large, bulky and stupid looking. They are easily built like bulls, thick necks and biceps that bulge under their clothes in a not entirely natural way. They all wear sweatpants, hoodies, and dark, raindamp, leather jackets. 

Spider-man continues, voice conversational and light despite the situation, "Now I hate to be that guy but I'm gonna have to ask you to leave the lady alone, and, y'know, maybe give her an apology or two for good measure?"

One of the men growls, lip curling into a snarl.

"Who the fuck do you think you are, you little creep? Her boyfriend or something?"

His tone is scathing, a sneer on his lips, it's almost funny.

"Well, no," Spider-man is the one who sounds scathing now, "But I think it's only common courtesy to treat a woman with respect and kindness, and it's not really your place to tell her what to do is it?"

His voice is still light but there's a bite to it now.

hurt!

Spider-man's eyes narrow as he watches the man's face contort into a furious grimace, he's not the only one, the two others also look like they want to rip him to shreds, fists clenching at their sides and the one holding the young woman's hair pulls tighter.

She hisses in pain, trying to pull away but is stopped when his fingers tighten, a choked sound coming from her mouth.

Spider-man tenses, hands twitching slightly as the men advance, his gaze flickers to the woman watching her eyes widen as she looks at him, a silent plea in her eyes.

The first swing is sloppy, hindered by alcohol and darkness and a tight leather jacket that strains with each movement.

He can see it coming from a mile away, slipping out of the way easily before rushing back in with a flurry of limbs and carefully measured swings. One of the men goes down almost immediately, feet taken out from under him through his own thoughtless clumsiness and as he falls he hits the side of his head on a dumpster.

He lets the remaining members of the drunken trio think they have the upper hand. It’s always a good tactic to force a sense of overconfidence, underestimating a foe is a dangerous thing and Spider-man would rather aim more of it at himself to further put off the villains who do decide to fight him.

Dodging and ducking under most of the sloppy punches he deploys several dozen of his nanobots to form a pair of small little shields that connect to the back of his hands, using them to divert the heavier of the punches.

Spider-man stands back, nanobots reforming around his chest and arms. He’s light on the balls of his feet as he lets the men come towards him, ducking a sluggish fist before delivering a sharp kick to the offending man's solar plexus.

The thug wheezes, stumbling backwards with the force of the blow and Spider-man is already moving, turning on the balls of his feet to face his last opponent, the first one still crumpled on the ground and out for the count.

This man is more careful, eyes narrowed, feet planted and fists clenched, ready to block or grab or do something along the lines of trying to stop the smaller vigilante who is dancing in front of him.

Spider-man shifts, feet moving apart, knees bending, arms held close to his body as the last opponent sizes him up, trying to find an opening.

He doesn't have to wait long, a moment later the man lunges, a right hook aimed straight at his head. Spider-man ducks, sliding under the fist before popping back up, slamming a hand into the man's side, feeling the ribs shift slightly under the force.

The man hisses, grabbing at his side and stepping around him but before he can recover Spider-man is already in front of him again, leg lashing out, foot catching him in the chest, sending him staggering backwards with a well placed kick.

The fight is over before it even has the chance to escalate, the last man hitting the pavement with a dull thud beside his unconscious accomplices. Spider-Man straightens slowly, the tension in his body lingering as his lenses sweep over the scene, ensuring none of them are getting back up. They won’t for a while.

The woman he just saved stands frozen a few feet away, her wide, disbelieving eyes fixed on the sprawled-out bodies in front of her. She’s shaking, a raw, visible tremor that makes her seem smaller somehow. Vulnerable.  

It hadn’t been a particularly challenging fight - the men were clumsy, drunk, and uncoordinated, swinging wildly as if brute strength could compensate for their lack of skill. Spider-Man had controlled the situation from the start, dodging punches with ease, each move calculated and precise. But that didn’t mean it hadn’t been terrifying for her.  

Careful not to startle her, Spider-Man steps around the unconscious men, his movements deliberate and slow. He crouches down beside her, keeping his voice soft.  

“Are you okay?”  

She flinches slightly at the sound of his voice but turns toward him, her face blank, her eyes glazed over with the kind of shock that clings like a second skin. The terror from earlier seems to have drained out of her, replaced by an eerie stillness that unsettles Peter.  

She doesn’t respond at first, her gaze darting over his mask, scanning him as though trying to decide whether he’s as much of a threat as the men on the ground. He keeps his hands where she can see them, hovering slightly, unsure of whether reaching out would comfort her or make things worse.  

When she finally nods, it’s a tiny, almost imperceptible motion, her trembling hands betraying the calm she’s trying to project. A sheen of sweat glistens on her forehead and neck, her breathing shallow and uneven.  

“Okay,” Peter murmurs, his voice barely above a whisper, careful not to overwhelm her. “Can I take you to a hospital? Or somewhere safe? At least get you home.”  

She hesitates, staring at him again, her eyes searching his lenses as if trying to read his intentions. He stays still, letting her take her time, letting her find whatever reassurance she needs in him. Slowly, her gaze softens, the tension in her shoulders loosening just slightly.  

She nods again, this time a little more firmly.  

“Alright,” he says, a quiet hum of relief in his tone. He straightens, holding a hand out to her but not closing the distance, letting her decide. “Come on. Let’s get you out of here.”  

For a moment, she hesitates, her gaze flicking between his hand and his mask, before finally reaching out. Her fingers are cold, trembling as they close around his gloved hand, but she grips him like he’s the only solid thing in her world right now.  

Peter tightens his hold just slightly, offering what little reassurance he can. “I’ve got you,” he promises softly, leading her carefully away from the wreckage of the alley.

🕸

He's swinging back out and into the city within 15 minutes, the woman safely back home and her family alerted. He had made sure she had been settled, checked for injuries and generally made sure she was alright before he had left.

There's nothing more to do then continue his patrol for now, the streets are relatively empty, only the odd group of teenagers and couples roaming around, the occasional car passing by.

He pauses on top of a building, crouching down on the ledge before letting his feet dangling into open air as he watches the streets below, his eyes catch on a couple walking arm in arm, the man leaning in, laughing and kissing his partner's cheek.

They are about to round the corner when Peters spidey-senses ring out.

HELP! danger bad !!

Spider-man moves ahead of the pair, landing the building overlooking the corner they are about to turn. A man leans languidly against the brick wall, hidden from the couples view by the edge of the building, cigarette held between lax lips and a phone held loosely in one of his hands.

He has a wicked grin plastered onto his roughly stubbled face as he stares through thick glasses at the spot the couple would appear.

Spider-man doesn't even need the angry GUN !! gun gun ! that shouts at him, the metallic smell of unused gunpowder and the faint glint of the barrel from inside the man's trench coat is enough to warn him of the imminent danger.

The couple have barely stepped into view before a bullet rips through the air.

It's a clean shot, no hesitation and no remorse.

It takes less than a second for Spider-man's instincts to take over, body leaping down off the ledge in one fluid motion, hands outstretched, webbing shot out to pull the two people over just enough- it hits him in the thigh. The bullet, burying itself in flesh and muscle and making him grunt with the suddenness of it.

He doesn't falter, landing hard between the two people and their would-be killer, heavily favouring one leg yet still light on his feet. The bullet wound throbs, calling for attention through pain and the angry hum of his senses but he ignores it.

The trench coated, roughly stubbled man stares at him for a moment, mouth gaping, cigarette spinning to drop to the ground with a soft thud as Spider-man stalks closer, a low grunt ripping from his gut as he places more weight on his injured leg.

The soft, breathy sounds of pain emitting from Spider-man’s direction seemed to pull the bespectacled man from his hazey stupor, once again the gun comes up from where it had been resting against his thigh.

It crosses his mind moments before the gunshot that he probably could use the nanobots as a shield to stop the bullet from penetrating, though he scraps that idea when he adds up the money it would take to replace and fix any destroyed or damaged bots.

He’s pulled back into the moment by the anxious muttering of his senses.

dodge move run

He can’t .

The couple had frozen when Spider-man had shoved them, stumbling a few stiff-footed steps before clutching onto each other and watching the scene before them with rapt expressions.

The problem was that Spider-man had basically become their human shield, the only thing between the couple and the gun wielding man was the flesh and blood and bones of their local vigilante.

RUN!! RUN!!! RUN!!

His senses are practically screaming at him now and he has to physically stop his body from leaping out of the way as the second bullet buries itself in his knee, aim thrown off kilter by the man's surprise.

The spark of pain; white hot and angry, is enough to spur Spider-man back into a blur of action. Gritting his teeth he pushes off the ground with his good leg, getting high enough to spin over the man, landing on one of his knees behind the gun wielder as his leg buckles beneath him.

Hoisting himself back to his feet Spider-man grins slyly, feeling the eye pieces of his mask contract to match his expression as the man turns towards him. Now that he's not being used as a meat shield he can get properly into this thing.

A sharp kick to the hand holding the gun and the man drops it with a groan. 

“I’ll give you the benefit of the doubt,” Spider-man says, head cocking to the side and voice vicious and biting; the nanobots shiver on his skin, “You didn't mean to try and shoot those people did you?” Even through his mask he is sure the man can feel his death stare because he hunches his shoulders and gives a meek nod.

“Good,” he snarks, holding out a hand to web the still hot gun into his hand, he grabs like it stinks, before popping his hip out and waving a condescending hand at the man as he points around the corner, “Now get out of here.”

Peter slumps slightly when the man finally rounds the corner, leg throbbing and a wince contorting his face just enough that the eye pieces of his mask shift.

He feels revolting, the warm metal of the gun pressing against the palms of his hands as he crushes it like a soft drink can, depositing it in a nearby bin with a flick of his wrist. 

“Are you… okay?” A worried voice and the shuffle of feet drift closer to him.

Oh right, the couple. Not going to lie, he had kind of forgotten about them.

“Oh, of course! Fine and dandy, fresh as a daisy,” he says, squaring his shoulders, his cocky grin translating through to his eyepieces with a quiet wizz, “Why do you ask?”

He doesn’t try to move forward to meet the pair half way, because well, his leg isn’t really working right now, instead it drags uselessly behind him like the unsnipped tail of a newborn lamb. He thinks absentmindedly that his kneecap is probably shattered, especially because the bullet hit it straight on. 

“Well because, ah, you’re kind of bleeding really heavily.”

Peter is rather surprised to look down and see the two bullet wounds still bleeding profusely through his suit, staining it an even darker red than it previously was.

Well that's good fucking luck isn't it.

It seems that despite May’s best efforts to feed him it still isn’t enough to provide the right amount of carbs and other nutrients to allow his healing factor to remain at its full capacity. Usually by now the blood would have clotted and the bullets themselves would have been pushed out of the wound. Doesn’t look like that's going to happen today however.

How great.

So basically what this meant was Peter had to swing home and remove the bullets from his wounds, stitch himself back together and not bleed all over New York.

Just his luck isn't it.

🕸

He's careful as he climbs in his window, stripping off till he is left in his boxers before making his way towards the bathroom and the heavily equipped first-aid kit he had hidden in a spot behind the vanity.

Flicking open the clasp of the lid he starts emptying the contents he needs onto the cold tiled floor. Gauze, cotton wool, bandages, a medical stapler and latex gloves. Thin tweezers with sharp, pointed ends made for picking out bullets from deep entry point wounds.

Once everything he needs is meticulously laid out next to his injured leg, and a fresh pair of gloves snaps into place on his trembling hands, Peter braces himself. His mask is discarded on the floor nearby, revealing a face set in steely determination, the pain already biting at the edges of his focus.

With a deep breath, he grabs a thick cotton cloth and clamps it between his teeth, biting down hard. Then, gripping a pair of long tweezers in his gloved hand, he plunges the sharp ends into the wound without hesitation.

It's a painful affair, his skin is red and angry around the bullet wound, the tattered edges of the hole in his thigh now irritated and weeping.

Grunting and snarling around the thick cotton in his mouth he grinds his teeth together as he fumbles blindly through the mess of flesh and tissue. The adrenaline of the fight long since gone, leaving an aching pain in its place. His fingers hook the sharp point of the tweezers around the slick wetness of the bullet, using his fingers to help wrench it out of the wound as he grits his teeth and bears it.

Dropping the now bloody and mucus caked bullet onto the medical instrument covered floor, he goes in for the second one, groping around the ragged hole in his knee and wedging the tweezers in to get a grip.

In the end it only takes 15 minutes and 10 years of his life to get the two bullets out, his hands shake slightly as he staples the wounds closed.

He uses large squares of alcohol wet cotton wool to wipe the now dried and sticky blood away from the wounds, staining the dabs of tissue a deep, velvety red. When he is done he stuffs a balled up wad of gauze into each wound before wrapping it all up tightly with the bandages.

As he finishes he stacks the unused medical equipment back into the kit before locking it and re-hiding it in the hidden compartment behind the vanity.

He stumbles back into his bedroom when he's done, falling to land in a tangled heap on his bed. 

He'll shower in the morning.

Chapter Text

The bullet wounds are far from healed when Peter forces himself out of bed the next day. His knee feels stiff, the dull ache radiating through his leg a constant reminder of the damage. As he swings his legs over the side of the bed, the joint crackles and pops in protest, a sharp sound that makes him wince.  

Not that he’s surprised. With the limited amount of food he’s been managing to scrape together lately, it’s no shock that his healing factor has taken a hit. His body simply doesn’t have the resources it needs to repair itself properly. He’s just grateful it’s only his healing that’s slowed down - for now, at least. He hasn’t exactly tested the full extent of how his malnutrition is affecting him. Who knows what other weaknesses might be lurking, waiting to rear their heads at the worst possible time?  

At least he can stand. That’s a small victory. The moment he shifts his weight onto his injured leg, though, he feels it wobble, the muscles trembling under the strain. If he stays on it too long, or presses down just a little too hard, it buckles entirely, threatening to send him sprawling. But Peter doesn’t let himself dwell on the logistics. Right now, standing is enough. Standing means he can get to school.  

Spider-manning, though... That’s another story. He’s not delusional enough to think he can swing across the city or land from any sort of height without his knee giving out beneath him. Not yet. He’s not sure how long it’ll take for him to recover enough to get back to patrolling, but he’s hoping - praying - it won’t be more than a few days. Every hour he spends grounded is an hour his city is left unprotected, and the guilt gnaws at him like a persistent ache in the back of his mind.  

Still, as he shuffles around his room, tossing things haphazardly into his bag for the day, he makes sure to grab the compacted nanotech disc that houses his suit. He tucks it carefully into the bottom of his backpack, its weight barely noticeable but infinitely reassuring.  

Just in case.

Because if there’s one thing Peter’s learned, it’s that trouble doesn’t wait. And neither does Spider-Man.

🕸

The ride to school is unbearable. Anxiety churns in Peter's chest like a storm, each beat of his heart reverberating with the incessant hum of his spider sense. The city feels wrong. There’s a tension in the air, a heavy, oppressive pressure that sticks to his skin and makes his breath come shallow. Danger feels tangible—thick in the smoggy January air, clinging to the edges of every passing moment. His spider sense doesn’t settle, buzzing faintly at first, then building into an almost constant vibration that leaves his nerves frayed.

By the time he limps into school, the tension has burrowed deep into his skull, making it impossible to focus on anything but the low, persistent warning thrumming through his mind.

The day starts off uneventfully, at least on the surface. Flash is the first to approach him, ready to unload whatever snarky comment is queued up in his brain. But it doesn’t take long for Flash’s eyes to land on Peter’s obvious limp. There’s something almost uncertain in the way Flash looks at him - before he mutters a half-hearted insult and backs off.

Ned is next, catching Peter at his locker with a bright, hopeful grin that falters the moment Peter mumbles a vague excuse and shuts the door in his face. MJ gives him a sharp, searching look when he dodges her in the hallway, and Harry actually grabs his arm in an attempt to stop him, but Peter waves them all off with half-hearted gestures and mumbled non-answers.

It doesn’t work. Peter knows it doesn’t work. He feels their eyes on him, their whispered conversations buzzing just out of reach. But he tunes it all out, his focus fraying under the strain of his aching leg and the ceaseless prickle of his spider sense.

During a break between classes, Peter ducks into the bathroom and rolls up his pant leg to check the wound. His fingers are clumsy as he peels back the bandages, trying not to disturb the fragile scabbed edges. The sight isn’t encouraging. There’s less redness, and the swelling has gone down a bit, but the gashes are still deep and raw, their edges puckered and angry. He stares at them for a long moment, his stomach twisting, before wrapping them back up and tugging his jeans down.

Lunch is no better. The constant itch of his healing factor trying to kick in gnaws at him, leaving him nauseous and restless. His stomach churns as he picks at the limp chicken sandwich on his tray, each bite sitting heavy and uncomfortable. He finally gives up halfway through, pushing the food aside and burying his face in his hands.

The combination of exhaustion, stress, and his buzzing senses is enough to leave him with a headache that thrums behind his eyes, sharp and insistent. By the time fourth period rolls around, Peter is barely functioning. He sits slumped in his chair, staring blankly at the teacher’s notes on the board, his pen idle against his notebook.

Harry and Ned are chatting over his head, their voices a low, comforting murmur that he almost lets himself sink into - until it happens.

Peter stiffens mid-breath.

It’s like the warning hum of his spider sense sharpens into a high-pitched scream, piercing through his thoughts and demanding his attention. His muscles lock, his fingers tightening reflexively around the edge of his desk.

BAD GET OUT 

“Guys,” the word seems to stick in his throat, clogged with fear and the sickening feeling of his hair rising to stand on end. The screaming is getting worse, now accompanied by a pinching, itching sensation that rivals his healing factor and has him fighting the urge to claw at the back of his neck.

!!!!

He's standing before he even realises he's moved. Chair falling to the ground with a bang that seems to startle everyone around him into standing too.

Peter squares his shoulders. Eyes hardening and stance widening, loosening, relaxing into something familiar.

But Peter can’t stand his ground now. Not with his knee threatening to buckle. Not with Harry and Ned standing beside him. Not with one of their hands quietly slipping into his to tug; to pull and wrench him away from the window and the man with razor sharp tentacles and glowing green eyes.

There are children in the hallway. Peter realises belatedly that he is one too and limply lets himself be pulled into the riot of bodies and panic and horrible, overwhelming odours.

He needs to get out. He needs to get to the top of the nearest building and pull his suit out of his bag.

It doesn’t register in his mind that this panic seems fairly excessive for just one man. It didn't hit until he was standing atop a neighbouring building staring at the chaos below. He had ditched Harry and Ned, telling them to find MJ and get somewhere safe before running in the opposite direction.

There's six of them.

Six of them and all with different strengths and powers. All with different weaknesses. All with different strategies.

He's fought these guys before. Most of them at least, but usually only on a one on one scale or if a couple of them decide to team up it's usually with the unwilling backup of the Avengers that he fights them.

He hasn't had to fight six of them at once though, and usually when he is fighting more than one he knows their fight styles intimately enough that it's almost fun, they all have at least one reason to hate him so they do come back for more eventually.

Spider-man knows that the Avengers used to have a protocol for things like this. For when a bunch of supervillains with a vendetta decided that New York City would be a nice place to try and destroy.

It wouldn't help now though, not when he couldn't tap into their comms. Not when they wouldn't even be present for the battle to begin with.

So Spider-man does what he does best and improvises.

He's been doing this long enough, swinging through the streets of Queens and Brooklyn and so many other places, fighting crime. Long enough for him to have picked up a thing or two from others. He may not have been able to learn directly from the Avengers, but he still watched. He still listened.

He is Spider-man, after all.

He's no match for the six of them at once. He knows this. Not as he watches them, assessing their capabilities and strengths. It's a fact. A cold, hard truth. He could swing through the streets and web them up individually, one at a time, but if he didn't do it quick enough, didn't move fast enough, didn't act decisively and swiftly and carefully...

Well.

Let's just say it wasn't going to be pretty.

His fingers fumble, web shooters clicking. He's not graceful this time. Not like the Avengers in every single situation they face. There's no elegance to his movements.

No, Spider-man's moves are more animalistic. They're instinctual. They're primal.

His body knows how to react. How to respond. What to do. When to dodge. When to roll. When to jump and when to land.

The only problem is his knee. The hard landings and even harder kicks he usually performs during his more serious battles aren't going to be viable if he knee is buckling every time. There’s nothing much he can do about it right now other than get the nanobots to form a flexible brace of sorts around his knee and pray that it holds.

He's got a plan. Or at least, the rough outline of one. Plans never survive contact with reality, he knows that too well. They change, they break, and sometimes, so do people. But this one? It's good enough. Good enough to keep him moving, to keep the city intact just a little while longer.

And that’s all Spider-Man needs right now.

The first target is the Lizard.

Peter swings low, skimming between cars and darting through alleyways, every sharp turn calculated, every arc a desperate attempt to stay ahead of the chaos. The Lizard’s guttural roar echoes off the buildings, making Peter’s spider sense buzz like static in his skull.

He drops down from a web, just in time to avoid a whip of the creature’s tail that slices the air behind him. As the reptile lunges, Peter twists mid-air and plants both feet against its scaled jaw with a force that jolts his injured leg. Pain sparks, hot and furious, but he uses it, kicking off the Lizard’s face to propel himself onto a nearby lamppost.

The metal wobbles under his weight as he crouches, but he’s already moving again. The ground is a dangerous place to linger, especially with his knee screaming for reprieve.

There’s no time to breathe, no room to falter. He switches targets mid-swing, launching himself toward the Vulture before the Lizard can recover. The transition is instinctive, seamless - a constant push forward, a refusal to let the momentum die.

Vulture is a different beast entirely - smaller, faster, more agile. Spider-Man barely has time to track the glint of green goggles before the man’s mechanical wings slash through the air toward him. He twists, dodging the razor-sharp edges, the web-shooters at his wrists firing in sync.

The thin strands of webbing connect, tangling in the sputtering engines of Vulture’s wings. Toomes lets out an enraged yell, his trajectory skewing wildly as he struggles to stay airborne. Peter swings toward him, ready to finish the job, when-

bad no? BAD?

Several of the buildings nearby seem to buzz with a distant danger but he can't place why. Vagueness in his senses usually meant there was too much information for it to tell him a specific place. Which is never a good sign.

Spider-man’s leg is throbbing. A pained pulsing that bet in time with his racing heart and left a sticky trail of pus oozing from the hole still in the knee of his suit.

The pounding of  pulse behind his eyes and the blood rushing past his ears accompanied by the whisper of his senses created a cacophony of non physical sounds that rattled in his head and left him with the feeling you get just before being hit by a migraine.

It actually sucks quite a bit.

Toomes is back up, having burned through the webs, and is now circling above like a real vulture. A series of leaps and bounds bring Spider-man back into the vicinity of Lizard, whose back is turned to him as he attempts to rip up a bolted down bench.

He shoots out a thin line of webbing, latching onto the scaled feet of the mutant and pulling hard, yanking the reptile's legs out from under him and sending him crashing into the ground.

He's on the mutant before he can recover, earning a long claw mark down his side as the heel of his good leg digs into the flesh under the chin of the mutated man, holding him still and immobile for long enough to web him securely to the ground.

The man roars as Spider-man pulls back and jumps away, a mix of frustration and anger causing his yellowed teeth to click together with an audible snap, saliva dripping off them in long sticky strands.

"Yeah, sorry not sorry, big guy," Spider-man's voice is wry and distracted, most of his focus already having migrated to the other villains whilst he was subduing Lizard.

He spends the next several dozen minutes attempting to follow the same pattern, managing to get Rhino off of his feet twice, mostly because the suit controlled by the tiny, irritating man inside it left several blind spots and opening that put both the suit and the man who flew it, in jeopardy.

"Come on, Alexei, isn't this a little demeaning?" He goaded, using the nanotech brace to strengthen the force of a kick to the rhinoceros suit's back as it got back to its feet, kicking its torso to disrupt its balance as well, "I thought it was only the orphaned billionaires who decided sticking skinny little man in a giant metal suit was a good idea."

Alexei's shouts of fury and sloppy attempts at stomping on the red and blue Kevlar wearer are easily dodged, the large foot lifting up as Spider-man sprinted forward again, sliding between his legs and leaving the man to crash head first into a nearby bus.

It's fairly easy to web the man down when he hops angrily out of the ruined rhino suit.

Spider-man uses a low roof as a springboard to get to the next closest villain, landing and putting all his weight on his good leg before throwing himself into the chest of a vaguely familiar criminal, armed with a metal, armoured vest and sparkling with way too much electricity.

Despite the limited shock protection of Spider-man's suit he doesn't let up, rolling over his shoulder to flip back into standing position, his weight still distributed away from his bad knee to stop it from buckling underneath him.

His foot feels tingly, as though full of pins and needles and he jumps out of the way of a bolt of bright yellow electricity.

Vulture swoops down again, grabbing Spider-man by the shoulders as he lands his flip and soaring back up into the sky with several mechanical pops and hisses to drop him atop a multi story apartment building.

A man stands there, built like a brick shit house with oily dark hair and flanked by a pair of leashed, growling jaguars.

“Kraven,” Spider-man is tempted to run his hands down his face as he sighs, “If you’re such an animal lover why do you insist on bringing them to fights?” 

Kraven lets out a short bark of a laugh and one of the jaguars starts straining at its leash with a wild hiss as the hunter's grip loosens, rope slipping through his fingers as the dark furred pair stalk forwards, "Poor little arachnid, can't you see the futility in what you're doing? We are all going to die anyways," the way Kraven gestures to the surrounding buildings makes Spider-man feel sick, his senses screaming with unease. He eyes the older man warily, fists clenching.

The two large cats are a mere metre away, slinking to a stop on silent paws. His voice is still strong when he speaks however, eyes focused mainly on the sneering man in front of him, "What are you talking about?" He asks as he slowly shifts his body weight in time with the big cats, preparing to move if he must.

The man merely grins back at him, all pointed canines and gums and shining silver hunting knives that glint in the sunlight.

"You are an inconvenience, Spider-man," it's odd, the way his accent twists his voice into sharp clicking sounds, "I am the hunter," he gestures widely to the surrounding area again and the way his grin grows manic sends chills down Spider-man's spine, "And these," it looks like the man has to fight of a snicker, "These are our prey."

Kraven signals the jaguars with a wiggle of his fingers and the beasts move, circling around Spider-man on silent paws, snarling and foam at the mouth. Their fangs look bigger, their teeth a dull yellow colour that stands in sharp contrast to their jet black coats.

Spider-man side steps, his attention focusing on the cats. He needs to incapacitate both, preferably without injuring them, but he does kind of need his skin intact by the end of this to be completely honest.

The attacks come quickly and leave him with no time to even breath, let alone collect his thoughts. The leap may have been a surprise if not for his spider senses but he is undeterred, getting underneath it before launching himself into a roll.

He manages to deflect the first paw that swings at his head, one hand shooting out to divert the blow before the other one tries to claw at him as well, forcing him to flip backwards in a somewhat precarious stance, landing on his bad leg with a barely withheld grunt.

The jaguar that had missed his face launches itself at him and he catches it around the middle, twisting his body and pushing the beast over his shoulder while trying to keep it as uninjured as possible. Its hind legs scraping against the side of his chest, claws catching in his suit.

There's a flash of movement and he feels the claws graze against his thigh, digging in deep enough to draw blood, leaving the limb to buckle, dropping him to the ground where he rolls to avoid the second cat's sharp teeth.

The nanobots of his leg brace reconstruct themselves as he stands, reforming into a solid support for his damaged knee.

Spider-man takes a split second to reorient himself, the two cats circle him, waiting for the perfect moment to strike.

He's not sure what's happening anymore. He's not sure where the rest of the villains have gotten to. All he knows is that the two jaguars are getting closer, their teeth and claws flashing as they try to take a bite or scratch at him.

"You can't save them, Spider-man," Kraven's voice is a taunting hiss and Spider-man doesn't know who he is talking about and it is bugging him on so many levels.

His spider sense is still ringing out, a dull, repetitive bad danger gets out that leaves his head pounding and his muscles tense.

One of the jaguars lunges at him, he dodges, moving to the left to avoid its jaws, his hands coming up to grab the back of the feline's neck before holding it to the ground. He really wished he had some type of sedative but he doesn't so instead he wacks the large cat in what he assumes is the temple with as little force as possible and the beast slumps over.

The second jaguar is attacking him now and his senses are screaming at him, his body turning to the left before his mind has fully caught up, the claws ripping through the skin of his bicep and he lets out a pained yell, his arm burns and tingles with the new injuries.

The jaguar lands back on its feet, tail twitching.

Spider-man is breathing heavily, his injured knee trembling beneath his weight. The pain from his arm isn't too bad but his healing factor seems to have given up completely, the wound is not even trying to clot, leaving a slick trail of blood to drip onto the concrete.

The jaguar lunges again and Spider-man doesn't have time to think, his body moves without him.

His hand comes up, grabbing onto the muscular shoulders of the big cat before he twists its body in the air, letting its own momentum take control and slam it into the ground. He follows up quickly, one foot planted between its shoulder blades and his hand reaching around its muzzle to stop it from biting his fingers off as he repeats the move he had on the earlier cat.

He stumbles away, breathing ragged and harsh, Kraven's laughter grating in his ears, "An easy fight," the man hums, "I suppose I'll just have to do it myself."

"Yeah, sorry buddy," Spider-man coughs out, wrists coming up to aim at the mans legs, "Gonna have to mark you as MIA cause I have some other people to attend to."

He shoots off a burst of web fluid at the man, sticking his legs together, another line attaches his feet to the ground and Kraven goes down, struggling to lift his legs.

Spider-man fails to spot the three other free villains as he scurries his way back to the ground, a sharp stabbing pain running up his leg and into his spine when he drops down the last few metres.

He doesn't know what the fuck is going on. Kraven's foreshadowing did nothing to ease his worry and he can feel the thrum of danger running through his veins.

BEHIND MOVE WATCH OUT

The smooth sound of hydraulics and the soft snaps of metal plating clicking together had Spider-man turning to face his former role model with squinted eyes.

"Hey, Otto," the words leave a sour taste in his mouth, the smell of burning metal and motor oil assaulting his senses. He has to fight down the urge to gag, "Fancy seeing you here," he adds, because even though it's a shitty situation he still can't resist the temptation to sass the supervillain.

"I'm not surprised you've shown up, Spider-man, you've never been the brightest light bulb." Octavius's eyes glint a bright acid green behind his glasses. He holds a remote in one of his tentacles that makes Spider-man's senses yell.

He grits his teeth and readies his fighting stance, the nanobots of his knee brace buzzing and shifting as he moves.

He isn't ready for the next attack, the time between Octavius's thought and the tentacles movement quick enough that all his senses can do is give a soft meep before they hit. He isn't ready for the searing pain that tears across his cheek as one of the tentacles lashes out, the metal plates that make up the arms snapping in the air and creating a sharp, whistling sound.

"Ow," he grumbles, his own hand coming up to prod at the open wound, "Uncalled for dude," he says with a shake of his head, cocky grin coming back full force as he lunges forward to deliver a roundhouse punch to the jaw of his foe.

"I think I have earned the right to a bit of uncalled violence," Octavius's words are strained, the flesh and blood part of his mouth twisting in a sneer as his robotic appendages wrap around his waist, picking him up and slamming him back down onto the hard ground below, his leg protested the movement but he couldn't focus on it right now, the only thing he could do was keep going, keep fighting and hope for the best.

And well, hope isn't really enough is it.

The buzzing emanating from the surrounding building starts to pound behind his temples, a sharp, angry roar that has him twirling away from Doc Ock and whatever he was holding to slide into the middle of a courtyard.

BAD GET OUT RUN

Bombs - several of them - spread throughout the surrounding buildings like fireflies across a field. Far less easy to spot however and from what Spider-man can tell they are most likely embedded in the very concrete of the buildings themselves.

An ‘in the long run plan’ then. Because Spider-man is fairly sure that these buildings were built months before the Sokovia Accords were even drafted.

An ear splitting shriek from his senses and Doc Ock presses the button on the remote he holds loosely in one lazy hand.

A loud crash, the tearing of metal and concrete and plaster board as the bombs go off.

The ground caves underneath him - they must have planted bombs in the underground parking lots - and on instinct alone his right arm comes up to shoot a web at the more stable ground above.

He hangs there, one arm raised to grip tightly onto the shining thread of web fluid, as the dust settles around him.

It takes a moment for the screams to start and Peter relishes the silence for as long as it's last.

🕸

It really wasn't pretty.

Peter spends two hours pulling stiffening bodies and sobbing people from the rubble of collapsed buildings (a paw patrol doll sits covered in grime. He wonders briefly if someone is still alive to want it back) . The Avengers never show up and Peter is fairly sure he has a concussion because the word tilts and sways slightly as he lifts concrete blocks off the various limbs of people trapped inside what was left of their homes. Then again it could just be the exhaustion.

He loses count of the amount of people he performs CPR on. He doesn't forget the number that don't come back.

Two men in red and black suits showed up at the end. After the rubble has settled and the screams have grown hoarse and the blood has dried and coagulated on Peter's shaking hands.

He doesn't know who they are, and at this point he can't bring himself to care.

His legs shake and weep multi-coloured fluids from reopened bullet wounds and he wouldn't be surprised if the only thing holding him up now is the nanobot brace that encases his injured knee. One of the men tilts his head, and Peter can see his hands tightening minutely around the handles of a pair of katanas.

They're strong. He can see it. It's the way they hold their shoulders, the way they carry themselves, the way they move with soft feet across the uneven terrain.

They're strong and he's so, so tired.

So he does something he's not proud of. He leaves.

Chapter Text

Peter tries to take the guilt out of his actions by spending more time in the suit.

He had spent the night after the attack being fussed over by a frazzled May before holing himself up in the bathroom once she had left to stitch up the gaping bullet holes still left in the Kevlar and to scrub the various substances that had oozed from of his wounds out of his suit before they stained too badly before collapsing onto his bed, exhausted.

It is late morning when he wakes, his body aches and his stomach churns uncomfortably but his injuries seem to have healed overnight because when he moves the stabs of pain that had accosted him since he had been shot had disappeared and the cat scratches on his arms had faded to little more then thick pink lines.

School is out for the week because of the surrounding chaos and the News shines with a picture of a little boy still to be found as the emergency services comb the rubble for any bodies Spider-man had missed during his frantic clean up. The boy looks to be around 7 and when Peter turns to his phone it tells him his name is Richard Fisk and he falls back onto the bed, scrubbing his hands over his eyes.

He's seen a lot of death, a lot of fights and a lot of destruction in his short time as a vigilante, but none of it will ever get any easier to swallow. There will be no reprieve, he will continue to witness and battle these horrors for as long as his powers let him.

He doesn't regret it though. Doesn't regret going out in his tight spandex and Kevlar to protect the people of his homeland. The only thing he can regret is the mistakes he makes along the way, the bullets he doesn't stop and the people he doesn't catch, it's never the victim's fault if they die only his.

May had left early that morning, having to do a make up shift because she left her last one early to pick up Peter, so the apartment is empty when he wills himself up and out of bed sometime after noon.

He eats breakfast before he leaves, a larger bowl of cereal than usual because he is feeling slightly woozy after having to heal two bullet wounds on meagre funds. 

It's cold today, the type of cold that bites at your ears and leaves the tip of your nose numb. A bone deep chill settles over him like the opposite of a warm blanket despite the heating system in his suit. His thermoregulation issues are not going to suit this trip at all.

A wall of white made up of a mix of smoke, smog and those fine drops of water that usually make mist forms a cloud of fog so thick that Peter can't see more than five feet in front of him. 

It's lucky he knows these cities like the back of his hand because he's sure if it was otherwise he would have already smack face first into a dozen buildings.

He has to rely on his spidey sense tonight, the fog dampens his hearing and makes it impossible to see down alleys and such without creeping most of the way into them which is not a healthy habit of he has any will to live.

The city feels eerily subdued today, the usual buzz of life swallowed by the oppressive weight of the fog that rolls in thick and heavy. The streets are sparsely populated, the few brave souls who venture out clinging to each other beneath the orange glow of streetlights. They hunch against the cold, cigarettes dangling limply from lips, their shadows warped and elongated in the diffused light.

Spider-Man perches on the edge of a rooftop, his mask filtering the dense air but not the sharp tang of gunpowder and metal that prickles at his nose. The scent leads him like a beacon, cutting through the fog with unsettling precision. Six of them, he counts. 

He swings closer, the muted swish of his webs lost in the sound-dampening mist. The men are gathered under a single streetlamp, the haze pooling around their feet like spilled milk. Four of them are huddled in a conspiratorial circle, voices low as they gesture toward a jewelry store down the block. The other two linger at the fringes, puffing on cigarettes, their eyes darting nervously into the fog.

Spider-Man decides to start with the loners. They’re easy pickings. A quiet thwip of webbing shoots through the fog, latching onto the chest of the first smoker. Before the man can react, another stream of web fluid seals his mouth shut, muffling his startled grunt. Spider-Man reels him in with practiced ease, his movements fluid and efficient as he rifles through the man’s pockets to retrieve and crush the gun hidden there. A light pat on the head, and the thug is webbed securely to the front of an abandoned building.

The second man goes down just as quickly. Spider-Man repeats the process with a quiet efficiency that leaves no room for error. As the man struggles against the sticky confines of his web cocoon, Spider-Man steps back, tilting his head as if studying his handiwork. 

“You two really need to rethink your career choices,” he mutters, voice low enough not to carry through the fog. “Standing out in the cold can’t be worth the dental plan.”  

He turns back to the circle of light, where the remaining four men remain oblivious to their comrades’ sudden absence. They’re still huddled together, their movements furtive and disjointed like the cliched criminals you’d see in a B-movie. Spider-Man circles the edge of the lamplight, his red-and-blue suit blending into the shifting shadows.

One quick flick of his wrist, and he’s yanked a gun out of a man’s coat pocket before they even realize he’s there. The metallic clatter of the weapon hitting the ground snaps them to attention, and they all lurch backward, tripping over each other in their haste.

“Sorry to break up the PTA meeting,” Spider-Man quips, leaning casually against the lamppost. His mask shifts with the grin he’s flashing beneath it. “But it’s way past curfew for you ladies.”

The leader - clearly the one with the biggest ego - steps forward, his chin jutted out in defiance. “And what are you supposed to be? A wannabe Halloween decoration?” His sneer is almost comical, the kind of over-the-top bravado Spider-Man can’t help but find amusing.

“Aw, buddy,” Spider-Man says, mock-sympathy dripping from his voice. “I’m a lot scarier than I look. And also? I’ll be taking that.”  

A dramatic thwip later, the last gun is snatched out of reach, webbed securely to the side of a dumpster.  

The fight is quick and dirty after that. The leader lunges at him first, but Spider-Man ducks under the clumsy punch with ease, flipping the man into his companions like a bowling ball. A sharp kick to one thug’s ribs sends him crumpling, while a quick shot of webbing glues another’s hands to his sides before he can grab for a knife. The last man puts up more of a fight, but Spider-Man’s enhanced reflexes make short work of him, a web cocoon wrapping him tight as he dangles from a lamppost.

Spider-Man surveys the scene, the faint groans of the subdued criminals punctuating the stillness of the fog. “You guys really need to work on your teamwork,” he remarks, calling out to Karen to alert the police.  

With one last glance at the swinging web cocoons, Spider-Man launches himself into the mist, disappearing into the fog as quietly as he had arrived. The city waits for its next move, the looming silence pressing in once more.

He ends up in a neighbourhood he is surprisingly familiar with, the reason why it is so familiar tickles the back of his brain before flitting away, leaving him to grab at empty air.

Peter swings through the city with a sense of quiet detachment. His usual rhythm is off today, like his mind is in a fog even though the city itself is clear. The breeze ruffles his hair, tugging at the edges of his mask, but it does little to clear the clouded thoughts that cling to him. Every swing feels like he’s pushing forward into the unknown, but with no real direction. He isn’t looking for something - just running, maybe from himself, maybe from the weight of it all. But eventually, his swings grow slower, his path more aimless, and before he even realizes it, he glides into a neighborhood he hasn’t been to in years.  

The first thing that strikes him is the quiet. There’s no honking, no hustle and bustle of city life - just a soft silence, like the world is holding its breath. Peter slows his pace, dropping lower to the rooftops until the higher buildings start to fade into the distance. As the skyline shrinks, the houses begin to take shape, one-story homes with low porches and neat lawns, stretching out in perfect rows beneath a sky clouded with the evening’s mist. It’s a familiar scene. A scene that strikes something deep inside him, like the sudden, jarring snap of a memory just out of reach.

The feeling is sudden - unnerving - and Peter feels his breath catch in his chest. The neighborhood feels like home. 

He comes to a stop on a lamp post, crouching with his back to the mist, trying to pin down the growing feeling that tugs at him. A creeping sense of déjà vu washes over him, slithering up his spine like a cold wind. The streets, the houses, the cracked sidewalk - he knows this place. He isn’t just familiar with it; it’s etched into his mind, a part of him, like a missing puzzle piece that’s too stubborn to fit in. 

The reason why is just beyond the reach of his thoughts, teasing him like a half-remembered dream. But before he can grab hold of it, the memory slips away, flicking through his mind like the tail of a comet, leaving him grasping at empty air. He frowns, his hand tightening around the lamp post in frustration. 

It’s not the first time he’s experienced this strange sensation, where something feels right, but not in the way he expects it to. It feels like an old song playing in the back of his mind, one he used to know but can’t remember the words to anymore. Something from his childhood. Something important. But no matter how hard he tries to focus on it, the memory refuses to surface.

Peter takes a deep breath and lets it out slowly, allowing himself to sink into the silence around him. As his mind wanders back to the last time he’s been in a place like this, he feels a pang in his chest, like a wound that’s never fully healed. 

The fog hangs thick in the air as he drops to the ground, landing lightly on the cracked pavement beneath him. His boots barely make a sound as he takes a few steps forward, the soft rhythm of his footsteps blending with the quiet hum of the neighborhood. The houses loom around him, quaint and unassuming, with freshly painted doors and windows framed with flower boxes. But something about the simplicity of it all feels too perfect, too constructed, as if the scene were frozen in time. 

The streets stretch ahead, winding through the neighborhood in a way that feels oddly familiar, like he has traced these paths before, but long, long ago. He walks slowly, dragging his feet as his mind whirls. The feeling of home is almost overwhelming now, pressing against his chest like a weight. The distant hum of a lawnmower, the rustle of leaves, the soft murmur of a neighbor calling out to another - it all feels so... comfortable. Safe. But Peter can’t place why.

He has almost grabbed onto the elusive feeling when his spider sense perks up.

forward! stop them! quickly!

The fog seems to split like the red sea before Spider-man as a woman's shrill scream followed by an ear splitting gunshot pierces through the air from a spot several meters away.

A woman in a dark green pair of cargo pants squawks as she notices Spider-man staring at her from across the road. The still smoking shotgun wobbles in her hand before she shoves it into one of her many pockets, turning to make her escape down a back alley.

Spider-Man frowns, his arm already raising to swing forward, muscles coiled to apprehend the villain in front of him. But then, his eyes land on something else - something that sends a jolt of nausea through his chest. A neon OPEN sign flickers above a storefront, casting a sickly glow over the wet sidewalk. It’s an ordinary sign. A mundane detail. But to Peter, it’s anything but ordinary.  

The blood drains from his face as the world sharpens around him, and for a split second, he forgets everything. He forgets the villain, the fight, the danger, the city. The only thing that matters now is the store.  

This is the store. The one Ben had died outside of. The one where everything had changed. The one that had decided Peter’s fate.  

His heart thuds painfully in his chest, each beat like a hammer, drowning out everything else. His breath catches in his throat, a tightness he can’t shake. He’s back here, again, the place where it all shattered, where the gunshot echoes in his mind with a clarity that cuts deeper than it did that night. His arms feel heavy, his head dizzy. A cold sweat beads along the back of his neck, and for a moment, Spider-Man forgets how to breathe.  

His pulse is in his temples, ringing in his ears like a freight train, loud and unforgiving. The constriction in his chest makes him feel like he’s suffocating - like the city itself is closing in on him. His vision blurs around the edges as he stumbles, caught between the present and the past, his mind swirling in a haze. He’s here again. He’s here where Ben died. Again.

It takes him a moment to refocus, to shake off the grief that threatens to choke him, and slowly, he blinks back into his surroundings. A loud moan cuts through his fogged thoughts, snapping him into the present. His gaze darts to the left, instinct taking over.  

The woman.  

She lies crumpled on the pavement, her body twisted in a way that makes Peter’s stomach turn. Her breath comes in shallow, ragged gasps, and the blood pooling beneath her side is too familiar. His hands, trembling, push through the fog of panic in his mind, reaching for the woman before his legs can give way beneath him. He’s rushing forward - no hesitation, no thought of anything else - just her.  

“Ma’am,” he whispers, his voice hoarse, like a knife scraping against his throat. It’s almost inaudible, a choked murmur that hardly feels like his own voice. Her eyes flutter, just barely, and a gurgled groan escapes her lips, sending a sharp spike of panic through his chest.  

Peter’s breath catches again as his eyes travel down her body, landing on the dark, spreading patch of crimson at her side. The wound. It’s too familiar, and he can’t look away. His hands tremble as they hover for a moment before pressing against the wound, trying to stifle the blood, trying to hold back the life draining from her. His fingers sink into the warmth of the blood, but it’s no comfort. Nothing is comfort.  

“Stay with me, okay? Just stay with me,” he says, his voice breaking, cracking under the weight of the words. His throat burns as if he’s been screaming, but his words are barely above a whisper. Stay with me. He can’t lose anyone else. Not again. Not like this.  

Karen’s voice cuts through the chaos, soothing and steady. “Peter, I’ve contacted emergency services. They’re on their way.” The words should be a relief, but they do nothing to quell the storm raging inside him. He barely hears her, the words slipping past him like water through his fingers.  

All he can hear is the pounding of his own heartbeat, thudding in his ears like a drum. The blood. The blood rising between his fingers, too much, too fast. He feels it in his chest, in his ribs, like it’s seeping into him, staining everything. His vision tunnels, his focus narrowing down to the blood pooling under his hand, to the ragged rise and fall of the woman’s chest, to the soft groan of her pain.  

But the world falls away in the silence between them, his breath syncing with hers, both of them struggling in this shared moment of life and death.  

Peter’s chest rises and falls, his body trembling with the effort to keep steady. His hands, bloodied and shaking, press down harder, trying to do something - anything - before the darkness takes her. His own heart races, a frantic beat in time with hers, the world around him nothing but static.  

The paramedics arrive in what feels like an eternity later. Their voices are distant, muffled by the rush of his pulse and the endless pounding of his own mind. When they finally pull him away, Peter’s hands are still sticky with blood, his fingers cold and numb as they slip from the woman’s abdomen. He can’t bear to look, but he knows what he has to do.  

He forces himself to ask, his voice hoarse, too tight to speak properly. “Is it... will she be okay?”  

The paramedic looks at him for a long, heavy moment, then nods, though it’s not the immediate relief Peter had hoped for. “She’ll make it. It was low. Just missed the vital organs.”

Peter slumps. Relief hits him like a wave, but it doesn’t feel like relief at all. It feels like exhaustion, like a weight lifting only to crash back down harder. His hands, now empty and trembling, hang limply by his sides. He watches the paramedics work, their motions swift and practiced, as they load the woman into the ambulance, but it all feels so far away.  

The chaos around him doesn’t matter. What matters is the emptiness inside him, the hollowness that clings to his ribs. It’s the same ache he’s carried with him for years, ever since that night - Ben’s death, Aunt May’s shattered look, the relentless weight of guilt that’s never truly left.  

Peter turns away, the words echoing in his mind, the feeling of blood staining his hands still fresh on his skin. The city stretches out before him, sprawling and indifferent. It’s a place of danger, of chaos, but it’s the only place he has left.  

He doesn’t know why he’s still fighting, why he still wears the suit. But he can’t stop. Not when people like her need him. Not when it’s the only thing keeping the ghosts at bay.  

Peter doesn’t even realize he’s sitting on the roof until he feels the cold breeze against his skin, shivering through the fabric of his suit. The world below him moves, alive, chaotic, but he’s suspended, frozen in time.  

The weight of everything presses down on him, and for a moment, he’s not Spider-Man. He’s just Peter Parker, trying to breathe.  

His hands, still trembling, clutch the edge of the rooftop. The memories come flooding back - Ben’s blood on his hands, the feeling of helplessness. It’s all too much. Too much. But in the stillness of the night, Peter forces himself to breathe.  

Forcing the image of her face, of her pain, of her life slipping away in his hands, to fade away. Forcing himself to move forward, even when all he wants to do is let it all collapse. 

Cause she lived goddammit. He shouldn't be so weak.

The sound of feet and heartbeats and rubbing Kevlar alert Spider-man to the presence of the men he had seen the night before. He slows his breathing, tries to be stiller than New York City would even normally allow one of its citizens to be.

A fleeting, childlike thought pushes its way to the front of his consciousness, the selfish wish to disappear from here, to become invisible to the eyes of his enemies for just this moment . He pushes the thought away as his hands form fists, the red Kevlar letting out a low groan as it stretches taunt over his knuckles.

His spider sense didn't even twinge at their appearance. How strange.

They move toward him without hesitation, their steps calculated, knowing he can hear them coming. The air around him shifts, the weight of their presence wrapping around him like a thick, heavy fog. He doesn’t have to look to know they’re closing in. He can feel it, the shift in the energy, the sound of their movements in perfect synchronization. When they stop, Spider-Man doesn’t flinch. He simply stays where he is, his fingers still curled around the edge of the roof, watching the city below. He can feel the weight of them now, standing just behind him, like shadows at the edges of his awareness.

And then they move, settling down beside him. Two figures - familiar, yet strange in their own way - flank him, their legs swinging over the edge of the building in the same unbothered manner he’s so accustomed to. For a brief moment, Spider-Man forgets about the suffocating weight pressing in on him. They’re here. Not as enemies, but as strange, unexpected company.

“Hia, Bugaboo,” the one with katanas says, his voice an odd mix of amusement and something else Spider-Man can’t quite place. The man’s white eyes widen comically as he turns to look at Spider-Man from the corner of his eye, a mischievous grin creeping across his face. “The authors obviously got it out for you,” he adds, shaking his head dramatically, as though Spider-Man’s entire existence is some twisted, comedic plotline. “But don’t worry - we’re here for you!” His voice is loud, teasing, but there’s something oddly reassuring about it. Almost like the sound of someone breaking the tension when it becomes too thick to breathe.

Spider-Man’s gaze flickers over to him, caught in the weird, slightly disorienting contrast between the absurdity of his words and the deadly intent that hangs just beneath the surface of his demeanor. It’s like staring at a clown who’s just as likely to slice you in half as he is to offer you a lollipop. But Spider-Man doesn’t flinch. He just sighs quietly, keeping his thoughts to himself as he turns his focus to the other man.

On Spider-Man’s other side, a different voice cuts in - calm, measured, with an undertone of dry wit. “Don’t mind him,” the voice says, carrying an edge of boredom, like he’s heard this joke a thousand times already. Spider-Man turns his head to find the man beside him, the one wearing the red suit with the black accents. His expression is almost unreadable, but there’s a certain understanding in the way his lips curl slightly, like he’s seen worse and doesn’t need to say it aloud. “I’m Daredevil.” The man’s hand extends toward Spider-Man, and with a slight hesitation, Spider-Man takes it, his grip firmer than it has been in the past few minutes, the tremors in his fingers momentarily quelling under the stranger’s steady, grounded presence.

“And this is Deadpool.” Daredevil’s tone shifts, just enough to carry a hint of affection - or maybe exasperation - as he gestures to the man beside him. Deadpool, as expected, shoots a two-fingered salute at Spider-Man, his grin wide and just a little too manic for comfort. Then, in the next instant, he winks - like he’s somehow part of the joke, but Spider-Man can’t quite figure out the punchline.

Spider-Man blinks, taking a deep breath, the fog of his thoughts lifting just a little. The strange distraction, the bizarre humor, the unexpected kindness—it’s enough to shake the grip of panic that had held him tightly in its claws. His fingers don’t shake as much now, his pulse a little steadier as he returns his gaze to the horizon. He doesn’t know these men. Not really. But for some reason, the strange bond between them feels real enough to allow him to breathe again.

But just as quickly as the fog seems to lift, it creeps back in. The pressure—the weight—begins to surround him once more, slipping through the cracks in his mind, ready to swallow him whole again. It’s like the world itself is closing in around him, drawing him back into the memory of the past, of everything he’s lost, of everything he’s fighting for. The pressure in his chest tightens, and Spider-Man can’t seem to shake it. The store is still there, lingering in the back of his mind, pulling him down, reminding him that this fight - that his life - was never supposed to be this way.

And then, Deadpool’s voice cuts through the haze, low and unexpectedly serious. The sudden shift in tone pulls Spider-Man back from the edge, snapping him out of the fog.

“Just know we’re here for you, dude,” Deadpool mutters, his voice softer now, the playful edge gone. There’s something about his eyes, too, that makes Spider-Man pause—like he’s seeing more than just the surface. He’s seeing the weight Peter’s been carrying, the brokenness that lingers just beneath the suit. And for a moment, it’s like the world outside doesn’t exist. The only thing that matters is the reassurance in Deadpool’s words - however weird it might sound coming from someone like him.

Deadpool’s gaze lingers for a moment longer before he stands up again, stretching with an exaggerated groan. Daredevil follows suit, standing in quiet synchronization, like they’ve done this a hundred times. They both turn to Spider-Man, who remains seated, still lost in the quiet of his own mind.

“We know it’s pretty hard out there,” Daredevil adds, his voice quieter now, the humor gone, replaced with something more grounded. “But you don’t have to do it alone.”

Spider-Man doesn’t know how to respond. His breath is still heavy, the weight of everything pressing on him in ways he can’t quite explain. But for the first time in a long while, he doesn’t feel quite so alone. There’s something comforting about their presence, despite their oddities, despite the chaos that follows them everywhere they go.

And for once, Spider-Man allows himself to sit in the silence, letting the world outside fade for just a moment, focusing on the presence of these strange, unpredictable allies beside him. He doesn’t know what will happen next. He doesn’t know how much longer he can keep going. But in this brief moment, at least, he doesn’t have to fight alone.

Chapter Text

Peter first put on the suit two days after Ben’s death and three days before May sold their house and started renting an apartment. He hadn’t been ready - not really - but he hadn’t been able to sit still, either. He’d been planning it for weeks, long before that night. The mask had sat in a shoebox under his bed, staring at him every time he’d dared to look. He’d run his fingers over it more times than he could count, its fabric soft and foreign, like it belonged to someone else. Someone braver. 

This wasn’t a decision you could undo. The moment he climbed out of his window in that suit, he wouldn’t just be Peter Parker anymore. He wouldn’t just be some kid with too many bad breaks and a few good grades. No - this would make him something else. Something bigger. And yet, for all his overthinking, for all the time he’d spent planning, when the moment finally came, Peter had moved without hesitation.

Ben’s funeral had been unbearable. The weight of it had pressed down on his shoulders, threatening to break him under its unrelenting force. The image of the tombstone had seared itself into his brain, the letters of Ben’s name etched in his memory as sharply as they were in the cold, unforgiving stone. He’d come back home with a fire raging in his chest, choking out everything else - grief, guilt, even fear. It wasn’t just sadness anymore. It was anger. Anger at the world, at the injustice of it all, at himself. 

When he walked into his room, he hadn’t hesitated. For the first time in days, his hands didn’t shake as he pulled the box out from under his bed, tearing off the lid like it had wronged him. The suit stared back at him - unfinished, improvised, imperfect. It didn’t matter. He grabbed it anyway.

May was sobbing quietly in her room, her muffled cries breaking through the paper-thin walls of the house they wouldn’t be in much longer. Peter could hear her through the hum of his own heartbeat, through the blood rushing in his ears. He could’ve gone to her. He could’ve tried to say something - anything - to make it better. But what was there to say? So he ignored it. He blocked it out, just like he’d blocked out everything else since that night. He stripped down quickly, pulling on the baggy track pants and red hoodie that made up the bulk of his “suit.” He shoved the murky ski goggles over his eyes, tightening them until they dug into his temples. It wasn’t much. But it was enough.

He climbed out of the window, the cool night air hitting him like a slap in the face, and didn’t stop. He swung, jumped, ran - anything to keep moving. The city was alive beneath him, pulsing with chaos and crime, and Peter threw himself into it headfirst. Robbers, purse-snatchers, small-time criminals - they didn’t stand a chance. He wasn’t graceful, not yet, but he was relentless. Every punch, every web, every takedown - it was a release. A way to burn off the fire inside him before it consumed him entirely.

When he finally crawled back through his window in the early hours of the morning, he felt lighter. Not fixed - he doubted he’d ever be fixed - but lighter. May wasn’t crying anymore, though the sound of her restless tossing and turning still reached his ears. Peter stashed the suit back in its box, his movements careful, reverent. It wasn’t just a piece of fabric anymore. It was something more. And maybe, just maybe, it was the start of something he could use. Something that mattered.

He climbed into bed, his muscles aching in a way that felt almost good. For the first time in days, he didn’t feel like the walls were closing in on him. He closed his eyes, and when morning came, the sunlight felt a little less harsh. It wasn’t hope, not quite. But it was something. Something brighter than the darkness that had been following him since that night. Something to hold on to. 

🕸

There are still days.  

Bad days, when Peter's hollow gaze dims the brightness of his smile. When his hands tremble, not with adrenaline or excitement, but with something he can’t quite put into words. It creeps in slowly, like the fog rolling over the city at dusk, until it’s all he can see - gray and shapeless, pressing down on him.  

He used to tell people when it happened. Back then, it felt safe. He let it show in the smallest ways, ways that only the most observant would notice. He let May and Ben fuss over him, their voices warm and soft, coaxing him to sit at the kitchen table while they made him tea and piled a plate with cookies he hadn’t asked for. He let Harry drag him out of the house, insisting they needed to buy the newest video game or check out the comic shop, even if Peter didn’t feel like it. Later, when Ned and MJ came into his life, he let them smother him with bags of popcorn and reruns of the terrible movies they all pretended to hate but secretly loved.  

But that was then.  

Now, he doesn’t let it show. He doesn’t tell anyone when the bad days come, when his chest tightens and his breathing stutters and he feels like his skin is too tight, like the weight of the mask is crushing him even when it’s nowhere near his face. He just sits there, still as stone, clutching at the remnants of whatever is left of his will to keep going.  

Deep down, he thinks - no, he hopes - that if he hides it well enough, if he agrees fast enough, if he smiles wide enough, it’ll all just go away. The nightmares that leave him gasping for air. The panic attacks that make his vision blur. The days he can’t bring himself to eat, to move, to do anything but sit and stare and pretend he’s fine.  

He hopes, but he knows better.  

Still, he tries. Because he has to.  

Because he’s Spider-Man.  

Spider-Man doesn’t crack. He doesn’t falter. He doesn’t let the weight of the world crush him, even when it feels like Atlas himself would have given up by now. He’s practically indestructible, right? The guy who can take a punch from a speeding train and bounce back with a grin and a quip. The guy who swings through the city, saving lives and catching bad guys, like it’s the easiest thing in the world.  

But that’s not who Peter is, not really.  

And they can’t know.  

He can’t let them see him falter. Can’t let them see the cracks. Because if they did, they’d blame themselves. MJ would blame herself for not noticing sooner. Ned would feel guilty for not cracking a joke fast enough. May… May would carry it like a stone in her chest, heavy and unforgiving.  

And they shouldn’t.  

Because it’s not their fault. It never was.  

It’s his. It’s always been his.  

Peter clings to that thought, as warped and wrong as it is. He holds onto it like a lifeline, like it’s the only thing keeping him upright on the days he feels like the world is tilting sideways. Because if it’s his fault - if it’s something broken in him - then maybe he can fix it. Maybe he can patch himself up, slap on a band-aid, and keep swinging.  

Because that’s what Spider-Man does.  

And if he’s Spider-Man, then he doesn’t have time to be Peter Parker.

🕸

Spider-man is sitting on the roof of an old costume shop when his senses flare up with a sharp buzz of WATCHING , his eyes flickering over the street below him. A large, blocky man wearing a vivid white suit jacket stands at the entrance to an alley, the dim glow of a street lamp highlighting the clear expanse of scalp that was his bald head.

The man's eyes, like twin pools of tar, glimmer faintly under the flickering streetlight as he stares Spider-Man down, his lips curling into the faintest shadow of a sneer. There’s no hesitation in his stance, no faltering, no flinch. It’s a quiet, unspoken challenge - a predator eyeing its prey, daring it to make the first move.  

Spider-Man drops from the rooftop in a single, fluid motion, landing just a few feet in front of him. The impact barely registers, but the man’s gaze doesn’t waver. The buzzing at the back of Peter’s head flares up instantly, sharper and louder than before, like a thousand angry hornets trapped in his skull.  

It isn’t just his Spider-Sense. It’s something deeper, something darker.  

The weight of it grows, pressing against his temples and curling around his chest. It feels sentient, almost alive, a creeping, suffocating darkness that seeps into his bones and steals the air from his lungs.  

Peter stands his ground, but his fingers twitch at his sides. He can feel the suit sticking to his back, damp with sweat. The man doesn’t move. His sneer doesn’t deepen, his expression doesn’t shift - it’s that stillness that gets to Peter most, that unnerving, impenetrable calm.  

The silence stretches between them like a taut wire, ready to snap.  

Peter swallows hard, the sound audible even beneath his mask. He’s faced a lot of villains, a lot of monsters, but something about this man - something he can’t quite put his finger on - makes him feel like he’s standing on the edge of a cliff, staring into an endless abyss.  

And the abyss is staring back.

watch closely. be weary

Spider-man has heard about this man, he has heard him discussed between criminals on the street and in abandoned warehouses and in quiet murmurs amongst frightened families crowded in sobbing groups over the bodies of their injured and dead.

Wilson Fisk. A walking mountain of muscles and misguided fury.

The man had allegedly been trying to do better, assisting the government in getting other supers and vigilantes to sign the accords as a way to shorten his prison sentence which had been a stagnating topic of debate in the underground from what Spider-man had heard from the wandering voices of thieves.

Spider-Man shakes the thoughts from his head, forcing himself to focus. Now isn’t the time to overthink. Now is the time to act.

He straightens his shoulders, lifting his chin as he meets Fisk’s cold gaze. Even though the man towers over him, Peter refuses to waver. The familiar comfort of a quip sits on the tip of his tongue, ready to spring into the tense silence, when Fisk suddenly chuckles.

It’s a deep, guttural sound, rumbling like distant thunder.

Before Peter can react, Fisk reaches into his pocket with practiced ease, pulling out a sleek lighter and a pack of cigarettes. The tiny metallic click of the lighter echoes in the alley as Fisk struggles once, twice, before the flame ignites. He slides a single cigarette from the pack, placing it between his lips as if Peter isn’t even there.

The scent of burning tobacco curls through the air, thick and acrid. Peter flinches as Fisk exhales a slow, deliberate plume of smoke directly into his face.

Fisk’s lips curve into a grin, the cigarette dangling carelessly between two gloved fingers. "So, Spidey," he says, his voice a low growl that seems to scrape against the walls, "a little birdie told me you haven’t signed the Accords yet."

The way he says it, so casual yet dripping with menace, sends a shiver down Spider-man's spine.

Spider-man blinks up at the man for a moment, nonplussed, before shaking himself out of it and finding a cocky grin to plaster across his face, "Maybe not buddy, why's it matter?"

A snarl lights up on the other man's face, the glint of bright canine teeth gleaming through the thin layer of smoke that has thickened between them like a wall, "It matters because it means I can punch you without any consequences," he inhales harshly on his cigarette, the glowing ember on the end growing ever so slightly brighter.

They stand there in silence for a beat, "Supposes that means your not gonna try convince me to sign them?" he asks, quirking a brow behind his white lenses, already knowing the answer he would get back, "Guess I'll just be going then," his gloved fingers spread out to show the empty space surrounding them, "Places to be and all that stuff. Wouldn't want to be late for a bank robbery, that's just bad manners you know," he finishes with a nonchalant shrug, an elbow coming up to rest against the brick beside the man's bald head in a somewhat uncomfortable approximation of casual leaning.

"Not so fast little bug," Fisk sneers, "You've got a few things to answer for before you go scuttling off," the larger man licks his lips slowly as he exhales another cloud of acrid cigarette smoke.

Spider-man's frown is hidden by his mask, "And those would be..." he trails off, an edge to his voice that even the other man couldn't miss, "What?"

Kingpin chuckles, his broad shoulders shuddering with the motion until it almost looks like he is sobbing, "Oh you know, just your average property damage, evading the law, killing my son, gross negligence," at the last he grunts, punching out to catch Spider-man in the chest with an iron clad fist, sending him flying backwards.

Spider-man lets the momentum carry him all the way to the end of the narrow back street, where he presses his palms to the ground and pushes himself up, "Your son?"

Fisk's cackle has a manic edge to it, "Richard Fisk, age 7, loved lizards," with each fact Kingpin steps forwards, feet heavy on the gritty ground, "and science," the other man's face blazes like an inferno, eyes spitting embers akin to the one glowing at the base of his cigarette, "and his doting father, if you were curious."

Oh... Spider-man gulps, and keeps his arms tense even though his mind is still buffering. He doesn't remember any kids, though the name does tickle some distant memory in the back of his mind, like some half forgotten dream or faded image. Something he used to be able to see but is now shrouded in mist and obscured with an eerie glow that leaves him feeling cold and hollow.

Spider-man grimaces as Fisk continues to walk towards him, "I don't know who the kid is," he says, shaking himself slightly, "I don't remember."

The words stop Kingpin in his tracks and he cocks his head slightly in confusion, "How do you not remember," he snarls, making an aborted movement forward before his shoulders set firmly and he balls his fists tightly, "I though the oh-so-amazing Spider-man remembered every victim."

Kingpin took another step, a razor edged smirk showing up to rest lightly on the large man's face, "You killed him with you incompetence really," he muttered, "How did you not know there were bombs in those buildings, it seems like fairly amateur stuff for someone like you."

As the hulking figure stepped forward once more, the buzzing in the back of his head goes silent, leaving the numbness to sink deeper into Spider-man's chest as memories flood back, leaving an acrid taste in the back of his mouth, a sour cocktail of bitter failures. Last week's news report shines bright in his memory now, the missing boy, Richard Fisk , Spider-man had unconsciously been avoiding the news in case he was informed of the boys passing, his gaze fogs with the reminder of his incompetence, of his failure and another death tally to add to the mounting casualties he has left in his shadow.

Kingpin surges forward and Spider-man is slow to react, his feet are pinned to the cracked concrete beneath him and his mind racing far too quickly to move any part of him.

Fisk punches him in the face and he just. lets. him.

Not anymore

He allows himself to be shoved roughly against the rough brick wall, but stands firm when the sledgehammer blows land on his masked face.

no more

Spider-man breathes, his ribs stutter as his lungs fill like it is a chore, but he breathes.

He still lives.

Not as strongly as he should but he is here.

He is a person. He is a boy. He is alive.

He loves science because of a chemistry kit his dad had gotten him for his fourth birthday, he loves olives because a girl he met at the library once told him of a recipe reliant on the things, he loves comics because Harry bought him several for their first Christmas being friends. His room is full of thousand piece Lego sets because one of his favourite people introduced him to them. Peter is a scrapbook full of everyone he has ever loved, defined infinitely by those he no longer knows and those who still stick by him.

Sometimes everything seems to stop and for a moment he just feels tired. Wracked by the guilt he has for leaving the house he knew like the back of his hand.

He could walk through those rooms and point out all the best hiding spots, eyes distant and glassy as he whispers out a hoarse ‘I used to live here,’ through dry lips.

He wishes fervently that he could be okay with the fact that people and places and smells and so many other things will always fade slowly out of his life. He wishes he could tell those who already have faded that he loves them, that he thinks of them on so many occasions.

It's like that beautiful, pink flowered tree that had once been down the road from his old house that had one day just been cut down without a word. Echoes of its scent sometimes seem to curl through the air as though waiting to sabotage his next move.

In another universe Peter is 11 and nothing bad has happened to him yet.

Sometimes, when Peter is lying in bed he wishes he could be a child again. Sweet and innocent, giggling as he opens his palms to the world and all it has to offer. He is burning for something that is no longer his and it eats at him every moment he feels inadequate.

Sometimes he thinks this might all be a bad dream. Every now and then, when the world is quiet enough, when the fading yellow light hits the ceiling just right, when the moon is high, he feels like a child again. Sometimes he wishes he could find the spot where time is the weakest, touch it, tear it apart. Wake up in bed behind his parents' backs where he’d crawled after some half-forgotten nightmare.

He is a rock turned over so many times you forget which side it started on. He is dark clouds rallied by the billowing of the winds. He is the call of the songbirds and the rustle of the reeds. He is a high schooler's first summer job and a retired construction worker. He is the caking makeup of a drag queen and the skin of a newborn baby.

He is Peter Benjamin Parker and he is Spider-man.

Sure his childhood drags behind him like the dead body of a stranger he once knew. Sure he is haunted by a past he cannot go back to and if he is honest with himself he just wants to go home but right now. At this moment. He can help people.

Spider-man raises his palm and catches Kingpin's next fist.

Chapter Text

It is fairly easy, after Spider-Man catches the first punch, to finish Fisk off. The man didn't see it coming because of Spider-man's earlier compliance and his eyes grow wide as the young vigilante places a gloved palm in the centre of his large chest and pushes.

The man goes flying across the road, smashing into the boarded up front of a closed laundry store. The glass on the other side of the boards shatters, the tinkle of the needle-like pieces echoing down the empty street. It crunches under Kingpin's expensive shoes as he stands back up.

He has a trickle of blood running down the side of his head, an angry red line that twists down his neck and stains the collar of his white suit jacket a brilliant maroon. His fists are clenched, gloves creaking quietly as his large hands flex, "Ahh the kitty coming out to play?" he garbles, one side of his mouth quirking up as he eyes Spider-man from across the street.

Spider-man runs a hand down his face, gentle over the half formed bruises that litter his cheeks, “Look buddy I am not in the mood, just give up and I won't hurt you anymore than I have to," he says, "I didn't cause your son's death."

"No, you didn't, but you are responsible for it."

Fisk's tone is calm, collected, and so unlike the maniacal rage of before that it takes Spider-man a second to process the words.

The silence stretches out, growing taunt between them.

"I don't want to fight you, Fisk," Spider-man mutters, the white lenses of his mask narrowing at the man, "Let me be."

Fisk laughs, the sound bouncing down the empty road like a ball, "And if I don't?"

"Then I'll make you."

Fisk rushes forwards.

He is strong, but not stronger than a train, or a car or a building falling on top of him. He is not stronger than a speeding bullet or an explosion that rattles the windows and leaves the ears ringing.

He is not stronger than the weight of a dead man or the screams of a frightened child or the wails of a mourning mother.

Kingpin is strong, yes, but he is no match for the strength of a grieving son, or the will of a determined young man.

Spider-man lets the fist fly towards him, ducks low and brings his knee up. He connects solidly with the mans diaphragm, the force of the blow knocking the air out of him, a loud oof echoing out into the night.

Spider-man doesn't let up, he jumps and flips, his hands gripping onto the mans broad shoulders as his feet dig into his abdomen and he forces the larger man to the ground.

Kingpin struggles under him, hands reaching out blindly, grasping at air, before they grab a handful of the red Kevlar.

Spider-man yelps, legs kicking as the man yanks him off his perch, pulling him close before slamming him onto the ground beside him.

The concrete cracks under him, spider-web patterns shooting out around his body, and Spider-man wheezes, the wind knocked out of him.

A meaty hand clamps around his throat, tightening and forcing him further down into the broken concrete.

Kingpin's face is dark, twisted into a grotesque imitation of his earlier fury, a snarl marring his features and making him look more animal than human.

Spider-man tries to take a breath and finds his lungs unable to expand, the grip around his throat like a vice and preventing him from taking even a small inhale.

He digs his own fingers under Fisk's, pulling at them to pry them off his throat until his is shoving the other man's hand away.

Fisk grunts, his other arm coming up to try and wrap around Spider-man's waist, to trap him underneath the man.

Spider-man grabs it before it gets the chance, pushing the limb down and forcing Kingpin's body further up, his large shoulders now looming over Spider-man's head, the mans thick neck right in his face.

"Fuck," he mutters, shoving at the larger mans body before he brings a fist down.

There is a loud crack as Fisk's jaw is forced up and back. The bald man groans, blood dribbling from the corner of his mouth.

Spider-man lets go of the man's limp arm and grabs a hold of his shoulders, flipping them over and pinning the larger man under him.

"Stop fighting me, please," Spider-man's voice comes out hoarse, the grip around his throat and the broken concrete having left a few scratches on his larynx.

Kingpin groans and tries to push Spider-man off.

Spider-man grabs the man's arm, forcing it back and twisting his elbow until the bone gives a quiet click, "Stop."

Fisk grunts and struggles, his other arm swinging up in a sloppy uppercut.

Spider-man moves out the way easily, his hand darting out to catch the other man's wrist and twisting his arm behind his back, "Please, just stop fighting," his voice breaks on the last word, his throat clicking as he swallows.

"Just go the fuck away," he whispers, his voice breaking again as his hand tightens on the mans arm, a sickening pop echoing through the otherwise silent street as he applies a bit to much pressure.

"Why didn't you sign the accords," the question comes out of the blue, startling Spider-man.

The younger man's hand clenches on the broken joint, "I just didn't," he whispers, his voice is a low hum, soft and gentle as his gaze drifts to a distant spot somewhere above the other man's head, "It's not important."

Kingpin turns his head to try and look at Spider-man, "What?" The joints in the man's arm protesting loudly as Spider-man stands, using his webs to tie his hands together and stick him to the ground.

"I don't know why," Spider-man murmurs, "But it wasn't right, I could feel it," his voice is distant, as though he is not the one saying the words, "So I didn't."

"I didn't kill your son, Wilson," Spider-man shakes his head, "But I'm sorry, I can't bring him back," he turns to walk away, "I'm sorry."

🕸

The night air is thick and heavy, pressing down on Spider-Man as he weaves through the city, each step a jarring reminder of the bruises blooming across his ribs. He’d hoped - prayed, really - that he could limp back home and call it a night after the whole Kingpin fiasco. But, as usual, luck isn’t on his side.

Within ten minutes, the familiar prickle of being watched creeps along his spine, and the distinct shadow of a figure on the rooftops to his right confirms his suspicions.

The silhouette of a bow stands out against the dim glow of the city, and Spider-Man almost groans aloud. Barton. Of course, it’s Barton.

Honestly, he’s surprised one of them hadn’t come after him sooner. Three months. It’s been three months since the Avengers signed the accords, since they effectively vanished from the streets. The only signs of them have been carefully curated media appearances designed to “uphold morale.” Meanwhile, Spider-man’s been drowning under the rising tide of crime and chaos in their absence.

He exhales sharply, stopping on a rooftop and crouching, his feet whisper-silent against the grime covered concrete. He doesn’t even bother looking when he hears the faint scuff of boots on the ledge behind him.

"Barton, I presume," Spider-Man says dryly, not turning as he straightens. His voice is hoarse, and his face still throbs from earlier, but he refuses to show weakness now.

There’s a hum of acknowledgment, followed by the sound of boots crunching closer. "You’ve heard of me, huh," Clint replies, his grin practically audible, "Good things, I hope."

Spider-man glances at him from the corner of his eye, shrugging with an air of indifference. "Depends," he mutters, voice low. "The people I tend to meet aren’t exactly upstanding citizens." He catches the subtle twitch in Clint’s jaw, the slight downturn of his lips. "So, you know, the reviews aren’t glowing."

Clint’s head tilts slightly, the playful edge of his tone hardening. "You mean the criminals you fight?"

Spider-man sighs, finally turning to face the archer fully. "Yes," he says, voice sharper than intended. "The criminals I fend off so people can have even a shred of peace." His arms cross tightly over his chest, fingers digging into his biceps. "I do what you do- or what you used to do, anyway. Just without the fancy government contracts and press coverage."

Clint’s expression darkens, his lips pressing into a thin line. "I actually thought you were pretty cool at first," he says, voice colder now.

Spider-man straightens instinctively at the shift in tone. "Oh, did you now?"

"But," Clint continues, taking a step closer, "obviously, I was wrong."

The lenses of Spider-Man’s mask narrow as he huffs, irritation bubbling to the surface. "Look, man, I’ve already had Fisk breathing down my neck today, pretending he gives a damn about me signing the accords. Can we not do this right now?"

Clint’s brow furrows. "Why are you avoiding the accords? They’re meant to help you, not hurt you."

Spider-man’s laugh is humorless, almost bitter. "Yeah, sure," he snaps, his voice rising. "Because nothing screams ‘helpful’ like making my life a living hell. Do you have any idea what it’s been like out here? I’ve been picking up your slack, running myself ragged to deal with all the new villains crawling out of the woodwork. Crime rates are through the roof, and I don’t have the time or energy to deal with your political bullshit of an-"

"The accords are not bullshit," Clint interrupts sharply.

Spider-man throws his hands in the air, stepping closer without even realizing it. "Then tell me why they aren’t! Because from where I’m standing, the only thing they’ve done is make my life a thousand times harder. The government wants my head on a platter for being one of the only people still out here trying to help this godforsaken city!"

Clint opens his mouth to respond, but Spider-man doesn’t stop. The words pour out, raw and furious.

"Where were you when the Shocker leveled a block of apartments? Or when a gang war broke out in Hell’s Kitchen? Or when the Sinister Six destroyed that school like it’s some kind of personal vendetta against them? You were gone, all of you. And I’m the one left cleaning up the mess!"

The rooftop falls silent, the weight of Spider-man's words hanging heavily in the air. For a moment, Clint just stares at him, his expression unreadable.

Spider-man pauses and his eyes drift to the ground as his breathing slows and he calms himself down, "All I want is to protect people, and this isn't going to do that," he says, his eyes coming back up to meet the archers, "Not in the long run, anyway."

The two men stare at each other for a moment, the air between them growing thick and heavy with tension.

"Look," Spider-man sighs, "I just want to help," he runs a hand down his masked face, his palm lingering on his chin, "I have been since day one, and I don't intend to stop."

"You don't understand the danger you are in," Clint's voice is low, almost pleading, "You could get arrested- you will get arrested."

"So you say," Spider-man shrugs, his hand dropping back to his side as his arms cross in front of his chest, "But so far all that has happened is me dealing with more assholes than normal."

Clint's mouth twitches, and for a moment Spider-man thinks he's about to smile, "The Accords were made for the good of everyone."

Spider-man's laugh is cold, sharp, and cuts through the tense atmosphere like a hot knife, "No Clint. They were made so the government didn't have to worry about loose cannons anymore, and they can now point the finger at those who haven't signed the accords and say, "Hey look, it's your fault that we have been invaded and that New York is a crater."

Spider-man takes a step towards the taller man, "They are going to pin the blame on me, and small-time vigilantes, and everyone who didn't agree to be their lap dog," he jabs a finger into Clint's chest, his voice low and venomous, "and you are too stupid, too blind, to realise."

The air is still.

"You're just a kid," Clint mutters, the words almost a whisper on the wind, "I don't want to have to hurt you."

"That's nice," Spider-man's smile is wide and even behind the mask Clint can tell it's slightly manic, "But I've got a job to do, and you're not gonna stop me."

Spider-man turns on his heel, striding to the edge of the building and launching himself off the side, "See you later Clint," he calls, waving lazily behind him, "Give my regards to the Avengers."

🕸

Peter doesn't really remember the swing back, doesn't remember climbing through his bedroom window or the sound of his suit falling onto the floor in a wet heap, doesn't remember his knees giving out under him as he crumples onto his bed.

He dreams of the time before.

Chapter Text

Peter is sure he’s reached the end of his tether. He thought - hoped - that after Clint’s little rooftop sermon, people would stop chasing him down about the accords, at least for a while. Surely they’d realized by now that his stance isn’t going to change.  

But apparently, Peter’s optimism is misplaced, because only two days later, he can feel someone trailing him again.  

He doesn’t bother turning around. It’s almost routine at this point. The familiar buzz of being followed pricks at his senses, but it’s not urgent, just persistent.  

Seriously? Peter grits his teeth as he vaults over a narrow alley, landing on the next rooftop with practiced ease. Do they have a schedule for this or something?

The person following him is good. Really good. They’re quiet, their footfalls nearly imperceptible even to Peter’s heightened senses, and they’re keeping up with his pace like it’s nothing. At least they’re not sending amateurs anymore; Peter had started to feel bad for the poor saps he’d shaken off in under a minute.  

Still, this is annoying. Three months of dodging the accords and every attempt to wrangle him into compliance, and they’re still at it. He doesn’t even pause to roll his eyes at the absurdity of it all because, honestly, it’s exhausting. Can’t they just take the hint?  

He stops abruptly below a cracked, spray-painted mural of himself. It’s faded, the bright reds and blues dulled by weather and time, and someone has scrawled another tag over part of it. The whole thing feels… wrong. Like a metaphor for the mess his life has become, not that he needs another one.  

Peter drops down onto the rooftop ledge, his fingers curling loosely into fists. He’s been trying - and failing - to stop them from trembling since he woke up.  

He waits.  

There’s a flicker of movement on the building opposite, a shadow bending and twisting in the light of a neon sign that blinks erratically, as though it’s struggling to stay alive.  

"Are you going to come out, or not?" Peter’s voice is rough, hoarse, and sharper than he intended. The words cut through the silence like glass on pavement.  

For a moment, nothing happens. Then, in a single fluid motion, a figure drops onto the parapet beside him.  

The stranger moves with a predatory grace, their silhouette sharp against the dim glow of the city. Peter doesn’t even flinch, though his muscles tense instinctively.  

…friend..?

The hum of his senses is quiet, confused, almost inaudible, a whisper that caresses his mind like a lover's touch as he whips his head to face the figure before him.

A low, almost melodic laugh cuts through the stillness, curling around him like smoke. It’s rich, somehow light but still carrying a rumble beneath it. The kind of laugh that sounds both dangerous and oddly inviting.  

"They told me you were good," a distinctly feminine voice says, emerging from the shadows with a tone that’s smooth and assured, a voice that doesn’t need to raise itself to command attention.  

Peter stiffens, his mind racing. That narrows the field considerably. If this is about the accords - and when isn't it? - the only women in their lineup who could pull this off are either Scarlet Witch or Black Widow. But Scarlet Witch? Subtlety isn’t her forte. She’s more the type to make her point with glowing red hands and ominous energy.  

That leaves only one option.  

"Black Widow," he mutters, his voice low and edged with reluctant respect. It’s not a question, more of a confirmation. The soft hum in the back of his head - the sense that’s always been his silent guide - doesn’t warn him away from the thought. If anything, it seems to hum in agreement, buzzing faintly like a cat purring at the foot of his mind.  

In the shadows, she cocks her head. Even in near darkness, Peter can feel the shift in her body language. It’s subtle, calculated. The slight tilt of her head is almost playful, like she’s sizing him up with quiet amusement. Her elbow props against her knee, her chin resting on her knuckles, the perfect picture of ease.  

Behind her, the flickering neon lights of the building blink in a broken rhythm, casting her silhouette in sharp, inconsistent relief. And then she smiles.  

It’s not much - just a faint quirk at the edges of her mouth. Small, deliberate. A smile that doesn’t quite reach her eyes but still radiates something dangerously close to charm. Like she’s trying to seem friendly, warm even. The kind of smile you’d use to coax a stray dog to trust you. To stay still. To not bite.  

Peter’s lenses narrow as his hands flex at his sides, the sharp ridges of his gloves creaking faintly. He doesn’t relax, not for a second.  

There’s a soft thud as she drops from her perch, her movements precise and almost soundless. Her boots hit the concrete with a muted clink, the faintest echo of metal against stone. Black Widow moves toward him, slowly, each step deliberate, almost predatory.  

Peter doesn’t miss the way her gaze sweeps over him, sharp and analytical. She’s studying him, cataloging every detail like a predator searching for weaknesses in its prey.  

"What do you want?" His voice is flat, devoid of the usual humor or sarcasm he’d throw into situations like this. He doesn’t even bother with politeness. He’s too tired, too worn down by weeks of this endless cat-and-mouse game. If she’s here for the same reason as the rest, she’s wasting her time.  

Black Widow raises an eyebrow, unfazed by his bluntness. She doesn’t flinch or bristle; if anything, she seems amused. “I just want to talk,” she says, her tone light but far from casual.  

Peter snorts, crossing his arms as he shifts his weight onto one foot. “Yeah, I bet,” he says, the sarcasm dripping from his voice like venom. His lenses narrow further, his body coiled tight, ready for whatever game she’s about to play. “Because following me like a creep for the last four blocks is such a friendly way to start a conversation.”  

She doesn’t rise to the bait. Her expression remains calm, controlled, though there’s a flicker of something sharp in her eyes. "It’s true,” she says, shrugging slightly. There’s no trace of defensiveness in her tone, just a cool, matter-of-fact air.  

Her tongue darts out briefly, running over her teeth before she licks her lips and flashes him a grin. It’s quick and cutting, more like a wolf baring its teeth than a genuine smile. “I just thought I’d propose a deal."  

...careful… friend.

Spider-man stays quiet, head tilting to a side and arms crossing over his chest as the light of the sign above his head shifts, casting them in a bright pink glow.

"You must understand how dangerous this situation is for you especially because you are alone, you've already had a run-in with Fisk," she starts, eyes snapping to his neck where there are still small bruises formed in the vague impression of hands, he isn't sure how she knows the details of the fight but it is Black Widow, he shouldn't underestimate her, "and it should be clear to you by now that Barton will not be as nice the next time he comes to find you."

Spider-man doesn't answer, still not knowing what she is getting at but finding himself wary, this conversation is too calm, too peaceful for him to feel secure.

"I have recently found myself disliking what the accords have done," her tone is completely conversational, hands gesturing slightly as she talks, "The other Avengers, however do not share the same, ah," she grimaces slightly and waves her hand as if to grab the words from the air, "Sentiment."

...nervous...

"With that in mind, I would like to help you," she finishes.

"Don't take this the wrong way," Spider-man starts, feeling oddly uneasy, "But that sounds a hell of a lot like a trap."

"I’d be concerned if you didn't think that at first."

"Right," Spider-man scoffs, the sound muffled behind his mask, "And why would the world renowned assassin suddenly abandon her beloved organisation."

“I'm not abandoning them per say,” Black Widow hums, her eyes seem to bore a hole right through Spider-man’s head, “It's just a double cross. A bit of spywork, if you will.”

“Ahhh,” so she wanted to stay with the Avengers, wanted to have something to fall back on should her endeavour here fall through, “That doesn't make me any less suspicious.”

Black Widow shrugs lopsidedly, head tilting, “I can try to prove that I'm not here to sell you out.”

“Bet.”

🕸

Spider-man had not been planning to stay out this late but with Black Widow's sore need to prove herself he had been forced to pull out one of the cases he had been studying for a few months.

A trafficking ring. Drugs, guns, kids, you name it. It had formed not too long after the accords had been signed and the Avengers had disappeared (Spider-Man tells Black Widow that as they run across the roofs towards the warehouse they operate out of).

Its short running time had allowed for Spider-man to collect a lot of information about when and how they did their business. The ring's security detail was abysmal when compared to that of the older rings and so Spider-man had focused his efforts on them, hoping that taking down the easier one would lead to some clues as to how to get rid of the rest of them.

“The leader of the group, Luis Montoya, shouldn't be in today,” Spider-man murmurs, crouched atop a neighbouring building with Black Widow squatting beside him, “My AI is currently working on cutting off communications which should hopefully allow for me to get in, get pictures, take out any unlucky souls who see me and get out before anyone can contact higher management.”

Spider-man passes a small, compact comm piece to Black Widow, hands steady as he pulls back and exposes the rudimentary holographic projector on his wrist.

“There shouldn't be more than 150 personnel scattered throughout the building, not including the trafficking victims who are all kept in this room on the far left of the warehouse,” using his finger Spidey points to the room in question, the outline of it flashing red as he did so, “What I need you to do is follow behind me as silently as possible and take out anyone who sees us that I miss.”

Black Widow nods, her lips pursed as she takes in the hologram, eyes roaming over the projection with the kind of focus Spider-man is familiar with.

It's the kind that promises a good fight.

He swallows.

🕸

Spider-man is lucky that the building is a warehouse and therefore the windows are high enough and large enough for him to crawl through undetected.

His senses hum, a quiet whisper, as his fingers dig into the brick and mortar and his legs swing up to grip the edge of the windowsill.

...careful…

Spider-man nods to himself and swings his upper body through the opening, the movement smooth and practiced, Black Widow enters through another window on the other side of the warehouse with much the same grace, leaping from the sill to land lightly on one of the support beams that traverse the building.

It is a fairly open plan complex from where Spidey crouches, low walls that stop several meters from the roof separate the rooms, allowing for easy access from above and a good view of all that's happening throughout the warehouse.

There are a quite a few of people milling through the corridors between rooms and he can see a large group of men huddled around a table in a large room in the middle, a game of cards being played if the discarded pieces are anything to go by.

There is only one room that is closed in from all side, a small, black walled box that sits in the far corner. It sounds oddly quiet even from far away, probably soundproofed and if that is anything to go by then it definitely confirms the intel Spider-man had collected saying that room was the one the trafficking's victims were stored in.

He isn't here to get them out just yet however, and as much as it pains him he needs to get this info to a police station quickly along with solid proof.

So he waits, watches as the men and women below move and chatter, laughing and joking, the occasional expletive flying through the air like birds.

Spider-man is careful to watch each and every movement, counting the heads as he goes and mapping each and every possible exit the people inside the warehouse could take.

Karen has a recording device on at all time, a small camera situated on the edge of the lenses of his eye pieces has a sound recorder as well. Every now any then, when Karen gets a whiff that the people below are about to talk about the trafficking operation the camera with focus on that sector, sound device tuning in on the spot so that it becomes the only thing that can be heard.

It is not ideal but it is what he has.

Black Widow is silent where she squats on the support beam to his right, her eyes trained on the floor below, following each and every person with a look so sharp it is a wonder no one looks up.

After a while the crowd disperses, a few of the people from the game of cards standing up and stretching before heading towards the kitchen area.

Finally, finally, Karen picks up on something.

"Boss says the next shipment should be comin' through tomorrow night, right?" the man who had spoken has a rough accent, his tone is a little high as he clomps towards the kitchen with a coworker, "Should we start takin' the kids through the motions?"

The man beside him nods, the action causing his beard to scratch against his collar, "Yeah, probably, make 'em learn their lines, ya know," his accent is thicker, harder to understand, "And then we can take 'em out an' let the customers pick 'em out, eh."

"We need t' start preppin' the older ones," the first man mutters, "Boss is gonna want 'em loss, yeah."

"Oh yeah," the other man's grin is a little unnerving, "I know what I'm doin' later."

The men laugh and turn a corner, the sound of their voices echoing down the hall as the recording comes to an end.

Spider-man's fingers tap against the iron beam below him, little dents in the shape of his fingertips forming in the metal.

...calm.

Spider-man breathes.

They wait.

It doesn't take too long for the men to return, their arms loaded with beers and their hands clasped around the wrists of two teenage boys that they lead through the corridors with practiced easy.

The two boys are naked, heads covered with rough cloth bags and legs hobbled with rope, the bindings tight and constricting, leaving angry red marks on their ankles and wrists.

Their backs are littered with thin, pale scars and Spider-man can see the dark imprint of a bruise forming around one of their thighs, a harsh, ugly purple.

He hears the sharp intake of breath from Black Widow from across the warehouse, hears the snap of his camera taking the picture. His voice is rough as he mutters into the comm piece that they have everything they need, his hands are rougher as the edge of a brick on the windowsill crumbles during his crawl out.

When they reach their designated meet up point a sleek black bike is waiting from them, engine revving as Black Widow sits atop it, "Let's get out of here," her tone is low, quiet, her eyes are trained on the entrance of the building.

Spider-man's hand twitches.

He nods.

Chapter Text

Peter wakes up the next morning with a fire in his veins, a harsh, gritty anger that stings and bubbles under his skin like some sentient creature gone mad. It pushes him to go out, to swing through the skyscrapers, to do... something .

He stomps into his bathroom and takes a shower that is a little too hot, skin red raw and tingling when he climbs out, toothbrush pushed carelessly to a side as Peter dresses himself.

He blinks at his own reflection in the mirror, breathes deeply through his nose and sighs as he pulls his mask over his still damp hair.

🕸

It's a batch of low level ATM robbers that finally catch him off guard. It had been waiting to happen all day, his distractedness leading to one to many bullets missing by a mere whisker and one to many punches only just sailing past his head at the last moment.

It happens in the form of him registering the high pitched hum of his senses just a second too late, grunting as a bullet lodges itself in the thickest part of his calf.

He yelps, his hand springing out to grab at the wall of the bank beside him like a child reaching out to clutch at a lollipop.

It stings like a bitch, the bullet having torn through his calf in a way that renders the muscle in his leg useless, leaving his foot spasming as he tries to stand without the support of the nearby wall. It’s gonna itch like hell when it’s healing and probably keep him up all night with the uncomfortable sensation of his muscle knitting itself back together.

In the end that scornful revelation it only serves to draw his attention to the reason he got shot in the first place, the residual restlessness and simmering anger that still lingers, humming under his skin in a way that overlaps his senses, drowning them until they turn shrill enough to pierce through the chatter of his thoughts, leading to his lapse in judgement.

Spider-man ends up backing off after webbing the group to various walls and protruding objects that litter the alley, it didn’t take long once he had stopped playing around, only a few minutes with only one web shooter as he used his other arm to hold himself steady by pressing against the wall.

His fingers slip alarmingly on the string of webbing as he finally swings his over the streets towards his apartment building, the fact his leg is still bleeding profusely meaning he is starting to suffer from the effects of blood loss. Once again another side effect of not eating enough to keep his healing factor in peak condition.

Spider-man’s leg is burning by the time he makes it to the street his building is on. He grits his teeth, reminding himself that he’s done worse. “It’s just a flesh wound,” he mutters under his breath, trying to distract himself from the growing ache. But by the time he has got within view of the building that familiar buzzing pain is making him see stars. 

Landing awkwardly on the fire escape outside his window, Peter can feel his leg wobble beneath him as he rips the mask off his head, hair now wet with more than just water. He barely makes it inside his apartment before collapsing onto the floor with a groan. It's quiet—too quiet. The kind of silence that makes you hyper-aware of every throb of pain.

He tries to pull off his suit, his hands trembling as he carefully peels the nanotech guard on his shin off to take a closer look at the wound in his calf. There’s blood—more than he expected—and he curses under his breath. His heart hammers in his chest, not just from the injury, but from the overwhelming exhaustion that’s finally caught up with him. He needs to patch himself up, but first, he just needs a moment to breathe.

Peter shucks off the top half of his suit and pulls on a shirt, glad to have made the change to a two piece suit as he instructs Karen to compact the nanotech and spandex into a tight disc, shoving it into the draw in his bedside table as it shrinks down

There’s a sharp knock at the door—three times, fast and firm. Peter freezes mid-step, his heart pounding in his chest as pain radiates from his injured leg. His mask lies crumpled on the floor beside him, stained with sweat and dried blood, but that’s not what has his pulse racing. He drags himself toward the door, limping badly, praying they’ll go away before things spiral even further out of his control.

“Pete! You in there?” Ned’s familiar voice calls through the door, louder this time.

Peter curses under his breath. It’s not just Ned—he hears Harry’s voice too, low and casual, trying to be cool. And then the unmistakable sound of MJ muttering something that makes them both laugh.

They all showed up. Of course.

Peter’s heart sinks deeper into his stomach, dread coiling tight in his chest like a cold knot. The exhaustion is a weight on his shoulders, too heavy to shake off, and every inch of his body screams at him to just collapse and forget the world outside. He wants to curl up in a ball and shut everything out. The fight with the robbers had drained him completely - his muscles are stiff, his skin sore, and the blood he lost earlier is already starting to catch up with him. But it's the emotional exhaustion that weighs most heavily, the constant mask he has to wear, pretending everything’s fine, that hurts the most. 

The thought of facing them, of forcing a smile and pretending that everything is just fine - of making it seem like he's not seconds away from crumpling under the weight of it all - feels impossible. It's not just the physical pain; it's the crushing, suffocating loneliness that makes the room feel even smaller, the walls closing in with every breath.

But there’s no way in hell he can let them in. Not like this. Not when they’ll see the bandages stained with his own blood beneath his sweats, not when his limp is getting worse by the second, not when bruises are blooming all over his body, visible under the sleeves of his shirt. He can’t. He can’t let them see the mess he's become.

Another knock, softer this time, but it still carries that same insistent beat. Peter knows they won’t go away, not until they get what they came for, and they’re not stupid. They’ll figure it out eventually. 

“Come on, Pete. Open up,” Harry’s voice calls through the door, casual but laced with concern. “We know you’re in there.

Peter squeezes his eyes shut, the familiar ache in his chest intensifying as he fights the urge to scream, to just collapse and give in. They won’t leave. He knows them well enough to know that they’d wait all night if they had to - waiting for him to open up, to let them in. But he can't. He can’t break now. Not in front of them.

“Just a second!” Peter manages, his voice cracking in a way that makes his heart stutter. He presses his hand against the wall, holding himself up as his head spins, trying to steady his breath. He glances down at the sweatpants he’d pulled on over his suit earlier - thank God they're dark enough to hide most of the blood, but it’s a thin disguise. Panic rises in his chest as he grabs the blanket from the couch, yanking it off in a frantic motion, trying to drape it over his the like a shield, to hide any blood that may have ended up in it. It’s clumsy, but it’ll have to do.

His legs scream in protest as he hobbles toward the door, each step a sharp reminder of how much he’s hurting. His injured leg is pulsing with pain, every movement sending fire through his body. He shakes his head, willing the weakness away, willing himself to be strong just a little longer. He fumbles with the lock, his fingers numb and unsteady, and when the door finally opens, he’s greeted with the three of them standing there, their expressions unreadable but still familiar. 

Ned’s grin is wide, but there’s a strain to it - an awkwardness that doesn’t quite reach his eyes. Harry gives him a once-over, his gaze sharp, lingering just a little too long on Peter’s hunched posture. His brow furrows slightly, like he’s piecing something together. And then there’s MJ, standing a step behind, her arms folded across her chest, the way she’s eyeing him telling him everything he already knows. She’s already figured it out. She’s seen right through his bullshit.

“You look like hell,” she says, her voice flat, but the concern behind it is clear. They're not surprised. 

“Gee, thanks,” Peter mutters, trying to force a smile, but it falls flat. He leans heavily against the doorframe to keep himself steady, his balance off, and his breath shallow. "What’re you guys doing here? It’s late."

Harry shrugs, but there’s something in the way he avoids Peter’s eyes. “Thought we’d come by. Get some work done on that history project.”

Peter stares at him, blinking once, then twice. “History project? Seriously?”

Ned scratches the back of his neck, looking sheepish, but there’s a flicker of guilt in his eyes. “Yeah... you know... group work?”

Peter stares at him, disbelief sinking deeper into his bones. A history project. He doesn’t even know whether to laugh or cry at the sheer absurdity of it. They’re here to “work” on a project? At this hour? This is more than just about schoolwork, and Peter knows it. 

MJ’s gaze flicks over him, and without a single word, her eyes narrow, catching the details that Peter wishes she wouldn’t. She steps closer, her eyes flicking to the blanket draped over the couch, her lips pressing into a thin line as she takes it all in. She knows. She knows, and she’s not letting him off the hook this time.

Peter makes an instinctive move to block the doorway, his arm stretched out, but his balance falters, and in an instant, Harry’s there, his hand catching Peter’s arm before he can fall. The touch sends a jolt of pain through his injured side, and Peter flinches, unable to stop it. Harry’s grip tightens in response, his eyes locking on Peter’s face, reading the exhaustion, the weakness, the way Peter’s holding himself together with nothing but sheer will.

“You’re hurt,” Harry says flatly, like he’s just stating the obvious. 

It’s not a question - it’s a statement. And that’s when Peter realizes there’s no way out of this. They know. They’ve figured it out. It’s only a matter of time before they force him to admit everything.

“I’m fine,” Peter mutters, the words coming out too quickly, too weak. He tries to shrug off Harry’s hand, pulling his arm back with a stiff, painful motion. “It’s nothing.”

“Nothing?” MJ’s voice sharpens, the edge in it making Peter flinch. “Pete, you’re limping.”

Ned shifts to peek around Peter, his eyes landing on the crumpled blanket draped haphazardly over the couch. “And... is that blood?”

Panic shoots through Peter like a bolt of electricity, sharp and searing. His heart races, the overwhelming urge to shut the door surging in him. But Harry is faster. Before Peter can even react, Harry slides past him, with Ned following in his wake.

“Guys, seriously-” Peter stammers, his voice cracking as he steps back, trying to put some distance between himself and the looming questions. But it’s already too late. MJ steps in last, closing the door with a soft click that seals his fate.

They’re inside now. There’s no escape.

Ned plops down on the couch with a casualness that betrays the tension in the room, looking up at Peter with wide eyes, as if expecting an explanation. “Dude, what the hell happened?”

Peter opens his mouth to respond, but the words won’t come. His brain feels like it’s short-circuiting, the weight of their stares pressing on him. They can’t know. They shouldn’t know. If they know, everything changes. 

“It’s not what it looks like,” Peter blurts out, his mind scrambling for any excuse - anything that would make this moment feel less real.

“Pete...” Harry’s voice cuts through the chaos, steady and low, like he's been waiting for this moment. “We know.”

The words hang in the air like a weight that drags Peter’s chest down, a sinking feeling that makes his pulse roar in his ears. The ground beneath him tilts, his breath catching. He can’t breathe. He can’t think.

“No...” His voice is barely a whisper, as if saying it out loud might make it unreal. “You- you can’t know that.”

Ned’s face softens, and he leans forward, elbows on his knees as his gaze locks with Peter’s. “Come on, Pete. We’ve known for a while.”

Peter shakes his head, his hands trembling as he backs toward the couch, fingers gripping the edge of his sweatshirt like it’s the only thing holding him together. “No. You can’t know. If you know, you’re in danger-”

“We were in danger before,” MJ interrupts, her tone sharp, cutting straight through his panic. “You think we haven’t noticed the bruises? The black eyes? The disappearing acts?”

Harry steps closer, his eyes unreadable, but his presence is grounding, unwavering. “We didn’t say anything because we figured... we figured you’d tell us when you were ready.” He pauses, searching Peter’s face, as if looking for something, something he can’t quite place. “But you didn’t.”

Peter feels his chest tighten, the weight of his secret settling on him like a heavy blanket. He’s been so careful - so goddamn careful - and somehow, it still wasn’t enough. 

“Why didn’t you tell us?” Ned’s voice is quieter now, almost hurt, like he doesn’t understand why Peter had kept them at arm’s length for so long. “We could’ve helped.”

“Because if you knew, you’d get hurt,” Peter says, his voice breaking on the last word. His chest aches with the truth, and for the first time, the dam of emotions he’s been holding back starts to crack. “And I can’t- I can’t lose you guys.”

The room goes quiet, a heavy silence filling the space between them. Peter feels like he’s been holding his breath for too long. Then MJ, ever the practical one, walks over to him, her expression softening. She reaches out, her hand resting gently on his arm, and the contact makes Peter’s heart stutter, his defenses crumbling bit by bit.

“Pete,” she says, her voice steady but filled with warmth, “we’re your friends. You don’t have to carry all of this by yourself.”

Peter swallows hard, the weight of it all crashing down on him - the lies, the secrets, the fear. His throat tightens, his eyes stinging as everything he’s been holding back threatens to spill over. 

“I thought I was protecting you,” he whispers, the words barely audible as they slip out, raw and broken. Tears burn at the edges of his vision, but he’s too tired to fight them anymore.

Ned stands and walks over to him, his usual goofiness replaced by something quieter, more sincere. He claps a hand on Peter’s shoulder, his voice thick with emotion. “You don’t have to do this alone, man. We’ve got your back.”

Harry nods, his usual guarded expression softened by something warmer. “Always.”

For the first time in what feels like forever, the tight knot of fear in Peter’s chest begins to loosen. His breath shudders, the overwhelming weight lifting just a little. “Thanks,” he says quietly, wiping his eyes with the sleeve of his hoodie, trying to hide how vulnerable he feels. “I- I really needed that.”

MJ smirks, her usual humor slipping through despite the gravity of the situation. “Yeah, well, you also need stitches. So where’s your first-aid kit?”

Peter laughs, the sound shaky but real, the weight of everything that just happened making him feel lighter in a way he didn’t expect. “Under the sink. Good luck finding it - it’s buried under about five cleaning supplies.”

MJ rolls her eyes and heads for the kitchen without another word. Peter watches her go, and for a second, he lets himself breathe, sinking down onto the couch, his body aching but his heart a little lighter.

Harry and Ned sit beside him, and the three of them settle into an easy silence. The exhaustion he’s been fighting catches up to him in a wave, but this time, it’s different. The tightness in his chest, the loneliness, the fear - it’s all starting to fade, replaced by something stronger.

For the first time in a long time, Peter doesn’t feel like he’s carrying the weight of the world alone.

He’s not alone anymore.

Chapter Text

When Peter stumbles out of bed the next morning he’s groggy and still half-dressed in the clothes from the night before. He rubs his eyes, barely processing the sunlight streaming through his window. His phone buzzes on the desk, the group chat still alive with messages even at this early hour.

Ned: Bro, I still can’t believe you just... told us like that.

MJ: He didn’t “tell” us. We caught him limping around like a senior citizen.

Harry: Honestly, Peter, how are you not dead yet?

Peter cracks a grin, after they found out—really found out—he’d expected them to be angry or at least freaked out. But instead, they’d ordered pizza and stayed up until 3 AM, teasing him about web-slinging mishaps and watching video compilations of his failures on Youtube.

Now, with only a few hours of sleep in his system, Peter drags himself to the kitchen for breakfast, - May still several hours from returning - still replaying bits of the conversations they’d had in his head. It was strange how… normal it all felt. No yelling, no distancing themselves from his - just his friends being, well, his friends.

Grinning to himself, Peter downed a glass of orange juice, scoffed three pieces of buttered toast and grabbed his backpack. He could still hear Ned’s voice from the night before: “Dude, you’re basically a real-life Pokémon - saving people but never getting credit!” MJ had smirked, throwing in her own jabs about his “nightly crime-fighting cosplay.” It was the kind of chaos he never knew he needed.

By the time Peter is out the door and halfway down the street, his mind is already shifting to school. For the first time in a while, things felt lighter. Even with the still healing bullet wound in his calf, and the bloodied, torn fabric of his suit that sat compacted into a tight ball in his bedside table.

For the first time in a while Peter had allies.

And speaking of allies…

🕸

It’s later that week when Peter gets a whiff of another trafficking ring in downtown New York. There’s no specifics but it's just enough info to make him suspicious that this isn't just a teen trying to sound cool in front of their friends.

The thing with trafficking rings is unless you get a lot of info in one fell swoop you're likely to spend several months meticulously tracking down leads until eventually you get to someone who is actually willing to tell you where the central hub of the organisation is located.

And while Peter is quite good at that he doesn't like that it allows for the ring to get more organised. A new trafficking business is 100x easier to take down than one that has been running for eight months.

Considering they hadn't killed him when he was having a panic attack on a random roof he had decided to assume they weren't going to kill him the second time around.

Midnight in Hell's Kitchen seems to be the pairs most active time so that is when Spider-man shows up. Hopping from roof to decrepit roof as he searched the mainly unfamiliar territory for a duo in red.

It doesn't take long to find them. Spider-man supposed they may have heard he was around and made themselves easier to find but that wasn't something to dwell on at the moment.

Spider-Man lands lightly on a rooftop overlooking a narrow alley. The faint hum of neon lights buzzes from below as he spots them - Deadpool leaning casually against a wall, his katanas crossed on his back, and Daredevil perched on the edge of a fire escape, his red suit blending into the dim lighting. They’re mid-conversation, but both heads turn in unison when Peter drops into view.

Deadpool is the first to react, raising his arms theatrically. “Well, well, if it isn’t the Spider-Kid! Or wait - Spider-Man? Spider-Boy? Spider-Dude? Ah, who cares! Spidey, my man, to what do we owe the pleasure?” He gestures dramatically, as if welcoming a guest to a party only he’s hosting.

Daredevil tilts his head slightly, his expression unreadable behind the mask. “You’re far from Queens,” he says, his tone cautious but not unfriendly.

Peter straightens, crossing his arms as confidently as he can manage. “Yeah, well, I figured I’d come hang out with my favorite red-themed vigilantes. Thought we could have a little team-up moment.” His voice carries a hint of sarcasm, but his stance is firm. He’s been doing this long enough to know he belongs here just as much as they do.

Deadpool claps his hands together. “Oh, this is going to be fun. Like Avengers, but with more sass and less billion-dollar tech!” He leans closer to Spider-Man, whispering conspiratorially, “Don’t tell Iron Man I said that. Wait, is he still… y’know?” He mimes a dramatic death scene, earning an exasperated sigh from Daredevil.

Spider-man sighs, hands on hips, “Look guys, I need your help.”

That gets Daredevil’s attention. “Help with what?” he asks, standing up from the fire escape and leaping down to the alley floor in one fluid motion.

Peter’s confidence wavers for just a second before he steels himself. “There’s a trafficking ring operating in the city. I’ve got leads, but from what I've found it’s big. Too big for me to handle as quickly as I want to.” He looks between the two of them, his tone serious. “I know you guys don’t exactly… team up often, but I need backup. And you’re the best I could think of.”

Deadpool places a hand over his chest as if touched. “Aw, Spidey, you flatter me. Of course, I’ll help! As long as there’s gratuitous violence and chimichangas at the end.”

Daredevil shoots Deadpool a sharp glance. “We’re not storming in tonight, Wade. This is reconnaissance. If we’re going to shut this down, we need to know exactly what we’re dealing with.”

Deadpool lets out an exaggerated sigh, sheathing his katana with an unnecessarily dramatic flourish. “Fine, fine. Stakeouts it is. But if this turns into hours of sitting in silence, I reserve the right to narrate the entire thing like it’s a noir film.”

Spider-Man crosses his arms, glancing between the two of them. “As long as you can actually stay quiet when it counts, I don’t care what internal monologue you’ve got going on.” He looks to Daredevil. “There’s a warehouse on 45th and Delancey. Based on the chatter I’ve picked up, that’s where their drop-offs have been happening. Tonight’s supposed to be a big shipment.”

Daredevil nods, already focused. “Then that’s where we’ll start. We’ll set up outside and watch for patterns—number of people, vehicles, entrances, anything that gives us an edge.”

Spider-Man gestures toward the rooftops. “I scoped out the area earlier. There’s a building across the street with a clear view of the loading dock. It’s high enough to stay out of sight.”

Deadpool perks up. “Ooh, rooftop stakeout? I’m in. As long as we’re not watching grass grow, I can make that work.”

“Great,” Spider-Man says, shooting a web at the nearest ledge. “Then let’s move. And remember—this is recon only. No grand entrances, no swords, no explosions. Got it?”

Deadpool salutes him with a cheeky grin. “Aye, aye, Captain Responsibility.”

Daredevil shakes his head but says nothing as the three of them take off into the night, moving with practiced ease across the city. Spider-Man leads the way, his swings smooth and deliberate, while Daredevil keeps pace with agile jumps and flips. Deadpool, despite his chaotic personality, moves surprisingly quietly, his antics reserved for when the mission hasn’t started yet.

When they reach the rooftop Spider-Man had mentioned, they settle into position. The warehouse looms below, its lights casting long shadows over the asphalt. Trucks rumble in and out of the lot, and Spider-Man counts at least a dozen figures moving crates back and forth.

“This is definitely more organized than I expected,” he mutters, crouching low behind the ledge. His sharp eyes scan the area, memorizing faces, patterns, and the layout. “That’s a lot of muscle for one shipment.”

Daredevil listens intently, his head tilted slightly. “I can hear at least fifteen heartbeats. Most of them are steady—professionals. There’s someone inside giving orders, but I can’t make out everything they’re saying.”

Deadpool peers over the ledge with binoculars he’s pulled out of nowhere. “Yep, definitely bad guys. Classic shady-warehouse vibes. I mean, really, could they be more cliché?”

Spider-Man huffs a quiet laugh, but his tone turns serious. “Stay focused. We need to figure out their routine and where this stuff is going.”

The trio settles into silence, each observing in their own way. For Spider-Man, this is a rare moment of collaboration—a chance to work with people who know what they’re doing. He feels the weight of responsibility pressing down on him, but for once, he’s not carrying it alone.

The minutes tick by as Spider-Man, Daredevil, and Deadpool keep their vigil. Spider-Man’s gaze never leaves the warehouse, his mask hiding the intense focus in his eyes. Each truck that enters is carefully noted, and every person who steps in or out of the building is mentally logged.  

“They’re unloading something heavy,” Daredevil whispers suddenly, his tone sharp. “I can hear the strain in their movements—crates, probably reinforced.”  

Spider-Man nods, though he knows Daredevil can’t see it. “Could be weapons. Maybe drugs. Either way, they’re not small-timers.”  

Deadpool, who’s been lying flat on his stomach with binoculars, taps Spider-Man on the shoulder. “Look at the guy in the blue jacket by the loading dock. He’s been yelling at everyone but hasn’t lifted a single crate. Boss vibes, am I right?”  

Spider-Man leans forward, narrowing his eyes. The man Deadpool pointed out is pacing, his gestures sharp and commanding. “He’s definitely in charge. If we’re lucky, he might lead us to the rest of the operation.”  

“Or,” Deadpool interjects with a grin, “he’s just a really aggressive motivational speaker.”  

Daredevil’s head tilts slightly again, and his voice lowers. “The trucks—they’re heading south. Probably toward the docks.”  

Spider-Man shifts his weight, his muscles tensing. “Makes sense. They could be moving the shipment out by boat. We need to figure out their schedule. If we can intercept the next transfer—”  

Deadpool cuts him off with an exaggerated gasp. “Hold the phone! Are you saying we’re actually *not* just gonna sit here all night? I thought this was a stakeout, not a *bakeout*!”  

Spider-Man turns his head to glare at him, though the mask hides his expression. “What does that even mean?”  

Deadpool shrugs, smirking. “No idea. But it sounded cool in my head.”  

Daredevil ignores him entirely. “We’ll need to be patient. We don’t want to tip them off. If we act too soon, they’ll go underground, and we’ll lose them.”  

Spider-Man exhales slowly, nodding again. “Right. Patience.” He settles back against the ledge, forcing himself to relax. This wasn’t the first time he’d had to wait for hours to act, but the stakes felt higher now. This wasn’t just about stopping a robbery or catching a runaway criminal—this was dismantling something much bigger.  

Deadpool breaks the silence after a few minutes. “So… anyone bring snacks? Or is this one of those ‘we suffer for the greater good’ kind of things?”  

Spider-Man pinches the bridge of his nose under the mask. “Deadpool, I swear—”  

“Relax, Spidey. I’m just keeping things lively. You two are so broody it’s like sitting with a vampire and his apprentice.”  

Daredevil’s lips twitch in what might be the ghost of a smile. Spider-Man, despite himself, feels a small grin tugging at the corners of his mouth. As much as Deadpool could be a headache, his humor did lighten the tension.  

Hours pass, and the activity at the warehouse begins to slow. The trucks are gone, and most of the workers have retreated inside. The man in the blue jacket lingers for a moment, barking a few last orders before disappearing through a side door.  

Daredevil is the first to speak. “They’re winding down for the night. Whatever they’ve been moving is either secure or already on its way out of the city.”  

Spider-Man nods, standing and stretching his legs. “We’ll follow up tomorrow. We’ve got enough to start piecing together their operation, but we’ll need more before we make a move.”  

Deadpool springs to his feet, dusting off his suit. “Fine, fine. No explosions tonight. But if this doesn’t end with a dramatic entrance and an epic battle, I’m gonna be so disappointed.”  

Spider-Man glances at him, shaking his head. “Let’s just make sure we actually stop them. That’s the priority.”  

“Spoken like a true hero,” Deadpool says, giving Spider-Man a playful salute.  

As the trio prepares to leave, Spider-Man feels a flicker of hope. This was just the beginning, but with allies like these—eccentric or not—he might just have a real shot at taking this ring down for good.

Chapter Text

Peter adjusts his hoodie as he walks through the bustling streets of Hell’s Kitchen, his head low and his hands shoved into his pockets. His calf aches, but he ignores it. Last night’s stakeout had given him plenty to think about. Daredevil and Deadpool were… unconventional allies, but their effectiveness wasn’t in question. Still, Peter needed to be sure. He couldn’t afford to trust anyone blindly—not with something as dangerous as this.

He spots the small café he’d scouted earlier. Matt Murdock’s name had come up in passing during his own research of Daredevil, and the pieces fit too perfectly to ignore. Sliding onto a bench near the window, Peter pulls out a book and waits.

It doesn’t take long. Matt enters the café with his walking cane tapping rhythmically, his movements smooth and precise despite the facade of blindness. 

Peter's plan wasn’t to confront Matt or talk to him directly. Instead, he wanted to observe. To see if this man—the so-called “Devil of Hell’s Kitchen”—could be trusted outside the mask.  

Sliding onto a stool at the counter, Matt exchanged a friendly smile with the barista. The interaction seemed routine, and Peter found himself frowning. Matt’s demeanor was so unassuming, so ordinary, that it was hard to reconcile him with the fierce vigilante Peter had worked alongside the night before.

The barista placed a coffee in front of Matt, and the two began chatting. Peter couldn’t hear their conversation from his vantage point, but the relaxed body language of both participants suggested familiarity.

He doesn’t seem dangerous, Peter thought, narrowing his eyes as he observed Matt sip his coffee. But he knew better than to trust appearances. His own life had been a testament to how misleading they could be.

Peter was so focused on his surveillance that he didn’t notice someone approaching until a sudden jostle knocked the book from his lap. Startled, he looked up to see Missy, his downstairs neighbor, crouching to retrieve it.

“Oh my God, Peter! I’m so sorry,” she exclaimed, holding out the book.

Peter offered a tight smile as he took it, mumbling a quick thanks. Missy lingered for a moment before walking away, and Peter tugged his hoodie lower, hoping the brief encounter hadn’t drawn any unwanted attention.

Turning back to the café, he found Matt still seated at the counter, his expression serene. After a few more minutes of observation, Peter decided he’d seen enough. He slipped into the crowd and disappeared, his mind swirling with unanswered questions.

☠️

Matt sips his coffee slowly, the warmth cutting through the cold air still clinging to him after his walk. He had frequented this place for years, and the comforting familiarity of its sounds and scents was a welcome reprieve from his nightly battles.

But something felt off today.

It wasn’t immediately obvious, but as soon as he entered, a distinct heartbeat had caught his attention. It was steady, but there were faint spikes of adrenaline—an indication that its owner was trying to remain calm. Matt didn’t often focus on the heartbeats of strangers, but this one intrigued him.

Tilting his head slightly, Matt pinpointed the source. It was coming from near the window—a young man sitting alone, shifting nervously as he fidgeted with a book. Matt listened closely, picking up the subtle sound of pages turning.

The man’s heartbeat spiked briefly when another voice joined his, a woman apologizing for some minor mishap. Matt tuned in, catching a name.

Peter.

Matt’s lips twitched in a faint smile. He continued sipping his coffee, feigning obliviousness to the young man’s watchful gaze. 

When the heartbeat finally begins to fade, replaced by the sound of retreating footsteps, Matt taps his fingers lightly against the counter.  

“Wade,” he murmured softly, his voice low enough to blend into the background hum of the café.

From a stool two seats away, Deadpool leaned back with a theatrical groan. “What now, Red? Can’t a guy enjoy his coffee in peace?”

Matt ignored the jab. “Your friend just left.”

Wade squints, twisting around to follow Matt’s cue. “Friend? I have so many, you’re gonna have to be more specific. Are we talking Chimichanga Guy? No? Oh, wait- was it the cute one in the hoodie?”  

“Yes,” Matt confirmed, his tone even. “That’s him. You noticed him too, didn’t you?”  

Wade’s grin is visible even though it is obscured by his hood, his tower of sugar packets collapsing under his sudden movement. “Noticed him? Red, I’d recognize that swingy little wall-crawler anywhere. Spidey came to visit us? I’m touched.”  

Matt set his mug down with a quiet clink. “He wasn’t here to visit. He was watching. Trying to decide if we’re trustworthy.”

Wade shrugs, leaning back in his seat. “And? What’s the verdict, do you think?”  

Matt sighed, shaking his head. “Spider-Man involving us in the stakeout was unexpected, but I don’t think he’s decided if he wants to work with us long-term.”

Wade drummed his fingers on the counter. “Don’t worry, Red. He’ll come around. I mean, who can resist this dynamic duo?”

Matt didn’t respond. As he speaks, he hears Wade shifting in his seat, no doubt already scheming. Matt can only hope that whatever happens next, Spider-Man doesn’t regret his decision to get involved.  

🕸

Spider-Man adjusts his position on the rooftop, peering down into the warehouse below. The building looks more fortified than expected, with guards patrolling in pairs along the perimeter. The intel from their stakeout had been accurate enough to locate the trafficking ring’s hub, but the scale of the operation seems far larger than they anticipated.  

His comm crackles to life, Deadpool’s voice breaking through. “Yo, Webs! You in position? I’ve already named this mission Operation: Kick Butt and Look Awesome.”  

Spider-Man sighs quietly. “I’m in position. And for the last time, we’re calling it by the plan’s name. Which is… the plan. Let’s stay focused.”  

Daredevil’s voice cuts in, calm but commanding. “Spider-Man, you’re taking the roof. Deadpool, keep the distractions under control.”  

“Distractions? Moi?” Wade replies, feigning offense. “I’m the epitome of grace and subtlety, Hornhead.”  

Spider-Man mutes his comm for a second to breathe deeply. He refocuses, slipping through a rooftop vent and landing silently inside the building. The interior is dimly lit, the faint hum of fluorescent lights and machinery filling the air. His spider-sense prickles faintly, a warning he’s learned never to ignore.  

From his vantage point, Spider-Man scans the layout. There are significantly more guards than they’d counted during surveillance. Many are armed with advanced weapons - not the kind traffickers would normally carry.  

“Guys,” Spider-Man whispers into the comm, “this isn’t just a trafficking ring. It’s a full-scale operation. Heavily armed. We’re outnumbered.”  

Daredevil responds immediately. “Stick to the plan. Disable and disarm. We take this step by step.”  

Spider-Man swings silently along the ceiling, webbing a guard’s weapon before pulling him into the shadows. Below, Daredevil moves with precise efficiency, dismantling enemies with brutal grace.  

Then there’s Deadpool.  

Spider-Man watches as Wade charges into the fray, katanas slicing through guards with wild abandon. The chaos is almost unbearable to watch, but he has to admit - it’s effective.  

“Subtle as ever, Wade,” Spider-Man mutters, dropping down to web another group of guards to the floor.  

“Thank you! I try,” Deadpool quips, deflecting a blow with his katana and flipping theatrically.  

The fight escalates into chaos almost instantly. Guards swarm into the room, shouting orders as they fan out with their weapons raised. The air crackles with tension, the metallic clatter of firearms blending with the pounding of footsteps.

Spider-Man becomes a blur of motion, his agility and speed unmatched. He zips between attackers, webbing guns to walls and disarming guards before they can fire. His kicks and punches land with precision, each move calculated to neutralize without causing lasting harm. His spider-sense pulses like a live wire, warning him of every threat before it materializes. But even with his advanced reflexes, the sheer number of enemies feels suffocating, like a tide threatening to pull him under.  

Then he hears it.  

A sharp, pained cry cuts through the chaos.  

“Daredevil!” Spider-Man calls, his heart racing as he searches for the source of the sound.  

Across the room, Daredevil is on his knees, clutching his side. Blood seeps through his suit, staining the floor beneath him.  

Spider-Man doesn’t hesitate. He swings across the warehouse, landing between Daredevil and an approaching guard. With a swift motion, he webs the guard’s weapon and pulls him off balance.  

“Are you okay?” Spider-Man asks, crouching beside Daredevil.  

Matt’s breathing is labored, his jaw clenched against the pain. “I’m fine,” he says through gritted teeth, though the tremor in his voice betrays him.  

“No, you’re not,” Spider-Man snaps, his voice tight. “That’s a lot of blood.”  

Before he can say more, Deadpool appears, his katanas sheathed and his usual bravado tempered. “Whoa, Red. You’re looking worse for wear. Don’t worry - I’ll sew you up good as new.”  

Matt shakes his head, his hand gripping Spider-Man’s wrist with surprising strength. “Spider-Man,” he rasps, his voice barely audible.  

Spider-Man freezes.  

“I know who you are,” Matt continues, his blind eyes unwavering as they seem to lock onto Spider-Man’s mask with an unsettling precision. “Peter.”

A sharp breath catches in Spider-Man’s throat, his heart stumbling in his chest.

“How do you-”

Matt’s voice interrupts him, steady despite the pain lacing his words. “Your heartbeat,” he says with quiet certainty. “I’ve known since the stakeout.”

Spider-Man’s mind goes blank for a split second, like the world itself has been yanked out from under him. His thoughts swirl, his every instinct screaming that something is off, but this? This is unexpected.

Matt’s hearing - his senses - had always been more advanced than most. But the fact that he’d figured it out, recognized him not just by his heartbeat but through every subtle detail Spider-Man had taken for granted, sent a ripple of disbelief through him.

Deadpool, who had been observing the exchange with his usual irreverence, now knelt beside Matt. He tilted his head, glancing between the two of them with a raised brow, as if pondering a particularly juicy piece of gossip. “Well, this just got interesting. Red, you sure you want to be dropping bombshells right now?”  

Matt’s lips twitch in a faint, pained smile. “He deserves to know. We trust him.”  

Spider-Man shakes his head, his thoughts racing as he tries to process what Matt has just said. “This isn’t the time for this,” he says finally, his voice tight and laced with urgency. His masked gaze flickers briefly between Matt and the chaos unfolding around them. “We need to get you out of here before-”

The sharp, tingling buzz of his spider-sense cuts him off mid-sentence. Without thinking, he ducks just in time to feel the rush of air as a bullet whizzes past, narrowly missing his head. The deafening crack of the gunshot echoes through the warehouse, sending a new wave of adrenaline coursing through his veins.

“Go!” Matt gasps, his voice strained but resolute as he musters the strength to push Spider-Man away. His movements are weak, but his intent is clear. “You have to- just go!”

Spider-Man hesitates for a heartbeat, his instincts screaming at him to stand his ground, to protect them both. But then Deadpool steps forward, all trace of his usual levity gone. His katanas are sheathed, and for once, his focus is laser-sharp. 

“Don’t make me say it twice, Spidey!” Deadpool barks, his tone unusually firm as he crouches to hoist Matt onto his shoulder. The movement is surprisingly careful, as though he’s handling something fragile. He adjusts his grip quickly, Matt’s weight barely slowing him down. “You heard him. Move those sticky feet and clear us a path! I’ve got Red.”

Spider-Man doesn’t argue. There’s no time to. Instead, he leaps into action, his webs latching onto the rafters above as he propels himself across the room. With precision born of experience, he shoots a line at an incoming guard’s weapon, yanking it away before the man can fire. Another quick flick of his wrist, and a pair of guards find themselves tangled in webs, their weapons clattering uselessly to the ground.

“Keep moving!” Deadpool calls, his voice carrying over the sounds of shouts and gunfire. “Don’t let up, Web-Butt! We’re counting on you!”

Spider-Man doesn’t look back. He can hear the heavy thud of Deadpool’s footsteps behind him, the occasional grunt from Matt, and the chaotic noise of guards regrouping. His spider-sense pulses erratically, warning him of dangers from every direction. Each alert is met with swift action - a kick here, a webline there - until he’s carved out a path toward the side exit.

As they near the exit, Spider-Man glances back to ensure they’re close behind. Deadpool’s pace hasn’t faltered, but Matt looks worse by the second. Blood stains Deadpool’s shoulder where Matt’s weight rests, the dark red spreading like a warning flag. Spider-Man’s stomach churns at the sight.

“Almost there!” Spider-Man calls, swinging ahead to take out another group of guards blocking the doorway. A quick web grenade neutralizes them, leaving the path clear.

Deadpool bursts through the exit moments later, kicking the door open with a loud crash. The cold night air rushes in, stark and bracing against the heat of the warehouse. Once outside, he carefully sets Matt down against the brick wall of an alley, his movements still uncharacteristically gentle.

Spider-Man lands beside them, his breathing heavy but steady. “Are you good to take care of him?” he asks, crouching briefly to check Matt’s condition. His hands hover near Matt’s side, unsure if applying pressure would do more harm than good. 

Deadpool gives him a lazy salute, though the usual humor in his expression is dimmed by unspoken concern. “Don’t worry, Webs. I’ll patch him up and keep him out of trouble. You do your thing.”

Spider-Man hesitates for a fraction of a second, his eyes lingering on Matt’s pale face and the pained but determined set of his jaw. Matt manages a faint nod, as if to reassure him.

Without another word, Spider-Man shoots a webline and swings back into the fray, his mind already racing with the weight of unanswered questions and the chaos still to come.

Chapter Text

The bell above the door jingled as Peter stepped into the milk bar, the faint chime quickly lost to the low hum of a refrigerator and the static-laden croon of an oldies station playing from the ancient radio behind the counter. Warm light bathed the space in muted gold, pooling on the scuffed linoleum like spilled sunshine. The air smelled of stale coffee, powdered sugar, and something faintly metallic - like old coins. It clung to Peter’s senses, oddly comforting in its staleness, like a memory that refused to fade.

The corner booth caught his eye immediately, its cracked vinyl cushions sagging with age. It seemed to beckon him, a refuge in the stillness of the empty shop. The place felt timeless, as though the world outside couldn’t touch it, and tonight - tonight, Peter needed that. He needed to feel untouchable, if only for a moment. Normal people didn’t haunt diners like this past midnight, but then again, Peter hadn’t felt normal in a long, long time.

His legs carried him to the booth on autopilot, each step dragging like his limbs were weighted with lead. The booth creaked in protest as he collapsed into the seat, the sound sharp in the otherwise quiet room. He slumped forward, his elbows braced on the sticky table, his head heavy in his hands. His ribs flared in protest, every shallow breath sending tendrils of pain through his chest, but even that felt distant compared to the hollow ache that had taken root in his heart.

Peter let out a breath, shaky and uneven, and dragged a hand through his disheveled hair. He should’ve gone home. He should’ve gone anywhere but here. But the idea of facing the quiet of his apartment, the overwhelming nothingness of it, had been too much to bear. At least here, surrounded by the soft buzz of outdated machinery and the faint clatter of dishes in the back, he could pretend the world wasn’t collapsing around him. At least for a little while.

He pressed a hand against his side, as if the gesture might somehow contain the pain, but it didn’t help. Nothing did. Not for this. His mind raced in loops, replaying the same moment over and over: the warehouse. The unmasking. The moment everything changed.

They knew.  

Two words circled endlessly in Peter’s mind, as constant and grating as the buzz of the fluorescent lights above. Matt. Wade. They knew who he was. They knew him. Not Spider-Man, not the vigilante swinging through the city on threadbare webs and half a plan, but Peter Parker. The kid under the mask. The mess of a teenager fumbling through his double life, clinging to the illusion that he could keep it all together.  

And now, somehow, two people - two strangers, really - had seen past the careful lies, past the layers of snark and bravado he used to keep the world at arm’s length. It felt like they’d taken a crowbar to his defenses and pried him open, leaving him raw and exposed in a way that made his stomach churn.  

It wasn’t just the knowledge that unnerved him. It was what came with it: vulnerability, trust, risk. He’d spent years keeping his identity locked away, treating it like a secret too dangerous to share. Because it was dangerous. He’d seen what happened when people got too close, when they knew too much. Uncle Ben. His parents. Gwen.  

The memories hit like a gut punch, and Peter’s fingers tightened into fists against the sticky surface of the booth’s table. How could he trust anyone with this when the people he loved most had paid the price for his mistakes?  

And maybe, he thought bitterly, that was the real irony of it all. He’d unmasked them first. Matt’s identity had been pieced together from the steady rhythm of his heartbeat, from whispers and patterns Peter couldn’t unhear once he’d started paying attention. Wade’s had taken longer - more digging, more calculated risks - but Peter had pried that mask off, too, driven by an almost desperate need to know.  

Because knowing made it easier to trust.  

Didn’t it?  

Peter’s jaw tightened, and he dropped his head into his hands, elbows braced against the table. He wanted to believe that. That understanding who they were, seeing their faces, should have made this easier. But now that the tables were turned, all he felt was dread.  

They knew his name. They knew his face. And no matter how much he told himself that Matt and Wade weren’t the kind of people to use that against him, the fear gnawed at him, sharp and insistent.  

Because it wasn’t just his life on the line. It never was.  

He let out a shaky breath, trying to steady himself, but it did nothing to loosen the knot tightening in his chest. The milk bar felt too quiet now, too still. The faint hum of the fridge, the crackle of the radio, even the soft clink of dishes from the kitchen - it wasn’t enough to drown out the pounding of his own heartbeat.  

They knew. And no matter how much Peter wanted to run from it, there was no taking it back. But trust worked both ways. And now? Now they knew everything.

Peter’s fingers dug into the edge of the table, his knuckles whitening. He hated the vulnerability of it, the way they’d unraveled him with such ease. It wasn’t their fault - not really - but that didn’t make it easier to swallow.

The door chimed again.

Peter’s heart sank. He didn’t need to look up to know it was them. Matt’s measured footsteps, the faint drag of his injuries slowing him down, followed by Wade’s louder, almost jaunty stride.

“Hey, Spidey,” Wade drawled as he slid into the booth across from Peter. His voice was light, almost too casual, like they’d just run into each other on a lazy Sunday instead of being tangled in a web of secrets and chaos.

Peter’s jaw tightened, his teeth grinding together. He didn’t lift his head, didn’t even acknowledge Wade’s presence. He just stared at the scratched surface of the table, as though he could will them both away if he ignored them long enough.

Matt followed a moment later, his pace slower, more careful. He lowered himself into the booth beside Wade with practiced restraint, his movements betraying a stiffness that spoke of fresh pain. Yet his face was as composed as ever, calm and unreadable, as though he weren’t sitting across from someone who looked like they might bolt at any second.

That neutrality, that steady mask of his, did nothing to ease Peter’s nerves. If anything, it made them worse.

“You can’t avoid us forever,” Wade said, leaning back and propping his feet up on the booth beside him. His grin was wide and unapologetic behind the mask. “I mean, you could try, but we both know how that’d end. I’m annoyingly persistent, and Red over here has the patience of a saint. It’s a terrifying combo, really.”  

“Not now, Wade,” Matt murmured, his tone sharp but quiet. His head tilted slightly, honing in on Peter’s shallow, uneven breaths.  

Peter’s fingers curled against the edge of the table as he finally looked up, his gaze darting between them. His stomach churned. His voice, when it came, was strained, almost hoarse. “What do you want?”  

“To talk,” Matt said, his words simple yet deliberate.  

Peter barked a laugh, sharp and humorless. “Talk? About what? How you both decided to wreck everything without even asking? How you just-”  

“Help when you asked?” Matt cut in, his voice calm but unwavering.  

Peter’s glare hardened, heat rising in his chest. “That’s not what I was going to say.”  

“But it’s what you’re thinking,” Matt replied smoothly. Though his eyes were sightless, they seemed to cut through Peter’s defenses anyway, stripping away the layers of bitterness Peter had been trying so hard to cling to.  

Wade threw up a hand, his tone a mix of exasperation and amusement. “Okay, hold up. Are we seriously doing this? You’re mad because we know who you are? Newsflash, genius - you unmasked us first. Or did you conveniently forget that part?”

“That’s not the same,” Peter shot back, his voice sharper than he intended.

Wade tilted his head dramatically, like a curious puppy. “Oh, it’s not? Enlighten me, Spider-Boy. What’s the difference?”

Peter opened his mouth, but the words jammed in his throat. His chest felt tight, like a vice was squeezing the air out of him. “I-” He stopped, his breath catching as his mind raced for an explanation that wouldn’t come.

“You didn’t trust us,” Matt said quietly.

Peter flinched, the truth of it cutting deeper than he wanted to admit. “I do trust you,” he said, his voice cracking. “I wouldn’t have asked for your help if I didn’t.”

“But not enough to let us in,” Matt said, his tone gentler now.

Peter’s gaze dropped to the table. “It’s not that simple.”

Matt leaned forward slightly, resting his forearms on the table. His movements were deliberate, his words steady. “It never is,” he agreed. “But Peter, I understand. I really do. Trusting people - letting them in - it’s one of the hardest things to do. Especially when you’ve been through what you’ve been through. But you’re not alone in this anymore.”

Peter’s gaze flicked up, meeting Matt’s for the first time since they’d sat down. Matt’s sightless eyes, though unable to see, seemed to hold an uncanny clarity, like he could see right through the walls Peter had built around himself.

“You don’t have to be,” Matt finished, his voice firm yet kind, a quiet offer that hung in the air between them.

Peter shook his head, his fists clenching. “You don’t understand. You don’t know what it’s like to lose everyone because they got too close-” His voice broke, and he looked away, blinking hard. “I can’t lose anyone else.”

Wade leaned forward, his voice uncharacteristically soft. “Kid, you’re not gonna lose us. You’re stuck with us, whether you like it or not. We’re annoying like that.”

Peter let out a shaky breath, his walls cracking just a little. He looked back at Matt. “How can you be so sure?”

Matt smiled faintly. “Because we’ve been where you are. And we’re still standing.”

The words hung between them, heavy but comforting. Peter didn’t respond right away, but for the first time in days, he felt like he could breathe.

Maybe - just maybe - he didn’t have to do this alone.

Peter looked down at his hands, fingers trembling as they rested against the scarred tabletop. The conversation had stalled, but the silence felt heavier than words. Matt sat across from him, calm and patient, while Wade twirled a straw between his fingers, tapping it against the edge of his mask like a drumstick.

Peter shifted uncomfortably in his seat, every instinct screaming at him to leave. His legs itched to carry him to the door, to put as much distance as possible between himself and the two people sitting across from him. His mind raced for an excuse - any excuse - to escape before things spiraled further out of control.  

He opened his mouth, the beginnings of some awkward apology bubbling up, but Matt spoke first.  

“Please.”  

The single word stopped Peter cold. It wasn’t sharp or commanding like Matt’s usual tone during a fight. It was soft, deliberate - almost pleading.  

Peter froze, his throat tightening. He wasn’t sure why, but something about the way Matt said it pinned him in place, like an invisible force anchoring him to the booth.  

“Just hear us out,” Matt added, his voice quiet but weighted with a sincerity that cut through the noise in Peter’s head.  

Peter swallowed hard, his mouth dry.  

“You’re scared,” Matt continued, his tone low and measured, meant only for Peter and Wade. “I can hear it in your breathing, your heartbeat.” His words were calm, but there was no mistaking the depth of his understanding. “I don’t blame you for it.”  

Peter’s chest tightened, and he dropped his gaze to the table, his fingers fidgeting with a loose thread on his hoodie.  

“But you don’t have to run from us,” Matt said gently, his voice steady like the words were a lifeline he was offering. "We’re not your enemy, Peter."  

For a moment, Peter sat there in silence, caught between the urge to run and the quiet, undeniable pull of Matt’s words. He didn’t know if he could trust them, but something about Matt’s tone made it hard to leave.  

“I’m not running,” Peter snapped, though the sharpness in his tone only made it more obvious that he was lying - to them and to himself.  

“Could’ve fooled me,” Wade shot back, leaning casually against the booth as if they were talking about the weather. His arms crossed over his chest, and his mask tilted slightly, giving him the air of someone ready to pounce on a joke. “You looked like you were about to yeet yourself out that door faster than I could say ‘chimichanga.’”  

Peter glared at him, his jaw tight, but Wade’s grin was annoyingly infectious, as if the man lived to disarm tension with absurdity. Against his better judgment, Peter felt his shoulders loosen just a little, the overwhelming urge to bolt fading ever so slightly.  

“You’re not helping,” Matt muttered, his tone carrying the faintest trace of exasperation as he shot Wade a sidelong glance.  

“Sure I am,” Wade countered, completely unbothered by the criticism. He gestured broadly between the three of them, as if presenting a masterpiece. “Look at this. We’re bonding. This is progress.”  

Peter rolled his eyes, but the corner of his mouth twitched, almost like he wanted to smile. It was infuriating how Wade could break through the tension with his ridiculousness, but maybe that was the point.  

Matt sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose. “I’m trying to have a serious conversation, Wade.”  

“And I’m trying to lighten the mood,” Wade shot back, unrepentant. “Let’s face it, without me, this little heart-to-heart would feel like a bad soap opera.”  

Peter snorted, though he quickly masked it with a cough. He wasn’t about to admit Wade had a point - not out loud, anyway.  

Peter let out a weary sigh, his hand dragging across the back of his neck. “Why are you even here?”

“Because we care, duh,” Wade said, as if it were the most obvious thing in the world. “And because Red over there wouldn’t shut up about finding you.”

Matt ignored the jab, leaning forward slightly, his unseeing eyes fixed on Peter as if he could still read him like a book. “Peter, we’re not here to pressure you. We just want to make sure you’re okay. After everything that’s happened…” He trailed off, his brow furrowing as if he was carefully picking his next words. “You shouldn’t have to carry all of this alone. You don’t have to.”

Peter’s hands clenched into fists under the table, the words catching in his throat. “You don’t get it,” he said after a beat, his voice rough. “You think you do, but you don’t. People knowing who I am - what I am - it never ends well. For anyone.” His tone cracked at the end, and he hated how vulnerable he sounded.

“And yet,” Wade cut in, gesturing between himself and Matt with a grand sweep of his arm, “here we are. Still breathing, still standing. Well, mostly. Red looks like he went twelve rounds with a brick wall, but he’ll be fine. He’s like a blind, brooding Energizer Bunny - just keeps going and going.”

“Thanks for that,” Matt said dryly, his tone flat but betrayed by the faintest hint of a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth.

Peter’s gaze shifted between the two of them, their presence both irritating and... oddly grounding. He didn’t know what to make of them, didn’t know what to make of himself in their orbit. It wasn’t like he’d invited them into his life - he’d been careful. Guarded. He’d done everything right. And yet here they were, sitting across from him in this rundown milk bar, stubbornly refusing to let him shut them out.

“You really don’t care, do you?” Peter said at last, his voice softer now, as if he was testing the waters.

Matt tilted his head slightly, his expression softening into something almost compassionate. “Care about what?”

“That you know who I am,” Peter murmured, his eyes darting to the table. “That it could get you killed. That it’s already dangerous enough just being around me.”

Matt leaned back slightly, exhaling slowly, his voice steady and calm. “Peter, we care. But not about that. Not in the way you think.”

Wade leaned forward, planting his elbows on the table as he rested his chin in his hands. “Listen, Spidey. Danger is kind of our whole deal. Between the ninja cults, crime lords, and homicidal clones, a pissed-off Sinister Six barely makes the top ten on my list of concerns.” He grinned. “And trust me, that list is extensive.”

“Wade,” Matt said warningly, though his tone lacked real bite.

“What?” Wade threw up his hands in mock exasperation. “I’m just saying. If we were scared of a little danger, we’d have picked literally any other career path. Like knitting. Or professional dog walking. Do you know how many cute puppies are out there just waiting for someone to-”

“Wade,” Matt interrupted, his tone firmer now, though there was a flicker of amusement in his otherwise calm demeanor.

Peter stared at them, his mind a chaotic mess. He wanted to tell them to leave, to just let him deal with it all on his own. But the truth - the infuriating, undeniable truth - was that they weren’t backing down. And a part of him, a small, fragile part buried under all the fear and guilt, didn’t want them to.

Peter’s lips twitched, a reluctant smile threatening to break through. He looked at Matt, who nodded once, as if to say, It’s okay. We’ve got you.

For the first time in what felt like forever, Peter let himself believe it.

🕸

Above the milk bar, the city stretched out in a mosaic of lights and shadows, its hum of life muted but ever-present. Natasha Romanoff crouched on a rooftop across the street, her sharp gaze fixed on the scene below.  

She’d been tailing Peter for weeks, careful to stay out of sight. It hadn’t been easy; the kid was sharper than most gave him credit for. But Natasha wasn’t known for making mistakes, and she’d managed to stay invisible.  

From the moment she’d first crossed paths with him, she hadn’t been able to shake the feeling that Peter Parker was something different. Reckless, yes. Young and raw, absolutely. But now, as she watched him seated between Daredevil and Deadpool, something softened in her chest.  

Peter wasn’t just surviving the fallout of the Accords. He was learning, growing. He’d found allies - not perfect ones, but ones who seemed to understand him in a way the Avengers never had.  

Her earpiece crackled, pulling her out of her thoughts. “Romanoff, report,” came Stark’s voice, curt and impatient.  

Natasha’s expression remained neutral as she responded. “Nothing yet,” she said smoothly. Her eyes flicked back to the milk bar, where Peter shifted slightly in his seat, his shoulders no longer hunched in tension. “Still trying to pick up a trail. Kid’s slippery.”  

“You’re telling me you can’t find him?” Stark’s disbelief was evident.  

“That’s what I’m telling you,” Natasha replied, her tone clipped. “He’s got a knack for staying out of sight.”  

A frustrated sigh filled her ear. “We need him brought in. The longer he’s out there, the more trouble he’s going to cause.”  

Natasha bit back a sharp retort. Instead, she let her silence hang in the air before replying, “I’ll keep looking.”  

“See that you do,” Stark said before the line went dead.  

Natasha sighed, her jaw tightening. She wasn’t lying - technically. She hadn’t lost Peter; she’d simply chosen not to bring him in. Something about the way he carried himself, the weight on his shoulders, told her that throwing him to the wolves now would do more harm than good.  

As her gaze lingered on him, seated between two of the most chaotic vigilantes she’d ever encountered, Natasha couldn’t help but feel a flicker of hope. Peter Parker wasn’t just a kid in over his head. He was building something.  

For now, she’d let him.  

With one last glance, Natasha melted into the shadows, leaving the rooftop as silently as she’d arrived. Whatever came next, she’d be watching. And when the time came, she’d make sure Peter had someone in his corner - someone who truly understood what it me

Chapter Text

The city breathed beneath him.  

From his perch atop the skyscraper, Spider-Man could feel it - the heartbeat of Manhattan, steady and unbroken. The glow of headlights crawled like veins through the streets below, illuminating patches of restless movement. The occasional honk of a horn cut through the murmur of late-night traffic, punctuated by the sharp laughter of a group spilling out of a bar a few blocks away. Somewhere distant, the shrill cry of a siren echoed, barely loud enough to reach his ears.  

It was almost peaceful, in a way. A facade of normalcy wrapped around a city that was anything but.  

Spider-Man crouched low on the edge of the building, one knee bent and his fingers curling over the cold, uneven surface of the ledge. The wind bit through his suit, sharp and persistent, tugging at the edges of his mask. He ignored it. His focus was elsewhere, his eyes scanning the streets below for something - anything - that would give him an excuse to move.  

There was something in the air tonight.  

The feeling had been with him all evening, clinging to his thoughts like cobwebs he couldn’t shake. It wasn’t the sharp, blaring alarm of his spider-sense. No, this was quieter, subtler - a tension in his chest that refused to ease. Like the city itself was holding its breath, waiting for the other shoe to drop.  

“Calm before the storm,” he muttered, his voice barely audible over the wind. The phrase felt strange on his tongue, as though saying it out loud might make it real.  

He tilted his head, listening. Nothing. Just the same hum of distant traffic, the occasional shuffle of feet below. But he couldn’t shake the weight pressing down on him, a slow-building unease that made his muscles coil tight, ready to spring at the slightest provocation.  

He shifted his weight, glancing down at the streets below. From this height, everything seemed smaller, almost manageable. People moved in miniature, their lives confined to tiny routines that Spider-Man could only observe from the outside. He envied them sometimes. Their obliviousness. Their ability to walk through the city without looking over their shoulder, without wondering what fresh chaos the night might bring.  

A flicker of movement pulled his attention to the left.  

It wasn’t much - a black SUV speeding through the intersection, its engine growling like an angry beast - but it was enough to make his brow furrow behind the mask. Most drivers slowed down at this hour, careful not to attract attention. This one was different. The way it moved - cutting through traffic, swerving dangerously close to the curb - set off a dozen tiny alarms in his head.  

Spider-Man straightened, his muscles tensing. He didn’t have anything concrete, no reason to jump to conclusions, but years of experience told him to trust his instincts.  

“Alright,” he murmured to himself, shooting a web to the building across the street. The line snapped taut as he swung forward, the wind rushing past him in a cold, exhilarating burst.  

The SUV barreled through the next intersection, narrowly missing a cab that blared its horn in protest. Spider-Man stayed high, keeping to the shadows of the rooftops as he followed. He wasn’t sure what he was looking for yet - maybe a robbery in progress, maybe a getaway - but the tension in his chest hadn’t eased. If anything, it was getting worse.  

The vehicle turned sharply onto 9th and Jefferson, its tires screeching against the asphalt. Spider-Man followed, his movements fluid and instinctive. The city blurred around him, a mix of glowing windows and shadowy alleyways.  

And then it hit.  

The explosion tore through the night with the force of a thunderclap, a blinding flash of orange and white that lit up the streets like daylight. Spider-Man felt it before he saw it - the shockwave rippling up his web-line, threatening to yank him off course. He twisted mid-swing, his body contorting as he adjusted for the sudden gust of heat and debris.  

When the smoke cleared, the sight that met him was enough to make his stomach drop.  

A warehouse stood at the center of the destruction, its metal walls twisted and blackened by the blast. Flames licked at the edges of the structure, sending plumes of dark smoke billowing into the sky. The ground around it was littered with rubble - concrete chunks, shattered glass, and what looked like the remains of a delivery truck.  

Spider-Man landed on a nearby rooftop, his chest heaving as he tried to process the scene below. People were scattering in every direction, their panicked screams blending into the sharp wail of alarms. Cars screeched to a halt, their drivers abandoning them in the middle of the street.  

And then he saw them.  

Shocker emerged from the wreckage, electricity crackling along his gauntlets as if the very air around him was charged with danger. His smirk was razor-sharp, dripping with smug satisfaction as he surveyed the destruction he’d helped create. The golden arcs of electricity illuminated his face in bursts, casting him as a predator who relished the hunt.

Behind him, the ground trembled under the weight of Rhino’s hulking frame. The massive villain strode forward with deliberate, earth-shaking steps, his horned suit glinting in the firelight. Each movement was an unspoken threat, his sheer size dominating the scene. He didn’t need words - his presence alone was a declaration of power.

On the outskirts of the devastation, Scorpion stalked through the rubble with predatory ease. His mechanical tail swayed with the precision of a serpent, twitching now and then as if tasting the air for weakness. His green suit gleamed eerily under the flames, making him look like some twisted creature from a nightmare. He moved with purpose, his sharp gaze darting through the destruction, always searching, always ready.

Spider-Man’s breath caught in his throat. This wasn’t just an accident. This was a statement.  

“Perfect,” he muttered, his voice tight. His mask’s lenses narrowed as he crouched low, his muscles coiling like a spring. “Just what I needed tonight.”  

For a moment, Spider-Man stayed still, perched on the edge of the rooftop like a gargoyle carved into the city skyline. His eyes swept the scene below, taking stock of the players in the chaos.  

Shocker’s gauntlets crackled ominously, golden arcs of electricity dancing along their surface. He moved with a cocky swagger, his movements sharp and deliberate as if daring anyone to challenge him. Rhino, on the other hand, was all brute force, his heavy steps shaking the ground with every stride. The flames cast flickering shadows across his armored hide, making him seem larger than life. Scorpion hung back slightly, his tail swaying in a slow, menacing arc as he scanned the wreckage, his posture coiled and ready to strike.  

It wasn’t just the three of them, though. A handful of goons were scattered around the warehouse’s perimeter, hauling crates of… something from the rubble. Weapons? Tech? Whatever it was, it was bad news. Spider-Man’s gut twisted as he caught sight of a few assault rifles slung over shoulders. These weren’t amateurs.  

“Great,” he muttered under his breath. “It’s a villain reunion. Wonder if they sent out invitations.”  

The air felt charged - thick with tension and the acrid stench of smoke. Every instinct in his body screamed at him to move, to act, to stop whatever this was before it spiraled further out of control. But this wasn’t just a one-on-one brawl or a street-level mugging. This was big. Too big for one guy in a red and blue suit to handle alone.  

He hesitated, crouching low and gripping the edge of the roof with gloved fingers. Normally, this would be the part where he called for backup - except, backup wasn’t exactly an option these days. The Avengers weren’t coming. They had made that abundantly clear.  

“Guess it’s just me, myself, and I,” he murmured, the words tinged with a bitter edge. He armed himself with a grin anyway, the kind that didn’t reach his eyes. If he was going down, he was going down swinging - and cracking jokes while he did it.  

With a sharp exhale, he shot a webline to the nearest street lamp and swung into the fray.  

The first thing to hit him was the heat. The fire roared like a living thing, feeding on the remnants of the warehouse and spewing smoke thick enough to sting his eyes even through his mask. Spider-Man landed on the hood of an abandoned taxi, the metal denting slightly under his weight.  

“Hey, Shocker!” he called, his voice cutting through the chaos like a whip. “Didn’t your mom ever teach you not to play with electricity? Or, you know, blow up warehouses?”  

Shocker turned, his smirk widening into a grin that practically screamed, *I’ve been waiting for this.*  

“Spider-Man,” he drawled, raising one crackling gauntlet. “Thought you might show up. Figured you’d wanna join the party.”  

“Oh, you know me. Always crashing the fun,” Spider-Man quipped, leaping forward just as Shocker fired.  

The blast tore through the air where he’d been standing, hitting the taxi with a deafening BOOM. The car’s windows exploded outward, shards of glass scattering across the street. Spider-Man twisted mid-air, shooting a webline to a nearby lamppost and swinging wide to avoid the debris.  

“You’re gonna have to try harder than that,” he called, flipping onto a stack of crates. He barely had time to steady himself before Rhino charged.  

“Spider!” Rhino bellowed, his voice like a freight train. “You’ve got a lot of nerve showing up here!”  

“And you’ve got a lot of… horn,” Spider-Man shot back, ducking just as Rhino barreled through the crates. The impact sent splinters flying, the sound of shattering wood mingling with the roar of the flames.  

Rhino skidded to a halt, his massive frame pivoting with surprising speed as he prepared for another charge. Spider-Man barely had time to register the movement before his spider-sense flared, a sharp, instinctive warning that made him twist to the side.  

Scorpion’s tail slammed into the ground where he’d been standing, the impact cracking the asphalt.  

“Careful!” Spider-Man said, flipping backward to put some distance between them. “You break it, you buy it!”  

“Shut up!” Scorpion hissed, lunging again.  

It was chaos. Pure, unrelenting chaos. Spider-Man moved like a blur, flipping, dodging, and weaving through the attacks. Shocker’s blasts scorched the air, Rhino’s charges left craters in the ground, and Scorpion’s tail lashed out with deadly precision. Every move felt like a gamble, every breath a risk.  

And yet, Spider-Man couldn’t stop. Couldn’t hesitate. Because if he didn’t, who would?  

He flipped backward, narrowly avoiding Scorpion’s tail as it smashed into the concrete. The ground beneath him cracked like a spiderweb, sending tremors up his legs. He landed in a crouch, his breath ragged but steady, as his eyes darted between the three villains closing in.  

“Okay, okay,” he muttered to himself, hands flexing as he adjusted his stance. “Three against one. No big deal. Totally fine. Just your average Tuesday night.”  

A blast from Shocker cut off his rambling, forcing him to roll to the side. The energy beam carved a smoldering line across the pavement, the air crackling with residual electricity.  

“Keep talking, bug-boy,” Shocker taunted, the glow of his gauntlets reflecting off the swirling smoke. “I’ll make sure those jokes are the last thing that comes out of your mouth.”  

“Wow, hurtful,” Spider-Man shot back, springing up and firing a webline at one of the gauntlets. The sticky thread connected, yanking the weapon downward just as Shocker fired again. The blast hit the ground at an awkward angle, the force sending Shocker stumbling.  

Spider-Man used the opening to swing himself up and over Rhino, planting both feet on the big guy’s back. “Mind giving me a lift?” he quipped, using Rhino as a springboard to launch himself toward Scorpion.  

Rhino roared in frustration, twisting wildly to shake him off, but Spider-Man was already gone.  

Scorpion snarled, his tail whipping forward like a scythe. Spider-Man twisted mid-air, the tail missing him by inches. “You’re like a bad ex-boyfriend,” he said, landing on a lamp post and sticking to it effortlessly. “Clingy, and way too into toxic behavior.”  

Scorpion hissed, his tail slamming into the post with enough force to snap it in half. Spider-Man leapt off just before it collapsed, flipping onto the roof of a nearby car.  

“You’re like what? Nineteen?” Scorpion sneered, his voice dripping with disdain as he advanced.  

Spider-Man didn’t correct him. He never did. Letting them think he was older, more experienced - it gave him a slight edge. Just enough to keep them guessing.  

Instead, he fired two quick webs at Scorpion’s legs, yanking them out from under him. The villain hit the ground hard, his tail thrashing like a snake.  

“Too slow,” Spider-Man said, though his quip was cut short by a thunderous roar.  

Rhino was charging again, his massive frame tearing through everything in his path. Cars, debris, even part of a brick wall crumbled as he barreled forward.  

Spider-Man barely had time to react. He vaulted over a wrecked car, firing webs at Rhino’s feet in a desperate attempt to trip him up. The webs stuck, tangling his legs, but Rhino didn’t stop. If anything, it only seemed to make him angrier.  

“Uh-oh,” Spider-Man muttered, flipping out of the way just as Rhino stumbled and crashed into a delivery truck. The impact was deafening, metal crumpling like paper.  

“You’re making this really hard to get insurance in this city, you know that?” Spider-Man yelled, darting around the wreckage.  

“Stay still, you little pest!” Rhino bellowed, pulling himself free from the twisted remains of the truck.  

Spider-Man didn’t stay still. He couldn’t. The three villains were relentless, their attacks coordinated in a way that felt… off. Like someone had planned this. Someone who knew exactly how to keep him on the defensive.  

And then it hit him.  

They weren’t just here to cause chaos. They were here for him.  

The realization made his stomach drop, but he couldn’t dwell on it. Not with another blast from Shocker tearing through the air. He dodged again, flipping onto a nearby fire escape.  

“Is this about me?” he called out, trying to buy himself a moment to think. “Because I gotta say, this feels personal.”  

“Shut up!” Scorpion snarled, his tail lashing out and smashing into the fire escape.  

Spider-Man leapt to another building, his mind racing. If they were here for him, then that meant whoever sent them wasn’t just targeting Spider-Man. They were targeting Peter Parker.  

And that was a whole new level of terrifying.  

Spider-Man darted between the wreckage, his muscles aching from the relentless pace. Every step, every leap, felt heavier than the last. The villains weren’t giving him a second to breathe.  

“Man, you guys are persistent,” he quipped, flipping over a bent streetlight just as Scorpion’s tail crashed into it. The metal buckled under the impact, sparks flying as it toppled over.  

“You’re just making this harder on yourself, Spider!” Scorpion shouted, his voice echoing through the empty street.  

“Harder for me?” Spider-Man shouted back, dodging a chunk of asphalt Rhino hurled his way. “You’re the ones breaking a sweat. I’m just out here, cardio king, getting my steps in.”  

“Steps won’t save you,” Shocker growled, his gauntlets lighting up with a dangerous hum.  

“Neither will those,” Spider-Man shot back, firing a webline at one of Shocker’s glowing gauntlets. The web hit its mark, and Spider-Man yanked it downward just as Shocker released a blast. 

The energy beam smashed into the ground, sending a shockwave rippling through the street. Spider-Man flipped backward, his ears ringing as he landed on the hood of a car.  

Shocker cursed, ripping the webbing off his gauntlet. “Why don’t you hold still for five seconds?”  

“Why don’t you go to therapy and work through your anger issues?” Spider-Man countered, somersaulting off the car as Rhino charged again.  

Rhino wasn’t subtle. He never was. He barreled through the street like a wrecking ball, his shoulders knocking over street lamps and mailboxes with ease.  

Spider-Man darted to the side, letting Rhino smash into a parked van instead of him. The van folded under the impact, its alarm blaring in protest.  

“Come on, big guy, I know you can aim better than that,” Spider-Man taunted, firing a web at Rhino’s shoulder to spin him around.  

Rhino roared, his frustration palpable. “I’m gonna crush you!”  

“That’s what they all say,” Spider-Man muttered, swinging out of Rhino’s reach.  

The fight wasn’t just chaotic - it was calculated. Each villain was relentless, their attacks forcing Spider-Man to keep moving, keep reacting. It felt less like a brawl and more like a test.  

And the damage was piling up. Storefronts were shattered, cars were overturned, and the street was littered with debris.  

“Y’know,” Spider-Man called out, his voice tinged with exasperation, “at some point, someone’s gonna have to clean all this up. And I really hope it’s not me.”  

“Keep talking, Spider,” Shocker sneered, aiming another blast his way.  

Spider-Man didn’t give him the chance. He fired two quick webs, one at each of Shocker’s gauntlets, and yanked them upward. The blast shot into the air harmlessly, dissipating in a crackle of energy.  

“Are you even licensed to carry those?” Spider-Man asked, swinging toward Shocker and kicking him square in the chest.  

The force sent Shocker sprawling, but it didn’t stop him. He rolled to his feet, his gauntlets already charging up again.  

Spider-Man sighed. “Of course not. That would be too easy.”  

Before he could press his advantage, Scorpion’s tail lashed out, forcing Spider-Man to duck. The appendage sliced through the air, smashing into a streetlight and sending shards of glass raining down.  

Spider-Man rolled to avoid the falling debris, but he wasn’t fast enough to avoid Rhino, who lunged at him with surprising speed.  

Rhino’s massive hand closed around Spider-Man’s ankle, yanking him off his feet.  

“Gotcha now,” Rhino growled, lifting Spider-Man like a ragdoll.  

Spider-Man twisted, firing a web at Rhino’s face. The sticky thread splattered across his eyes, causing him to roar in frustration and drop his grip.  

Spider-Man landed hard, the impact jarring, but he didn’t have time to recover. Scorpion was already lunging at him, his tail poised like a spear.  

Spider-Man rolled out of the way, narrowly avoiding the strike, and fired a web at Scorpion’s tail to yank it off course.  

It worked - barely. The tail smashed into the ground instead of Spider-Man, but the force sent a shockwave through the pavement that made his knees buckle. 

“Okay, this is getting old,” Spider-Man muttered, scrambling to his feet.  

He was running out of steam. The quips came slower, the movements less precise. His body screamed at him to stop, to rest, but he couldn’t. Not yet.  

The villains were closing in, and Spider-Man had the sinking feeling that this fight was far from over.  

Spider-Man's senses were on overload, and the chaos was suffocating him.

The street was a warzone. Rhino was charging through cars like they were nothing but paper, his massive form crashing through the traffic, sending vehicles flying with each angry step. Scorpion wasn’t far behind, his tail whipping through the air, snapping with dangerous precision, every swing a threat to life and limb. Shocker’s energy blasts were punching holes through the air, bright and terrifying. The low thrum of explosions echoed from nearby buildings, the ground shaking with each blast.

The cacophony was almost unbearable. Spider-Man’s Spidey senses were tingling, buzzing, every single moment filled with a thousand different warnings, all of them urgent. It was like standing inside a bomb that was already going off, every second bringing the threat of something worse. His brain was struggling to process it all, to focus on the threats right in front of him while everything else screamed for his attention.

Rhino made the first move. He charged, an unstoppable force of nature. Spider-Man barely had time to react, but his instincts were sharp enough. He swung out of the way just as Rhino’s shoulder slammed into a street lamp, snapping it in half like it was made of twigs. The shockwave from the impact sent Spider-Man tumbling backward, his webbing barely able to catch the edge of a building as his body hit the ground with a bone-rattling thud.

But there was no time to think. Scorpion was already on him, his tail slashing downward, narrowly missing Spider-Man as he rolled out of the way. The hiss of the tail cutting through the air was followed by the sickening crunch of concrete as it hit the ground just inches away from him. Spider-Man’s head whipped back toward Scorpion, but before he could even react, a blast of raw energy knocked him sideways.

Shocker. Damn it.

The energy hit him square in the chest, sending Spider-Man crashing into a row of parked cars. His body crumpled against the hoods, the breath forced out of him as the impact rattled his bones. His head spun, a ringing in his ears threatening to drown out everything. His suit flickered in and out, webs tangling around his limbs as he struggled to get back on his feet.

But there was no time to rest. The ground shook violently beneath him as Rhino turned, his eyes locked on Spider-Man, fury behind them. Before Spider-Man could react, the massive bull of a man charged once again, each step reverberating through the street. Spider-Man barely had time to react, his body screaming with exhaustion as he threw himself to the side. He felt something graze his side - something sharp and hot - before a heavy weight collided with his ribs. The pain was immediate and sharp, radiating through his chest. 

“Not again,” Spider-Man muttered through gritted teeth, trying to shake off the dizziness as he scrambled to his feet. His Spidey senses were in complete chaos - everything was a warning, and nothing made sense.

Another explosion rocked the city.

This time, the blast came from behind him, and the shockwave hit him full force. The building crumbled in the distance, a tower of concrete and steel collapsing in on itself as if it were nothing but dust. Spider-Man could feel the heat on his skin, and then the scream of people, caught in the rubble, reached his ears. But by the time he turned, it was too late. The people were already gone, crushed under the weight of the building.

His Spidey sense screamed at him, but the overload of signals - of threats - was too much. He couldn’t focus. He couldn’t think straight. Every direction he looked in, there was something dangerous. The explosions, the pounding footsteps of Rhino, the lethal flick of Scorpion’s tail, and the raw energy from Shocker’s blasts. Every warning clashed together in his mind, and he couldn’t pick the right one. It was like his senses were scrambling, the static of too many signals drowning out his ability to focus.

The worst part was that Spider-Man couldn’t stop it. He was trying to save the people - he always did - but the chaos, the constant threat, was making it harder and harder to keep track. His body was worn out, his movements slower than they should have been. He’d missed too many opportunities. He’d failed too many people.

The next explosion was a mile away, but it felt like it was right next to him, ripping through the air with such force that Spider-Man was thrown backward once again. His body slammed into the concrete, his ribs screaming in protest as he gasped for air. His head was spinning, and the pain from his side was almost enough to make him collapse.

But he couldn’t. He couldn’t stop. Not now. Not when people were dying.

But as Spider-Man forced himself to his feet, he missed it - another shot. Scorpion’s tail, a lethal whip of metal and fury, sliced through the air, aimed directly at his head. His Spidey sense gave him the warning, but his reaction was too slow. The tail slammed into the side of his skull, sending him spinning to the ground, his vision going blurry for a moment.

When he looked up, there was blood dripping from the side of his head, and everything was moving in slow motion.

The world was a blur of explosions, sirens, and the deafening sound of crumbling buildings. Spider-Man’s suit was torn, bloodstained, and barely holding together. But his focus was elsewhere - on the people still trapped, still in danger. He tried to push himself to his feet, but his body refused to cooperate.

And that’s when he heard it. The sound of movement - a blur of red.

Daredevil.

In a flash, the hero was there, leaping across the rooftop with the same fluid precision Spider-Man had always admired. His batons were out, slamming into Scorpion’s tail before it could strike again. Daredevil twisted, his senses just as sharp as Spider-Man’s - if not sharper - and he had no hesitation. He went in with a fury that Spider-Man could barely match, using his speed and skill to pin Scorpion to the ground.

“Stay down, Web-Head,” Daredevil called out, his voice calm and sure. Spider-Man could barely hear him over the chaos, but the sound of his ally was like a lifeline, pulling him out of the fog of pain and confusion.

For a moment, Spider-Man simply watched, barely able to move, his mind scrambling to process the sight of Daredevil taking control. It was a brief respite - just long enough for Spider-Man to realize something.

He’d missed it. He’d missed a lot of it. People were dying because of him. His inability to focus, his overextended senses - it was too much.

The thought hit him like a truck. 

And then, before he could even react, another figure arrived - Deadpool.

“Did I miss the party?” Deadpool’s voice was unmistakable. Spider-Man’s head snapped up, and there he was, wearing his usual mix of chaotic energy and sharp wit. He fired off a shot that took down a group of goons trying to set up more explosives, but Spider-Man couldn’t even bring himself to feel relieved.

Because now, with Daredevil and Deadpool there, Spider-Man knew something else. The situation had spiraled out of control. He wasn’t the only one trying to keep it from getting worse - but that meant others were in danger too. And he’d missed it.

He’d missed too much. 

The chaos hadn’t slowed. The shockwaves of explosions still rumbled beneath his feet, a steady, cruel reminder that he was fighting a losing battle. Rhino’s rampage hadn’t stopped, and Scorpion was still wreaking havoc with that terrifying tail of his, slashing through anything in his path. Shocker’s blasts continued to fire in all directions, lighting up the night like bursts of fireworks that were anything but festive. 

Deadpool had already jumped into the fray, but Spider-Man could barely appreciate the fact that he now had backup. His mind was still reeling, his senses pulling in a thousand directions, each one screaming for his attention. The familiar feeling of dread settled deep in his chest. 

He could feel the blood dripping down his temple now, his head pounding in time with his heartbeat. His body was trembling, whether from the pain or exhaustion, he couldn’t tell. Every movement was sluggish. The Spidey sense that usually guided him with split-second precision was now a tangle of disjointed warnings, colliding and merging into one overwhelming mass of noise. 

“C’mon, kid, get it together,” Deadpool’s voice cut through the storm of his thoughts, the mercenary’s tone as cocky as ever. “We’re gonna get through this. Probably.”

Spider-Man tried to focus on the sound of his ally’s voice, but it was hard to hold onto anything. He could barely hear himself think, let alone coordinate with the others. Instead, he stumbled into a street lamp, his hand barely reaching out to steady himself. His eyes flicked over to where Rhino was charging again, plowing through the wreckage of the city as if it were nothing but dust. 

He pushed off from the lamp with a grunt, forcing himself into motion despite the fog in his brain. He had to stop this. Had to protect the people. 

But then, everything went sideways.

The ground cracked beneath his feet as an explosion rained down from the building to his left, sending a shockwave so powerful it nearly knocked Spider-Man off his feet. The blast was followed by a shriek of metal and concrete as the building's edge started to crumble, pieces of debris falling like raining missiles. 

“Spidey! Move!” Daredevil’s voice was sharp, more demanding than before. Spider-Man snapped his head up just in time to see Daredevil leap toward him, grabbing him by the arm and pulling him to safety. The debris that followed was massive, but with Daredevil’s assistance, Spider-Man managed to dodge most of it. 

The noise around them was deafening, but Spider-Man’s focus snapped back, adrenaline coursing through his veins again. But the moment he turned back to the battlefield, everything seemed to move too fast. Scorpion’s tail was a blur as it swung toward Deadpool, narrowly missing his side before the mercenary ducked and returned fire. 

But then Rhino - goddamn Rhino - charged in from behind, his massive form like a freight train. Spider-Man didn’t even have time to react before Rhino’s shoulder collided with his own, the impact sending him flying through the air. He barely managed to twist in midair before his back slammed into a nearby building. The force of the hit knocked the wind out of him, the sharp taste of metal filling his mouth as he gasped for air.

Pain. That was all he felt, and then the quiet settled over him for a split second as he stared at the shattered remnants of the wall behind him. 

But that quiet didn’t last.

The snap of electricity cut through the air, a sharp crackle that immediately pierced his skull. 

Shocker.

Spider-Man barely had time to brace himself as a blast of energy struck him directly in the chest, sending him hurtling backward once again. His body slammed into a streetlight, and for a moment, everything was dark.

His suit’s lights flickered, and he could feel the strain in his limbs as his body screamed for relief. His muscles were shaking, the pain from his side, his ribs, his head - it was all becoming too much to ignore. 

But there was no time for that.

He was Spider-Man. The weight of the city was on his shoulders. People were depending on him, and if he stopped, they died.

But damn it, how much longer could he keep going? His Spidey sense was going haywire - too much input, too many threats. He couldn’t focus on everything at once. Couldn’t handle the sheer scale of the chaos. He was supposed to save people, not watch them get caught in the crossfire because his mind couldn’t keep up.

Before he could take another breath, a massive explosion erupted from across the street, sending a shockwave that knocked him flat. For a moment, Spider-Man couldn’t see anything. The air was thick with dust and debris, his vision clouded. His head rang from the blast, and his body felt like it was made of lead. He couldn’t get up. 

Then - another noise. It was faint at first, but unmistakable. Footsteps, the sound of someone moving toward him.

“Stubborn kid,” Deadpool muttered under his breath, his voice cutting through the haze. "You’re lucky I like you."

Spider-Man’s brain was swimming in a fog of pain and exhaustion, but Deadpool’s words did enough to stir something inside him. Maybe it was the fact that Deadpool never showed concern for anyone. Maybe it was the fact that in the middle of this hellhole, the mercenary was still finding time to crack jokes.

Deadpool grabbed him by the arm and yanked him upright, steadying him for just a second.

“That’s enough,” Deadpool said with a grin that Spider-Man couldn’t quite see. “Get your head back in the game, Web-Head. This is far from over.”

Spider-Man barely nodded. He couldn’t waste any more time. He had to stop the people who were behind this destruction before it got any worse. 

But before he could swing back into action, another explosion erupted. This time, it came from above.

He barely had time to react, but Daredevil was already on the move, leaping across rooftops with his trademark agility. The two of them worked in tandem, swinging and dodging, taking down goons as they went.

But even as they fought, Spider-Man’s mind raced. He couldn’t stop thinking about what was happening to the city. The damage. The lives lost. He could hear the sirens wailing in the distance, the screams of panic and terror from civilians trapped in the chaos.

And then, amidst the adrenaline, the battle, and the destruction - he heard something he shouldn’t have.

A building that had been in the background of his mind, too far away to be a real threat - collapsed. 

The shockwave rattled through the street, and he knew, instinctively, that it was too late. The people in that building were gone.

Spider-Man’s breath caught in his throat. He could feel his heart pounding in his chest, a relentless drumbeat that made his whole body tremble.

He missed it. He wasn’t fast enough. Too much had slipped through his fingers.

The dust still hung in the air like a suffocating cloud, the smoke from the various explosions winding lazily upward. The sound of rubble falling had quieted to a dull, almost mocking echo, and yet Spider-Man couldn’t shake the feeling that the worst was yet to come.

His muscles screamed for rest, but there was no time to think about it. His hands were shaky as they gripped his web-shooters, his thoughts still tangled with the lives he couldn’t save. It was in this hollow silence, in the stillness that followed the chaos, that the villains finally made their move.

Rhino was the first to turn away. His massive form loomed in the smoke, still shaking off the remnants of Spider-Man’s last attack. He took one last look at the wreckage, then snorted, a deep, rumbling sound like some kind of animal dismissing a pointless fight. With a grunt, he backed away from the destruction, his heavy steps shaking the ground beneath him.

"Not worth the effort," Rhino muttered, his voice grating and disinterested. His armored body slid back into the shadows, retreating into the wreckage as though nothing had ever happened. As though none of this mattered.

Scorpion, still laughing maniacally as his tail swished dangerously behind him, flicked a glance at Spider-Man. He narrowed his eyes, his grin growing even more malicious.

"Don’t worry, little spider," Scorpion taunted, his voice dripping with venom. "I’ll be sure to let you clean up the mess. You know how it goes. Always the cleanup crew, right?" His laugh was sharp, filled with mocking glee, before he disappeared into the ruins, his tail swishing behind him like the slithering serpent he was.

Shocker’s blasts had ceased for the moment, and the air was filled with the faint crackle of static from his discarded weapon. He tossed a final glance over his shoulder at the heroes, a grin pulling at the corners of his masked face.

"This was fun," Shocker said nonchalantly, his tone playful yet threatening. "But I’m bored. See you around, web-head."

With a flick of his wrist, the electrical gauntlets sputtered to life one last time before going dark. He swaggered away, like he had all the time in the world, stepping over debris and wreckage with a careless abandon that made Spider-Man’s stomach churn.

And then there was Deadpool.

Spider-Man could barely register the mercenary’s movements as he jumped back onto the scene, his swords gleaming in the smoke-filled air. He was as unpredictable as ever, but even he couldn’t ignore the fact that the villains were pulling back.

"You’re gonna leave already? But I was just starting to get warmed up!" Deadpool called out sarcastically, his voice oozing with fake disappointment. He shot a look at Spider-Man, then exaggerated a sigh, spinning one of his katanas in lazy circles. "And here I thought we were just getting to the good part. All that chaos, all that carnage- what, you guys got bored?"

Rhino didn’t respond, his massive shoulders disappearing further into the smoke. Shocker waved dismissively from a distance, as if they weren’t even worth the energy of a proper reply. Scorpion paused briefly, smirking back at them, his tail curling menacingly.

"Don’t flatter yourself, Deadpool," Scorpion sneered. "This isn’t about you. It’s about him." He jabbed his tail in Spider-Man’s direction with a sharp grin. "We’ve had our fun. For now." His grin widened. "But don’t worry, Spider. We’ll be back. And next time, we’ll make sure there’s nothing left for you to save."

Spider-Man’s chest tightened at the words. The nonchalance in Scorpion’s tone, the ease with which they dismissed the destruction and death they’d caused and placed it squarely apon his shoulders, made his stomach churn.

The villains didn’t flee in haste or fear. No, they slunked away like predators leaving a wounded prey behind, savoring the damage they’d already inflicted. It was deliberate, calculated. The sound of their retreating footsteps and fading laughter felt like another blow to Spider-Man’s already battered body.

He forced himself upright, despite the searing pain in his ribs and the disorienting thrum of his still-overloaded senses. He took a staggering step forward, then another, his mind screaming at him to stop them, to keep fighting.

But his body wouldn’t listen.

“Hey!” Spider-Man shouted hoarsely, his voice cracking against the smoke-filled air. “You don’t just get to walk away! Not after this!”

The only response was Shocker’s laughter, echoing cruelly through the destruction. “Catch you later, Spidey. Try not to trip over all that rubble!”

Spider-Man clenched his fists, his webs twitching as though ready to fire, but his arms felt like lead. He stumbled forward, only for his knees to buckle. He caught himself on a piece of broken concrete, breathing hard, the acidic sting of guilt and helplessness crawling under his skin.

Deadpool approached him slowly, sheathing his swords with a dramatic flourish. “Well, that was… anticlimactic. They didn’t even try to kill me! And I’m adorable- who doesn’t want to murder me?”

“Not the time,” Daredevil growled, his tone sharp as he moved toward Spider-Man.

Spider-Man didn’t respond, his focus still locked on the spot where the villains had disappeared. His head throbbed with the sound of sirens in the distance, the cries of civilians, the crackling of small fires still burning in the aftermath.

“They just-” Spider-Man choked on the words. “They just walked away. Like none of it mattered.”

Daredevil crouched beside him, his expression calm but grim. “It’s what they do. They don’t care about the damage they leave behind. But we have to.”

Spider-Man shook his head, frustration boiling in his chest. “I couldn’t stop them. I couldn’t-”

“Don’t,” Daredevil cut him off firmly, his voice low. “Not here. Not now.”

Deadpool crouched on Spider-Man’s other side, uncharacteristically quiet for a moment. Then, as if he couldn’t help himself, he leaned in conspiratorially. “Okay, but seriously, Spidey. Next time, call me sooner. I’ve got a whole playlist for villain fights, and you’re depriving me of the perfect soundtrack.”

Spider-Man let out a shaky breath, his masked eyes narrowing slightly. “You think this is funny?”

“No,” Deadpool said, and for once, there was no humor in his voice. “But you’re still standing. That’s something.”

Spider-Man looked away, the weight of the devastation around them pressing down on him. The fires continued to burn, the sirens grew louder, and the air was thick with the aftermath of everything he couldn’t prevent.

And somewhere in the distance, the villains laughed.

The carnage left behind was staggering. Concrete blocks the size of cars were strewn across the streets like oversized pebbles, overturned vehicles smoldered faintly in the distance, and shattered glass glinted under the weak sunlight filtering through the haze of smoke. The devastation stretched for blocks, a grim reminder of the chaos that had unfolded mere hours ago. Fires crackled in pockets of wreckage, stubborn and relentless, and the faint sound of crying drifted through the air from somewhere deeper in the rubble.  

Spider-Man, Daredevil, and Deadpool exchanged a look - none of them said anything, but the shared exhaustion and frustration was palpable.  

“We should get to work,” Daredevil said finally, his voice calm but firm. He was already moving toward a collapsed building, his head tilting slightly as he listened for any signs of life beneath the rubble.  

Spider-Man hesitated for only a moment before nodding and shooting a web at a particularly massive chunk of concrete blocking an alleyway. “I’ll clear the streets,” he said, his voice tight. “We need to make sure emergency vehicles can get through.”  

“And I’ll… provide emotional support?” Deadpool offered, gesturing vaguely with both hands. When Daredevil shot him a glare, he sighed theatrically. “Fine, fine. I’ll play search-and-rescue. But I’m charging overtime for this.”  

Despite the quip, Deadpool joined them without further complaint, his usual flamboyance dialed down as he started sifting through the debris.  

The three of them fell into an uneasy rhythm, working alongside the scattered first responders who had arrived at the scene. Spider-Man hauled away chunks of concrete and twisted metal with his webs, his muscles screaming in protest but his resolve unyielding. Daredevil guided survivors to safety with an almost supernatural precision, his heightened senses allowing him to navigate the chaos effortlessly. Deadpool, to everyone’s surprise, was surprisingly efficient, his enhanced strength and healing factor allowing him to handle tasks that would have been impossible for anyone else.  

But it wasn’t enough. The scale of the destruction was overwhelming, and for every street they cleared, there was another choked with debris. The cries of trapped civilians grew fainter as the hours dragged on, and the acrid smell of smoke burned at the back of Spider-Man’s throat.  

He paused only once, leaning heavily against a crumbling wall to catch his breath. His ribs throbbed with every inhale, and his hands trembled faintly as he reloaded his web-shooters. Across the street, Deadpool was balancing a piece of rebar on one finger like a circus act, drawing nervous stares from a group of EMTs.  

“You good, Spidey?” Deadpool called out, his tone light but his gaze uncharacteristically serious.  

Spider-Man didn’t answer, his focus already shifting back to the work in front of him. There wasn’t time to stop. Not when there were still people trapped.  

Several grueling hours passed like this, the three of them moving from one wrecked block to the next, until the rising sun painted the sky in muted hues of pink and orange. The city was eerily quiet now, the chaos subdued into a grim stillness.  

And that was when the Avengers decided to show their faces.  

A low hum filled the air, growing louder by the second. Spider-Man’s head snapped up, his tired body instinctively tensing as a sleek Quinjet descended from the smoky sky, its engines kicking up a cloud of dust and ash.  

“Great,” Deadpool muttered, shielding his eyes as the jet’s ramp lowered. “The cavalry’s here. Fashionably late, as always.”  

Spider-Man’s stomach twisted as he watched the figures emerging from the Quinjet. Stark’s suit was the first thing he noticed, gleaming in the morning light, followed closely by Natasha’s sharp, assessing gaze and Steve Rogers’ imposing stance.  

They didn’t look happy.  

Daredevil stepped up beside him, his posture tense. “This isn’t good,” he said quietly.  

Spider-Man swallowed hard, his exhaustion momentarily forgotten as Tony Stark’s helmet folded back, revealing a face carved from stone.  

“Spider-Man,” Tony said, his voice cutting through the tense silence. “We need to talk.”  

Spider-Man straightened, his muscles screaming in protest, as the Avengers approached. The devastation around them spoke louder than any words could. Dust still hung in the air, filtering the early morning sunlight into fractured beams that fell across broken streets. The silence was oppressive, broken only by the distant sirens of emergency services.  

Leading the group, Tony Stark’s face was a mask of metal, but the subtle tension in his shoulders, visible even through the suit, betrayed him. Behind him, Steve Rogers looked grim, his shield slung over his back, while Natasha’s calculating gaze flickered over the wreckage. Clint hung back slightly, his expression openly scornful, and even from a distance, Spider-Man could feel the weight of his disdain.  

“Well, this is cozy,” Deadpool muttered, dragging the toe of his boot through the dust. “The cool kids have arrived. What’s the plan, Iron Man? More public shaming, or are we skipping straight to the handcuffs?”  

“Wade,” Daredevil said sharply, his tone a quiet warning.  

Deadpool held up his hands, his grin wide beneath the mask. “Alright, alright, I’ll play nice. But if there’s gonna be a big dramatic speech, someone better break out a violin.”  

Spider-Man barely heard them. His attention was locked on Tony, whose helmet retracted with a faint hiss, revealing an expression colder than the debris-strewn streets around them.  

“Tell me,” Tony began, his voice clipped, “was this part of your plan?” He gestured to the rubble, to the collapsed buildings and overturned cars. “Or were you improvising?”  

Spider-Man bristled, forcing himself to stand a little taller despite the way his ribs ached. “If you’re here to help, great,” he shot back, his voice sharper than he intended. “If not, maybe get out of my way. People still need help.”  

“That’s what emergency services are for,” Tony snapped. “You’ve done enough damage for one day.”  

Clint let out a scoff, crossing his arms. “You know, kid, I tried to warn you. Months ago, when I told you signing the accords wasn’t optional. But no, you knew better.” His voice was heavy with sarcasm. “How’s that working out for you?”  

Spider-Man’s fists clenched at his sides, but he forced himself to stay calm. “Yeah, because the accords are working out great for everyone else,” he bit out. “Where were you when this started? Where were any of you?”  

Tony’s eyes narrowed. “Don’t turn this around on us. There were fifty-two casualties - and counting - today.” His voice was hard, unyielding. “Fifty-two lives lost because you’re too stubborn to follow the rules. You think this is some noble crusade? It’s not. It’s reckless, and people are paying the price.”  

Spider-Man flinched, the number hitting him like a punch to the gut. He’d known there would be casualties - he’d heard the screams, felt the devastation in his bones - but hearing it laid out so bluntly made it all too real.  

“There wouldn’t have been fifty-two casualties if you’d shown up,” Spider-Man snapped, his voice rising. “Do you even know what was happening here? Or were you too busy hiding behind your stupid accords to notice?”  

Tony’s jaw tightened, his suit’s servos whirring faintly as his fists clenched. “Watch it, kid.”  

Natasha stepped forward, her voice calm but firm. “That’s enough,” she said, her gaze flicking between them. “There’s more going on here than either of you are willing to admit.”  

Spider-Man turned to her, his eyes narrowing behind the mask. “What’s that supposed to mean?”  

Steve sighed, stepping forward to join Natasha. “We know the truth,” he admitted, his tone heavy. “The villains weren’t acting alone. They were paid to cause this. To draw you out.”  

Spider-Man froze, the words hitting him like a cold wave. “Paid? By who?”  

Steve hesitated, glancing at Tony.  

“It doesn’t matter,” Tony said sharply. “What matters is that this whole thing is exactly what we warned you about. You’re a target, Spider-Man. And now, so is everyone around you.”  

“No,” Spider-Man said, his voice shaking with a mix of anger and disbelief. “You don’t get to brush this off. Who paid them?”  

Natasha’s gaze softened, but she didn’t speak.  

Steve answered instead. “The government. They wanted to make a point. To show the dangers of operating outside the accords.”  

Spider-Man staggered back a step, his chest heaving. “So this - this whole thing - was a setup? People died for your politics?”  

“People died because you refuse to work with us,” Tony said coldly. “You’ve got twenty-four hours, Spider-Man. Sign the accords, or we’ll bring you in. Your choice.”  

Spider-Man stared at him, his mind racing. The government had orchestrated this chaos, and the Avengers had let it happen. The betrayal cut deeper than he thought possible.  

Without another word, he turned and fired a web at the nearest building, disappearing into the shadows before any of them could stop him.  

Behind him, the Avengers stood in silence, the weight of their choices settling over them like the dust of the ruined city.  

Chapter Text

The fog of indecision had followed Peter for hours now, clinging to him like a second skin. Every swing through the city, every face he passed on the street - it all seemed to blur into the same question: What am I going to do?

He sat perched on the edge of a rooftop, his feet barely making a sound as they balanced on the cracked brick. Below him, the sprawling mess of Queens stretched out, a sprawling maze of gray and color, of life and death. The noise of the city hummed in the distance, its rhythm unchanged by the turmoil inside him.

Peter stared out into the city, the dimming sun casting long shadows across the streets. He tightened his grip on the rough surface of the roof, his fingers digging into the brick, the grit digging into his palms as if it might steady his thoughts. It wasn’t working. He couldn’t escape it. The Accords. The weight of what they meant - what he meant if he signed.

He was just a kid, right? A kid who got bitten by a spider and suddenly had more power than any teenager should ever have. But he was also more than that. He had always known he was different, but this? This was something else entirely. This was about choice - about who got to decide how far the line stretched. And if he was going to cross it.

"Would signing the Accords make me a hero?" he wondered out loud, the wind tugging at his hoodie. He wanted to believe it would. He wanted to believe that by following the rules, by showing up, by finally being seen, he could help in a way that mattered. That he could make a difference in this twisted world.

But then... what did that make him? A pawn? Another cog in the machine? Would he be fighting for the people, or just following orders, like all the others who had signed before him?

What if he wasn’t strong enough to bear it? The weight of what he might have to sacrifice to stay on the right side of the line. He didn’t want to lose the part of him that was Peter Parker. But he also didn’t want to stand idly by as the world around him burned, knowing that maybe he could’ve done something to stop it.

He knew there was one person who might have answers - someone who’d faced impossible decisions and still found a way to keep fighting for what was right.

So he went to Hell’s Kitchen.

Matt Murdock’s apartment smelled like coffee and rain, the window cracked open just enough to let the city’s hum seep in. 

It was cleaner than Peter had expected, considering Matt was blind and all but Peter still fidgeted awkwardly in the comfortable cluttered kitchen, his mask stuffed into the pocket of his hoodie as Matt poured them both a cup of tea.

“You’re wound up,” Matt said, his voice calm but pointed. He placed the mug on the table in front of Peter and sat across from him. His foggy gaze was knowing.

Peter hesitated, staring into the murky depths of his tea like it could answer all his questions without him having to ask. “Yeah,” he admitted, his voice barely above a whisper. “I, uh… I need advice.”

Matt tilted his head, his unseeing eyes sharp despite their blindness. “About the Accords,” he said, expression impassive.

Peter exhaled shakily, running a hand through his hair as he nodded. “Stark… you were there- he’s been pushing me to sign. Says it’s the right thing to do, that it’ll keep people safe. But…” He trailed off, swallowing hard. “It feels like a trap. Like if I sign, I’m giving up everything that makes me… me.”

Matt studied him for a long moment, his expression unreadable. Then, finally, he spoke - calm, measured, and firm.

“You're under eighteen.” It wasn’t a question. Just a fact.

Peter shifted his weight, his hands stuffed deep in his hoodie pockets. “Yeah? So?” He frowned. “I’m fifteen.”

Matt nodded, the movement slow, deliberate. “Which means any contract you sign wouldn’t be legally binding. You’re a minor, Peter. As long as you have proof of age, you cannot be forced to comply.”

Peter’s stomach twisted. The words should have felt like a relief, but they didn’t. He knew where this was going.

“That would mean revealing my identity to a group of government officials, wouldn’t it?” His voice was quieter now, laced with something sharp and uncertain.

Matt exhaled, his fingers steepling in front of him. He didn’t answer right away, and Peter could feel the weight of his silence pressing down like a verdict already passed. When Matt finally spoke, his voice was even, but there was a thread of something almost regretful beneath it.

“Most likely, yes.”

Peter clenched his jaw. His fingers curled into fists in his pockets. “Not doing that then.” The decision came quick, instinctual, but it didn’t settle the unease in his chest. If anything, it only made the weight heavier.

Matt sighed, tilting his head slightly like he was studying Peter in a new light. “Then they will see you as an adult,” he said, voice steady, unwavering. “And if they treat you like one, you’ll have to act like one.” His sightless gaze held something piercing, something that made Peter feel like he was being seen in a way that had nothing to do with eyes. “So tell me, Peter - do you trust the system they’re asking you to be a part of?”

Peter’s head shot up, his breath unsteady as his wide eyes locked onto Matt’s calm, unreadable expression. “I… I don’t know,” he admitted, voice tight with frustration. “I want to. If only to get it over with. But it feels like they don’t really get it.” His hands clenched around the fabric of his hoodie, fingers twitching with restless energy. “They don’t understand what it’s like out there, on the streets. They’re trying to control something they don’t even understand.”  

Matt nodded slowly, his lips pressing into a thin line. “That’s what I thought when I read about the Accords.” His voice was measured, even, but there was something underneath - something weighted with experience. “They’re built on good intentions, but they’re riddled with flaws. Signing them won’t make you safer, Peter. It won’t give you more freedom. It’ll make you a cog in a machine you don’t believe in.” His head tilted slightly. “And once you’re in, you won’t be able to get out.”  

Peter’s stomach twisted, the nausea creeping in like a slow, suffocating tide. He wasn’t stupid - he knew how these things worked. Governments didn’t ask for power, they took it. And once you handed it over, they didn’t just give it back.

“So… you’re saying I shouldn’t sign?” His voice was quieter now, like he wasn’t sure he wanted the answer.  

“I’m saying you need to trust your instincts.” Matt leaned forward slightly, his hands folding neatly in front of him. “You became Spider-Man because you chose to help people. Not because someone told you to. If you sign those papers, you’re giving up that choice. You’re letting someone else decide who deserves your help. When. Where. How.”  

Peter swallowed hard, his grip tightening around the ceramic mug in his hands. It had gone cold by now, long forgotten, but he barely noticed. “But if I don’t sign…” He hesitated, exhaling shakily. “They’ll come after me.” His voice barely rose above a whisper. “Stark will come after me. And I don’t know if I can fight them. Not all of them.”  

Matt didn’t look surprised. If anything, he looked… resigned. Like he had already considered this, already expected it.  

“You don’t have to fight them alone, Peter,” he said, his voice quieter now, but firm. “But you do have to decide what kind of fight you’re willing to take on.”  

Because that was the choice, wasn’t it? It wasn’t just sign or don’t sign. It was comply or resist. Accept their rules, their control, their limitations… or stand alone, hunted, a fugitive for simply existing the way he always had.  

Peter exhaled, staring down into the dregs of his untouched tea, watching the liquid swirl as his thoughts raced.  

No matter what he chose - there was no easy way out.

Peter left Matt’s apartment with more questions than answers. The words echoed in his head as he swung back to Queens, his body moving on autopilot while his mind churned. You have to decide what kind of fight you’re willing to take on.

Peter barely noticed the hours slipping away. The sun had climbed high, painting the city in the harsh glare of noon, and with every passing second, the deadline loomed closer. Less than twelve hours left. Less than twelve hours to decide his future. The weight of it pressed down on him, curling around his ribs like something living, something hungry. 

His head pounded by the time he reached his apartment. He barely even registered unlocking the door - just muscle memory guiding him through the motions. But the second he stepped inside, his breath caught.  

Natasha Romanoff was waiting for him.  

Peter froze mid-step, his fingers still curled around the doorknob. His heart slammed against his ribs, the way it always did when something went wrong.

She stood near the window, arms crossed, her silhouette sharp against the afternoon light. Calm. Unshaken. Watching him like a cat watching a bird that hadn’t yet realized it was prey.  

She didn’t look angry. Not exactly. But there was something in her posture - coiled, measured, waiting - that sent his instincts screaming.  

Peter swallowed hard, shifting on his feet. “Uh.”  

That was all he managed before his brain short-circuited. Because this wasn’t just an Avenger showing up unannounced in his apartment. This was Natasha Romanov. And if she was here, if she had found him -   

She knew.  

She knew who he was.  

His stomach twisted, and suddenly, the room felt much too small. Too many exits blocked. Too many questions left hanging in the air, suffocating.  

“I was wondering when you’d come home,” Natasha said, her voice smooth, almost casual - but Peter didn’t buy it for a second.  

His throat felt dry. “How did you get in?”  

One of her eyebrows lifted slightly, like the question amused her. “Peter,” she said, and that was answer enough.  

Right. Stupid question.  

He forced himself to stand a little straighter, pushing past the unease clawing at his gut. “So, uh… what are you doing here?”  

She tilted her head slightly, studying him. Then, finally, she spoke.  

“You’re not going to sign, are you?”  

There it was. No buildup. No pretense. Just the truth, laid out in front of him like an open wound.  

Peter inhaled sharply, his hands curling into fists at his sides. “I don’t know,” he admitted. “I don’t know, okay? I’ve been thinking about it, but - ”  

“But you don’t trust them.”  

It wasn’t a question.  

Peter hesitated.  

Natasha nodded, as if he had answered anyway. “Smart.”  

Peter blinked, thrown off balance. “Wait - you agree?”  

A small, knowing smile ghosted across her lips. “I think you’re not wrong to hesitate,” she said simply. “And I think you already know what you’re going to do.”  

His mouth opened, then closed. Because she wasn’t pushing him. She wasn’t trying to convince him, wasn’t trying to corner him into a decision.  

She was just… here.  

And she knew. She had known for who-knew-how-long.  

But she hadn't told.

“I came to give you an out,” Natasha said, her voice as steady as ever, cutting through the thick silence between them like a blade.  

No preamble. No hesitation. Just that.  

Peter blinked. “An… out?”  

She nodded, stepping closer, her expression unreadable. “You don’t have to sign the Accords, Peter. I can make sure of that.” She paused, letting the words sink in before continuing, softer now, but no less serious. “I have contacts - people who can forge a new identity for you, get you out of the country. You could disappear. Start over somewhere else. Be whoever you want to be.”  

Peter felt like the ground had just shifted beneath him. His stomach twisted painfully.  

“You want me to run?” The words felt wrong even as he said them. Peter Parker didn’t run. Spider-Man didn’t run.  

But Natasha? She was offering it. Making it possible.

“I want you to survive,” she corrected, voice calm, but firm. Not unkind, but completely unwilling to dress this up as anything other than what it was. “If you don’t sign, they’ll come after you. And if you try to fight back, you’re going to lose. Stark won’t hold back, and neither will the rest of them.”  

Peter swallowed hard. It wasn’t just what she was saying - it was how she was saying it. Like she’d seen this before. Like she knew exactly how this would play out, and she was giving him the only chance he had to escape it.  

“But I can’t just… leave,” he said, his voice cracking on the last word. His hands curled into fists, like gripping something solid could keep him from spiraling. “I can’t run forever.”  

“No,” Natasha agreed. “But you can live.”  

The words hit him like a gut punch.  

She wasn’t telling him to abandon the fight. She wasn’t telling him to stop being who he was. She was telling him to survive.  

“You can find another way to help people,” she continued, her voice quiet, but insistent. “You don’t have to throw yourself into a fight you can’t win.”  

Peter’s breath came shallow, too fast. He didn’t want to run. He didn’t want to hide. He wanted to stand his ground, to prove that he was strong enough, smart enough, good enough.  

But Natasha Romanov wasn’t the kind of person who made empty offers.  

She had seen war. She had seen people make choices that got them killed.  

And she was looking at him now, like she already knew how this would end if he stayed.  

Peter closed his eyes for a long second.  

Then, voice barely above a whisper, he asked, “Would you run?”  

Natasha hesitated.  

Then she exhaled slowly, like she had already asked herself that same question a thousand times over.  

“I did,” she admitted. “And it saved my life.”

Peter hesitated. The weight of her words pressed against his chest, heavy and suffocating.  

He thought about Matt’s advice - the way he’d spoken with such certainty, as if the law was something that could still protect him. He thought about the people he’d saved as Spider-Man, the ones who had looked up at him with gratitude, with hope. And then he thought about the ones he’d failed. The ones he’d been too late to reach.  

Could he really walk away from all of it?  

Could he leave behind the city he’d sworn to protect?  

His throat felt tight, his pulse hammering in his ears as the answer settled into his bones.  

“No.” His voice was quiet, but it didn’t waver. “I can’t.”  

He lifted his head, meeting Natasha’s gaze. “I can’t run, Natasha. This is my home. These are my people. If I don’t fight for them, who will?”  

Something in her expression shifted. Just for a second. A flicker of something - regret, maybe. Or understanding.  

“This fight is going to cost you, Peter.” Her voice was softer now, but the weight behind it hadn’t lessened. “More than you realize.”  

Peter swallowed hard. He knew that. He knew.  

But what was the alternative? Let them control him? Let them tell him who he could save, when he could step in, if he could step in? Let them turn him into something he wasn’t?  

His hands curled into fists at his sides, his knuckles aching with the force of it.  

“I know,” he said. “But I can’t let them take away what I stand for.” His breath hitched slightly, but he forced himself to hold her gaze. “Not without a fight.”  

Natasha studied him for a long moment, her expression unreadable. Then, finally, she nodded.  

“Alright,” she murmured. “But don’t say I didn’t warn you.”  

And with that, she turned and walked away, disappearing into the night like a shadow slipping out of reach.  

Peter stood there long after she was gone, the silence of his apartment pressing in around him.  

The weight of his decision settled over him, heavy and unshakable.  

But for the first time in days, his mind was clear.  

He didn’t know what was coming. He didn’t know how much it was going to hurt, or how many mistakes he was going to make along the way.  

But he knew one thing for sure.  

He wasn’t running.

Chapter Text

It’s twenty-seven minutes and three seconds past the twenty-four-hour mark when the Avengers finally arrive.  

Spider-Man had been counting.  

The seconds had started ticking the moment the message came through--his last warning, his final chance to surrender before they made him. No more running, no more talking. Just an ultimatum, clean and sharp as a knife.  

He was supposed to meet them here. In the open. Where everyone could see. A public execution of trust, neat and efficient, a quiet way of making an example out of him.  

So he waited.  

He stood in the center of the street, the mask in place, the weight of it pressing against his skin like a second layer of guilt.  

The street was too busy for what was about to happen. That was intentional.  

Late enough that the city hadn’t quite settled, early enough that exhaustion clung to the air like humidity. The hospital loomed a block away, its windows lit like a beacon against the night. He could see the nurses making their way home in scrubs that smelled like antiseptic, their shoulders slumped under the weight of too many hours on their feet. Patients lingered near the hospital entrance, wrapped in thin coats against the cold, breathing in air that wasn’t filtered through vents and machines. Families walked in tight clusters, speaking in hushed tones, their eyes shadowed with the kind of tiredness that came from waiting--waiting for news, waiting for doctors, waiting for something to change.  

And Spider-Man stood in the middle of it all.  

The neon signs hummed softly, bathing the street in flickering streaks of red and blue, a mockery of the sirens he knew would come later. The traffic lights blinked from yellow to red, casting long shadows across the pavement. A car honked somewhere down the block, impatient and oblivious. The scent of rain clung to the asphalt, thick and lingering, the promise of a storm hanging in the air.  

He flexed his fingers, then curled them into fists.  

Beneath his mask, his jaw tightened.  

He wasn’t afraid of the fight.  

He was afraid of what came after.  

Because they weren’t here to talk.  

And he wasn’t here to lose.  

He exhaled slowly, letting his senses unfurl, stretching out over the city like a spider testing its web. It came to him in fragments--subtle shifts in the air, the rhythmic thrum of repulsors slicing through the sky, the weight of too many bodies moving wrong. Their steps were too even, too precise, their breathing measured, controlled.  

It pressed against his skin like the pressure before a storm.  

Then the shadows shifted. The street lights flickered.  

And they stepped into view.  

Iron Man landed first, touching down with the quiet whump of repulsors dampening his fall. The impact sent up a gust of wind, rattling loose papers, carrying the sharp tang of burnt ozone through the air. His red-and-gold armor gleamed under the city lights--polished, pristine, impersonal. A wall of metal and precision, unmoving. His hands were down, but that didn’t mean anything. He didn’t need to lift them to be dangerous.  

Behind him, Captain America moved forward, shield already strapped to his arm, his expression carved from stone. Grim. Decisive. A soldier through and through.  

Then came War Machine, Falcon, Wanda--falling into place without a word, their movements practiced and sharp, tightening the formation around him like a noose.  

A net, closing.  

And Natasha wasn’t here.  

Spider-Man had known before he even he’d stepped onto the too-crowded street, before he’d squared his shoulders and braced himself for what was coming. He hadn’t expected her to stand at his side, not really. But a part of him had still hoped. 

That part was stupid.  

Because she wasn’t here.  

And the others were. 

And Spider-Man was on his own.  

He swallowed hard. Shifted his weight.  

Fingers twitched at his sides.  

But he didn’t move.  

For a moment, the street was caught in a strange, breathless silence. A snapshot of something inevitable.  

Then Tony’s voice cut through the air, sharp but not unkind.  

“Kid.”  

Spider-Man squared his shoulders. “Stark.”  

The helmet retracted with a faint click, and Tony’s face was there--drawn tight, eyes heavy with something that almost looked like regret. Almost.  

“You know why we’re here.”  

Spider-Man tilted his head, ignoring the way his pulse pounded in his ears.  

“Yeah,” he said lightly, voice edged with something sharp, something unsteady. “You wanna beat the crap out of me in front of an audience. Real heroic.”  

Tony’s jaw twitched.  

“It doesn’t have to be like this, Spidey.”  

Spider-Man laughed, short and humorless. “Yeah? ‘Cause from where I’m standing, it sure looks like it does.”

Steve stepped forward then, his voice calm, measured. “We’re giving you one last chance. Surrender. Come with us willingly. No one has to get hurt.”  

Spider-Man’s chest tightened.  

No one has to get hurt.  

It was almost funny.  

Because he knew, deep down, that no matter what happened next--someone would.

Spider-Man rolled his shoulders, forcing his breathing to stay steady. The Avengers stood in front of him, tense and waiting, like they thought he’d fold at the last second.  

He almost wanted to laugh.  

Instead, he lifted his chin, voice flat. “And if I say no?”  

Iron Man’s face hardened. “Then we do this the hard way.”  

A beat of silence. The city hummed around them--cars passing, people talking, completely unaware of the fight about to break out in the middle of the street.  

Spider-Man exhaled through his nose. “Thought so.”  

He moved first.  

Not toward them--but up.  

Instinct over thought, movement over hesitation. A web shot out, catching the ledge of a nearby building, and he yanked himself into the air just as the first blast of energy tore through the pavement where he’d been standing. Heat licked at his heels, the shockwave rattling through his bones.  

He twisted midair, flipping over War Machine’s shoulder in a blur of motion, boots skimming the top of his jetpack before gravity took hold again. He landed hard on the hood of a parked car, metal groaning under the impact.  

Around him, the city shattered into chaos.  

The quiet murmur of late-night traffic turned into panicked shouts. Tires screeched. Someone screamed. Nurses in scrubs stumbled back, eyes wide, hands flying up to shield their faces. A man dropped his coffee. A mother yanked her kid behind her, arms curling tight.  

Spider-Man’s breath came quick, sharp, but his hands were steady.  

Falcon was already diving toward him, wings cutting through the air with precision, but Spider-Man reacted faster, ducking low and shooting a web to the nearest streetlight. The line snapped taut, yanking him forward with all the speed he could muster--straight into Captain America.  

The collision was brutal, a crushing impact that sent them both sprawling. Spider-Man’s breath rushed out of him as the ground scraped against his back. The shield--a blur of vibranium--slammed into the pavement beside them, bouncing once before Steve grabbed it, rolling fluidly to his feet in one smooth motion.  

Spider-Man was already on his feet, but there was no time to process. The shield came hurtling toward him with terrifying accuracy, and despite his instincts screaming at him to dodge, it clipped his shoulder. The pain shot through his arm like a lightning strike, a jolt that left his bones humming. He gritted his teeth, forcing the pain aside.  

“Damn,” he muttered, his teeth clenched. “That hurts.”  

“Then stop fighting,” Steve’s voice rang out, calm but firm, his eyes locked on him with the kind of cold resolve Spider-Man had seen a thousand times before.  

Spider-Man scoffed, shaking off the sting in his shoulder. “Yeah, sure, let me just sign away my rights real quick. No big deal.” He couldn't stop the bitterness that laced his words--couldn’t stop the way his hands shook with the adrenaline and fear and anger he was trying to hold back.  

Before Steve could reply, Spider-Man spun on his heel, webs already firing toward Iron Man. Tony’s response was immediate--he swiped a repulsor beam through the webbing before it could make contact. The blast sent a ripple of heat through the air, but Spider-Man barely flinched, his mind still racing for a way out of this--out of them.  

“C’mon, kid,” Tony’s voice came, strained and tight, his eyes locked on him beneath that metal mask. “Don’t make me do this.”  

Spider-Man’s fingers curled into fists at his sides, the tension coiling deep in his chest. His mind raced, the words bubbling up inside him, the truth of it all clawing at the back of his throat. But instead, he bit down on it, swallowing hard.  

You already are.  

But before he could say it--before he could say anything--red light flickered at the edge of his vision.  

Wanda.  

The power surged through the air, a crackling wave of energy that felt like a storm building in the distance. He barely had time to register the flicker of crimson before it came crashing toward him. The ground beneath him cracked open, the earth itself splitting in response to Wanda’s power.  

Spider-Man's reflexes kicked in on pure instinct, flipping backward in the air, narrowly avoiding the blast that would’ve sent him sprawling. His heart was hammering in his chest, and for a split second, he thought he’d been hit--he thought the world was about to collapse in on him. But he landed, crouched low, his fingers scraping against the rough asphalt, gasping for air.  

Spider-Man moved on instinct. His body screamed, exhaustion clawing at his limbs, but he didn’t stop. He couldn’t stop. His web-shooters fired, rapid and precise, latching onto Falcon’s wing as he twisted midair and yanked--hard. Sam cursed as his flight faltered, one wing sputtering, and he veered sideways, crashing into a parked car with a sharp thud.  

Peter barely had time to register this before Wanda lashed out again, red energy crackling toward him in jagged, angry streaks. He flipped backward, narrowly dodging the first blast, but the second caught his side, sending a jolt of pain through his ribs. His landing was messy, knees slamming into the asphalt, but he gritted his teeth and rolled with it.  

Iron Man’s repulsor beam lit up the street, scorching hot, forcing Peter to dive between cars. He skidded across the pavement, breath ragged, then shot a web at Tony’s arm, twisting as he pulled--redirecting the blast just enough that it slammed into a streetlight instead. Sparks rained down as metal groaned, and for the first time that night, Tony staggered back.  

Peter lunged forward, seizing the opening. His fist connected with Tony’s shoulder, a brutal impact that sent him stumbling. It wasn’t enough. It was never enough.  

War Machine took advantage of the distraction, his gauntlet slamming into Peter’s ribs from behind. Pain flared, white-hot, knocking the breath from his lungs. He choked on it, hands scrambling for balance--  

But Steve was already there.  

Peter barely had time to throw his arms up before the shield came down, the impact sending shockwaves through his bones. He gasped, vision swimming, the ground tilting beneath him--  

But he still pushed forward.  

He had to.  

Peter pivoted, aiming a kick at Steve’s knee. The hit connected, making Steve grunt as he stumbled, but the victory was short-lived--because Wanda was already moving, hands glowing, energy twisting like a living thing.  

Peter braced himself--  

And then it hit.  

A brutal force slammed into him, lifting him clean off his feet and hurling him into the side of a taxi. Glass shattered, the frame denting under the impact, and for a moment, all he could do was gasp through the pain, his body screaming, his vision darkening at the edges.  

The Avengers were closing in again.  

He had to move. He had to keep fighting.  

But god--he didn’t know how much longer he could.  

Then his senses screamed, yelling at him to-

Move. Move. Move 

He whirled--  

--and saw the explosion.  

A stray blast, meant for him, shot too fast, too far--  

--and May, walking out of the hospital, right in its path.  

The world narrowed.  

“No!”  

Everything around him--the fight, the Avengers, the city--all of it dissolved into the background, becoming nothing more than noise, a faint hum beneath the intensity of what he was seeing. The world narrowed down to a single point, to a single, awful truth:  

May.  

She was there.  

And that explosion was heading straight for her.  

His mind screamed, his body moving faster than thought itself, faster than the instinct of a million fights. But nothing could stop it. Nothing could change the direction of that blast.  

His heart pounded in his chest as his hands shot out, webbing flying in frantic bursts, but it wasn’t enough. The distance between him and May stretched too far, and the seconds were slipping away faster than he could catch them. He was too far. Too slow.  

And then--  

The explosion hit.  

The world exploded in a burst of light and sound that felt like the end of everything. Time stretched, a cruel suspension where everything slowed and warped. For a split second, everything seemed surreal, like watching someone else's nightmare unfold before his eyes. But then reality crashed back into him with brutal force.  

May’s body--his Aunt May, the one constant in his chaotic life--collapsed.  

It wasn’t slow. It wasn’t graceful. It wasn’t like in the movies where people fall and everything stops in slow motion. No, it was sudden, harsh, and final. She crumpled, lifeless, a puppet whose strings had been mercilessly cut.  

Peter’s breath caught in his throat. He couldn’t breathe. Couldn’t think. The world spun around him, but he was trapped, anchored to the horrifying sight of her crumpling to the ground. His heart stopped in his chest, and for a moment, the air around him grew thick and suffocating.  

His legs nearly gave out beneath him, like they had turned to rubber, as if they couldn’t support the weight of the unbearable truth that was settling in his bones.  

No.  

No, no, no.  

He couldn’t breathe. The world tilted, spinning like it was mocking him, spinning faster and faster until he couldn’t tell where the sky began and the earth ended. His chest burned as he struggled for air, but every breath felt like a jagged shard of glass, each inhale a reminder of the truth he didn’t want to face.

She wasn’t moving.  

She wasn’t moving.  

Something inside him cracked wide open, a deep, gaping wound that swallowed him whole. His breath hitched, sharp and uneven, chest rising too fast, too tight, like his ribs were caving in.  

The fight blurred, distant and meaningless. The shouts, the orders, the chaos--it all faded beneath the crushing weight in his chest.  

Tony’s sharp “Stand down!” barely registered.  

Steve was saying something, voice firm, telling the others to pull back. Peter didn’t hear it. He didn’t hear anything past the deafening roar in his ears, the pounding of his own pulse, the ragged, broken gasps tearing their way out of his throat.  

He didn’t feel the bruises forming, the sting of his split lip, the ache in his ribs from where someone--he couldn’t remember who--had landed a hit.  

Because all he could see was her.  

A fragile, broken shape on the pavement.  

His aunt. His May.  

Gone.

His fingers curled, shaking, into the asphalt, his breath coming in short, shallow gasps. Every muscle in his body screamed, exhaustion weighing him down like lead, but none of it compared to the ache in his chest, the hollow, gnawing void that had carved itself into his ribs.   

This was their fault.  

This was his fault.  

The grief swelled, raw and suffocating, clawing its way up his throat like it was trying to tear itself free from his ribs. It hurt--God, it hurt--burning through him like fire, filling the space between his lungs until he couldn’t breathe, couldn’t think, couldn’t do anything except feel.  

His hands shook where they pressed into the asphalt, fists clenched so tightly his nails cut through the ruined fabric of his gloves, biting into his palms. But even that pain--sharp and real--wasn’t enough. Nothing was enough.   

He should’ve been faster.  

He should’ve seen it coming.  

He should’ve been better.  

The words looped in his head, relentless and merciless, each one a fresh knife twisting deep. If he had--if he had just done more-- May wouldn’t be--  

His breath hitched, chest seizing.  

The fight raged on around him, but it barely registered--just a blur of sound, an echo lost beneath the roaring in his ears. The world felt wrong, too bright and too sharp, neon lights and flashing sirens cutting into him like shattered glass. His mask felt suffocating, sweat sticking to his skin, but he didn’t tear it off. He didn’t move at all. 

What was the point?  

What was the point of any of this--of the fighting, of the running, of the trying--if in the end, it still took everything from him? If it still left him kneeling in the middle of a battlefield, shaking and broken, staring at another body he could never bring back?  

His stomach twisted, nausea curling up his spine. His arms felt too heavy, his knees too weak, the weight of it all pressing down on him like gravity had finally decided to crush him.  

He should stop fighting. 

Let them win. Let them end this.  

He was tired. Tired of running, tired of fighting battles that were never his to win. Tired of pretending like it would ever be enough.  

They wanted to drag him down? Fine.  

He pressed his forehead to the pavement, chest heaving, blood pooling from a cut above his brow.  

Let them beat him. Let them take him.  

May was gone.  

What else was left?

A voice cut through the fog as he stood up--raw and hoarse, thick with something he didn’t have the strength to name.

“I hope I haven’t lost your respect.”

He didn’t know who he was saying it to.

The Avengers, standing in formation, shining in the low light, confusion flashing across their faces.

May, lying motionless on the pavement behind him, in a world where she would never answer.

Himself, drowning in the weight of everything he’d lost, everything he’d given, and wondering if it had ever really been enough.

No one responded.

The silence was heavier than the rubble, heavier than the air in his lungs.

It didn’t matter.

Peter exhaled shakily, his body swaying, knees threatening to give out beneath him. His head was ringing, a deep, pulsing ache reverberating through his skull, his limbs unsteady like they weren’t his to control anymore. His mask was torn, fabric hanging in strips, his suit battered and bloodied--everything fraying at the edges, unraveling piece by piece.  

The Avengers were moving.  

Slow, methodical. A machine resetting itself, gears clicking into place. They were getting back into position, closing the circle around him, their footsteps deliberate against the pavement. There was no hesitation now. No pause. They had decided. They had chosen.  

Peter lifted his head, forcing his eyes open even as his vision blurred. He swallowed against the raw, aching hollowness in his throat and made himself stand, made himself stay. His breath was shallow, ragged, but his shoulders squared, his jaw locking tight.   

It didn’t matter that he was barely standing. It didn’t matter that his body screamed in protest, that he already knew how this would end. He wasn’t going to run.  

Then Cap moved.  

The next punch came fast, brutal--knuckles meeting bone with a sickening crack that rattled through Peter’s skull.  

The world tilted--  

--and then, finally, mercifully--  

--vanished.

Chapter Text

Peter woke up to silence.  

Not the comforting kind.  

Not the gentle hush of the city bleeding through his cracked apartment window, the distant wail of sirens threading through the night like a familiar lullaby. Not the faint murmur of traffic, the rhythmic thud of hurried footsteps against concrete, the occasional burst of laughter from someone who hadn’t yet learned that the world could break them.  

Those sounds meant life. They meant movement, time pressing forward, proof that the world still turned, that people still existed outside his own exhausted little bubble.  

But this--this--wasn’t that kind of silence.  

This was wrong.  

It was heavy, thick, pressing against his ears like cotton, smothering every natural sound until all that was left was the erratic thump of his own heartbeat. It rang in his skull, uneven and frantic, like it was trying to fill the absence of noise with its own desperate rhythm.  

Peter’s throat was dry. His tongue felt thick, useless in his mouth. When he tried to swallow, his throat clenched around nothing, raw and aching like he hadn’t used it in hours.  

The air smelled wrong.  

Sharp. Too clean. The overwhelming stench of something sterile and artificial, seeping into his lungs like poison. No sweat. No smoke. No city dust clinging to the air--just the distinct, clinical bite of antiseptic and metal, cutting through his senses like a knife.  

Panic crawled up his spine before his brain had even caught up.  

He tried to move.  

His body resisted.  

His limbs felt like lead, weighed down by something deeper than exhaustion, something drugged, something that sank into his bones and anchored him to the stiff, unfamiliar surface beneath him.  

His head was worse.  

A dull, pulsing ache sat behind his skull, throbbing in time with his heartbeat, a steady, unrelenting reminder that something was off. His jaw flared with sharper pain, a concentrated burst of heat running from his temple down to his neck, like someone had clocked him hard enough to leave a mark.  

When he inhaled, his ribs screamed.  

It wasn’t a dull ache--it was sharp, electric, stabbing deep into his chest like knives carving through his muscles. His breath hitched, and for a second, the world tilted.  

He felt wrong.  

Too slow. Too heavy. Like something had reached inside him and ripped out the part that made him function.  

His muscles were thick with something unnatural, something foreign pressing down on his nerves like dead weight. He could feel the sluggish way his blood crawled through his veins, the way his reflexes--once razor-sharp, instinctive--lagged just enough to make his skin crawl.  

Like he was trapped inside his own body, awake but restrained, forced to exist in a shell that no longer moved the way it was supposed to.  

It was horrifying.  

He cracked his eyes open.  

A cot.  

Metal bars.  

Gray walls that stretched up into the dim, flickering light, casting long, fractured shadows across the floor. The ceiling felt impossibly high, like it would keep going forever if he looked at it too long. Everything was cold. Hard edges, sharp angles, the distinct scent of concrete and captivity.  

Right.  

Peter exhaled shakily, his fingers curling into the scratchy blanket beneath him. The fabric felt stiff beneath his hands, stiff and cheap and thin enough that he could feel the unforgiving cot pressing into his back.  

He was in a cell.  

The realization crashed over him in pieces. Shards of memories, jagged and merciless, slicing through his mind before he could stop them.  

The fight.  

Bruises blooming under his skin like ink spills. Adrenaline crashing through his body, bright and frantic.  

Hands grabbing him, dragging him down. Voices sharp and final, ringing in his ears, drowning out everything else.  

The crack of Steve’s fist against his jaw.  

And then--  

May.  

His breath caught. His entire body locked up, a choked, startled sound catching in his throat.  

His chest caved in like something had cored him out from the inside, like there was nothing left to hold him upright. A crushing weight coiled around his ribs, pulling tight, tight, too tight, refusing to let him breathe.  

May.  

His vision blurred at the edges, tunneling in until the only thing he could see was the cold, empty space beneath his feet.  

She was gone.  

Gone.  

Not waiting for him at home with tired eyes and a warm hug. Not sitting at their tiny kitchen table, scolding him for getting into trouble, sliding a mug of tea toward him even though they both knew he’d forget to drink it.  

Not going to ruffle his hair and tell him to be careful, Peter, please.  

Not going to be anywhere.  

Just gone.  

And he was here.  

Trapped. Caged.  

Alone.  

Like a criminal.

A breath shuddered out of him, barely more than a gasp.  

Thin. Unsteady. A fractured sound, half-inhaled, half-spilled into the cold, sterile air around him. His ribs locked up, refusing to expand properly, like his body had forgotten how to breathe without collapsing in on itself.  

He clenched his teeth, forcing the next breath out--shaky, ragged, not enough. It stuck in his throat like tar, thick and cloying, but he swallowed it down anyway.  

Didn’t matter.  

Nothing mattered.  

A laugh clawed its way up his throat, sharp and broken, the kind of sound that barely resembled laughter at all. It scraped against his teeth, something bitter bleeding into it--too raw, too jagged. His own voice sounded foreign to him, twisted into something ruined, something wrong.  

His fingers twitched.  

Somewhere in the back of his mind, his instincts stirred--an old habit, buried under exhaustion and grief. His hand drifted upward before he could think about it, muscle memory guiding him as his fingertips brushed against the frayed edges of his mask.  

It was still there.  

Somehow.  

A ruined ghost of what it used to be--torn in places, barely clinging to his skin. The fabric was stiff with dried blood and dust, the faint metallic tang still lingering against his nose. He could feel the edges curling, splitting apart, unraveling thread by thread.  

Like everything else.  

Like him.  

Peter exhaled slowly, his fingers closing around the fabric, and for a long, aching moment, he just held it.  

Then, with another empty, hollow laugh, he tore it away.  

The sound of it dropping onto the cot barely registered.  

His head tilted down, shoulders slumping forward, the weight of everything pressing down, down, down.  

Then--  

A buzz.  

Loud. Abrupt.  

The door.  

Peter didn’t react.  

Didn’t move. Didn’t flinch. Didn’t care.  

Footsteps followed.  

Slow. Measured. Deliberate.  

The quiet click of shoes against concrete, steady, unhurried. Each step was too loud in the heavy silence, echoing off the walls, stretching out longer than it should have. 

Then a voice.  

Low. Even. Familiar.  

“…Kid.” 

Something inside Peter lurched.  

A violent, stomach-twisting jolt--like stepping off the curb and expecting solid ground, only to find nothing beneath him. His head turned slightly, too slow, too heavy, like it wasn’t entirely his own. His vision swam, struggling to focus, everything sluggish and out of sync, like a bad dream he couldn’t wake up from.  

Two figures stood beyond the bars.  

Matt Murdock.  

Dressed in his usual lawyer suit--black, sharp, put-together. His shoulders were squared, his face unreadable, but his fingers were tight around the white cane in his grip, knuckles pale where they pressed into the handle. He wasn’t wearing his glasses.  

He never wore them when he wanted to see.  

Peter’s stomach twisted, something sour clawing at the back of his throat.  

And next to him--  

Wade.  

Loud, bright, obnoxious. His outfit was an offensive clash of colors--some kind of Hawaiian shirt that hurt to look at, paired with cargo pants that looked like they belonged to an entirely different person. Somehow, impossibly, he was still wearing a mask--black and red, intact, staring back at Peter like this was just another one of their usual meetings.  

Like this wasn’t a cell.  

Like this wasn’t wrong.  

Peter just stared.  

His mind was slow, sluggish, disconnected, like puzzle pieces that no longer fit together. His body felt wrong, like someone had hollowed him out and stuffed him with cotton, heavy and useless. He tried to focus, tried to pull himself into the moment, but his brain felt like it was lagging, like he was seconds behind everything.  

Matt’s head tilted slightly, listening for something Peter couldn’t hear. Then he sighed, a slow, deliberate thing, shifting his grip on his cane.  

"You look like hell.”  

Peter let out a breath--rasping, raw, half a laugh, half nothing.  

It didn’t reach his eyes.  

“She’s dead.”  

The words fell from his mouth like stones, flat, empty, hollow.  

Emotionless.  

But his voice--his voice cracked.  

Just enough to betray him.  

Matt inhaled slowly, like he was steadying himself.  

“I know.”  

Peter flinched.  

Something inside him cracked--jagged, raw, bleeding. His throat burned, and before he could stop it, something wrenched out of him--half-laugh, half-sob, something strangled and sharp that barely sounded human.  

“Do you?” he rasped. “Do you really?”

Matt’s face was unreadable.  

A careful mask of neutrality--one that Peter knew meant too much was happening beneath the surface. Matt was a fortress, a wall with no cracks, but Peter could feel the tension in his stance, the way his fingers twitched just slightly on his cane.  

But Wade--  

Wade did something.  

He shifted, rummaging through that godawful fanny pack strapped tight around his waist. The thing barely looked like it could hold a wallet, let alone whatever the hell he kept in there. But after a few seconds, he pulled something out and--  

Tossed it through the bars.  

A mask.  

Fresh.  

Untorn.  

Peter blinked, sluggish, staring at it like it didn’t make sense.  

“…What?”  

“Dude, do not let them see you.”  

Wade’s voice was--wrong.  

Not playful, not teasing, not dripping with his usual dramatic, Wade-flavored bullshit. It was sharp, serious, edged with something almost like anger. 

Peter didn’t know how to process it.  

“Like, I know you’re going through your whole sad-boy era right now, but come on.” Wade’s arms crossed over his chest, the usual humor absent from his body language. “They’re looking for reasons to make you the bad guy. Don’t give ‘em one.”  

Peter’s fingers twitched.  

Something heavy settled in his chest, a lump lodged somewhere in his throat. He didn’t want to care. He didn’t want to think about it, about himself, about any of it. He wanted to stay numb, detached, empty.  

But--  

His hands moved anyway.  

Slowly, carefully, he picked up the mask. The fabric was soft, smoother than the stiff, bloodied mess of his ruined one. It felt foreign, unfamiliar, undeserved.  

His fingers curled around it, gripping it tightly.  

And for the first time since waking up, something almost real flickered in his chest.

 “…Why do I still have my mask?”  

Peter’s voice came out rough, hoarse, like it had been dragged through broken glass. He barely recognized it.  

It didn’t make sense.  

“They would’ve taken it,” he murmured, more to himself than anyone else. “They should’ve seen my face already.”  

Should’ve unmasked him. Exposed him. They took his suit, left him in nothing but bruises and exhaustion-- but his mask was still there, hanging by a thread, tattered and soaked with dried blood.  

Why?  

Why leave him that?  

Across from him, Matt exhaled sharply. His grip on his cane tightened.  

“I convinced them to leave it on.”  

Peter’s head snapped up.  

What?  

His breath hitched, pulse spiking as his sluggish brain tripped over itself trying to process those words.  

“You--” His throat closed up. “What?”  

Matt’s face was unreadable, but his stance--the tension in his shoulders, the shift in his grip-- spoke volumes.  

“Until you could consent or not,” Matt clarified, voice even. “They wanted to rip it off when they brought you in, but I argued that you had the right to keep your identity protected until you were conscious enough to make that decision.”  

Peter felt like he’d been punched.  

Not the physical kind--he knew those well enough. This was worse. Sharper. A cold, twisting thing wrapping around his ribs and squeezing tight.  

He should’ve known better.  

Of course Matt had fought for him. Of course he’d done something Peter hadn’t even had the chance to do for himself.  

And maybe it was the drugs messing with his emotions, or the exhaustion weighing down his bones, but his chest suddenly felt too tight, too full, too much.  

His voice came out quieter this time.  

“But they took my suit.”  

Matt nodded, the movement small. “And they drugged you.”  

Peter’s stomach turned.  

His breath caught in his throat, a second too late. Drugged.  

Of course.  

That explained everything.  

The wrongness in his limbs, the sluggishness in his thoughts, the way his reflexes felt like they were moving through thick, syrupy air. The ache in his ribs was distant, muted--but not gone.  

“They gave you something to keep you sluggish,” Matt continued, voice calm and measured. “Something that dulls your reflexes. Suppresses your powers.”  

Peter swallowed hard.  

His fingers tightened around the mask.

"They're giving you a trial," Wade said suddenly, his voice quieter than Peter had ever heard it. Uncharacteristically still.  

That alone sent a shiver down Peter’s spine.  

"Matty convinced 'em," Wade continued. "Said you deserve a chance to prove you’re not the villain they’re making you out to be."  

Peter scoffed.  

A chance.  

Like it mattered. Like anything mattered.  

"What’s the point?" he muttered. His voice was hollow, devoid of the usual bite, because he already knew the answer.  

They’d made up their minds.  

And if they hadn’t yet, they would.  

Spider-man was already guilty in their eyes.  

Matt took a step closer, his cane tapping lightly against the cold floor.  

“The point,” he said, voice firm, unwavering, unshakable, “is that you don’t belong here.”  

Peter looked away.  

He couldn’t handle that. The conviction in Matt’s voice.  

Because it was wrong.  

It was so wrong.  

"I do."  

The words felt like acid. Like saying them burned something deep inside him--but they were true, weren’t they?  

Matt’s jaw tensed. His whole stance went rigid.  

"No," he said, his voice low, deadly serious. "You don’t."  

Peter let out another laugh--sharper, bitter. It felt like a shard of glass dragged over raw nerves.  

"May’s dead, Matt." His chest clenched around the words. "Because of me."  

The mask in his hands crumpled under his grip.  

"I don’t need a trial." His breath shuddered out, broken. "I need a sentence."  

Matt’s hands curled into fists.  

“That’s not how this works, Peter.”  

Peter lifted his head. His eyes burned, his vision tunneling in on Matt’s unreadable face.  

"Isn’t it?" His voice cracked. Something inside him cracked.  

Matt took another step forward. Gripped the bars.  

"No," he said. "Because you’re not guilty."  

Peter’s breath hitched. His throat tightened--constricted, crushed, suffocating.  

"Tell that to May."  

Silence.

Wade let out a breath, rubbing the back of his neck.

“Look, I know I’m not exactly the poster boy for emotional intelligence, but even I know you’re being a dumbass right now.”

Peter exhaled shakily, staring down at the mask in his hands.

It felt heavier than it should.

Matt’s grip on the bars tightened. His knuckles went white.

“I’m going to fight for you, Peter,” he said, low, certain, unshakable. “Whether you want me to or not.”

Peter’s stomach twisted.

Because he didn’t want that.

Didn’t deserve that.

He wanted to argue, wanted to shove them away before they wasted their time on him. But when he looked up, Matt’s face was set like stone, unwavering.

And Wade--Wade just nodded, arms crossing over his chest.

"For what it’s worth, Spidey," he said, voice quieter than usual, stripped of all his usual dramatics, "I don’t think May would want this."

Peter’s jaw locked.

His fingers twitched.

His chest ached.

The weight of it all pressed down on him, crushing, suffocating, drowning.

But he didn’t say anything.

He couldn’t.

Slowly, numbly, he reached for the mask.

And put it back on.

Peter wasn’t sure how much time passed after Matt and Wade left.

Seconds, minutes, hours--it all bled together, thick and heavy, drowning him in something slow and suffocating. The air in the cell felt wrong. Stale. Stifling. The kind of wrong that settled into his bones and refused to let go.

The mask sat snug against his face, a fresh second skin. It should have been comforting. It should have felt like armor, a barrier between him and the world.

Instead, it felt suffocating.

He sat curled up on the cot, his back against the cold, unyielding wall, staring blankly at the floor. The cell was too quiet, too still. The kind of quiet that made the grief ring louder, bouncing off the walls of his skull until it was all he could hear.

She’s gone. She’s gone. She’s gone.

He squeezed his eyes shut.

But he could still see her.

The blood on her lips.
The way her body had slumped.
The light fading too fast from her eyes.

The sound of his own voice, raw and broken, screaming her name.

And then--

Nothing.

No last words. No comfort. No reassurance.
Just silence.

A sharp, ragged gasp tore from his throat before he could stop it.

His hands fisted into the blanket, nails biting into his palms, but it wasn’t enough. The ache didn’t go away. The weight in his chest didn’t lift. His ribs still felt like they were caving in, crushing his lungs, making it impossible to breathe.

He gritted his teeth.

Forced his breathing to steady. Dragged in air that felt like poison.

And waited for the weight to suffocate him completely.

Suddenly, the door buzzed again.

The sharp, mechanical sound cut through the silence like a blade.

Peter flinched, his head snapping up, muscles locking as footsteps echoed in the hallway. Steady. Unhurried. Purposeful.

Then--

“You’re being an idiot.”

His breath caught.

The voice was sharp, direct--familiar.

Peter's fingers curled into the scratchy fabric beneath him as Natasha stepped into view.

She stood just outside the bars, arms crossed, expression unreadable.

She wasn’t in uniform. No sleek tactical suit, no weapons in plain sight. But that didn’t mean she wasn’t dangerous. Natasha Romanoff was always armed.

Even now, there was something sharp about the way she held herself. Controlled. Unwavering. Like she had already assessed every possible outcome of this conversation and had decided exactly how it was going to go.

Peter swallowed hard. His throat was dry.

“What are you doing here?” he asked, voice hoarse.

She tilted her head slightly, eyes never leaving his. “Making sure you don’t do something stupid.”

A humorless breath of laughter forced its way out of him. Bitter. Hollow.

“Bit late for that.”

Her expression didn’t change, but something in her eyes did.

Just for a moment.

A flicker of something softer.

Not pity. Understanding.

And somehow, that made it worse.

Something in his chest twisted, tight and painful, threatening to crack wide open.

"I’ll testify for you," she said.

The words barely registered.

Peter froze.

His breath hitched, his pulse stuttering like a record skipping a beat. His head lifted slowly--sluggish, hesitant--like he wasn’t entirely sure he’d heard her right.

His fingers twitched against the blanket, curling tighter.

Natasha didn’t move, didn’t waver. She meant it.

“If it comes to that,” she continued, her voice quieter now, steady but edged with something softer, “I’ll stand up there and tell them what really happened. What you really are.”

Peter swallowed against the lump forming in his throat. His chest ached like something was caving in.

“Why?”

The word barely made it out.

Natasha’s gaze flickered over him, taking him in.

The slumped shoulders. The exhaustion carved deep into his bones. The way his hands twitched--like he was trying not to fall apart, like holding himself together was something he had to consciously remember to do.

The way he wouldn’t quite meet her eyes.

She sighed, stepping forward, wrapping her hands around the bars.

She didn’t have to say anything.

Didn’t have to.

But she did.

“Because you’re not a villain, Peter,” she said, voice firm. Unshakable.

“No matter how much you want to believe you are.”

Peter’s fingers twitched.

His jaw locked, teeth clenched so tight his skull ached.

She was wrong.

She had to be.

Because if she wasn’t--if he wasn’t a villain--then what the hell was he?

How could he not be?

May was dead. Because of him.

Because he hadn’t been strong enough. Hadn’t been fast enough. Hadn’t done enough.

He squeezed his eyes shut, but it didn’t help. The memories were still there, burned into the backs of his eyelids like some kind of twisted film reel on repeat.

May smiling at him that morning.

May bleeding out in his arms by nightfall.

Because of him.

Another breath tore out of him, jagged and sharp, his shoulders curling inward as if that might somehow make it hurt less. His fingers clenched into the fabric of his sleeves--so tight, too tight--until the seams strained and he thought they might tear.

“She’s dead.”

The words barely made it past his lips. Small. Hollow.

Another breath. Another laugh--watery, broken, cracked at the edges.

“And I--”

His voice caught.

The words wouldn’t come.

His throat felt like it was closing up, grief coiling tight around his ribs like a vice. He pressed his knuckles against his mouth, breathing hard--too hard.

Like if he wasn’t careful, the air might just slip through his fingers, too.

Natasha watched him for a long moment.

She didn’t speak. Didn’t try to fill the silence with empty reassurances or meaningless words.

She just stood there.

Watching.

Waiting.

Then--slowly, carefully--she reached through the bars and rested a hand lightly on his shoulder.

Peter flinched, instinct flaring up before he could stop it--his muscles tensing, breath hitching.

But he didn’t pull away.

The touch was gentle. Steady. A quiet, grounding presence in a world that had been ripped out from under him.

Natasha’s grip didn’t tighten, didn’t demand anything from him. She just let her hand rest there, a silent reminder that he wasn’t alone.

“You’re not alone, Peter.”

Peter exhaled--shaky, uneven.

He wanted to believe her. God, he wanted to believe her.

But the hole in his chest was too big, too deep. A gaping wound that no amount of reassurance could fill.

And no matter how many hands reached for him, no matter how many people stood beside him, it still felt like he was drowning.

Still--

For the first time since May died, since the world cracked open beneath his feet, since everything fell apart--

He didn’t feel completely hollow.

And for now--

Maybe that was enough.

Chapter Text

The room smelled like varnished wood and stale air.

Not the kind of staleness that came from neglect, but the kind that clung to places too often filled with people who spoke too carefully, who measured their words like they weighed something, who sat stiff-backed in chairs that weren’t meant for comfort. The kind that came from too much breath exhaled in too little space, where whispered conversations folded over one another, swallowed by the high ceilings and thick-paneled walls.

Too many bodies packed into one place, all of them humming with an energy that had nowhere to go. It wasn’t loud--no raised voices, no shouting--but it was charged. A restless, pulsing thing, rolling beneath the surface like an electrical current. The air was thick with it, heavy, pressing down against Peter’s skin like a lead blanket. It made every inhale feel weighted, like he had to work harder just to pull it into his lungs.

He sat still. Too still.

His hands clasped together, fingers laced tight, knuckles taut where they rested on the polished wooden table before him. His shoulders were locked, his posture stiff--not the kind of discipline born from etiquette, but the kind forced into place, braced against the exhaustion gnawing at his bones. Against the creeping, insidious feeling that at any second, everything would cave in.

He wasn’t in his suit.

Not that suit.

Matt had insisted. Had dragged him aside with that firm, unshakable tone--the one that left no room for argument--and told him in no uncertain terms that he “wasn’t showing up to his own trial looking like a homeless teenager.” And because Peter had been too drained to fight him on it, because a part of him was too frayed to care, he hadn’t.

So now, he sat stiffly in a charcoal-gray suit, the fabric expensive, unfamiliar, constricting . A second skin that wasn’t his own, tailored to fit but still somehow wrong. The collar was too stiff, the tie snug around his throat, the weight of it pressing against his sternum with every breath. It wasn’t uncomfortable exactly--it was fine --but it didn’t belong to him.

It wasn’t him .

The only thing that was, the only familiar thing, was the mask.

His fingers twitched, curling slightly where they rested on the table.

It was new. Fresh. Untorn. It didn’t carry the sweat and grime of long nights spent swinging through the city, didn’t have the tiny rips and frays at the seams, didn’t smell like blood or rain or rooftop tar. But it was still his . The only piece of himself that remained. The only barrier between him and all the eyes in the room, watching, waiting.

The mask hid the circles under his eyes, the way his jaw tensed and his lips pressed together, barely moving when he exhaled. It hid the tiny flickers of emotion that would betray him, the cracks that hadn’t quite sealed. It was a shield. A thin layer of fabric standing between him and the world, a reminder that he was still someone, even if he wasn’t entirely sure who anymore.

Even now, as the courtroom filled--packed wall to wall with journalists scribbling furiously into notepads, government officials sitting with their carefully schooled expressions, and civilians who had fought tooth and nail for one of the few coveted public seats--no one knew who he was.

His name wasn’t attached to this case.

He wasn’t Peter Parker, the kid from Queens, the boy who had once sprinted down subway platforms to catch the train before school, who had spent late nights cramming for physics tests under the glow of a cheap desk lamp, who had promised May he’d be home in time for dinner and then broken that promise too many times to count.

No.

He was Spider-Man.

An unnamed vigilante. A masked enigma whose identity remained a mystery to practically everyone in this room.

And yet--

He still felt exposed .

Every pair of eyes burned into him, pressing against his skin like a physical weight. A constant, suffocating pressure. Some gawked openly, their gazes crawling over him with poorly concealed disdain, their lips curled in distaste, their minds already made up before a single argument had been presented. Others were more subtle, their scrutiny masked behind neutral expressions, but he could feel their judgment, see it in the slight furrow of their brows, the way they leaned just a fraction forward in their seats, waiting for him to slip up, to confirm whatever assumptions they’d already decided were true.

Hatred. Distrust. Disgust.

He could see it, plain as day, written across so many faces.

A hero wouldn’t have needed a trial.

A villain didn’t deserve one.

And then there were the others--the ones whose eyes held something softer, something searching. People who wanted to believe in him, who wanted to believe that maybe, just maybe, this was a fight worth having. That he wasn’t the reckless, dangerous, unhinged criminal they were painting him as. That maybe he was good .

Maybe he was still worth saving.

His fingers twitched.

The polished wood beneath his hands was smooth, cool to the touch, grounding in a way that almost felt cruel. It was too steady, too solid, when he felt anything but. He forced himself to focus on that--the texture, the faint scent of varnish rising from it--anything to keep his thoughts from spiraling.

He tightened his grip ever so slightly, enough that the tendons in his hands flexed, enough that if anyone had been watching closely, they might have noticed the tension in his knuckles, the way his fingers curled in, as if bracing for impact.

Matt sat beside him, clad in an equally stiff suit--dark, crisp, and perfectly tailored--his body coiled with quiet, restrained energy, like a blade held steady but ready to strike the second the opportunity arose.

He looked… poised . Unshakable. A pillar of control amidst the chaos, every movement deliberate, every breath measured. His hands rested on the table in front of him, steady as stone, but Peter could feel the tension thrumming beneath his skin, barely perceptible. A readiness. A quiet storm held just beneath the surface.

Peter, meanwhile, felt like he was falling apart at the seams .

Every muscle in his body felt tight, his skin stretched too thin, like he might split open under the pressure. His heartbeat wasn’t steady; it was erratic, unpredictable, a stutter-step rhythm that made his chest feel hollow and his thoughts jagged. He had been in fights where his life was on the line, had faced enemies that wanted nothing more than to see him dead, and yet somehow-- this was worse.

This wasn’t a fight he could win with instinct.

This wasn’t something he could dodge or punch his way through.

This was slow. Methodical.

And it was suffocating.

Deadpool sat somewhere in the audience.

Peter hadn’t looked at him--not really--but he felt him there.

Wade Wilson wasn’t exactly the kind of person who blended into a crowd. Even without the mask, even without the obnoxious chatter that usually filled any space he was in, he was impossible to ignore. His presence was like static in Peter’s peripheral awareness, a barely-contained energy that thrummed against the edges of his senses.

He wasn’t in full costume, but Peter could picture exactly how he was sitting.

Leg bouncing, fingers drumming against his thigh, head tilted slightly, watching everything with that too-perceptive gaze. A live wire wrapped in civilian clothes.

Wade had fought to be here.

Argued with every single authority figure in existence, kicked up so much noise that eventually, someone had relented--on the condition that he, and this was a direct quote, “shut the hell up or be thrown out.”

Peter had expected him to ignore that.

Expected some kind of scene, some obnoxious outburst, some ridiculous joke to break the tension.

But he hadn’t.

Not yet.

And somehow, that was worse.

The fact that Wade was actually silent , actually sitting there without making so much as a peep, meant something.

It meant he was taking this seriously.

It meant he knew how bad this was .

And for some reason, that realization lodged itself deep in Peter’s ribs, stuck there like splintered glass.

Peter swallowed hard.

The chair beneath him was too stiff, too solid, its unforgiving edges pressing into his back. It wasn’t uncomfortable in the traditional sense--no splinters, no uneven legs--but it felt wrong anyway . The kind of wrong that made his skin itch, his nerves hum with unease. Like he was sitting on a pressure plate, waiting for it to go off.

His shoulders locked up, his spine rigid, his muscles wound tight like coiled wire. His hands stayed clasped together on the table, fingers laced so tightly that the skin stretched white over his knuckles. They ached, but he didn’t let go.

The suit felt wrong against his skin.

Like a borrowed life.

Like something tailored for a version of himself that didn’t exist.

The fabric was expensive, smooth in a way that didn’t match him. It wasn’t the kind of suit you wore to prom or to a wedding. It was heavier. More serious. Like a uniform for the condemned.

Like he was playing dress-up in someone else’s skin.

But this wasn’t a game.

This was real.

The trial was about to begin.

And Peter had no choice but to sit there and watch it happen .

The sound of the judge entering was like a gunshot .

Sharp. Sudden. Loud enough to shatter whatever fragile hold Peter had on his nerves.

Everyone snapped to attention.

The courtroom moved as one, a synchronized shift as the entire room rose to their feet, the scrape of chairs and the rustle of fabric filling the silence like rolling thunder.

Peter followed suit automatically, his body responding on instinct--but a fraction of a second too late.

A beat of hesitation.

A delayed reaction, like his brain was lagging behind reality, stuck somewhere between the suffocating weight of this is happening and the desperate, frantic whisper of no, no, no, stop, wait--

The judge took his seat.

They all sat back down.

Peter’s pulse throbbed in his ears. A steady, hammering rhythm that drowned out everything else.

His hands stayed folded in his lap, pressed together too neatly, too stiffly, like a child forced to sit still in church. His fingers twitched against the fabric of his pants, restless, anxious. He wanted to move . To do something. To escape the crushing weight of the moment. But there was nowhere to go.

Nowhere to hide.

The prosecution’s voice sliced through the courtroom like a scalpel.

"Your Honor, ladies and gentlemen of the jury--this is not a case of heroism.”

Peter barely breathed.

"This is a case of recklessness."

The words landed like a punch to the ribs, knocking the air from his lungs.

"A case of an unregulated vigilante taking the law into his own hands, of unchecked power and the consequences that follow when someone believes they are above the law."

The prosecutor’s voice was calm. Measured. Deceptively smooth. But underneath, there was something sharper. A hard, cutting edge, like a blade being drawn slow and deliberate across a whetstone.

A murmur rippled through the audience.

Soft. Whispered. But Peter felt it.

Felt the shift in attention, the prickle of countless eyes snapping toward him, burning into his skin.

Hate.

Doubt.

Curiosity.

The weight of their stares pressed against him like a physical force, heavy, suffocating. He could almost hear their thoughts. Could almost see the war waging behind their expressions.

Was he dangerous?

Was he a criminal?

Was he a threat ?

Peter swallowed hard.

His throat felt tight.

"Spider-Man has operated outside of government oversight for years," the prosecutor continued, his voice carrying through the courtroom with cool, practiced precision. He moved with the ease of a man who had done this a hundred times before, pacing slowly as he spoke. His shoes tapped against the polished floor--steady, deliberate--each step another nail driven into Peter’s coffin.

"His actions have led to destruction, harm, and loss of life."

Peter’s hands curled into fists beneath the table.

"He has chosen, time and time again, to ignore the legal channels that exist to ensure the safety of both civilians and law enforcement alike."

The air in the courtroom was thick. Oppressive.

Peter could feel the eyes on him. Rows of spectators, jurors, officials--staring, dissecting, deciding. His mask shielded his face, but it didn’t matter. It was like being pinned beneath a microscope, like being some strange, dangerous thing on display. They couldn’t see his expression, but they were watching his every twitch, his every breath, searching for something--anything--that confirmed their suspicions.

That he was guilty.

That he was reckless.

That he was exactly the kind of threat the prosecution was painting him as.

"This trial is about accountability," the man finished, voice ringing through the silent courtroom like a verdict in itself. "It is about ensuring that no one--no matter how powerful--stands above the law."

The words settled over the room like a lead blanket.

Silence.

For a long, agonizing moment, nothing moved.

And then--

Matt Murdock stood.

And everything changed.

There was no rush to his movements. No hurry. He rose with the kind of quiet, deliberate control that demanded attention without ever asking for it. He adjusted his tie with careful precision, tilting his head slightly in the direction of the jury as he turned to face them fully.

It was subtle, but Peter could feel the shift in the air.

The prosecution had spoken with authority. With weight. But Matt--Matt didn’t push his presence into the room. He didn’t force them to listen.

He simply existed.

And people listened anyway.

"Ladies and gentlemen," Matt said, his voice smooth and measured, carrying through the courtroom with an unshakable calm. "The prosecution would have you believe that my client is reckless. That he is dangerous."

He tilted his head ever so slightly, his expression unreadable behind his red lenses, as if he were listening to the very pulse of the room itself. His hands rested lightly against the wooden surface of the table, relaxed but poised, like a man who knew exactly what was coming next.

"But I ask you--what is the definition of recklessness?"

A pause. Just long enough to make people lean in, to let the question settle in their minds.

"A reckless person does not think before acting. A reckless person does not care for the consequences of their actions."

His voice was steady. Certain. Unyielding.

"Spider-Man is not on trial because of what he has done," Matt continued, letting the words hang heavy in the air, just long enough for the tension to coil before he cut through it. "He is on trial because of what he represents."

The shift was immediate. A subtle but undeniable change in the energy of the room.

Peter felt it like static in the air, prickling against his skin, pressing against his ribs.

The prosecution stiffened. Their lead attorney, who had just moments ago spoken with such certainty, went rigid in his chair, his hands clenching briefly before forcing themselves still. The jury was listening. The spectators were listening.

Because they all knew, deep down, that Matt was right.

This wasn't just about Peter.

It had never been about Peter.

This was about control. About power. About who got to decide what a hero looked like, what a hero was allowed to be.

And, more importantly, who wasn't allowed.

The government had drawn their lines in the sand. Had written their laws, their registrations, their lists of who could and couldn't wear a mask. And when someone--someone like Peter--stood outside of those carefully built systems, refused to be slotted into the neat little box they had constructed, they had only one solution:

Make him the villain.

Matt turned back toward the judge, his movements measured, deliberate. He didn’t need to say much more--his presence alone commanded attention.

“The defense is ready to proceed.”

The words were calm, collected. Yet, in the quiet that followed, Peter could feel everything inside him tighten. The weight of the room pressed down, suffocating in its intensity. Every sound seemed too loud, too sharp--the soft hum of the air conditioning, the creak of a chair shifting, the barely audible shuffle of papers being adjusted.

And just like that, the trial had begun.

The room felt colder now, though the heat of so many bodies packed into one space was almost unbearable. Peter could taste it in the air, a heavy, oppressive kind of heat that clung to his skin, making him feel as if he were submerged in something thick, something that slowed everything down. Yet it wasn’t the warmth that gnawed at him now--it was the tension. The kind of tension that sank deep, settling in the very bones of the building, seeping into the wood of the walls, into the corners of the room, into the pit of Peter’s stomach. Into him.

His hands fidgeted, twitching slightly against the fabric of his pants. He shifted them, barely noticing the movement, as if trying to release some of the unbearable pressure building inside of him. Then, the slightest shift--his fingers brushed against the cold edge of the table. A minute, almost imperceptible movement, but Peter was keenly aware of it. The tiny micro-movements, the restless energy he couldn’t seem to shake.

Small movements. Barely noticeable. But he noticed.

The sensation was too familiar. He was used to being in control--being Spider-Man meant keeping your cool, keeping your movements tight, purposeful. But now? Now, everything was out of his control. The mask, the suit, the courtroom--it was all too much.

Everyone was watching him.

Even if he wasn’t looking up, he could feel it. Every pair of eyes on him, every glance that slid in his direction. The air around him seemed to shift with each second. Their stares were heavy, pressing into his chest, his face, until he could almost hear the hum of their judgments.

It wasn’t the kind of attention Spider-Man was used to. No, that was different. That was the thrill of swinging between skyscrapers, the rush of saving someone in a split second, the weight of responsibility on his shoulders--but never like this. Never with so many watching, so many waiting to pick apart every move he made, every thought he breathed.

Even behind the mask, he wasn’t invisible.

He could feel the burn of their eyes on him, sharp and unblinking, seeping through the thin layer of anonymity the mask provided. It wasn’t much. In a sense, it wasn’t anything at all. Because at the end of the day, this wasn’t about who he was--it was about what they believed he represented. What they believed he stood for.

It wasn’t the name that mattered.

It was the idea. The symbol.

The name wasn’t enough to shield him from the weight of their expectations, their fear, their assumptions. He was just Spider-Man , an unnamed vigilante.

But names weren’t the only thing people judged by.

And they were judging him.

He could feel it, the weight of their glares sinking into his chest. Every thought, every word, every breath--he was being sized up, evaluated, reduced to nothing more than a set of actions and consequences. To them, he wasn’t Peter Parker. He wasn’t a kid who had made mistakes, who had tried to do good in a world that didn’t always make room for people like him. No. He was Spider-Man.

The man who didn’t play by the rules.

The man who didn’t ask for permission.

The man who, in their eyes, had taken everything into his own hands--and now, they were taking it all from him.

The civilians lucky enough to get a seat in the audience had expressions that ranged from hopeful to disgusted. The contrast was almost jarring. Some sat stiffly, arms crossed tightly over their chests, jaws clenched so hard Peter could almost hear the teeth grinding together. They radiated barely restrained anger, the kind of silent fury that spoke volumes--like they thought that just by being here, just by breathing the same air as him, he was an insult to everything they believed in, everything they’d worked for. They were the ones who believed that laws existed for a reason, and he was a walking, breathing, defiant example of why those laws mattered.

Others, however, were more hesitant. Wary. There was something uncertain in their eyes, a flicker of doubt, as if they didn’t know what to think. They didn’t know whether to hate him or to side with him. The ones in the middle, caught between two worlds, were the hardest to read. They looked at him like a puzzle they weren’t sure how to solve, as if they could see the question mark hanging over his head and didn’t know whether they should fight for him or let him fall.

And then, there were the few. The very few--who looked at him like he was still a person. Like he was more than just the mask. More than just the headlines. They were the ones who, maybe, saw him for who he really was. Maybe they saw him as a kid who had tried to do the right thing, or maybe they saw him as something more complicated, a mix of good intentions and messy consequences. They were few and far between, but they were there, and their quiet, almost pitying glances made him feel… less alone. But even that didn’t matter.

Because whether they thought he was a hero or a menace, they all had one thing in common.

They were waiting.

Waiting for him to crack.

Waiting for him to make a mistake.

Waiting to see if the prosecution would do it for him.

Peter could feel it. The weight of their eyes on him, the pressure building like a vice around his chest. Every second that passed made him feel more exposed, more vulnerable. They wanted him to slip. They wanted him to lose control, to show the cracks in the armor. The cracks he had worked so hard to cover up. They wanted to see if he’d let fear or guilt or doubt creep into his expression. If he’d let the enormity of the situation finally break him.

His hands stayed still, his fingers cold against the fabric of his pants. He pressed them into his legs, trying to keep them from twitching, from betraying the nervous energy he couldn’t seem to shake. His shoulders were locked, square, rigid with tension, as though he could hold the weight of the entire room if he just held his body still enough. He forced himself to breathe evenly, each inhale slow and controlled, even though his heart was racing in his chest, like it wanted to tear out of his ribs.

Beside him, Matt hadn’t moved. Not really.

He sat upright, back straight, shoulders squared, a model of composure and control. But Peter knew Matt. He knew that nothing was ever as calm as it seemed on the surface. Even behind the ever-present red lenses, Peter could feel it--the tension radiating off of Matt, coiled so tight it was almost vibrating. Matt’s stillness was like a wound-up spring, ready to snap at the first sign of an opening. It was how Matt had always been, how he handled everything, waiting for that perfect moment to strike, to turn the tide. Peter was grateful for that. He was glad Matt was here, but it didn’t stop the anxiety swirling in his gut.

The prosecution was still speaking, their voice even, measured, and clinical, as if they were reading from a script rather than living in this moment with them. The words were sharp, cutting through the air, but they were also distant. The kind of words that felt less like they were meant for him and more like they were meant to hurt. Every sentence was a jab, every phrase a pointed accusation, and yet… Peter wasn’t really listening.

He should be listening. He knew he should be, but he couldn’t help it.

The words felt like they were sinking into him, but in a dull, foggy haze, the kind of numbness that comes when you’re overwhelmed. He couldn’t focus. He tried to, but the noise of it all--the rustling fabric, the faint scrape of pens against paper, the subtle shift of bodies in chairs--kept pulling him away from the conversation. Each sound felt like it was getting louder, closer, until it drowned out the words he was supposed to be paying attention to.

It was hard to focus.

It was hard to care.

Because no matter what the prosecution said, no matter how many times they said he was reckless or dangerous or above the law, Peter knew that none of this would matter.

Not to them. Not to the people watching.

They had already decided who he was.

He only refocused when his name--his other name--was said.

The sound of it hit him like a physical blow, so sharp, so jagged. The words Spider-Man hung in the air, cutting through the fog in his brain, forcing him to straighten, to listen . It was like the air around him had thickened, pressing down, suffocating him, but he couldn’t move. He couldn’t look away. The prosecution’s voice filled the room, cold and calculated, dripping with the weight of years of resentment.

“Spider-Man’s repeated disregard for lawful procedure has led to numerous incidents that could have been avoided had he worked within the appropriate channels.”

Peter’s stomach twisted into a knot. He heard the words, understood the logic behind them, but they hurt anyway. Each one scraped against his skin like nails on a chalkboard. He’d heard it all before. He’d heard it from the people who didn’t understand. From the people who had never seen the mess he had to clean up, the lives that needed saving when the law didn’t move fast enough.

But that didn’t matter here. Not in this room.

A screen beside the prosecution’s table flickered to life, its sudden glow cutting through the dimness of the courtroom. Images started to roll, one after another, each more damning than the last. Grainy, unpolished footage--security camera clips, rushed news broadcasts, shaky phone recordings. And there he was, flashing across the screen like some kind of public enemy, his suit glinting in the darkness as he swung through city streets, thrown punches landing with thuds, bullets bouncing off him with an unsettling ease.

Peter’s heart thudded in his chest. He saw himself in those clips--saw the way he moved, the way he fought. Saw how good he could be in moments of instinct and adrenaline. But in those moments, stripped of their context, out of the frenzy of a real fight, out of the rush of keeping people alive, it didn’t look like heroism.

It didn’t look like him.

It looked reckless. Wild. Dangerous.

And that was the point.

They were taking it out of context. They were twisting it.

He knew this game. He’d seen it played a hundred times before--the way the media turned his actions into something they could digest, something they could label. He had always known this would happen. That one day, someone would take everything he’d ever done and turn it against him. Would make it look like he’d been the cause of the mess all along. He was the one they would point to when things went wrong. The one they would blame when it all fell apart.

The prosecution clicked something, and the next clip played.

A bridge. His stomach sank like a stone. He didn’t need to hear the words to know which day this was. He could feel it--the cold sweat at the back of his neck, the tightness in his chest. That day . The day everything had gone wrong. The day he hadn’t been able to stop it.

It was all there, frozen in time, the image of the battle playing on repeat, each frame bringing the weight of that moment crashing down on him again. The wreckage. The chaos. The screams. The feeling of helplessness as he tried to hold the bridge together with his bare hands, knowing it was never going to be enough.

The voice on the clip was soft, but shaky, and it made his stomach churn even further.

“He--he was just there,” the woman’s voice trembled. “One second I was driving, and then--then the whole bridge was collapsing and I--I saw him! The one in the mask! I don’t--he just--”

The clip cut off abruptly. The silence that followed was suffocating, hanging in the air like smoke, choking the life out of everything.

Peter’s breath hitched in his throat. His fingers clenched so tightly into his lap that the skin of his palms burned with the pressure. He had heard the screams. He had seen the chaos unfold. But hearing it again, hearing the frantic fear in her voice, made it feel like he was right back there on that bridge, standing in the rubble, trying to fix something that was beyond repair.

His pulse hammered in his ears, drowning out everything else, drowning out the silence that now hung heavy in the courtroom.

It was like he could feel every single eye on him, burning into him, weighing him down. The woman’s words replayed in his head, a haunting reminder of everything he couldn’t control. And in that moment, everything went still. The world outside of his mind didn’t matter anymore. All that was left was the echo of her voice, and the suffocating sense of failure he couldn’t outrun.

They weren’t going to let him forget.

Peter’s fingers curled tighter against his knees, the muscles in his legs aching from the strain. The sensation was sharp, like something was trying to break free from inside him. His knuckles turned white with the pressure, and he could feel the pulse in his fingertips, steady and urgent. His chest was tight, too. He couldn’t breathe. He couldn’t think. Everything was closing in on him.

It wasn’t true. It couldn’t be true.

The woman had been caught in the crossfire, nothing more than an innocent bystander in a fight she never asked for. He hadn’t been the cause of the destruction. He hadn’t wanted any of this. But none of that mattered, not in the eyes of the people who were judging him. To her, to everyone who didn’t see the whole picture, it didn’t matter that he had saved dozens, maybe hundreds, of people before her. It didn’t matter that he’d put his own life on the line more times than he could count. The only thing they saw was the damage. The destruction. The fear. And to them, he was the source of it all.

If he hadn’t been there…

The thought hung in his head like a heavy weight. What if he hadn’t swung onto that bridge? What if he hadn’t tried to stop the fight? What if he’d stayed out of it, let the authorities handle it the way they were supposed to?

Would it have been better?

Maybe that woman’s life wouldn’t have been turned upside down. Maybe she wouldn’t have had to deal with the wreckage, the aftermath of his actions. Maybe she wouldn’t have seen the mask--the symbol of everything she feared.

And that was the part that crushed him. It wasn’t just about the damage. It was about the consequences. The unintended, unavoidable consequences that no one ever warned him about. People had gotten hurt because he was there . People had been frightened. And somehow, in their eyes, that made him the villain.

It was easier to blame him than to blame the people who had actually caused it. It was easier to point a finger at the guy who was just trying to help, the guy who wasn’t perfect, the guy who couldn’t fix everything. But no one wanted to hear that part. No one wanted to see the truth.

The room was shifting. Peter didn’t even need to look around to feel it. The air felt thicker now, more charged, as the prosecution’s words continued to reverberate in his head. He wanted to stand up, shout, argue . He wanted to make them see that he wasn’t some reckless vigilante. That he was trying--he was trying. But his body refused to move. His tongue was tied.

And then, in the midst of all the noise, he felt it.

Matt shifted. 

Not much. But Peter could feel it. Could sense the way the lawyer inhaled just a fraction deeper than before, steadying himself.

Then he spoke.

“You’re right.”

Peter’s entire body went rigid. His heart stuttered in his chest, a sharp pulse that rang through his ears. He didn’t know what he expected Matt to say, but it certainly wasn’t that. His head snapped toward the lawyer, eyes wide beneath the mask, trying to read the subtle shift in Matt’s posture, trying to understand the meaning behind those two simple words.

The whole room--everything--seemed to freeze. The air felt thick, suffocating. The prosecution’s voice died in the moment, like someone had hit the mute button, like time itself had held its breath. Peter’s mind was racing, trying to catch up, but it felt like he was falling behind, like the words had already been spoken and now the aftermath was crashing over him.

And then Matt--Matt fucking Murdock--took that silence, that stillness, and he wielded it like a blade.

“My client has been in situations that resulted in collateral damage,” Matt’s voice was steady, unwavering, slicing through the tension that clung to the room like smoke. “He has made choices that were, at times, imperfect.” His tone was deliberate, controlled, as if he were planting seeds, letting the truth settle in each syllable. “But let me ask you this.”

Matt shifted slightly, just enough for the jury to see the full force of his focus. His gaze was sharp, intense, and Peter felt it, even without seeing his eyes. It was like a spotlight was suddenly trained on the jury, pulling them into Matt’s orbit.

“If you were in that same situation--if you had the choice to stand back and do nothing, or risk everything to save lives--what would you do?”

The silence that followed was absolute. It stretched, thick and heavy, until it felt like the very walls of the courtroom were closing in. Peter could barely breathe, but he wasn’t the only one. The room was suffocating, the question hanging in the air like a weight no one could escape from. It wasn’t just the words. It was the truth behind them, the implication that no one could deny.

He could feel it in the way the people in the room shifted, the way their thoughts churned, reluctant to confront the uncomfortable reality that Matt had just laid bare. Everyone was thinking it--everyone was forced to think it.

What would they do? What would anyone do?

Would they stand by and watch, helpless? Would they walk away and let people die because the system wasn’t ready, wasn’t perfect, wasn’t designed to handle the kind of chaos that heroes like Peter faced every day? Or would they step in, risk it all , to save someone’s life?

The question hung in the air, unsaid but everywhere at once.

And the prosecution--he recovered. Of course he did. He had to. He couldn’t afford to show weakness.

“That’s not the point--” The words came out sharp, a little too defensive. A little too quick.

But Matt didn’t give him the room to breathe. He cut in, his voice louder this time, cutting through the prosecution’s protest like a knife through fabric.

“It is exactly the point,” Matt said, and this time, the words were sharp--cutting, undeniable. “Because the question isn’t just whether Spider-Man has made mistakes.” His tone grew stronger, sharper, but the calmness never left. “It’s whether those mistakes outweigh the good he has done. And more than that, it’s whether the system you’re defending would have done better.”

Peter felt his chest tighten. He couldn’t look away now. Matt wasn’t just defending him. He was dismantling everything they were accusing him of. He was turning the entire courtroom upside down, making them question their own beliefs, their own assumptions. Matt had a way of doing that--of flipping the tables, of forcing the truth to rise to the surface.

The words hung in the air like smoke, thick and suffocating, lingering long after Matt had spoken. The tension in the room escalated, growing with every passing second. The prosecution didn’t respond immediately. He couldn’t, not with that truth sitting in the center of the room, glaring at them all.

Matt let the silence stretch. Let it seep into the walls. Let the weight of his words sink in. He let it hang , knowing that in this space, it was more powerful than any argument, more damning than any defense.

And Peter… Peter had no choice but to sit there, his heart hammering in his chest, knowing that Matt had just shifted the entire tide of the trial. And somehow, it felt like the real fight had only just begun.

Then, smoothly, Matt turned back toward the judge. His voice cut through the silence like a scalpel, precise, measured. "Before we continue, let's establish a few facts."

The air seemed to thicken as he took a single step forward, every movement deliberate, every inch of his presence calculated. It was as if time itself had slowed down just for him, the room growing still, expectant. The jury's eyes followed him, their gazes flicking between him and Peter. The subtle shift in the atmosphere, the way their interest piqued, was impossible to ignore. Matt could feel it, just barely perceptible, but it was there--he had them.

Peter wished, for just a moment, that he could be as calm as Matt looked. He wanted to pull that calm into himself, to breathe it in and take a deep breath, to be that still, that controlled. But he couldn't. His hands clenched involuntarily against his knees, his fingers curling into the fabric as if he needed something to anchor him to this earth, something to ground him amidst the storm that raged inside him.

Matt spoke again, his voice steady, unwavering. "How many times has Spider-Man acted in defense of this city?"

The question hung in the air, simple, pointed, a line drawn in the sand. The prosecution's lawyer, an older man with cold, sharp eyes and a suit that looked like it had been tailored to intimidate, let out a controlled breath. His lips thinned slightly as he prepared his response, clearly hoping to dismiss the question with a quick retort. "That’s impossible to quantify," he said, his voice clipped, the words coming out with the practiced precision of someone who had no intention of actually answering the question.

Matt didn’t flinch. He didn’t falter. He simply countered, smooth and calm, like a stone skimming across a lake. "Then let’s talk about specifics."

There was something in his tone now, a subtle shift, a quiet challenge. Matt was moving them, steering the conversation into his territory, making the prosecution’s lawyer respond on his terms. "The alien invasion of New York. Washington D.C., where an entire government-owned aircraft fell from the sky. The crisis that took place in London last year. What do those events have in common?"

The words hung in the air, each one sharp, each one pulling the room into focus. The prosecution’s lips pressed into a thin line, eyes narrowing. He wanted to push back, to tear the argument apart before it could gain any ground. But Matt wasn’t done.

"Spider-Man was there," Matt continued, his voice dropping just a shade, adding weight to every syllable. "And every time, he risked his life to protect innocent people."

Peter swallowed hard, the sound of it too loud in his own ears. His throat tightened, the weight of Matt’s words crashing down on him, a suffocating reminder of everything he’d been through--everything he’d done--and still, still , it wasn’t enough for some.

Matt wasn’t done. He couldn’t be.

"Let’s not forget that each of those events threatened the lives of thousands. And in every single one of them, Spider-Man was there, standing between the people of this city and total devastation." Matt’s eyes swept across the room, scanning the jury, making sure each of them felt the truth of his words like a heavy hand on their chest. "And yet, we are sitting here today, questioning whether he’s done enough."

Peter's breath caught in his throat. The room felt hotter now, the air thick with tension, with anticipation, as if everything had shifted in the space between Matt’s words. His fingers trembled against his knees. They were waiting. They were all waiting for someone to crack, for someone to slip, for the truth to be exposed. But Matt--Matt was holding them at bay, keeping the pressure right where it needed to be.

Peter was too close to the edge to look away now.

He could feel the weight of the audience’s gaze pressing into him like a thousand unseen hands, each one a little more suffocating than the last. The air was thick with it, heavy with judgment and expectation. He could hear the rustle of fabric as people shifted in their seats, the faint creak of wood as someone adjusted their posture, the rhythmic scratch of a reporter’s pen as it scrawled across a notepad. Every sound felt magnified, each one digging into the silence like an accusation.

Peter didn’t dare move. His muscles were locked, frozen in place as he kept his eyes down, staring at his hands, trying to focus on the simple act of breathing, to keep his heartbeat steady. But it wasn’t working. His heart was racing, his breath shallow. His thoughts scrambled, tangled in the whirlwind of voices in his head--voices of doubt, of fear, of every single moment he had ever failed. The weight of it all was pressing down on him, but still, he remained still, trying to stay out of the line of fire. Just a little longer.

The prosecution straightened. They were preparing to strike, sharpening their words, and Peter braced himself. “No one is arguing that Spider-Man hasn’t done some good,” the prosecutor said carefully, as if testing the water, as if seeing how far they could push. “But that doesn’t excuse the damage that has followed him. We are here today to determine whether he is a threat, and--”

But before they could finish, Matt’s voice cut through the air, smooth and sharp like a blade. “Let’s define ‘threat,’” he said, leaning forward just slightly, tilting his head, his tone almost casual but laced with a deadly precision. “Is he a threat because he has power? Because he doesn’t operate under your supervision? Or because you don’t control him?”

The question hung in the air, suspended like a taut wire, vibrating with the tension of it. Peter felt a flicker of something in his chest, a brief moment of relief. Matt was fighting for him, pushing back against the suffocating weight of the prosecution’s words. He forced himself to breathe through his nose, trying to keep the panic in check. The room felt even quieter now, as if everyone was holding their breath, waiting for the next move.

The murmurs from the audience were barely contained, whispers slipping through the cracks of the silence like the hiss of steam escaping from a pressure cooker. Peter could feel the shift in the room, the subtle change in the energy as Matt’s words settled in. They were all watching, every single one of them, waiting for the next thing to unfold.

Matt turned toward the jury again, his posture calm, controlled. There was no sign of the pressure that Peter could feel weighing down on him, no hint of the chaos that was twisting his insides into knots. Matt was steady, like the eye of a storm, and somehow, Peter found himself clinging to that calm. Matt’s gaze swept over the jury, his voice smooth and measured, almost hypnotic in its precision. “The prosecution argues that Spider-Man is reckless,” he said, each word deliberate, almost as if savoring it. “That he acts without concern for the consequences of his choices.”

Peter clenched his jaw, his fists tightening on his knees, but he didn’t look up. Not yet. He couldn’t. Not while they were still talking about him like he was some distant thing, some abstract concept, something to be dissected and analyzed in a courtroom rather than a person who had been there . Who had done things.

But Matt wasn’t letting that happen. He was the one pulling the strings now, shifting the narrative, taking control of the conversation. He was making them face the facts, making them acknowledge what Spider-Man was really about--what Peter was really about.

Matt’s expression remained unreadable, that steady calm that only made the tension sharper, as if every word he spoke was another strike of a blade, each one cutting deeper. But Peter could feel it. The sharpness in the air, the weight of the words that Matt was threading through the courtroom like a noose, pulling it tighter and tighter with each passing second.

"But tell me this," Matt said, his voice unwavering, but Peter could sense the edge beneath it. He could almost feel the tension vibrating through the words. "How many people in this courtroom have been saved by him? How many families, friends, loved ones are still alive because of his actions?"

The words landed like a bomb, the silence that followed thick with the question that no one had a good answer for. It wasn’t absolute silence--not entirely. There was still the hum of the courtroom, the low drone of distant murmurs, the rustling of papers, the far-off clicks of a photographer’s camera, and the relentless ticking of the clock on the far wall, counting down seconds, counting down the weight of the moment. But that silence… it was heavy. Like everyone was holding their breath, just waiting for someone to say something, anything, that could break the spell.

Peter didn’t blink. Didn’t dare to move.

His hands were frozen, pressed against his knees with enough force to make his knuckles white. His chest was tight, like someone had wrapped a band around his ribs. His heart, though… his heart was pounding, thrumming in his ears, racing faster with every passing second. Every word, every question… it was like the weight of it all was pressing against him harder now than it ever had before.

Because this mattered.

Matt wasn’t just asking a question. He was making them confront the truth. And Peter… Peter was just a guy. He was just a guy who had happened to have powers. Who had tried to do what he thought was right. Who had tried to protect people, even when it meant risking everything. And now, here he was, on trial. Not just for his actions. But for what he stood for. What he represented.

Matt took another step. This time, not toward the jury. Not toward anyone else in the room. He took a step toward the judge, the man who had been sitting there, silent, watching everything unfold. The man who held the power to decide Peter’s future.

“If we’re putting Spider-Man on trial,” Matt said, his voice still even, still unwavering, like he was laying down a gauntlet, “then let’s ask ourselves a real question: What happens when people like him stop trying?”

The words hung in the air, suffocating in their weight, thick with a truth that Peter could feel in his bones.

What happens when the people willing to die for this city decide it isn’t worth it?

It was the kind of question that tore at him, gnawed at the edges of his resolve, digging in deep, like a splinter lodged in his chest. Peter's fingers twitched against his knee, the only sign that the question had struck its mark. His hands were cold. Too cold. He could feel the tremble in his bones, the quiet shudder that worked its way through him, starting deep inside and radiating outward.

Because he had thought about it.

Had thought about it more times than he cared to admit. He couldn’t count the number of nights he’d spent lying awake, staring at the ceiling, imagining what it would be like if he just… stopped.

What if he had just stopped?

What if he had walked away? Dropped the mask. Dropped the weight of this damn suit and all the expectations that came with it. What if he’d stopped running toward the danger, stopped trying to save everyone, stopped throwing himself into the fray? What if he’d let someone else handle it, let the world burn and just… stayed away?

Would it have been better?

Would it have made the pain go away? The endless ache in his chest, the weight of every decision, every choice, every life that he couldn’t save, every mistake he couldn’t undo. What if he had let himself breathe, let himself feel like just a person, not a symbol, not a weapon, not a damn target?

Would the world have kept spinning the same way? Or would it have collapsed under its own weight, like a star burning out from the inside?

The question was an anchor. It wasn’t new. But here, now, in this cold, sterile courtroom, under the weight of a thousand eyes, it felt heavier than it ever had before.

The prosecution didn’t have an immediate response. The silence that followed felt like a vacuum, like the courtroom had drawn in its breath and was holding it, waiting for something to break, to give.

Peter could see the gears turning in their heads--the precise calculation of what to say next, the wheels spinning faster as they tried to think of something to counter the question. Something sharp, something calculated, something that could twist Matt’s words back on themselves.

Then--

“This isn’t about whether we should have heroes.”

The words cut through the tension in the courtroom like a knife, sharp and direct. It was a declaration that hung in the air, challenging everything the prosecution had tried to build.

Matt’s head tilted just slightly, like he was weighing his next move, like he’d known this was coming from the moment the trial had begun. He gave a slow, almost deliberate nod, his posture as calm as ever, eyes locked onto the prosecution. “Then what is this about?”

The prosecution’s lawyer didn’t flinch. He took a measured breath, his eyes narrowing just enough to show he wasn’t rattled, but there was a shift in his voice. “It’s about whether an enhanced, masked vigilante with no accountability should be allowed to operate unchecked.”

The words were heavy, calculated--designed to twist the room’s perception of Peter, to paint him as a threat, as someone beyond control.

Peter clenched his jaw so hard he thought it might crack. The bite of his own teeth against the inside of his mouth was sharp. But he didn’t move. He couldn’t.

Matt didn’t react. Not so much as a twitch of his brow. He remained composed, controlled, every inch of him an impenetrable wall.

Then, with a smooth, almost languid movement, Matt walked back toward the defense’s table. His shoes clicked softly against the floor, each step deliberate, each movement fluid. He placed his hands lightly on the edge of the table, as though grounding himself to the moment, feeling the weight of it in his bones.

“That’s an interesting choice of words,” he said, his voice low, but cutting through the air with a razor-sharp edge. “Because Spider-Man has been checked. Again, and again, and again.”

The words hit like a punch to the gut. Peter could feel the shift in the room. The murmurs, the subtle movements of the crowd--everything stopped for a heartbeat. The prosecution, once so sure, seemed to falter, just for a second. Their eyes flickered, a crack in their armor.

“By the media,” Matt continued, his tone even but pointed, like a scalpel slicing into flesh. “By the public. By the same government that now seeks to put him on trial when, just a few years ago, they would have gladly recruited him to do their dirty work.”

Peter could feel his pulse hammering behind his ribs, a drumbeat that seemed to drown out everything else in the room. His throat tightened. He knew what Matt was doing.

Matt wasn’t just defending him. He wasn’t just talking about Peter’s actions. He was flipping the narrative on its head, showing the hypocrisy, showing how the system had used Peter when it suited them and now wanted to cast him aside like a tool that had outlived its purpose.

And that wasn’t lost on the jury.

The prosecution shifted, trying to reassert control, but Matt was already one step ahead.

The room was no longer just a space filled with voices. The jury wasn’t just listening anymore--they were thinking. They were processing, weighing the implications of Matt’s words. Peter could see it in their eyes--the flicker of doubt, the subtle shift in their posture.

But it wasn’t enough. Not yet.

Matt knew that, too. He wasn’t done.

So, as if to draw out the moment, Matt adjusted his stance just slightly, his hands still resting on the table but his gaze sweeping across the room, taking in the silence. The weight of it hung thick in the air. It wasn’t just about the words anymore. It was about the space between them, the tension, the shift in power that Matt was so carefully orchestrating.

Then he said, calm and controlled, like he hadn’t just shattered the ground beneath their feet,

“The defense would like to call a witness.”

The words hung in the air for half a second too long, stretching the moment thin, pulling it taut like a rope about to snap. The entire room seemed to shift with them, an almost imperceptible movement--bodies straightening, heads turning, a ripple of awareness passing through the crowd like the first stirrings of an earthquake.

Peter felt the hairs on the back of his neck stand up.

It wasn’t just tension. It was something deeper, something instinctual, like a static charge building in the air before a lightning strike. His fingers clenched against his knees, the fabric of his pants bunching beneath his grip, his pulse hammering against his ribs. He didn’t breathe. Didn’t blink. He just watched as Matt stood there, steady as ever, wielding the room’s silence like a weapon.

Matt let it build. He let the pressure coil around them, let the weight of anticipation drag everyone to the edge of their seats, balancing them on a knife’s edge.

Just enough.

Then he said it.

“Natasha Romanoff.”

A shockwave detonated through the courtroom.

The reaction wasn’t just visible--it was tangible. It was a live wire snapping loose, sending electricity crackling through the air, leaving the scent of burning ozone in its wake.

The name was a gunshot, a lightning strike, a match dropped into gasoline.

Peter barely registered his own inhale, sharp and automatic, the kind of breath you take when the ground beneath you suddenly vanishes. He didn't know why he was so rattled, maybe it was the fact that everyone else was, or maybe he hadn't actually expected her to testify, whatever it was, it had his heart thump louder then ever in his chest.

The murmur started instantly, hushed but frantic, a swarm of whispers that buzzed through the room like hornets shaken from their nest. Reporters leaned into each other, exchanging wide-eyed looks, fingers flying across keyboards, pens scratching furiously against notepads. Somewhere near the back, a chair scraped against the floor as someone shifted, unable to sit still under the weight of what had just been said.

Peter could hear it all, feel it all--the way the temperature in the room seemed to drop a few degrees, the way people instinctively turned to each other as if to confirm that they’d really heard what they thought they had.

Because Natasha Romanoff wasn’t just a name.

She was a ghost. A legend. A specter of the past that the government had tried to bury beneath redacted files and official statements that never told the whole story. She was something the world had not expected to hear in this courtroom, in this trial, in a case that had nothing to do with her--until now.

A muscle tightened in Peter’s jaw.

Matt had known exactly what he was doing.

He had chosen the perfect moment to say it, to unleash it like a well-timed blow, when the prosecution had started to think they were back in control, when the jury was still processing his last words. And now, they weren’t thinking about Spider-Man anymore. They were thinking about her .

He swallowed hard, his throat dry.

And then--before the judge could so much as call for order, before the murmurs could grow into full-blown chaos--the gavel struck wood.

A single, deafening crack.

“Court is adjourned until tomorrow.”

The final, resounding echo of those words barely had time to fade before the room exploded.

Chapter Text

They knocked him out before escorting him from the courthouse. Jabbed a needle into his neck and contaminated his blood with a thick, glistening venom that burned as it slithered through his veins. It wasn’t the kind that knocked him out clean--no mercy in it. It dragged him under slow, sinking him into a syrupy haze where everything was muffled and distant, but he could still feel it. The cold press of metal cuffs against his wrists. The rigid grip of hands that didn’t care if they bruised him. The low hum of the transport vehicle, its tires rolling over asphalt, its walls sealed tight as if he were some kind of biohazard that couldn’t be exposed to open air.

Peter’s head lolled against the reinforced interior, breath coming in slow, measured pulls as he fought against the thick fog in his mind. His fingers twitched, sluggish, barely responding when he tried to move them.

He didn’t remember arriving back at his cell.

Didn’t remember being hauled from the transport, didn’t remember his feet hitting the ground.

But he did remember the moment they let go of him.

The guards didn’t shove him, didn’t throw him down, but the moment they unclamped their hands from his arms, his knees buckled like they expected him to catch himself. He hit the cot with more force than intended, his body tilting sideways before he managed to brace himself against the thin, lumpy mattress.

A boot scuffed against the floor. The rustle of fabric. Then a voice, dry and detached.

“Get comfortable, Spidey.”

The door slammed shut behind them, followed by the mechanical hiss of multiple locks sliding into place.

Peter sat there for a long moment, blinking slow. His thoughts felt like they were trying to swim through wet concrete, dragging behind his body, sluggish and uncooperative. His limbs were there , but they didn’t feel like his.

He swallowed against the dryness in his throat and took stock of himself. His head was heavy, his arms tingling, his breathing slightly off-rhythm from the lingering sedative. But he could move. He could think.

That was something.

For a long stretch of time, he didn’t do either.

He sat in the dim light of the cell, his shoulders slightly hunched, hands loose against his thighs. The room was silent, but Peter could hear everything beyond it. The distant crackle of a radio. The shift of boots pacing outside his door. The faint, rhythmic beep of a security panel cycling through its protocols.

He kept his head down, blinking slow, waiting for his body to fully return to him.

Then--

A sound.

Soft, but distinct.

A slow, steady tap .

Peter didn’t move, but his muscles coiled instinctively.

The sound grew closer, methodical, measured. A rhythm he knew.

A cane striking the floor, unhurried, deliberate.

The locks on the door clicked.

The handle turned.

Then Matt Murdock stepped into the cell, and the stale air shifted.

Peter lifted his head.

Matt stood just inside the doorway, tilting his head slightly, like he was listening to something Peter couldn’t hear. The dim light barely touched him, his figure cast mostly in shadow, but Peter could see the way his expression remained perfectly neutral, the way his presence filled the room without effort.

The door swung shut behind him.

The cane tapped once more against the floor before Matt stopped completely.

Then, quietly, evenly--

“That judge is getting paid off.”

Peter blinked, his body still sluggish but his mind suddenly sharper, cutting through the haze like a cold knife.

Matt didn’t wait for a response, lip curing in distaste as he took in Peter's drugged state.

“He shouldn’t have adjourned when he did. There was no reason for it. The prosecution wasn’t losing control. The jury was still engaged.” Matt’s tone remained level, but there was a quiet edge beneath it, a razor-thin layer of something Peter could only describe as certainty . “Legally, there was no justification for stopping when he did. But he did it anyway.”

Peter sat up slightly, rubbing a hand over his face. His head still felt foggy, but the weight of Matt’s words was starting to clear it.

“So what?” Peter muttered. “He’s corrupt?”

Matt let out a slow breath, considering his next words. “Someone doesn’t want this case to play out in a public courtroom.” A pause. “Someone with power.”

Peter exhaled through his nose, tilting his head back against the wall.

Of course .

Peter let out another slow breath, eyes tracing the shadows on the ceiling.

“So what do we do?”

Matt was silent for a moment. Then, simply, “We say it in front of the court.”

Peter frowned. “That’s it?”

Matt’s head turned slightly toward him, unreadable behind the dark lenses. “They can't change it into a private hearing if there's talk of corruption.”

Peter blinked sluggishly, utterly exhausted.

The sedative still clung to the edges of his mind, still pulled at his limbs like thick rope trying to drag him under.

Matt must have sensed it.

“Get some rest,” he said, voice quieter now, less sharp. He adjusted his grip on his cane, tapping it lightly against the floor as he stepped back toward the door.

The locks clicked.

The door swung open.

Matt lingered for a fraction of a second, as if he wanted to say something else.

Then he left.

The door sealed shut behind him.

Peter let out a slow, measured breath and let his eyes slip shut.

Tomorrow.

Tomorrow, the trial would continue.

🕸️

Peter barely remembered falling asleep. He must have, at some point--because when the door to his cell unlocked with a low mechanical click , he was blinking blearily against the light spilling in from the hallway, his muscles stiff from where he’d slumped against the cot.

For a split second, he wasn’t sure if he’d actually slept or if he’d just been gone , drifting in some in-between space where exhaustion pulled too heavily for real rest.

But then came the footsteps.

Heavy. Purposeful.

A guard stood in the doorway, silhouetted by the artificial glow of the overhead lights. Peter could make out the rigid outline of his uniform, the familiar glint of a baton strapped to his side.

“On your feet.”

Peter didn’t move right away. He flexed his fingers first, making sure they responded. Rolled his shoulders, tested the weight of his own body before swinging his legs over the cot and pushing himself upright.

The remnants of whatever sedative they had used on him yesterday had mostly worn off, but there was still something sluggish clinging to his movements, some lingering reminder that he wasn’t operating at full capacity.

The guard didn’t wait.

“Let’s go.”

Peter’s wrists were shackled before he even stepped into the hallway, metal cuffs locked too tight around his skin. He kept his head down as they led him forward, but he felt the weight of every security camera overhead, the hum of fluorescent lights buzzing against the white walls.

They walked him out of the cell block, past doors he had never been allowed to see behind, through corridors that smelled of bleach and stale air. The further they went, the colder the air seemed to get--sterile, impersonal, like the walls themselves were designed to strip him of anything that made him human.

They didn't sedate him this time, though they secured him to his seat in a way that hurt his back and made his neck ache. By the time they arrived at the dark oak doors of the courthouse his head was pounding and his stomach was roiling from the remnants of yesterday's sedatives and the drugs they had been pumping into his system since he’d shown up.

The courtroom was waiting for him.

And so was the world.

Because they had all seen it.

Natasha Romanoff.

Matt’s last, well-timed blow. The name that had cracked through the proceedings like a lightning strike, splitting the conversation wide open and leaving behind nothing but a scorched, gasping silence.

They weren’t going to let that go.

The government sure as hell wasn’t.

And the press--

The press was going to devour it.

He could already imagine it. The headlines. The speculation. The government’s hasty, fumbling attempts to either confirm or deny her existence in relation to the case.

Matt had thrown a match into a room already filled with gasoline, and now they were all waiting to see just how big the explosion would be.

The doors to the courtroom loomed ahead.

The guards flanked him as they stepped inside.

And the noise hit him like a physical force.

Reporters. Jurors. Spectators packed into the seats, the air thick with the murmurs of a hundred different conversations being had at once. The hum of voices, the shuffle of papers, the soft click of a photographer’s camera capturing every moment of his arrival.

Peter kept his expression carefully blank behind the mask, his posture loose but controlled. He didn’t fidget, didn’t react, didn’t give them anything.

Because they were all watching him.

Waiting.

Judging.

And at the front of the room--

Matt was already seated at the defense’s table, his hands folded neatly in front of him, his expression unreadable behind those dark glasses.

Peter knew he was listening.

Not just hearing, but listening .

Picking apart every whispered conversation. Every nervous shift in the prosecution’s stance. Every sharp, subtle inhale from the judge as he prepared to call the court to order.

Peter took his seat beside him, wrists now unshackled.

A beat of silence.

Then--

The gavel struck.

And the second day of the trial began.

The gavel’s crack still hung in the air when the murmurs started to die, rolling back like a receding tide, leaving behind the charged silence of expectation.

Peter could feel it--like a weight in his chest, pressing, suffocating. The courtroom felt even more stifling today than it had yesterday, the air thick with something almost tangible, like the moment before a thunderstorm broke.

They were waiting.

For the trial to continue. For the prosecution to recover. For Matt to make the next move.

But most of all--

They were waiting for her .

Because Natasha Romanoff’s name was still there, an unspoken presence in the room, a ghost that neither side had acknowledged yet.

Peter’s fingers twitched.

He didn’t let himself look toward the entrance. Didn’t let himself turn toward the jury or the crowd or the reporters that were no doubt still scribbling furiously onto their notepads, hands flying over keyboards.

Instead, he focused on Matt.

Because Matt wasn’t waiting.

He was listening .

Peter could see it in the way his head tilted ever so slightly, in the way his hands remained still, perfectly at ease on the desk in front of him.

Calculating.

Waiting for his moment.

The judge cleared his throat, an unnecessary action meant more to reassert his control than anything else. “Court is now in session,” he said, voice clipped, measured. “We will continue where we left off--”

“Your Honor.”

Matt’s voice cut through the judge’s like the edge of a knife, clean and precise.

The judge exhaled sharply, his jaw tightening as he turned his attention toward him. “Mr. Murdock.”

“I’d like to bring up a concern before we proceed.”

The judge’s fingers curled subtly over his gavel, but he didn’t bring it down. “If this is about your witness--”

“It isn’t,” Matt said smoothly.

The tension in the room shifted, like a held breath that had yet to be exhaled.

Peter’s own breath caught.

Because Matt was about to do something .

He didn’t know what yet--didn’t know which angle Matt was going for, what thread he was planning to pull--but he knew that tone.

And he knew it meant trouble.

For someone.

Matt leaned forward slightly, elbows resting on the table, his expression unreadable behind those dark lenses. “I want to discuss yesterday’s adjournment.”

The judge’s grip on the gavel tightened.

“There was no procedural reason to halt the trial at that moment,” Matt continued, his voice as even as it had been yesterday, but sharper now--less like a lawyer making an argument and more like a predator scenting blood. “The prosecution was not mid-testimony. There were no scheduling issues. Nothing about that moment warranted an adjournment, and yet, the court was abruptly dismissed.”

The tension in the room coiled tight .

Peter could see it in the prosecution’s posture, in the way the government lawyer’s shoulders had gone rigid, his hands clenching into loose fists against the desk.

Matt turned toward the judge, angling his body just slightly, just enough that his words felt heavier, more direct. “It was convenient, wasn’t it?”

The judge’s expression darkened. “Mr. Murdock--”

“Convenient,” Matt continued as if he hadn’t spoken, “that just as the defense introduces a witness who would be inconvenient to certain parties, the trial is halted for the day. Convenient that it gave those certain parties time to react, to prepare, to handle the fallout.”

A murmur rippled through the courtroom.

Peter clenched his jaw.

Because Matt was right .

The adjournment had been convenient. And now, Matt was forcing them to acknowledge it, forcing them to see it for what it was.

He wasn’t just playing defense anymore.

He was hunting .

The judge exhaled slowly through his nose. “Are you suggesting, Mr. Murdock, that I--”

“I’m suggesting that this trial is being manipulated,” Matt said. “That there are forces outside this courtroom influencing what happens inside of it.”

The judge’s fingers twitched around his gavel.

Peter could see the prosecution’s lawyer open his mouth, probably to object, to try and shift the conversation back to something safer , but--

It was too late.

Because the room had already heard it .

And more importantly--

The jury had heard it.

A seed had been planted.

Doubt.

And doubt was dangerous .

Matt tilted his head slightly. “Unless, of course, Your Honor can provide a valid reason for why the trial was stopped?”

Silence.

And then--

“The defense will move forward,” the judge said stiffly.

Peter released a breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding.

The trial wasn’t just back on track.

Matt had shifted the entire field.

And the prosecution knew it .

The prosecution knew they had just lost control of the room.

It was in the way their lawyer hesitated--just for a fraction of a second--before adjusting his stance, in the way his fingers curled slightly against the desk like he was resisting the urge to tighten them into a fist.

Peter could see the muscle in his jaw twitch.

Good.

Matt had done exactly what he set out to do.

The jury wasn’t looking at Peter anymore. They weren’t thinking about Spider-Man and whether he was reckless or dangerous or too powerful for his own good.

They were looking at the judge .

They were looking at the prosecution .

And they were wondering--maybe for the first time since this trial had started--if they were being lied to .

Matt didn’t move. Didn’t adjust his posture or let so much as a hint of satisfaction show on his face. But Peter knew he felt it.

That subtle shift in the air.

The change in the game.

Still, the judge was stubborn. He wouldn’t let the loss settle too deeply--wouldn’t let the courtroom spiral too far from his grasp.

“The defense may call their witness,” he said, clipped and controlled.

Peter forced himself to breathe evenly.

The moment was here.

Natasha was here.

Today, she was a witness.

Today, she was a weapon.

And she was stepping into a battlefield that had been carved out of old wood and marble and the weight of a thousand different expectations.

The doors at the back of the courtroom opened.

A shift.

A collective inhale.

And then--

Natasha Romanoff walked in.

She moved like a whisper of something lethal, something untouchable, something that had existed long before this room had been built and would continue long after it had crumbled into dust.

Her steps were slow, deliberate. Not hesitant, not rushed.

Measured.

Planned.

Like she was already six steps ahead of everyone in the room and had chosen this exact moment to be here, this exact second to enter.

Peter had seen her fight. Had seen her destroy men twice her size without breaking a sweat, had seen her move like the air itself, impossible to catch, impossible to predict.

But this was different.

This wasn’t a battlefield where fists and knives were the weapons of choice.

This was something sharper .

And Natasha Romanoff had always known how to wield the sharpest blades.

She didn’t look at him.

Didn’t look at Matt, didn’t look at the jury.

Not yet.

She didn’t have to.

Because they were looking at her .

The courtroom had gone silent.

Not just quiet. Silent .

The kind of silence that pressed into your lungs, that filled the space between your ribs like something heavy, something unavoidable.

The judge cleared his throat as she settled behind the witness stand. “Ms. Romanoff,” he said, and his voice wasn’t as steady as it had been before. “You understand that you are under oath?”

She didn’t blink.

“Yes.”

The sound of that single word cut through the silence like the strike of a match against dry kindling.

A promise of something about to burn.

Peter felt his chest squeeze.

Matt stood, buttoning his jacket as he stepped forward. His expression was unreadable, but Peter knew him well enough by now to see the tension in his jaw. The sharpness to his movements.

Matt approached slowly, each step deliberate, cane held loosely in front of him. When he spoke, his voice was steady. Calm. But it carried.

“Ms. Romanoff,” he began, “you’ve served as an Avenger, a government asset, and an intelligence operative for several major global agencies. Is that correct?”

“It is.”

“You’re also familiar with the Sokovia Accords and the political pressure surrounding them.”

“I was there when they were written,” she said, without blinking.

“Then I’d like to ask about a series of attacks that occurred within the last year--incidents involving enhanced individuals, high civilian casualties, and the alleged involvement of Spider-Man.”

Natasha nodded. “Go ahead.”

“Were these attacks, to your knowledge, spontaneous?”

“No.”

A quiet murmur rippled through the room.

Matt paused, letting it sink in.

“Would you care to elaborate?”

Natasha’s gaze swept the courtroom. Not in a showy way--no grand dramatics. Just enough to remind everyone that she saw them. That she was choosing to speak, not being coerced into it.

“They were orchestrated,” she said simply. “Funded by internal branches of the government. The objective was to draw Spider-Man into conflict, to provoke him publicly. It was designed to paint him as unstable. Dangerous.”

The prosecution shot to their feet. “Objection--”

“Sustained,” the judge snapped. “Ms. Romanoff, you’re under oath. I remind you that this court requires verifiable truth.”

Natasha’s gaze didn’t flicker. Not at the judge’s warning, not at the hushed tension creeping back into the corners of the courtroom like smoke curling under a door. Her posture didn’t shift, her tone didn’t waver. If anything, her voice got colder. Sharper. Like tempered steel left out in a winter storm.

“I haven’t lied.”

It wasn’t a protest. It was a statement. A fact laid bare, solid and immovable.

Peter didn’t breathe.

He couldn’t. Not with the way the silence pressed in on all sides, not with the way every eye in the room was now fixed on her like the moment before a detonation--tight and breathless, waiting for the fallout.

He already knew. He’d known since that day--since the moment Natasha’s voice cracked, just barely, when she said nothing at all. Since Steve couldn’t meet his eyes. Since Tony couldn’t even say the word.

But knowing it in private, in the shattered corners of his memory, was different than hearing it like this. In front of cameras. In front of strangers. In front of a system that had chewed him up and spit him out and dared to call it justice.

Matt took a single step forward.

“Ms. Romanoff,” he said, calm, quiet. “You’re stating that these attacks--the ones used to build this case against my client--were orchestrated?”

“They were funded,” she corrected. “By high-ranking government officials. The same people backing the Sokovia Accords. The objective was simple: provoke a public threat. Manufacture justification. And use Spider-Man as the example.”

A low, collective exhale rolled through the gallery.

The judge lifted a hand. “Ms. Romanoff, unless you can present physical evidence--”

“I was there.” Natasha’s voice cut through the interruption like glass underfoot. “I was in the meetings. I read the contracts. I watched them weigh cost-benefit analyses on civilian casualties like they were numbers on a spreadsheet.”

The words hit like bullets, clean and unflinching.

Peter’s fingers twitched against the fabric of his pants. His palms were damp. His jaw ached from how hard he was clenching it.

He should have been angry. Furious. He had been, back then--burning with the kind of rage that left nothing but smoke in its wake. But now?

Now, all he felt was a deep, hollow ache. Like something inside him had cracked open and emptied out, leaving nothing but echo.

Matt’s voice was low, careful. “So you’re saying the attacks that led to this trial--the deaths, the destruction--were part of an operation to manipulate public opinion?”

“Yes,” Natasha said. No hesitation. No dramatics. Just the weight of the truth, finally spoken.

“And Spider-Man?”

“He wasn’t supposed to survive if he didn't sign the accords, but it got to big for them to kill him so here we are.”

Peter’s heart skipped. Dropped. Rebounded in his chest with a sickening thud.

The words weren’t new. But the way she said them--like an epitaph--landed differently.

The judge was pale now. Rigid in his chair. “That is a serious accusation, Ms. Romanoff.”

Natasha didn’t blink. “So was the operation.”

It was too quiet. Too still. Even the usual courtroom noise--the shuffling papers, the murmurs, the scratch of pens--had stopped. The only sound Peter could hear was the dull, muffled rush of his own heartbeat in his ears.

They weren’t thinking about damage control anymore. They weren’t thinking about masked vigilantes or legal precedents or heroism framed as recklessness.

They were thinking about what it meant to be complicit.

Peter lowered his eyes.

It didn’t feel like victory. It didn’t feel like vindication. It felt like grief. Bitter and exhausted and old.

Like truth had come far too late to save the people who had already died for it.

Matt’s voice broke the stillness again, softer now.

“No further questions.”

And for the first time in what felt like years, Peter felt the weight shift.

Not disappear. Not even lessen.

But shift.

Because now?

Now the world knew.

​The courtroom remained suspended in a fragile silence, the weight of Natasha's testimony hanging heavily in the air. Each word she had spoken felt like a stone dropped into a still pond, the ripples of truth spreading outward, touching every soul present.​

Peter sat motionless, his hands clasped tightly together on the table before him. The fabric of his suit felt constricting, a physical manifestation of the pressure building within him. His mind was a whirlwind, each thought colliding with the next, creating a storm of emotions he struggled to contain.​

He had known the truth before stepping into this courtroom. The clandestine meetings, the hushed conversations, the veiled warnings--all had pointed to a sinister orchestration behind the events that had led him here. Yet, hearing it spoken aloud, under oath, in this hallowed hall of ‘justice’, gave it a weight that pressed down on him with an almost unbearable force.​

His eyes flicked to the jury. Their faces were a mosaic of shock, disbelief, and dawning comprehension. Some leaned forward, elbows on knees, as if physically trying to get closer to the truth. Others sat back, arms crossed, their gazes darting between Natasha and the judge, processing the seismic shift in the narrative they had been presented.​

The judge, an older man with deep lines etched into his face from years of presiding over cases of varying gravity, removed his glasses and pinched the bridge of his nose. His eyes, when he opened them, were hard and unreadable.​

"Ms. Romanoff," he began, his voice measured but carrying an undertone of strain, "these are grave accusations against the government. Do you have evidence to substantiate your claims?"

Natasha met his gaze unflinchingly. "I do," she replied. "Documents, recordings, and firsthand accounts from operatives involved in the operation."​

A murmur spread through the courtroom like a rising tide, growing louder until the judge's gavel struck wood, sharp and commanding. "Order!" he demanded, his voice cutting through the noise.​

Peter's heart pounded in his chest, each beat resonating in his ears. The revelation was out, the evidence promised. The foundation upon which the prosecution had built their case was crumbling, and he was at the epicenter of the upheaval.​

He stole a glance at Matt, whose face was a mask of controlled determination, but Peter knew him well enough to sense the undercurrent of satisfaction. They had taken a significant step toward unveiling the truth, but the battle was far from over.​

The prosecutor stood, his movements stiff, betraying the turmoil beneath his composed exterior. "Your Honor," he began, "in light of this testimony, I request a recess to review the purported evidence and reassess our position."​

The judge considered this, his fingers drumming a contemplative rhythm on the bench. After a moment, he nodded. "Granted. Court will recess for one hour. We will reconvene promptly."​

The gavel struck again, signaling the temporary adjournment. The courtroom buzzed with renewed energy as people stood, conversations erupting in hushed tones.​

Peter remained seated, his body feeling both heavy and weightless. The walls seemed to close in and expand simultaneously, a disorienting sensation that mirrored the chaos within his mind.​

Matt placed a reassuring hand on his shoulder. "We're making progress," he said quietly.​

Peter nodded, swallowing hard. "Yeah," he managed, his voice thick with emotion.​

As the courtroom emptied, Peter allowed himself a moment to close his eyes, drawing in a deep breath. The scent of polished wood and old paper filled his senses, grounding him. He exhaled slowly, releasing a fraction of the tension coiled within him.

The pair were led to another room, one with the sterile white walls and the buzzing fluorescent lights that made Peter feel like he was unraveling in slow motion. It wasn’t a cell, not technically, but it felt like one. Too clean, too bright, too empty.

Peter sank into the chair in the corner, dragging a hand down his face. He could still feel the warmth of Natasha’s voice. The sharpness of her words. Her spine-straight posture, the look in her eyes like she had waited years to say this--like she had known the second she said his name, there would be no going back.

She didn’t lie.

Peter had known that. He’d known before she even opened her mouth.

But it mattered, hearing it again.

It mattered, the way she said it. The way she made it real.

Matt sat across from him, calm and unreadable as always. But his fingers tapped a rhythmic beat against the table, like even he couldn’t quite contain the electricity crackling through the room now.

“She knew they’d come after her for this,” Matt said quietly, finally breaking the silence. “She came anyway.”

Peter looked up.

And for a second, it was too much.

The weight of it--the loss, the betrayal, the fact that Natasha Romanoff, of all people, had stood in front of the entire world and said the words he hadn’t been brave enough to say--it settled on him like a second skin.

He blinked hard, jaw tight. “She shouldn’t have had to.”

“No,” Matt agreed. “But she did. And now it’s on record. That changes everything.”

Peter wanted to believe that. He wanted to believe that the truth would be enough--that facts and testimonies and the reality of what had happened would crack the courtroom open like a fault line and swallow the lies whole.

But he had been Spider-Man for too long to believe in easy justice.

And still, something in him burned.

Not like it had in the beginning--not the raw, aimless fire of rage and grief--but something sharper now. Something honed. Steady.

He sat up a little straighter, hands curling around the arms of his chair. He could still feel the way the jury had looked at Natasha. The way the room had shifted. The moment something in their collective understanding had buckled under the weight of truth.

“Do you think it’s enough?” Peter asked, his voice quieter now. Raw around the edges.

Matt’s sunglasses caught the overhead light as he tilted his head. “It’s a start.”

A start.

Peter breathed in deep through his nose, let it fill his lungs and push the weight back for just a moment.

One hour.

That was all the time they had.

One hour, and then he’d be back in that courtroom--back in front of the people who would decide if he walked free or if he paid for crimes orchestrated by others.

But now, he wouldn’t be standing there alone.

Now the world knew the cost. Now the lies were bleeding daylight.

And if this was the beginning of the end, Peter would meet it standing tall.

The minutes ticked by, slow and deliberate, the kind of time that stretched until it felt like it was folding in on itself. The hum of fluorescent lights above was the only sound, punctuating the stillness that clung to the room like a fog.

Peter’s mind, though, was anything but still.

He kept seeing Natasha’s face--the cool determination in her eyes, the way she’d stared down the entire courtroom and told them the truth without flinching. He could still hear the weight of her words, the finality of them: I haven’t lied. It wasn’t just what she had said--it was how she had said it. Like she had known what it would cost her, and had made the choice to stand tall anyway.

She’d walked into that courtroom like she wasn’t afraid of the fallout. Like she’d been carrying that burden long before Peter had ever known the full story. And maybe that’s what had made the difference. The way she carried the truth like armor.

Peter didn’t know if he could ever be that strong.

But he had to be.

He had no choice now.

“Fifteen minutes,” Matt’s voice broke through the fog of Peter’s thoughts, low but urgent. “You’re gonna want to be ready.”

Peter blinked, looking up. The lawyer was already standing, his fingers tracing the edge of his papers as if something there might make all the difference. His posture was loose, relaxed in a way that only someone who had seen a hundred trials could manage, but there was an edge there--something beneath the calm that Peter recognized as the same thing that had been in Natasha’s gaze earlier.

Something that told him Matt Murdock wasn’t done yet.

He nodded slowly, pushing himself up from the chair. His legs felt heavy, like someone had packed a weight into his bones, but he forced his feet to move, dragging himself toward the door without a second thought. No time to stop and think.

Not anymore.

The hallway beyond the room was quiet, too quiet for the circus that had been happening less than an hour before. All the voices that had surrounded the courtroom--reporters shouting, photographers snapping, government officials exchanging muttered words--had evaporated into the background like smoke. But the air felt thick now. Too thick with tension, with expectation, with the weight of what was coming.

He stepped through the door to the courtroom, and the world outside fell away again. The moment he crossed the threshold, it was like stepping into another dimension--one that moved slower, the air feeling thicker, heavier.

The jury was already seated, their eyes trained on him like a hundred tiny spotlights, burning into his skin. And there, standing beside them, was the judge--his gavel waiting in his hand, like it was the only thing left to him.

But the judge’s gaze wasn’t on him. It was on Matt. The sharp flicker of something passing between them as if they’d already exchanged some unspoken knowledge.

The room felt too small. Too hot. Peter’s pulse thudded in his ears, and he was suddenly too aware of every inch of his body, of the weight of the mask that covered his face, the heavy jacket that weighed down his shoulders.

It was all too much.

Matt gave him a small, encouraging nod, and Peter took a breath.

This was it.

The judge called for silence, and the courtroom obeyed like it was a single, living thing.

The prosecution stood, and the room seemed to hold its breath in unison. The silence thickened, stretching over every corner, draping itself over the jury like a heavy fog. Peter could feel it, the unspoken pressure that pressed down on his chest, squeezing the air from his lungs. His gaze was locked on the prosecutor, who stood with the kind of calm confidence that only came from knowing exactly how the world was about to unfold. It wasn’t comforting. It was suffocating.

The prosecutor straightened, his eyes sweeping across the courtroom, lingering for just a moment longer on the jury before he spoke. “Ladies and gentlemen of the jury,” his voice sliced through the silence, precise, controlled, like the edge of a blade. “What you’ve just heard--the testimony of Natasha Romanoff--is a tale laced with half-truths, omissions, and, if we’re being honest, a deliberate attempt to manipulate the facts.”

Peter’s heart began to race, a familiar rhythm he knew all too well. It was the same beat he’d heard a thousand times before--the one that came with the sting of unfairness, the one that made him want to curl in on himself, to retreat into the shadows where the world didn’t feel quite so sharp. He clenched his fists, the leather of his gloves creaking under the pressure.

He knew what was coming next.

The prosecutor paced slowly across the floor, his footsteps deliberate, like he was measuring the space between his words, his every motion calculated to keep the tension high. “Yes, Ms. Romanoff may have been a part of certain covert operations,” he continued, “but we cannot ignore the undeniable truth that her actions, and the actions of others, were not without purpose. They were carefully orchestrated to shift the narrative, to excuse the very behavior that brings us here today. Spider-Man is no innocent victim. He’s part of a larger web--one built on lies, manipulation, and calculated risks.”

Peter’s chest tightened. His throat went dry. Every word from the prosecutor felt like a needle being driven deeper into his ribs. He could already see where this was going. They were going to twist it, distort it, paint him as something he wasn’t. And what could he do about it? He was just a kid, standing alone in a courtroom full of people who saw nothing but a threat. They weren’t listening to the truth. Not really. They never had.

He clenched his jaw, staring at the prosecutor, watching his every move. This was the part that always got him--the part where they twisted the narrative until it didn’t resemble anything real. He hated how they made it sound like everything he’d done had been part of some grand conspiracy, like he’d been a pawn in a game. Like he hadn’t wanted to save people. Like he hadn’t been doing it because it was the right thing to do.

The prosecutor stopped in front of the jury, his gaze sweeping over them one last time before he let his words settle into the silence. “You’ve heard the accusations,” he said, his voice thick with condescension. “But let’s be clear. What Ms. Romanoff wants you to believe is that Spider-Man is some sort of martyr, a hero caught in a web of politics and betrayal. But the truth is far simpler. The truth is that Spider-Man is a tool--a weapon used by those who are desperate to maintain control, desperate to manipulate the public perception of what is right and wrong.”

Peter’s stomach churned, nausea rising in his throat as the words slammed into him, one after another. Tool. Weapon. Desperate. He wanted to fight back, wanted to shout that it wasn’t like that, that he wasn’t some pawn in their game. But he didn’t speak. Couldn’t speak. The weight of it all was suffocating, pressing in on him, stealing his voice.

He felt the heat of the courtroom pressing down on him, felt the sting of every accusation, even if they weren’t directed at him personally. It felt like the room was closing in, the walls closing tighter and tighter, until the only thing left was the pounding of his pulse in his ears.

The prosecutor turned his back on the jury, addressing the judge now with an air of finality. “Your Honor, we request that the defendant be found guilty on all charges. Not only for the chaos he’s caused but for the danger he represents--a danger that, according to Ms. Romanoff, the government had to expose in order to maintain control.” He paused, a smirk tugging at the corner of his lips. “Let’s not forget, this isn’t just about Spider-Man. This is about sending a message to anyone who thinks they can operate outside the law.”

Peter’s stomach twisted again, a sharp, ugly feeling that scraped at his insides. The words rang in his ears, louder now, echoing through his mind like a mantra. Sending a message. He had heard it before, seen it in the eyes of every officer who ever turned against him, every government agent who had treated him like a criminal for simply trying to do the right thing.

He could feel Matt’s presence beside him, calm, steady, unwavering. But Peter’s own nerves were on fire. He wanted to push through it, to rise above it, but the pressure felt like it was suffocating him. All he had wanted to do was help. All he had wanted was to be a part of something good. And now here he was--being painted as the villain, the danger, the problem .

He was so damn tired of it.

The prosecutor’s words drifted back in, his voice rising with the kind of self-assured certainty that made Peter sick. “Spider-Man is dangerous. He’s unstable. He’s unpredictable. And most of all, he is not someone who should be allowed to continue his… ‘work’ in this world.”

The prosecutor’s gaze shifted to Peter, locking onto him with an intensity that made Peter feel like he was being dissected, like every inch of him was under a microscope, every flaw, every misstep, every failure laid bare for everyone to see.

Peter’s heart pounded harder. He wasn’t supposed to be this way. He wasn’t supposed to be the thing they feared. He was just a kid. Just a kid who was trying to save people. But no one saw that. No one cared. They saw only what they wanted to see.

And maybe that was the most exhausting part of it all. The waiting. The wondering. The never-ending cycle of doubt that had been drilled into him over and over again.

The silence after the prosecutor's final words hung in the air like smoke--thick, cloying, and impossible to escape. It wasn’t real silence. Not truly. It was the kind that screamed in his ears, made his pulse thrum like a war drum behind his ribs. Peter could feel it vibrating in his bones, in his spine, crawling beneath his skin. Every eye in the room was on him, even when they weren’t looking. He could feel their judgment like claws. Like heat. Like hunger.

He didn’t move.

Couldn’t.

He stood there, still as stone, as the prosecutor returned to his seat with the smugness of someone who believed they had already won. And maybe they had. Maybe that speech had been the killing blow--the nail in the coffin that slammed shut around him while the world looked on and decided, yeah. That one. He’s guilty. He’s dangerous. He deserves this.

Matt shifted beside him. Just a breath, a subtle turn of his head, like he was listening to something Peter couldn’t hear. A tremor of sound, a change in air pressure. Maybe it was Peter’s panic. Maybe it was the sharp, awful silence that followed being painted as a threat. Either way, Matt caught it, felt it, leaned slightly forward. His hand brushed the edge of the table, grounding.

And then he stood.

Peter almost didn’t notice at first--his vision was swimming, the edges of everything warping slightly with the weight of everything pressing down on him--but when Matt rose, the room tilted. It wasn’t dramatic. It wasn’t loud. But it shifted the air, cracked the tension just a little. It made people look up. Made them listen.

Because Matt didn’t carry himself like a man preparing a rebuttal. He moved like someone walking into a storm, coat whipping behind him, chin tilted up, eyes set on the lightning.

And Peter--God, Peter clung to that like a lifeline.

Matt didn’t speak right away. He stood in front of the jury box, silent for a few beats too long. Long enough for it to become uncomfortable. Long enough to force the jurors to really look at him, to sit with their assumptions. To wonder what he might say next. His hands rested lightly on the wooden edge of the box, fingertips relaxed, but not uncertain. He turned his head, face tilted just slightly to catch their attention without ever making it feel forced.

Then he spoke.

“Let’s talk about control.”

His voice didn’t rise. Didn’t need to. It cut cleanly through the heavy quiet, a contrast to the prosecutor’s scalpel-edge confidence. Matt’s voice was a tether. A touchstone. Something real in a world that had been turned upside down and left spinning.

“Let’s talk about what control really means. About who has it. About who’s allowed to lose it.”

He moved, just a step, slowly pacing in front of the jury. “You’ve heard a story. A well-rehearsed one. One that twists everything into neat little packages. Easy to digest. Spider-Man is dangerous. Spider-Man is unstable. Spider-Man is unpredictable. Those words? They’re designed to make you afraid. They’re designed to make this simple. If he’s a threat, then there’s no need to understand him. No need to look deeper. No need to ask what’s being hidden.”

Peter watched him like a man starving.

“Let’s make something very clear,” Matt said, his voice tightening, steel edging into his tone like a blade sliding between ribs. “No one here has denied that there was chaos. Or that people were hurt. But where did that chaos come from? Who created the environment that allowed it? Who escalated? Who paid?”

The words hit like thunder.

Peter flinched, barely perceptibly--but it was there, a tiny twitch of his fingers, a brief catch in his breath. The truth was still raw. Still new. Still bleeding beneath the surface.

Matt didn’t stop.

“You’ve already heard it once. Natasha Romanoff laid it out under oath. The government paid individuals--violent criminals--to commit acts of destruction in the heart of our cities. They didn’t do it for information. They didn’t do it to end a war. They did it to manipulate public opinion. To set a trap.”

The courtroom rippled. A small intake of breath from somewhere in the gallery. The creak of a chair shifting. Peter could feel the tension coiling again, but this time it was different. This wasn’t the cold suffocation of judgment. It was the charged air before a storm.

Matt turned his head slightly toward the judge. “And I remind you,” he said, quiet and firm, “that Ms. Romanoff swore an oath to tell the truth. She did. And no one, not once during that last hour of cross-examination, disproved what she said. They tried to twist it, to make it look like paranoia. But no one said it was false.”

He turned back to the jury.

“That matters. It matters that Spider-Man was hunted. That traps were laid for him. That people died, not because of his actions, but because those in power wanted to paint him as a villain.”

Peter’s throat burned.

He couldn’t speak. He didn’t need to. Matt was doing it for him--with every word, every breath, carving out a space in the courtroom for the truth to exist. For the first time, maybe… Peter felt like someone was trying to bring the ceiling back up from where it had fallen.

“This trial isn’t about guilt,” Matt said. “It’s about fear. It’s about control. It’s about power.”

He let the silence sit for a beat. Two. Let it breathe.

“You don’t have to like Spider-Man,” he said. “You don’t have to agree with everything he’s done. But you have to ask yourself--if the government paid to manufacture a threat, if they created the violence they now blame him for, what does that make him? An instigator? Or a scapegoat?”

Peter’s heart was thundering now, hard and fast and painful in his chest.

He didn’t move. But inside, something had shifted.

Hope.

God help him, it was hope.

Matt straightened fully, his voice leveling out into something that felt final. “You’re not here to punish a symbol. You’re here to judge a person. And if you want the truth--the real truth--then you have to see through the fear. You have to choose justice.”

He returned to his seat, coat brushing the edge of Peter’s arm. The silence that followed was deeper than before. Quieter. Not the absence of noise--but the presence of thought.

And for the first time since the trial had started, Peter felt like someone in that room might actually be listening.

To him.

Peter didn’t breathe as Matt sat back down beside him.

The lawyer didn’t say anything. He didn’t have to. The calm he radiated wasn’t confidence--it was restraint, like a tether holding him still in the middle of a battlefield. As if he knew better than to hope. As if he’d laid everything down, every card in his hand, and now the sky would either crack open or not.

Peter’s hands were shaking beneath the table.

He curled them into fists, nails digging into his palms through the leather of his gloves. He stared forward and didn’t blink. The world around him moved like it was underwater. Slow. Muffled. Distant. His pulse was the only sound that mattered now, a pounding drum inside his head, too loud to ignore.

Across the room, the prosecution sat like statues--cold, unreadable. Not triumphant. Not uncertain. Just... still.

Then the judge cleared his throat, his voice slicing through the weight of the silence like a scalpel.

“Does anyone have anything else to add before we adjourn?”

The room stayed quiet.

A flicker of movement. Matt turned his head slightly, almost like he might speak, but then didn’t. He didn’t need to. It was over. The words had been said. The story had been told. The rest of it was up to strangers behind a door.

The judge nodded, voice low but firm.

“Very well. Court is adjourned until tomorrow morning. Jury deliberations may take an extended amount of time, and I want clear minds in this room when a verdict is delivered. You are all dismissed for the night.”

A gavel struck once--sharp, clean.

And just like that, it was done.

Peter sat frozen for a second longer, like maybe if he didn’t move, the floor wouldn’t fall out from under him. But the world moved on anyway.

He followed Matt out of the courtroom in silence, the air outside feeling heavier than when he’d entered. Cameras flashed in the distance. Voices called his name like gunshots, each one louder than the last. But it was all static to him. Just noise. Just more people deciding what he was without knowing anything at all.

The night passed like fog. Like a dream he couldn’t wake up from.

He didn’t sleep. Couldn’t. Every time he closed his eyes, he heard the prosecutor’s voice again--weapon, unstable, danger--and then Natasha’s--truth buried under blood--and then nothing but silence.

His thoughts spiraled. What if they found him guilty? What if they didn’t? What if it didn’t matter?

What if they never really cared about the truth at all?

When morning came, the sky was grey.

The courtroom was colder than it had been the day before. Not just physically--though Peter swore he could see his breath--but emotionally. The energy had shifted. Something sharp lingered in the air, like the entire room was holding its breath.

Everyone filed back in with the same grim silence as the night before.

And then, the door to the jury room opened.

All eyes turned as the twelve men and women returned to their seats. Something was wrong. You could feel it in the way they moved--slower now, less sure. No one looked up. No one met anyone’s gaze. It was like the tension had grown overnight, ballooned into something too big to hold.

The judge straightened. “Has the jury reached a verdict?”

The foreperson stood. A woman, maybe in her fifties, with hair pulled tight from her face and lines carved deep into her brow.

She looked tired. So tired.

“We have… attempted to, Your Honor,” she said. “But we are currently at a stalemate.”

A ripple moved through the courtroom like wind through dry grass. People shifting. Breathing again. Whispering to each other in the benches behind Peter.

The judge frowned. “You are unable to reach a consensus?”

“At this time… no. There are strong opinions on both sides. We request more time.”

More time.

Of course.

Peter felt something collapse in his chest--part relief, part dread. Of course this wouldn’t be simple. Of course the universe wasn’t going to hand him closure on a silver plate. He should’ve known. Nothing in his life had ever been easy. Why would this be?

“Very well,” the judge said, voice clipped. “The jury may return to deliberation. We’ll reconvene when a decision has been reached. Until then, the court is in recess.”

Another bang of the gavel.

The jury stood again, slow and silent, and filed out like shadows, one by one disappearing behind the door that would decide his fate.

The courtroom emptied in slow motion. Matt didn’t move. Neither did Peter.

Because now it wasn’t about evidence or arguments or justice. Now it was about the space between people. The gut feelings. The doubts. The fear.

He stared at the door.

And he waited.

And waited.

Until--

A flicker.

The jury door opened again.

Twelve figures emerged.

But something had changed.

Their faces were pale. One of the men was sweating. Another was biting her lip so hard it had started to bleed. One of them--an older man near the end of the line--looked at Peter. Really looked.

And flinched.

They took their seats, one by one. The foreperson stood again.

The judge leaned forward.

“Has the jury reached a verdict?”

The foreperson’s lips parted.

Peter held his breath.

The world held its breath.

And then--

Chapter Text

The courtroom had stopped breathing.

It felt like the walls themselves were leaning in, as if the architecture wanted to witness this moment--wanted to crush it or cradle it, Peter couldn’t tell. The stillness wasn’t peaceful. It was suffocating. It wrapped itself around him like a noose, tightening with every heartbeat. His lungs burned. His throat locked. It was the kind of silence that didn’t just blanket the room--it dug claws into your ribs and squeezed until you couldn’t tell if you were alive or already halfway to the afterlife.

Peter sat utterly frozen, his body stiff with fear so raw it bordered on primal. Every muscle screamed for release, but he couldn’t move. Couldn’t blink. Couldn’t exhale. His hands were clenched so tightly against his knees that he couldn’t feel his fingers. His mask felt like it was fused to his face. His spine pressed against the back of the chair as if trying to anchor himself to something, anything, before the floor gave way beneath him.

He watched as the forepersons' lips parted.

And then… didn’t speak.

Not yet.

That single moment--those seconds where nothing was said--stretched into forever. Time unraveled at the seams. The air thickened until Peter swore it turned to tar, dragging every second down with it, suffocating him one breath at a time. The sound in his ears--was it his heartbeat? The blood in his veins? Or was it just static, a raw, jagged hum that filled the space where courage should’ve been?

Then finally--finally--the words came.

“We have reached a verdict.”

They didn’t sound real. The voice was clear, even, formal--but to Peter, it might as well have been thunder crashing through glass. The syllables hit his chest like a battering ram. Something sharp twisted in his stomach, and nausea crept up his throat. He felt both weightless and unbearably heavy, like gravity had turned spiteful and the air no longer belonged in his lungs.

Dozens of heads jerked toward the jury box, a sea of wide, silent eyes. Peter could feel the heat of a thousand stares and none of them mattered. He wasn’t even sure he was still in his body. His knees buckled slightly under the table, and it took everything he had not to fall forward or dissolve into the air. His skin buzzed. His ears rang. Every instinct screamed for flight. Every fear, every grief, every bruise the world had left on him--all of it surged to the surface.

May.

He thought of her without meaning to. Her laughter in the kitchen. The way she used to hold his face in her hands when she said his name. She should have been here. If nothing else, she should have been here.

He didn’t even know what he was hoping for anymore. Vindication? Closure? Was that even possible?

The foreperson inhaled. And Peter swore the entire planet leaned in with him.

“We find the defendant…”

The pause after that word-- the defendant --wasn’t long. But to Peter, it cracked eternity open.

“…not guilty.”

The syllables bounced through the room, delicate and unreal, as if they didn’t belong here. “Not guilty.” They shouldn’t have made it this far. They shouldn’t have been possible. But there they were--floating in the space between breath and belief. The words hit Peter like glass breaking inward, slicing through the thin wall he’d built to keep himself upright. They cracked open something soft and hidden, and what spilled out wasn’t relief exactly--it was too complicated for that. It was awe. It was disbelief. It was the ghost of hope, flickering somewhere deep inside his ribs.

He wanted to hold onto it. To press those words into his palms and never let go. But they slipped through him, weightless and shimmering, like soap bubbles that burst the moment you reached for them. Too beautiful to be real. Too fragile to stay.

The jurors--those twelve strangers who’d held his future in their hands--looked drained, every one of them hollowed out by the burden of the decision they’d made. Some wouldn’t meet his eyes. Others did, just for a second, offering looks that weren’t triumphant, weren’t celebratory. Just human. Pity. Regret. A glimmer of something like understanding. They looked like people who had survived a storm and weren’t sure what pieces were still left standing.

And then the gavel fell.

A single, sharp crack that sounded louder than any explosion Peter had ever heard. “Court is adjourned.”

Just like that, it was over.

And everything inside him broke.

The word hit him like a blow to the chest, scattering the fragile calm he’d been clinging to. It cracked open the dam behind his ribs, letting everything flood out at once--grief, disbelief, exhaustion, raw gratitude all tangled together in a sickening, beautiful mess. His throat closed up, his breath hitching hard against the rising tide. His eyes stung. Blurred. He blinked, trying to steady himself, but it was like standing in the middle of a collapse.

Matt’s hand landed on his shoulder--a quiet anchor in the chaos, firm and steady, warm through the fabric of his suit. It was the kind of touch that didn’t ask anything of him. Just was. Solid and grounding, in a moment where the floor felt like it might drop out from under him at any second.

Peter’s gloves sagged limp in response. The tension that had held him upright all this time--through the interrogation, through the cameras, through the verdict--bled out of his limbs all at once. He let Matt guide him forward, one step at a time, feet dragging like they belonged to someone else. The courtroom blurred around him. The rustle of papers. The click of polished shoes on tile. The staccato crack of a camera shutter catching his devastation mid-step. A thousand fragmented pieces of the moment, none of which felt real.

Wade was already there, a dark shape materializing from the side like a shadow he didn’t know he needed until it was beside him. His presence wasn’t loud, wasn’t joking, wasn’t Wade in the usual sense. It was quiet. Almost reverent.

“You did it,” Wade said, voice low and raw at the edges, cracking with something closer to awe than celebration. “You actually did it, Spidey.”

Peter wanted to answer. To offer even the smallest scrap of victory. A smile. A nod. Something.

But he couldn’t.

Because yeah, he’d done it. He was free. He wouldn’t be locked in a cell or paraded in chains or buried by headlines screaming for his head. The verdict had been mercy. Or maybe justice. Or both. But whatever it was, it hadn’t undone the damage.

Not the kind that counted.

Inside, Peter felt like a splintered windowpane--cracked in ways you couldn’t see until the pressure hit again. He was broken, not because of the verdict, but because of everything that had led up to it. Because of the faces in the jury box who had doubted. Because of the lies laid out like evidence. Because of the people he hadn’t been able to save. Because Aunt May’s chair at the kitchen table would still be empty. Because even in freedom, he felt chained to every moment that had stolen something from him.

Everything the trial had unearthed was still there, lodged deep beneath the surface. The guilt. The grief. The unbearable weight of being seen--not as a kid, or a hero, or even a villain--but as a question the world still hadn’t answered.

Outside the courthouse, the swarm of reporters hit like a tidal wave--cameras flashing in a staccato rhythm that lit up the grey afternoon like lightning, voices colliding in a wall of noise too loud to distinguish. Questions flew, sharp and eager, cutting through the air with the desperation of people hungry for answers. For a soundbite. For anything.

But for Peter, it was all muffled. Like someone had dunked him underwater and the world above had faded into a blur. Everything moved a second too fast, too loud, too close, but none of it felt real. The sound was there, sure, but it hit like static--just pressure and movement and color without meaning.

Matt’s hand remained firm on his shoulder, steady and guiding, a lifeline pulling him through the chaos. Wade walked close on the other side, unusually quiet, his presence loud in its steadiness. Together, they cut a path through the crowd like a wedge through storm surge--unmoving, unfazed, protective.

Passersby stood just beyond the barricades. Civilians. Onlookers. Strangers. They didn’t shout. They didn’t flash cameras. Instead, they spoke in murmurs, hushed reverence trailing behind him like ghost-words.

“God bless Spider-Man.”

“Thank you.”

“You saved lives.”

The weight of those words should’ve meant something. Once, maybe, they would’ve. But now, Peter only heard the echo of them. He didn’t feel them. They passed through him like wind through torn cloth--unable to stick, unable to fill the empty places May had once warmed.

And beneath all of it, quieter than the praise, deeper than the relief, his mind whispered a truth so soft it nearly shattered him:

I’m not a hero yet.

Not after this. Not after everything it cost.

🕸

Days later, the apartment didn’t feel like home anymore.

It was something else entirely--a fragile echo of what had been, a memory draped in the skin of the present, awkward and aching. The rooms were too quiet, unnervingly still, as if they were holding their breath to avoid shattering the ghosts that lingered there. The spaces where May’s laughter had once bounced freely--bright, uncontainable, alive--now felt cavernous, hollowed out by her absence.

The air hung heavy, saturated with the scent of old coffee left to cool and settle, bitter and forgotten in the bottom of a mug. Faint underneath, the lingering whisper of laundry detergent--May’s favorite brand, the one she always swore made the whole apartment smell like comfort itself. But now it wasn’t comfort. It was the smell of something lost, a reminder that the warmth she carried had slipped away, leaving behind only empty spaces and stale air. Absence was a smell, too.

Peter stood in the kitchen, fingers clenched around the chipped white edge of the countertop as if the worn wood might keep him tethered to something solid, something real. His knees threatened to buckle, but he didn’t let them. Not yet. The pale morning light seeped in through the window, striking the peeling paint like ancient scars that refused to fade.

Across the room, the fridge hummed its quiet song, indifferent and persistent. A faded photograph was still magnetized to the door--a snapshot of a moment that refused to be forgotten. Peter’s arm slung around May’s shoulders, her smile blinding in its brightness, radiant as a summer sun that no longer shone. He stared at it far longer than he should have, waiting for the dam inside his chest to finally break, for the flood of grief to pour out.

But it didn’t. Not yet.

A weight settled instead--heavy and still, pressing down in a way that muffled everything else, like being submerged beneath a dark sea where sound barely traveled.

Wade was sprawled on the couch, half-buried in shadows, one leg lazily dangling over the edge. The flickering glow of the muted TV painted his masked face in shifting shades of pale blue, soft and unreal. He didn’t bother to look up when he spoke.

“You can’t just lock yourself away forever,” his voice was rough, ragged around the edges--as if it had scraped against some jagged memory or pain he didn’t want to name. “Grief’s a storm, man. But you gotta find your shore. You need something--anything--to grab onto. Otherwise, you’ll drown before you even realize it.”

Peter swallowed, the words sinking deep but not yet stirring the surface.

Matt sat nearby, silhouetted in the doorway, his posture quiet but unyielding. His cane rested across his knees like a boundary line drawn firm in the sand--steady, deliberate. Peter knew that calm wasn’t given lightly. It was hard-won, carved out by battles fought in silence.

“Wade’s right,” Matt said, voice low, measured. Each word was deliberate, a reminder of the fragile power still within reach. “You don’t get to choose what you feel.” He paused, and the stillness that followed was like a soft exhale. “But you can choose what you do next. And that? That’s the only power we ever really have.”

Peter let the silence settle for a moment, let it weigh down on him until it felt like a second skin. He pressed his palm harder against the countertop, grounding himself in its cold, unmoving surface. Everything outside--Tony’s inevitable questions, the Avengers’ apologies that would come too late, the media’s hunger for his next move--it all loomed like a tidal wave waiting just beyond the door.

His throat tightened. His voice came out small, almost lost in the hum of the refrigerator.

“I’m not ready.”

And for once, no one told him he had to be.

🕸

Then, one evening, Natasha came.

The rooftop was quiet in the way only rooftops could be--an island of stillness perched high above the chaotic sprawl of the city, suspended between sky and stone. Here, the air thinned, carrying a chill that whispered through the fabric of Peter’s suit, tugging gently at the edges like invisible fingers reminding him of everything he’d carried--and everything he’d lost.

Below, the city breathed in waves of light. Windows flickered awake like countless tiny lanterns igniting across the dark canvas of glass and steel, a web of life pulsing in the twilight. The skyline stretched out endlessly, painted in bruised purples and molten golds, as dusk spilled its last colors across the clouds. The horizon held a fragile, aching beauty--like the final moments before a storm, or the fragile pause between heartbeats.

Peter stood near the edge, rooted but restless, the weight of the suit pressing against his skin heavier than it should. Every thread felt taut with memory, every scuff and tear a ghost tracing the battles behind the mask. His fingers curled around the worn metal of his mask, loose but reluctant, like he wasn’t sure if he was holding on for hope--or letting go of it. The distant wail of sirens floated up, soft and mournful, as if the city itself was crying out in some language he couldn’t quite understand anymore.

Then--footsteps.

Soft. Steady.

He didn’t turn.

Didn’t have to.

Because Natasha’s presence filled the space behind him without a sound, like a calm current beneath a raging sea. She was quiet but unshakable--anchored, a lighthouse in the storm of his thoughts. Her shadow fell long beside him, grounding him in the moment when everything else seemed to unravel.

“They’re saying you stopped a gas leak today,” she said gently, stepping up beside him. Her voice wasn’t cutting, wasn’t clinical--it was low and even, laced with a kind of bone-deep steadiness that only came from surviving things you don’t talk about. Not sympathy. Not pity. Just… recognition. A survivor’s softness--earned through fire, never given freely.

Peter didn’t respond. Didn’t nod. Didn’t blink.

Because what did you even say to that?

How could he explain that he hadn’t found the gas leak because he was out saving the day ? That it wasn’t some planned patrol or calculated act of heroism? He’d found it because he hadn’t slept in three days. Because he couldn’t sit still in the apartment, couldn’t breathe inside four walls that still held May’s ghost. Her handwriting on recipe cards, her voice in the soft static of the old radio she used to leave on in the kitchen. Her shampoo still clinging to towels he refused to wash.

Because scrubbing away her scent felt too much like scrubbing her away.

“You don’t have to decide now,” Natasha said after a beat, the pause weighted but not pressing. “You can step away. Heal on your own terms.”

She didn’t look at him as she spoke. She looked out at the city, the sharp cut of skyline against the bruised dusk--like she was letting him have the silence without making him sit in it alone.

“Or,” she added softly, “when you’re ready… you can step back into it.”

Peter inhaled--shallow, uneven. His chest rose, then fell like something heavy had curled up and settled there, a weight he carried but couldn’t name.

He still wasn’t used to how much it hurt just to breathe.

“You have allies now,” she finished. “No matter what you choose.”

The wind moved between them like it understood. It curled around the rooftop, lifting the corners of his jacket, whispering through the metal fire escapes like a secret it didn’t want to keep.

Peter’s eyes drifted shut.

And behind the dark of his eyelids, it all came back in fragmented flashes. The crack of the gavel like a gunshot. The way the jury had looked at him--guilt buried beneath civic duty. The cameras flashing like lightning. Matt’s voice, low and calm, a steel thread winding through chaos. Wade’s hand gripping his shoulder like it was the last steady thing in the world.

And May.

God--May.

The memory of her laugh, bright and round like summer sunlight. The sound of her humming when she cooked. Her fingers brushing hair from his forehead after a nightmare. Her absence had been loud at first--screaming in every room, every breath--and now it was worse.

Now it was quiet.

Quiet in the way that emptiness is. Heavy. Unyielding.

He swallowed hard, but his throat didn’t loosen.

Somewhere far below, a car honked. A siren wailed and faded into the wind. The city kept moving.

And Peter stayed still. Standing next to a woman who had been through her own kind of fire and was telling him--gently, steadily--that he didn’t have to walk back into it alone.

He swallowed hard, tasting rust.

“I don’t forgive them,” he whispered, the words breaking on the way out. “But I think…” He hesitated. The words were tangled, raw, blooming in his throat like bruises. “I think I understand.”

A truth he hadn’t wanted to face, now laid bare under the setting sun.

Because it had never just been about right or wrong. It was fear. Control. Survival. All the things that made people human. Even heroes.

He looked down at the city--the way it pulsed, oblivious and beautiful and so very alive.

“Maybe if I disappear forever,” he murmured, “my choices won’t matter anymore.”

Maybe that would be easier. Simpler. To vanish. To fade out of frame like an extra in someone else’s movie.

But even as he said it, he didn’t quite believe it.

Natasha didn’t answer with words. She didn’t need to.

Her nod was deliberate, slow. A silent promise that whatever road he took--vanishing or returning--she would back him. Not because he owed the world anything, but because the world owed him a damn break.

They stood there for a long while. Neither one speaking. Just watching the city breathe.

And above it all, the sky darkened--soft, endless, waiting.

🕸

Months slipped by in a quiet, unhurried rhythm, like the city itself had lowered its voice to match his. The explosive headlines faded to faint echoes--no longer blasting from news tickers or trending on social media feeds. The chaotic battles, the relentless spotlight, the constant pulse of a world watching his every move--it all receded like a tide pulling back from the shore.

Now, Peter existed in the stillness between sirens. He wasn’t the sudden flash of red and blue weaving through steel canyons anymore. Not often. Not like before. Instead, he moved through the city streets on foot, his steps quiet, deliberate, almost invisible beneath the hum of everyday life.

He walked the thin line between shadow and light--not a symbol, not a martyr, not even truly Spider-Man most days. Just a man. A soul worn raw, stitched together by grief and grit, held upright by sheer instinct and the faint echoes of promises whispered in the dark--promises to faces that no longer smiled back.

His presence no longer demanded justice. It required proximity. Urgency. Need.

A leaky gas main hissing beneath a cracked sidewalk. A mugging unfolding in a narrow, nameless alley where no one thought to call for help. A teenage girl pressed against a brick wall, fear painting her eyes as two strangers closed in outside a bodega--he slipped in, swift and silent, gone before anyone could ask his name.

He patched broken fences for elderly tenants whose stooped shoulders and gentle smiles tore at something deep inside him--reminders of May, and everything that was lost. He carried groceries up creaking stairwells for neighbors who met him with hesitant nods and soft smiles, unsure if the quiet man with  the mask was really the one they’d cheered for before.

He returned a trembling lost labrador to a small boy with tear-streaked cheeks, the boy’s gratitude raw and unfiltered, filling a quiet crack in Peter’s heart. He sat with a homeless man whose entire shelter had been shattered by last week’s storm, rain soaking them both as they rebuilt the fragile tent--one stick at a time.

There were no news crews. No flashing cameras. No deafening chants of “Spider-Man, Spider-Man!” echoing off rooftops or filling crowded sidewalks. Just a nod here. A whispered thank you there. A lingering, uncertain glance from someone who wasn’t sure if it was really him or just a shadow playing tricks. But none of that mattered.

He didn’t do this to be seen or remembered. He did it because the world kept breaking--fractured and bleeding, piece by piece. And maybe, just maybe, he could still be glue. Not flawless. Not always enough. But something.

And in the quiet. In the hidden spaces between chaos and calm. In the moments nobody watched.

He healed.

Slowly.

Deliberately.

Not all at once. Never all at once. Sometimes it felt like trying to reassemble glass shards with bare hands. But slowly, steadily , he rebuilt what was left of himself. Not to become who he was before.

But to become something new.

His body slowly remembered how to move without flinching. The phantom pain of the trial, of May, of everything, began to settle--not disappear, but soften into something manageable. He slept through the night sometimes. He laughed once, and it startled him so badly he dropped his toast.

Emotionally, he pieced himself back together--not in clean lines or sweeping, cinematic arcs, but in jagged, mismatched fragments, held together by sheer effort and quiet desperation. It wasn’t beautiful. It wasn’t brave. It was just necessary. A slow crawl back to something like personhood. There were no grand epiphanies. No final boss fight with grief. Just mornings where the ache in his chest didn’t make him double over before his feet touched the floor. Just nights where the silence didn’t feel like it might devour him whole.

He didn’t rebuild Spider-Man.

He rebuilt Peter.

The boy beneath the suit--the kid who used to sit on his bedroom windowsill, knees tucked to his chest, staring out at the Queens skyline with a heart full of belief that maybe, just maybe, putting on a mask could make the world a little less cruel. The kid who thought that being strong meant using that strength for others. Who believed in second chances. In helping strangers. In doing the right thing, even when it meant losing.

That boy had been buried--under headlines, under betrayal, under funerals and trial transcripts and a thousand versions of himself twisted into something unrecognizable. But now, through the cracks in the persona, that version of him was stirring again. Piece by trembling piece, inch by stubborn inch, he was clawing his way back.

Because now, Peter understood: the mask didn’t make him. The suit didn’t sanctify him. The public couldn’t define him, and the court couldn’t condemn what they never truly knew. What mattered--what had always mattered--was the choice. The quiet, private, often invisible decision to show up. To care. To help. Even when no one clapped. Even when no one cared. Even when it broke him.

He learned, slowly, painfully, but truthfully--what it meant to be a man first.

And a hero second.

🕸

One cool evening, the city lights stretched beneath him like scattered constellations--each window, each flickering street lamp, a quiet promise of life continuing. They sparkled like fallen stars, glinting off rooftops and alleyways, and Peter stood above it all, the wind tugging at his jacket, gentle and insistent.

He was back on that same rooftop. The one he had visited so many times in silence, searching for something he couldn’t name. And tonight, something had shifted.

In his hand, the mask rested--familiar, weathered, heavier than it looked. He stared at it for a long time, running his thumb over the faint scuffs along the cheek, the slight bend in the lens rim. Every mark told a story. Every scratch carried weight.

The soft clack of the mask’s metal echoed once as it shifted in his grip--sharp and clean against the night air. Like a heartbeat. Like a memory. Like a vow.

Behind him were shadows, but not the kind that haunted. These were solid, warm. Wade’s silhouette, slouched but alert, arms crossed loosely over his chest. Matt, still as stone, his head tilted just slightly like he could hear Peter’s thoughts even before Peter could.

And a few steps away, Natasha stood--silent, watching. Her gaze didn’t waver. It didn’t push. It simply waited. A quiet reminder that he wasn’t alone.

Peter inhaled slowly. Let the cold air dig deep into his lungs, spreading through every corner of his chest like ice cracking through old walls. It wasn’t gentle. It scraped and clawed its way through the hollow spaces May had left behind, those raw, aching voids no verdict could fill. But he welcomed it anyway. Let it settle in the places grief had rotted through. Let it burn off the static of courtroom murmurs, of shouting headlines, of whispered doubts that still curled in the corners of his mind like smoke that wouldn’t clear.

And for the first time in what felt like forever, he didn’t flinch from the weight of it.

He let himself feel ready.

Not whole. He wasn’t naïve enough to believe that.

Not healed.

Not fixed.

But ready.

Ready in the way a scar is ready. Tough, imperfect, but no longer bleeding.

His fingers closed around the mask--once a lifeline, then a burden, and now… a choice. He pulled it over his face with steady hands. Not to disappear. Not to escape. Not to fold himself back into something smaller. But to return--to something real. Something his. Not because the world screamed for Spider-Man. Not because someone needed a headline. But because he did.

Because it was time.

He stepped forward, into the night.

And this time, it wasn’t an act of sacrifice or desperation. It was something simpler. Stronger. The quiet decision to try again, even when trying hurt. The city below blinked with fractured lights, a pulse of gold and neon and shadow, breathing in sync with him. Sirens hummed in the distance. Laughter floated up from the street. Somewhere, something was about to go wrong.

And still--he stepped forward.

The wind curled around him like a living thing, tugging at his suit, whispering promises of pain, of uncertainty, of purpose. The heartbeat of the city drummed beneath his feet, steady and flawed and real.

And beneath it all, Peter breathed.

Full of light and shadow.

Danger and hope.

Pain and possibility.

And for the first time in a long time--he didn’t just survive the moment.

He lived in it.

He felt alive.