Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Somebody should regulate how heavy department stores’ freight are allowed to be. Peter’s sure that there’s some rule, somewhere, dictating how heavy these boxes can be, but either somebody needs to update them or regulate them better, because Peter is tired. 

Turns out, illegally working a midnight shift for a sketchy guy running a sketchy store with sketchy coworkers doesn’t yield the best results. Who could have guessed?

There was still over half of the truck to unload, and tonight it’s just him. Peter’s not sure where exactly the driver went, but judging by the faint smell of weed drifting down the street, he hasn’t gone far. A sigh escapes his lips as he reaches for the next box in the truck, grunting with effort as he lifts it. He knows, if he picks up his feet, he can get through the rest of this shipment in no time. He might even be able to get a full night’s rest. But it’s only gotten harder to make it through shipments as time goes on, his lack of nourishment and rest slowly consuming him. This has meant that over the past few months, his nights have gotten longer, resulting in even less rest. It’s a vicious cycle, really. 

As he moves the box into the back door, he considers his options for the night. When he works, he can’t get a bed at F.E.A.S.T. because they close their doors for the night at 9pm. He’s been pulling more and more shifts lately, and it’s not like he can afford to take any nights off. Until about a week ago, his backup shelter was on the top floor of an abandoned building. Every entrance except for the roof access had been blocked, so someone without powers would have no way of getting in. Except, last Wednesday, he swore someone had been rummaging through his stuff. He didn’t have much to find, and from what he could tell nothing important was missing, but his window was shattered, his food supply was no longer ordered by expiration date, and his first aid stock was missing some gauze and disinfectant. He’d realized this, of course, because when he returned from patrol he needed some desperately, and barely had enough to patch the knife wound in his left leg. After that, he’d packed his backpack with everything he owned, and slept in the crook of a rooftop. Since then, he refused to return, for fear that if he left his spider suit, it might be discovered. The last thing he needed was word getting out that New York’s beloved hero was a homeless teen with PTSD who didn’t even legally exist. 

Shaking his head as he set down the box, Peter tried to reign his thoughts back in. He needed somewhere to sleep tonight. If he pushed himself hard now, he could get through this shipment in an hour, which would put him out of here somewhere around 3am. At that point, he could only sleep until 8am max, as breakfast at F.E.A.S.T. ended at 10, and it was an hour long walk on a good day. So, that was a solid 4 hours of sleep if he found a place within an hour of getting off work! That was… well, not great. But not terrible!

As the boxes left in the truck dwindled, so did Peter’s energy. This was at least a 2-person job, but ever since his employer, a sweaty man named Harrison, discovered Peter physically could do the whole truck in one night, he slowly started scheduling less and less people. Now, Peter worked every night alone, save for the truck driver that never stuck around. He was grateful for the shifts, but wished desperately that he had some help. He wasn’t paid by the hour, as he should have been. He was paid per night, and only $20 a night. He knew it was illegal, and he knew he should be paid more. But he couldn’t find another place that would hire a kid that looked no older than 14, with no legal documents or ID. 

During the day, he was sometimes able to repair things for quick cash. He had made quite the name for himself, known for his technological prowess. Working in the world’s most advanced lab with the Tony Stark would do that to a person. Unfortunately, most people didn’t ask him to build them super suits or repulsors. And fixing broken fridges and laptops rarely yielded much cash. 

So here he was, night after night, pushing himself through two trucks of freight. When there wasn’t a truck to unload, he was tasked with putting as much on the shelves as he could. Those nights were calmer, as he didn’t have a set amount to do. Their issue was that he would be paid based on how satisfied Harrison was with his work, and that man was never happy.

As the clock ticked closer to 3, Peter was incredibly close to finishing the truck. The driver had just started waddling his way through the cloud of smoke he’d been sitting in to hop in the driver’s seat, when Peter heard noises from further in the store. It was far enough away and quiet enough that the average person couldn’t have heard it. Fearing a robbery, Peter honed his hearing in on the noise, moving back into the stockroom to get closer. He closed his eyes, and identified the jangling keys unlocking the front door, the quiet buzzing of a phone call, and angry yelling. Was Harrison back already? He usually didn’t show up to clock in until 7, an hour before the store opened. 

Yet there he was, wandering into his office at the front of the store, yelling on the phone at someone for being “unreliable and useless,” and did he have to do everything himself? And why did he pay them if they were just going to be incompetent idiots who wouldn’t know the barrel of a gun from a glow stick? He swears, if they messed up this shipment, one of their guns would be shoved in their mouth and unloaded. Gruesome.

Now Peter was interested, guns were involved? From what he knew of Harrison, he was a sad, lonely man, who ran a department store full of overpriced garbage. He didn’t know anything about guns. Sure enough, Harrison took a few deep breaths, then continued ranting in a quieter tone. “And you’re sure nobody knew you were there? None of the superpowered freaks found you? No cops?”

A brief silence answered this question, before Harrison practically exploded, letting out a visceral yell. “WHO found you? If it was Spider-Man, you’re fired! You’re going to blow the operation THIS close to the deadline? Do you have any idea how many lives have been given to ensure smooth sailing?” He paused, his breath heaving, as a fearful voice uttered just a few words that Peter couldn’t quite make out. Whatever they were, they sent Harrison into another rage, yelling about how useless they were, how they ruined everything, and then firing each and every person even slightly associated with them. 

Peter was curious, determined to figure out what they were doing that had a strict and impending deadline, couldn’t afford any superheroes or police knowing about it, and, most importantly, had cost lives. He ran out of the building quickly to ensure the driver was not watching him or waiting for him. Pulling the last few boxes into one stack as tall as he was, he assured the driver he would take care of them. Not waiting for further confirmation, the man pulled out, leaving a thick smoky haze in the truck’s wake. Peter grabbed the stack in his arms, grateful he no longer had to worry about anyone seeing this display of strength, and rushed them inside. Once in, he crept across the stockroom and slipped through the swinging doors, into the main store. 

The lights were dim, and Peter had to be careful not to be seen on the cameras. Luckily, his experience as Spider-Man taught him how to hone his spidey-sense to detect if he was being watched. Using this, he crept along the shelves. As he neared the front, he perched behind a shelf. Stretching his neck to catch a glimpse of Harrison, he tuned back into the noises in the office. Harrison’s breathing was still an aggravated heaving, his heartbeat thumping in matching rage. Whatever this was about, it wasn’t going to end well for whoever was on the receiving end of this anger. Peter’s breath hitched as he heard Harrison shift, grumbling half-words and sentiments more than sentences. He heard the telltale dial tones of an outgoing phone call, and he leaned forward just a touch more. Unfortunately, right as the recipient picked up, Peter leaned just too far, and his foot caught on a bag of dog food that had been hastily shoved onto the bottom shelf, sticking halfway out. He tumbled forward, letting out a soft grunt as his elbows caught him. He paused for a second, listening in. The person on the other end of the phone delivered a short yet polite hello, and it seemed Peter’s little fall had gone unnoticed. Peter’s right foot slowly dragged under him to push him back into an upright position as he held his breath, desperate to remain unheard. He pushed himself into a squat, satisfied with his sneakiness, right as Harrison began to talk. 

Then, everything began to topple. Right above the large bags of dog food, there were shelves of canned food, unreliably secured. As he pushed the bagged food back onto the shelf, one corner lifted the shelf just enough that it became unsteady, and at that moment the first shelf of canned food crashed through the air. Peter, panicking, tried to catch as much as he could, but quickly overwhelmed himself with the sheer quantity of cans. He abandoned trying to catch them, instead opting to get himself away from the loud noises. As he stood, he realized too late that his foot was still trapped under the bagged food, and he tripped into the other shelves of food, causing them to crash to the ground one by one. 

Seeing no way out without being seen, Peter relied on his instincts to tell him where to go. Every time he did this, he seemed to end up in the same place: the ceiling. He flung a web up, and clung desperately to the rotting ceiling tiles. As he caught his breath, a near-silent stream of “oh no oh fuck oh no please don’t see me oh shit” unwound itself from his throat. 

Harrison’s quiet footsteps snuck out of the office, and he peeked at the aisle Peter had just fled. He looked around, fear lacing curiosity on his features, yet he found nobody. Walking back into the office, he spoke much quieter than before, telling the phone, “I don’t think it’s safe to talk here. We’ll chat when I see you. Be discreet, please, we can’t afford any more of a mess on our hands.” After hanging up the phone, he fled the store like he was fleeing a fire, only stopping to fumble with the lock on the door. 

Peter took a second to listen, hearing his boss’s car pull out of the lot, tires screeching in their rush to escape. Heaving a sigh, he let himself drop back to the ground, and began to clean up the mess he’d made.

—-----------------------------

With this interruption, and having to sort the last stack of boxes, Peter didn’t actually leave until 5am. The good news was, he’d pressed some of the metal on the shelf back into place, so when it slotted where it was supposed to, it ended up a lot stronger this time. You’re welcome, sketchy boss. 

As he left the building he sighed with the realization that it would take him a few hours just to find a place to sleep, and at this point, he wouldn’t be able to rest for longer than an hour or two. So, he changed trajectory, did what he did best, and ignored his health to go on patrol. Without a secure place to store his backpack, he was forced to find a corner in a back alley to web it up. Peter hated doing this, it was unreliable, and he’d have to check back in a few hours to reapply the webbing. But it was all that he had right now, so he shut up and left his backpack. 

Swinging to the edge of a rooftop, Peter surveyed the city. He liked to pretend to watch for crimes, because it made him feel like a gargoyle, but really he was doing everything but. He was listening for screams, tasting the air for fear, and sniffing for danger. But if he tried to explain this, he sounded like a crazy bitch. Or Daredevil, but maybe those were the same thing. He then got distracted, and mused on the differences between Daredevil and a cat for far too long, because really, maybe he was bit by a radioactive cat? That would explain a lot.

Through his incredibly serious and important thought process, the scent of blood drifted to him from a couple alleys down. He shook himself out of his thoughts, and leapt across to survey the scene. 

There were two people, a man and a woman. The woman had crowded the man against a wall, whispering professions of love to him. The man was quietly pleading for his freedom, assuring her he’d give her anything she wanted if she’d just leave him alone. Yet she advanced further. Spider-Man didn’t need to keep watching, instead throwing himself into action. He swooped in from the sky, landing on the woman’s shoulders, successfully toppling her away from the victim. From there, she wasn’t hard to subdue. All it took was a web to each foot, two to each wrist, and one over the mouth that wasn’t necessary, but damn it felt good. 

She was nothing special, just one of the many assaulters he’d stopped in his time. Every time, though, it disturbed him. He could never figure out the urge that they chased, he couldn’t decipher why someone would want to violate another person like that. 

He moved away from the woman, quickly pulling out his flip phone and dialing 911 as he led the man out of the alley. As they left, he threw one last web her way, just to be safe. After calling her in, he sat on the curb with the man as they awaited the police. He normally left the scene after stopping the criminal, but with these cases, there was often not enough proof to do anything without as many eye witnesses as possible. Especially if the assaulter was a woman. 

While waiting, he addressed the man quietly, avoiding unnecessary touch, and keeping his hands flat where they could be seen. The man was shaken, understandably, and his bottom lip trembled as he confessed, “she’s my coworker. We were assigned to work together on a project with a tight deadline, so we had to stay late to finish. I offered to walk her home to make sure she got there safely, and she- well, she pushed me- And I- I didn’t-” a sob escaped his lips instead of words. Spider-Man opened his hands up, “can I hug you, would that be okay?” After a quick nod of affirmation, he pulled him close into his shoulder. 

“Listen, this isn’t your fault. What she did, it was horrible. You didn’t do anything to deserve it. The opposite, actually. You did everything right, man.”

“James.” A smidge of confidence wedged its way into his voice. “My name is James, Spider-Man.”

It was then that he seemed to really realize where he was, or rather, who he was with. James’ head whipped around to face Spider-Man’s. “Holy shit. You’re Spider-Man. You’re Spider-Man, and you just saved me. I- Holy shit. This is awesome. I mean, traumatizing. But like, wow. You’re Spider-Man. Holy shit.”

Peter chuckled, glad James was coming back to himself. He squeezed his shoulders a bit, careful not to add too much pressure. “Yeah, James. And I’ll be here to save you, whenever you need it. Just yell for me, and I’ll come.”

At this, James beamed, though there was still a hint of fear residing in his features. It would take a bit for him to feel up to standard, but he’d get there. Peter knew it. The cops pulled around the corner right as Spider-Man stood, reaching out a hand to help James up. They both provided their statements, including as much detail as possible. Spider-Man would be damned if he saw this woman on the streets again anytime soon.

Having done everything he could for James, he gave the man a small salute, and launched a web up to swing him away. He arched through the street, pulling himself up, then right as he began to fall again, launching another to catch himself. It was thrilling, no matter how many times he did it. If he had to rank his favorite parts about being Spider-Man, this would come second. Right after the important conversations he had with people like James. 

Putting his shoulder into his next swing, he launched himself above the tallest building nearby, letting himself free fall while he admired flying above the birds. He tucked his feet in, rolled into a flip mid-air, and whooped as loud as he could before sending out another web to propel him into his next adventure. He closed his eyes, allowing his spidey-sense to lead him through the streets, barely paying any mind to keeping track of where he was. He knew this city as well as he knew the Avengers Compound from his time there. Granted, it had probably changed quite a bit since then, and he had no idea what he still had access to since being erased. But his point stood, he knew the city well. All it would take is a quick sniff and he’d know how to get anywhere. 

When he reopened his eyes, it was to an imminent danger, or so his spidey-sense said. To him, it just looked like the outside of a bodega. It wasn’t his bodega, there was no cat named Murph or employee who flirted with his Aunt, but it was familiar and warm. Or, he supposes it would be, if it was open. 

But judging by the way his spidey-sense was chanting danger danger- careful!, it probably had more going on inside. So, Peter treated it with the appropriate level of concern, and waltzed through the front door humming Hot To Go, by Chappell Roan (author’s note: don’t worry about the implications this has on the timeline. Pop culture references are immune to canon because I said so). 

It didn’t take long for Peter to determine why his spidey-sense was going haywire, because right inside, there was a man in an oversized cat head, rooting desperately through the cash register. Peter had to pause to chuckle at his misery, because this Cat Man seemed to be facing the harsh reality that stores don’t just keep cash in the till constantly, and he was rooting through an empty drawer. Amateur.

Deciding to keep with his music, he started singing the first line to the man, though he didn’t attack yet. “I woke up alone, staring at my ceiling.” He strutted closer to Cat Man, swaying his hips to the beat in his head. “I tried not to care, but it hurt my feelings. You don’t have to stare, come here, get with it!” Crooking one finger on his right hand, he beckoned Cat Man closer, while he used his left to yank him over the counter with a web. As Catso tumbled over the counter, he threw a wild punch towards Spider-Man, making weak contact with his stomach, and strengthening Spider-Man’s grin as he realized the irony and sang out, “no one's touched me there in a damn hot minute!” Laughing, he pulled Cat Man to a standing position, and looked him in the eyes. “Man, nothing? I just serenaded your struggles, and not even a thank you? Kids these days.” He tsked, and the man’s eyes grew wide. 

“Uh, thank you, Spider-Man?” Fear seeped into every feature on Cat Man’s face, but he tried for a small smile to appease the arachnid. 

“Oh, shoot. I didn’t actually expect one.” Behind the mask, Peter’s eyes lit up with excitement that his new friend was talking.

“... sorry. I’m, uh. New to this business.” Cat Man pulled off the cat head, “I guess I don’t really need this, huh? I’ve been discovered, and all I got was a pack of thin mints.”

Peter scowled, “you took thin mints? Come on, man, everyone knows those are the worst of the girl scout cookies. At least have the decency to take some Fudge Stripes.” 

At this, Ex-Cat Man smiled fully, “I thought Spider-Man was supposed to discourage theft?”

Spider-Man stilled, eyeing the man. “Depends. Why were you stealing?”

A sigh, “I’m sorry. I have a daughter at home. Her birthday is coming up, and she really wanted a new LEGO set. I can’t afford it, and her mom has been pretty absent since she was born. I had hoped to get some cash to get her the set with.”

Wow, that was a lot of exposition at once. Peter was pretty used to villainous monologues detailing their entire plans, but usually the mid grade criminals never talked, he had to figure out their motivations for himself. This guy just handed him his whole story on a silver platter, and asked if he’d like croutons to top it. 

“Dude, why didn’t you say so? Come with me.”

Spider-Man turned on his heels and started walking out, confident the man would follow. He was only a few blocks from his and May’s old apartment. Nobody had emptied it yet, which proved incredibly useful right now. As he reached the street under his bedroom window, he turned to face the man. “Does your daughter like Star Wars?”

She didn’t. The freak. So Peter snuck into his old bedroom, and collected every unbuilt non-star-wars LEGO set he could find. There were two. One was an incredibly complex dragon, the other a life-sized Captain America shield. He brought both boxes down to the man, presenting them with a flourish. He decided on the shield, claiming that his daughter was a huge fan. 

Peter swung back up to his room, placing the dragon back in its place, eyes catching on a picture of May on his dresser. It used to be a picture of both of them, posed goofily at a pumpkin patch. Now, it was just May, standing with a white gourd in front of a painted hay bale. He felt a pang of pain in his heart, as memories threatened to arise. He looked back to the window, taking a deep breath. “Not now, Spider-Man. Not now.” 

Back on the ground, he walked the Ex-Cat Man home, and they said their goodbyes. Peter pulled out his flip phone to check the time, 7:21. That had taken longer than he thought. He might as well go change, and get ready for breakfast. 

As he swung back to his bag, he considered the events of tonight, and he considered his impact on the city. How many men like John, or Ex-Cat Man, would have gone otherwise unnoticed, left to suffer in such a large city? He knew he would never save everyone, but he was grateful for those he could save. He was proud of the impact he had every day on his city. New York was his home, and he’d give anything to keep her safe.

He wouldn’t trade being Spider-Man for anything.

Chapter Text

Peter Parker would trade his life for a moldy sandwich. 

At least it would be something to eat, he is starving . Turns out, that whole “you need to eat at least once a week or you’ll die” thing? That’s actually real. And it sucks. 

Apparently this hunger is only made worse if you spend your days fighting crime, your nights doing three peoples’ jobs, and don’t sleep for longer than 4 hours at a time. 

Work has been killing him tonight. When he first showed up, he was thrilled to see a car in the parking lot, assuming he was finally scheduled with a coworker. He’d been disappointed to discover it was just his boss, who warned him to stay in the back and mind his business. Which, to be fair, was practically begging Spider-Man to get involved. 

Grumpy with the realization that he’d be forced to work longer to compensate his inevitable spying, Peter grumbled to himself. “‘Mind your business?’ That’s like telling Captain America to not kiss men. Never gonna happen.” 

He was currently sat on the curb out back, waiting for the unsurprisingly late driver. He never knew their names, they never seemed to want to chat. As he mused over what someone as grumpy as them must be called- probably Sally- his ears perked to noise nearby. Turning his head to face the store, he noted that it was coming from the side lot, one not many people used. Not even the boss used it, because it was further from the door, and there was no good walking path to the front. The only perk it had was that it was discreet. The last person to park there, Peter would guess, would have been those robbers from a few months ago. Good times.

Peter determines that these people aren’t robbers, though, by the sound of expensive leather jackets zipping to block the cold air, and the gentle bristle of metal chains and necklaces clinking into each other. They sounded like they didn’t need to rob a glorified dollar general to get by, so why were they here?

His snooping was buffered by the driver deciding they did want to get paid for the night. They came screeching into the back lot, barreling directly towards Peter. His spidey sense remained calm, so he did too; sure enough, the truck stopped just short of him. 

As the driver hopped out, screeching something about how the youth these days had no respect for oncoming traffic, Peter tuned back into the noises coming from the store. The group had made their way inside, Peter counted six heartbeats. Seven, if he included Harrison’s, which he rarely did. Waving off the driver, he opened the truck to find an excuse to go into the store. He grabbed as many boxes as he could, ignoring the heavy strain on his arms, then pivoted to rush into the store. It was halfway into his trip, just before he reached the door, when he realized that he’d just grabbed a huge stack of insanely heavy freight, and speedwalked away like it was nothing. He cringed, and peeked at the driver. Sure enough, they’d stopped dead on their way to lighting a cigarette, and were staring at Peter dumbfounded. 

“Uh. This is. The boxes. Are. Um. Empty?” He didn’t mean to make it sound like a question, but he was grasping at straws here. 

The driver gaped, but seemed to realize they were staring, and snapped themselves out of it. 

“Fuck this. Clearly I’m not needed here,” they grumbled as they started walking back to the front of the truck, promptly sitting down, pulling out a book, and slamming the door shut.

That could have gone worse, Peter supposed. And whatever, now at least with this driver he wouldn’t have to hide his strength. Hopefully he’d make like a true New Yorker and just decide it wasn’t his problem, then never think about it again. 

He turned his attention back to the mission at hand. Right, the Rich Not-Robbers™. 

Pulling the boxes and setting them on the ground, he slipped to the front of the back room, by the swinging door. His vantage point wasn’t the best here, he couldn’t make out any figures. Instead, he closed his eyes, and used the rest of his senses to his advantage. From this close, he could smell their expensive colognes and the heavy scent of blood. And god, even from here their breath STANK. He gagged a little, did criminals just, like, not know how to brush their teeth?

As they approached the office, he heard Harrison stand to greet them. Peter could smell the fear radiating off of him even from across the store. 

“Shit, I thought the other guys were coming,” Harrison’s voice wavered every few syllables. Clearly, these guys were more dangerous than the guys he was yelling at last week. The Rich Not-Robbers™ (Peter needs a shorter name for them) ignored Harrison’s blubbering, slowly spreading out to surround him. Peter slipped through the door and snuck around the shelves, preparing for a fight. He wasn’t in his suit, so he’d probably have to bribe Harrison’s silence. From here, he could see them. They were large. Like, so big. And threatening as hell. Peter’s spidey sense shivered low in his spine, warning him that they were a threat, but not actively dangerous to anyone.

A woman near the front, decked out in leather pants and a leather jacket, a walking stereotype in Peter’s opinion, stepped forward. 

“Listen, Harry. ya’ve been a bad business partner. If ya don’t got the guns today, we’re not gonna work with ya anymore. And ya know what happens then.” 

Harrison sputtered, took in a deep breath, and on the release explained, “the guys you sent me got caught. They were carrying the bulk of the shipment over, when they got ambushed by Deadpool. I already fired them all, so they won’t be messing anything else up for us, but ‘pool took the shipment. I only have a couple here with me.”

The woman tutted, shaking her head. “God, you are so useless, Harry. If you fire them, they’ll be out there out of your control, knowin’ too much. Now I gotta hunt them down and kill ‘em too.” She raised her gun, pointing it at a terrified Harrison’s forehead. “But first, ya didn’t match your end of the deal, Har, ya know what the consequences for that are.” 

Peter panicked, and threw himself forward with a gasping yell. “Wait! I know he’s an asshole, but is that really necessary?” His outburst caused her to pause in shock, which Peter used to his advantage, stepping between Harrison and the gun. As his senses flared, he heard sirens flowing down the street. He had to get out of here before the cops arrived. 

The woman came to herself, shaking off her shock. “Listen, kid, I’ll take care of ya in a second. Move, or you’ll die before he does. And trust me, this asshole ain’t someone to die for.”

Peter bit back a snarky comment, deciding there was no time. He acted quickly, grabbing the gun and crushing it in one hand, then moving forward and launching a kick at the woman. She was blindsided by his attack, clearly inexperienced. She was likely never challenged, her authority unquestioned. And she was not his biggest problem. 

Right when he attacked, the others behind her brought out their own guns. There were five left, two men and three women. If he had to guess by their stances, only one woman was actually combat-trained. He launched at the others, dodging gunfire as he grabbed the nearest barrel. If he had his webshooters on, he could have easily disarmed them all within a minute. He’d have to make do without for now. 

Yanking the barrel towards him, he pulled one of the men forward, then used his momentum to shove him into the ground with enough enhanced strength that he heard a crack as the man’s shoulder made contact with the ground. He crushed the man’s gun under his foot, focusing on squishing the machine so it couldn’t be repaired. As he turned back to the group, they seemed to decide that he was worth wasting ammo on, and began shooting.

He dodged as best as he could, but it became harder as they rounded in on him. His spidey-sense was becoming overwhelmed, screaming at him to get away , but he couldn’t leave now. He pushed forward, aiming to get close enough to throw a punch or two. As he slipped to his left, narrowly avoiding a bullet, his sense peaked above him, telling him to duck. Right as he fell lower, however, he was warned of one coming low, right where his chest was now, and two coming on either side. He didn’t have time to think, simply picking a side and jumping to get himself out of the way of the other two shots. With this decision, a bullet lodged itself into his right thigh.

He didn’t stop, instead rushing towards his attackers.

He wove between the shooters, who paused their fire at the loss of a clear shot. As he went, he grabbed one by the neck and pulled him back onto his fist, enacting something like a reverse punch. It was enough to knock him out cold, and Peter grabbed the gun as he dropped the criminal to the floor. 

That seemed to be when his luck ran out, as the cops finally arrived, storming the place in less than a minute. 

In the time it took for them to get from their cars to the door, however, he’d managed to use the criminals’ surprise at their arrival to knock out two more of the women, leaving only the one with training. 

When the cops rounded on them, Peter decided to play into his youth, falling to the floor so it looked as though his most recent knockdown had taken them both with him. He whined loudly, trying his best to sound like a pitiful teenager, in a fight he could never handle, and deserving of lenience and pity.

The last woman standing looked at him with fury in her eyes, raising her hands above her head in compliance before she was asked to. Underneath that fury, though, there were notes of cold calculation. She surrendered easily enough, but her eyes never left Peter as she was pulled away. 

After apprehending the armed woman, the officers turned to the injured teenager, expecting him to still be laying on the floor. 

He wasn’t. Instead, a sloppy trail of blood led around the shelves, towards the back of the store. 

Peter was trying to make a quick escape, ditching his pitiful teenager act almost as quickly as he had adopted it. Unfortunately for his sneaking, the pain from his leg was starting to catch up to him. 

The police officers were on his trail, and he wasn’t able to hobble away fast enough. They, the uninjured bastards, rounded on him quickly, one brave enough to grab his shoulder.

If there’s one thing Peter Parker hated , it was an unexpected touch. His spidey sense usually gave him enough warning if it was from a criminal, and those who used to know him well enough to touch him also knew not to. This touch, however, wasn’t dangerous to Peter, the officer was just trying to get him to stop long enough that they could check on him. Peter’s senses remained calm. Peter did not follow suit.

He flipped himself around, reacting without a thought, bringing a fist hard into  the officer’s nose. The others stopped in their tracks, one muttering a low, “shit, kid.” Peter heaved a breath, unable to release the tension from his shoulders. He turned on his heel, and booked it. 

He was gone before the punched officer’s eyes cleared well enough to see who it was, but his coworkers saw well enough.

—

Spider-Man perched outside a window, watching the bank robbers’ escapades. They were fighting with leftover alien tech, but it was clear they put all their eggs in that basket, because they were failing hard. One tripped as they ran through the door, causing another to trip over their fallen form. Peter watched in amusement as the others gathered around their fallen friends and gestured loudly, resembling a sim caught in a house fire. 

He was almost tempted to let them continue, watching this dumpster fire was making his night. Unfortunately for the robbers, he was on his 7th hour of crime fighting, and hour no-fucking-clue of being awake. His patience was running a little thin, and so was his will to live.

Sliding open the window, he inched across the bank’s ceiling. He considered which of his rehearsed quips to pull out right now, gauging their age to determine if one of his more recent pop culture references might land. Maybe he could take it all the way back, with a vine reference? One of these guys might enjoy a “buttcheek on a stick” reference. Or maybe he could pick a new song to sing here, honestly he just needed something fun to make the night less dull-

Deadpool burst through the door.

Peter dropped to the floor in surprise, scuttling behind the counter, hiding behind the surprise deadpool caused, just as he heard the jeers coming from the door.

“Aww, looks like one of you has already fallen for me! Gotta say, not the first time someone has fallen before meeting me. I didn’t expect to meet a fan today, I didn’t bring my fountain pen! Maybe I can make up for it by leaving a little lipstick kiss on you? I think I have NARS’ “Don’t Stop” Red in my pocket. Gotta stay prepared, you know?” As he spoke, letting out a series of animated gestures reminiscent of a rejected Sailor Moon episode, he scanned the room. 

“Look, as lovely as I’m sure you guys are, I’m not really in the crime-fighting mood today. This is a spidey-centric fic here, and I don’t think the readers are quite ready for the vulgarity of my point of view this early in the fic, so Spidey must be somewhere around here!” 

Completely ignoring the robbers and their weapons, Deadpool began searching the room. Peter stayed stoic, using Deadpool’s distraction to sneak around the room, until he was behind the robbers. From there, he easily attached a small line of webs to each of their weapons without them noticing, waiting for the perfect moment- Deadpool backflipped over the counter, falling on his head and resulting in a loud CRASH- to yank the alien guns from their hands, right into Peter’s waiting arms. 

He dropped them on the ground, then squished them all individually, targeting whichever parts of the gun looked the most important to their functioning. He didn’t know shit about guns, but he was trying his best to guess. Man, Tony would’ve been so excited to teach him how to safely dismantle a gun.

Deadpool threw his head back above the counter at the noise, perking up when his eyes finally landed on Spider-Man. “Spidey-poo!! I was just looking for you!!” He launched himself back over the counter, no more gracefully than the first time, all limbs as he plummeted from the counter. He righted himself quickly, shaking out his limbs. “Alright, let’s get down to business!” 

Wade pulled out his katanas, “look, I hate to say this, but I am here for your head, cutie patootie. Money’s tight, and this job pays damn well.”

Peter was a little lost, but recognized the threat, and cocked his head. 

“People have been trying to kill me for years now, and none have succeeded,” his hand found a place on his hip as he shifted into the sassiest pose he could muster. “What makes you special?”

The robbers tried to use Deadpool’s distraction to their advantage, sneaking closer to the door before making a break for it. Naturally, Peter webbed each of them where they stood without breaking eye contact with Deadpool.

“Give me one second here, I gotta finish up with these guys.” Peter never expected anyone to listen when he made these requests, but to his surprise DP simply nodded and moved into a more relaxed position. Peter, with his experience on both sides of this pose, could easily detect the alertness remaining in his shoulders, and the gentle shift of his head as Deadpool catalogued every movement Peter made, sizing him up and preparing for a fight.

Peter waltzed over to the robbers, grabbing one of their phones and dialing 911. 

“Hey, Ms. Janet! Shift going okay? Yep, it’s Spider-Man again. Listen, I got this group who just tried to rob the Wells Fargo on Madison and 49th, no casualties or injuries, nothing stolen. Actually, scratch that, I think one of these guys took one of the flower pens, I’ll make sure to get that back. Thanks, Ms. Janet, tell Mr. Dylan I say hi and to rest well. You make sure he doesn’t come back to work until he’s feeling 100%, okay? Thanks! Bye.”

Peter smiled, he loved New York, and the people in it. The 911 operators were very familiar with him at this point, as he called several times every night. He was beginning to learn officers’ names, but he usually tried to skedaddle before police arrived. 

“Hey, Spidey, yoohoo! Lock in for a sec here, I gotta kill you, man!” Deadpool singsonged from across the room when Peter stood in silent fondness for a second too long. 

“You might want to get out of here before the cops arrive, Deadpool. Heard they’re not your biggest fans.”

Peter looked the mercenary up and down, “and besides, I thought you’d moved into car sales?”

Deadpool practically squealed, “Spidey keeps track of me! He knows where I work! His info’s a little outdated, but he tried!” Then, straightening himself a bit, “got fired, went on a weird and wacky timeline adventure with the TVA, and had so much freaky-time with Wolverine. I needed something familiar to pay the bills for a bit, so I take on bigger jobs every so often. And you,” he unsheathed his katana to point it at Peter, “are enough of a job I won’t have to be in the field for a good while.”

Peter sighed, looks like he couldn’t quite find sleep yet. “Look, man, I am exhausted, can we do this another time? I want to go home and sleep for at least an hour, please .” The mercenary didn’t have to know that Peter didn’t actually have a home to go to. He snuck out a line of webbing behind his back, confirming with a quick tug that it attached securely.

Deadpool cocked his head a little like a confused puppy. “Nuh-uh Spidey, I read the tags. Homeless Spidey is on this fic’s agenda, and I am not leaving your side! I want my well-deserved screen-time, or, page-time? Google-tab-time?”

Peter began inching away, plotting the best escape from this situation. He didn’t know what Deadpool was saying, or how he knew Peter was homeless already, but he knew that he was way too exhausted to deal with the merc right now. As Wade yapped endlessly, he positioned his wrist to sling himself away, and said, “look, I am so confused right now, and I would love to listen to you tell me all about this- uh, fic??- some other time, but I have to go. Uh, sleep.” he yanked on the web, shooting himself into the air faster than anyone could follow on foot.

Behind him, Deadpool tried to follow, hopping into a car that was definitely not his, but quickly lost track of the web-slinger. Peter rounded the building and flung himself on top, taking stock of what he could do. As much as he never wanted to return to the building he used to begrudgingly call home, he was also running out of options here. 

He was currently in a very nice neighborhood in Manhattan. So, the police presence here was high, and it would only increase with tonight’s attempted robbery. If he wanted to go to the total opposite, he could make his way to the Bronx, but he was more likely to encounter other squatters there who might not mind their business. He decided to continue past the Bronx, flinging himself further than he’d wanted, into Sullivan County. 

For a car, this trip would take about an hour and 45 minutes, assuming predictable traffic and a smooth ride. Peter, when not stopping to fight crime, traveled an average of 70 mph swinging. When ignoring roads and alternating between swinging from buildings and running on roofs, it was about a 60 mile trip, which should have taken Peter just about 56 minutes. If he left now, he could maybe find a good spot in Sullivan’s forests to set up a more permanent camp than he’s had in a while. 

Unfortunately for Peter’s quick math, he forgot to account for time taken to faceplant off the side of a building, and the subsequent recovery.

Chapter Text

Peter woke up in the street. He wasn’t sure how far out of Manhattan he had gotten before he- collapsed? Had he really fallen? He was tired, but he didn’t think it had gotten that bad. Maybe he was just distracted. 

Either way, he had to get himself up now. Only so long Spider-Man could stay passed out in the street while protecting his identity. 

He pushed himself up onto his knees, crouching in an inhuman pose as he looked around. His head was throbbing with pain, maybe falling off of a building wasn’t good for him. His ribs felt like fire laced the bones, his hips were molding themselves back together after taking the brunt of the fall, and his suit had gained a few new scratches. 

Peter decided to scoot back to lean against a building while he healed, but as soon as his back hit the building, his senses alerted him to an incoming presence. On top of the building he was resting against, a man was silhouetted. His senses didn’t peg the man as a danger to Peter, they were simply humming that he was watching, watching, watching . Peter raised a hand in a small wave, hoping it conveyed “I’m fine, totally fine, don’t come over here.” 

The man lifted his chin, and from here Peter almost thought it looked like he was sniffing the air , before turning around and disappearing into the night. 

Ominous. 

—

Peter wrapped himself tighter in his jacket. He had ultimately decided to just head back to his prior home, as it was close. He hadn’t even made it out of Manhattan before collapsing, only making it to the outskirts of Hell’s Kitchen. Maybe he should stay local for a bit, his building was near Midtown, and it always comforted him to be so close to the people he loved- even if they didn’t remember him.

As it stood, Peter was recovering from his crash to the ground. Once he had gotten to relative safety, he had flopped onto his mess of clothes acting as a bed and passed out. His healing factor was getting so slow due to his lack of nutrition.

Peter was used to going to sleep, and waking up healed. He wasn’t used to the lingering ache that developed with severe injuries. Who would have thought, falling off of a large building and face planting might result in some leftover pain! 

Peter sat up, cursing his lack of blanket. This jacket was great, but it was cold as freak outside, and this was not sustainable for a growing spider boy! Never mind the fact he was probably not getting any taller, and if he kept up this level of nutrition he definitely wasn’t getting any wider. 

Sighing, he stood all the way up and stretched his arms behind his head. As he leaned back, he heard a very healthy and not concerning pop! in his back. 

He needed something to take the edge off of his pain, and he needed it soon. If a city-destroying or world-ending crisis happened, he’d hardly be able to swing to it, much less help. Honestly, even if a simple mugging happened he’d be useless.

Painkillers never worked, his metabolism was too fast. Once, he’d chugged two bottles. Unfortunately, a fast metabolism didn’t stop his body naturally rejecting the medicine, and he’d thrown it up. There seemed to be no in-between, either it didn’t last longer than a few minutes, or he’d vomit.

But he needed to get somewhere first, so he decided to risk taking as much as he had, which was about half a bottle. He pulled out a water bottle from his backpack, and chugged the pills. Taking so many at once was awful . But it had to be done, if he wanted to survive the short trip down the street.

What was down the street that would take his mind off of his pain, you ask?

Jack shit, that’s what.

About a block down from the place he was staying, was the most run-down and terribly maintained bar Peter had ever stepped foot in. You could just look at the place and know nothing that went down there was legal. 

It was perfect for a legally nonexistent minor!

With the pills numbing his headache, rib-ache, hip-ache, and leg-ache, he fully stood. He moved quickly, knowing half a bottle would give him about 10 minutes of pain-free movement, then the injuries would begin making themselves known again.

He tossed the makeshift bed into his backpack alongside his water and the empty bottle. Turning around and reaching the window, he clicked open his webshooters and fired once, sticking to the roof of the building. Thoroughly attached, he jumped down, gliding smoothly to the ground. 

—

Standing outside of the bar, the pain began to return. He needed a quick fix, and he needed it before everything got worse. He pushed his way through the doors, ignoring the large and sweaty crowd in the bar, in favor of finding a spot at the end of the bar, out of sight. Last thing he needed was someone noticing the baby-faced 17 year old and causing problems.

He sat down and pulled his hood up, hiding his face. He looked like a wreck, he knew. He hadn’t showered in about a week, he was wearing clothes that hadn’t been washed in two, and his hair hadn’t been cut in the past year. He was so stereotypically homeless, it was like someone had hired an actor to pretend to be homeless. 

Peter looked up, and made eye contact with the bartender. He approached, spinning a glass under a towel as he walked. 

“Aren’t you a little young to be in a place like this, kid?”

Peter sighed, looking up through his lashes, allowing exhaustion to seep into his gaze.

“Do you care?”

The bartender huffed out a laugh, and rolled his eyes, “I guess not, what do you want?”

Peter ordered his drink, requesting the strongest thing the bartender could concoct, and the man chuckled again. “Alright, kid, but if you get fucked up tonight, I’m not explaining shit to your mommy. That’s on you.”

“Don’t worry, my ‘mommy’ won’t be worried.” Peter leveled the other man with a glare, before slumping over the counter. As he waited for his drink, he closed his eyes and focused on his other senses.

His sense of touch was fucked, with the amount of pain his body was in. The painkillers still had a slight effect, but not enough. His nose was so overwhelmed with the sheer amount it took in. He tasted the alcohol in the air, as well as some grease mixed with salt; likely the result of the order of fries being ravished by the couple next to him. The noise from the surrounding crowd sounded chaotic, and it was, but there was more to it. The drunken laughing of a group in the corner, likely just off a shift at work judging by the scent of paper clinging to their clothes; the whispered conversations between sketchy men in suits; the camaraderie between two men giving each other relationship advice based on their mutual failed marriages. 

Peter needed a drink. The pain, and the sensory input, and the man watching him from across the bar, they were all getting too much. Especially the pain. His ribs were killing him.

Peter’s senses were muddying together, he was starting to have trouble distinguishing what happened ten seconds ago and what was actively happening. He needed a drink, where the hell is the bartender?!

As if summoned by the thought, the man slid a drink to Peter. It was brown, and vaguely sludgy, much like the other drinks in this place. Peter hoped that the amount of alcohol in this drink was inversely proportional to how delicious it looked. If he could still form a coherent thought by the end of the night, he was going to punch somebody undeserving. Or maybe he’d find a deserving pincushion.

Grabbing his drink, he took the largest swig he could before gagging at the horrendous taste. Yep, tasted as good as it looked. As he pulled the drink from his lips, he couldn’t help the grimace that found its way onto his face. 

Suddenly, a voice beside him let out a low chuckle. “First drink, kid?”

Peter redirected his disgust into a glare and focused it on the man next to him. “I resent that.” 

The man laughed more openly this time, taking a seat on Peter’s right side. He… wasn’t the most attractive… to say the least. Peter tried not to outwardly react, but it was a touch jarring to interact with a man with so many facial scars, no hair, and… He pings Peter’s spidey sense like hell . Peter would have to be careful. But, at the same time, the massive drink he’d just nearly downed was not helping, and the incredible pain he was in definitely made it harder to think.

Peter smiled back, “what. Do you want with me? I-” he downed the rest of the drink, “I am not as easy to kidnap as you’re probably counting on. Hey, Mr. Bartender sir? Another, please.” Peter thanked the man as he handed off his glass, then turned his attention back to the spooky man in front of him.

The man raised where his eyebrows should be, and shrugged, “if I was coming after you, this wouldn’t be a fair fight. You seem a little out of it.”

Peter downed the next drink as it was handed to him, “well, falling off a building will do that. Usually ten stories would be no problem-” Peter swished his hand to show how smoothly he’d shake it off, “but you gotta eat to fall off buildings safely.”

The man’s brow furrowed, concern filling his features, “and when was the last time you had a full meal?”

Peter sighed, “Uh, I don’t know. What year is it? I haven’t had a properly balanced meal since… maybe since I was 16? But listen, that shit isn’t necessary. Like, yeah, shit sucks, and my tummy hurts, but like- and do not comment on the use of ‘tummy’- I can still mostly function. Sure, a bullet hole takes a bit longer to stop hurting, and as I’ve learned today a fall from ten stories hurts like hell , but one meal a day is totally sufficient.” 

The scarred man gained an amused expression, electing not to interrupt Peter. And really, Peter can’t be blamed for ranting, if his audience was going to enable him like this.

Before continuing, Peter downed another drink. Maybe it wasn’t a good idea to pair up pain meds and copious amounts of alcohol. As much as his system was working through the meds, they weren’t fully out yet. And he was definitely lagging. Hard. It felt like his thoughts were a stream of water flowing directly from his brain to his mouth, and he was trying to stop them with a strainer. 

“And, dude, it definitely isn’t great , like, I am nowhere near up to my usual stamina. Normally, I could, like, backflip ten times without getting dizzy. But now? Now, I’m maxed out at five! Five!! And the guys I fight? They don’t seem to respect a poor underfed orphan- not that they know I’m one of those, but still. They won’t even give me a slight break. Can’t even take a breather without risking a civilian’s life. And, that is so much pressure! Like, I’m constantly keeping track of where I am, where the innocents are, and where the villain is. And if they’ve got bombs, shit is so much worse.” 

Peter didn’t even realize he had stood up and started pacing slightly, ranting about the stress of his job. Suddenly, it felt like all of his emotions crashed down on him. He sagged, the pain making itself known in full force. Sitting back down, he slumped his head into his arms. 

The man laughed at Peter, openly! The nerve. It wasn’t a small chuckle either, it was a full-blown chortle ! 

“Listen, Spides, this is so irresponsible of you! And that’s- wow! I came here knowing you’d be here, expecting a cool college-aged guy with his crap together, but like- oh em gee. You are so little, and so drunk, and- is this morally irresponsible for me to allow? Maybe- and you’re just telling me everything! Like, I know who you are, but if I didn’t I would by the end of this conversation! God, Spidey-poo, whatever you got going on at home- or as close to it as you’ve got- you gotta figure this out before outing yourself to another mercenary.”

Peter should have been shocked. He thinks, somewhere in his chest is a raging surprise, bursting to get free and take him far far away from the man who knows who he is. But instead, Peter just- sags more. It shouldn’t be possible for him to melt any more into the bar counter, but it is. His cheek is now flat against the dirty wood, his chest digging into the corner. His hands fall limp by his side, as he shifts to look at the man. And, in a move that would mortify sober Peter, he cries. Just a little. Just a tear. Or- two, or maybe three, but no more than ten. 

“God, you’re right. I- I’m, like, useless. I’m exhausted, in so much pain , and want nothing more than to go home; but home doesn’t know who I am anymore. I need a fucking nap .” Peter sighed, long and loud. Maybe he was being a touch dramatic, but nobody was going to call him on it, so who cares? 

Peter debated heading home, considering the feeling of being well-rested against the inevitable depression of sleeping on tattered clothes while freezing. He had only been here a few minutes, and he was probably too drunk to go anywhere, but since when has that stopped him?

He closes his eyes, knowing that with his face scrunched like this he looks more like a petulant ten year old than the 21 year old college kid he’s supposed to be.

A hiccup found its way from his chest, just as another drink found its way into his hands.

“Woah, hey, kid, maybe don’t drink another- oh, whelp, it’s gone. Damn, kid, you’re f-u-c-k’ed up, both in the too-much-alcohol sense, and in the mental state sense.”

Another sigh sounded, somehow longer and louder than the last. 

“Not the worst state I’ve been in. At least I’m not actively seeking my own demise, if ya catch my drift. There was a time there where I kept begging for a criminal to finally do me in. But, like, that was when I was first homeless. Or, second homeless? I guess? I was homeless with Aunt May after the blip, but pretty much everyone was for a few weeks there. But, like, homeless and on my own? Sucks. S-U-C-K-S. And cherry on top, dumb wizard spell erased me from existence.”

Ignoring the other man’s choked noise, Peter continued, unable to stop himself now that someone was finally listening. “And, look, if it didn’t already suck ass being erased socially, do you know how hard it is to get a good, legal job that pays enough to eat and afford rent without any identification? Tony would have had me set, there was a whole college fund and I think a giant trust fund in my name, but I have no way to get that money now. I think Tony might have been planning to leave Stark Industries to me, but I guess I’ll never know. Not that I’d be any good at running a company- but I guess he never was, so maybe it’d work out.”

Peter leaned back in his chair, peeling his cheek from the bar. He blinked, dazed, and asked for another drink. 

The man, grabbing the glass as it was handed to Peter, tutted. “Alright, you’re done. I was totally gonna kill you, but I wouldn’t dare lay a finger on that adorable baby-face. So instead-” He lifted Peter into a bridal carry, mildly concerned with the boy’s lack of resistance- “come with me, and you’ll be, in a world of pure imagination,” he sang. 

Peter smiled a little at that, reaching his arm out and using a touch of enhanced speed to chug the discarded drink before he could be stopped. Man, he couldn’t feel any of his pain right now. This was probably.. Not a good thing. But, you know, whatever. Peter hummed Pure Imagination as he was carried out of the bar.

It probably says something about the quality of this place that nobody- not the group fresh off a shift, not the sketchy men in suits, nor the men who knew nothing about marriage- even looked twice at a grown man kidnapping a young boy. That’s- probably fine.

For now, he let himself get carried away, ignoring the intense panic of his spidey sense.

—

Peter’s head ached. 

It always ached, ever since the bite, but usually he could pretend it didn’t.

Because, really, that was all he ever did with pain. It never went away, it never faded, he just got better at pretending it had. 

He’d been Spider-Man for a year now, ceaseless exhaustion tainting his every movement at the ripe age of sixteen.

This time, though, it was worse, because he didn’t really know how he got here. He’d been fighting alongside the avengers- Cap and Iron Man and Hulk and- well, most of them. Even Thor had shown up. 

He’d been swinging, knocking goopy aliens into each other and tallying points. He’d started a game, challenged the other avengers; whoever could get the most points would get to pick where they stopped for dinner that night. 

The great big aliens hidden closer to the spaceship were worth 3 points, the armed ones worth 2, and the small foot soldiers 1. 

Peter was winning, but mostly because the others were focused on taking down the pilot and head of this army, while he’d been delegated to the outskirts of the fight- protecting civilians and containing the mess of the fight. 

He was whooping as one crashed into another, melting into an awkward sludge on the concrete, when something hit him. It crashed into his ribs, hard and fast, and knocked him off course. 

Of course, when one thing goes wrong, everything does.

He’d ignored Friday’s incessant warnings that he was low on web fluid, worried that stressing others to ask someone to cover his position while he refilled would strain their mission. 

So, when that something knocked into him, he was forced to fire a much longer web than he’d planned. It carried him away, far enough that he could twist, notice the bumper of a car falling behind him, and sling his final web towards the alien that had thrown it. Peter used his momentum to raise the alien, then smash it back into the ground.

But, he had no more webs. 

This occurred to Peter, naturally, at the height of his swing, when he tried to send the next one out to catch him without thinking.

He was too high to catch himself on anything, only able to let out a small, “shit.” 

He began to fall. This feeling was nothing new, he fell all the time! He tried to keep it together as he called for help. 

“GUYS! Uh- I mean- shit, shit shit, guys- I need someone to catch me.”

Over the comm, a short silence, then, “catch you? Kid, how high up are you? FRIDAY, how high up is he?” Another silence, in which Peter tried very hard to not scream. “Pete, shit, I’m coming, just-”

—

“Peter?”

He was in a sterile, lonely place. He wasn’t alone here, the place just smelled lonely. It smelled like being left behind. 

Peter opened his eyes slightly, wincing at the light. 

“M’sr S’rk? Wh’r ‘re we?” Peter’s voice slurred. It made him sound like a kid, he thought, unable to form a sentence. He cleared his throat, pushing himself to reform a correct sentence, “Mr. Stark, did I fall?” 

Mr. Stark looked into his barely opened eyes, tiredness reflecting back at him. “Yeah, Pete, you could say that. How’s the head? Up to par?”

Stark seemed… nervous? He had clearly been awake for some time, anxiety etched deep into his features. Peter thought it was odd, why would a man with so much constant pressure even care that Peter was hurt? It wasn’t like Peter was important at all in comparison to the Great Tony Stark.

No, that wasn’t fair. Stark was a person, underneath the fame. He had his media persona, but behind the scenes he was anxious, avoidant, and terrible at communication. 

Peter saw Stark as a person, though he sometimes let himself forget. He knew that Stark acted like he did as a defense mechanism- that he was terrified of people relying on him. He constantly broke others’ trust on purpose, because if they knew not to rely on him, then when he fucked everything up nobody would be surprised.

And of course, Peter knew this was bullshit. 

So, Peter debated his answer, truthfully his head hurt way more than normal, but he didn’t want Stark fretting over him. The man had too many worries already.

“It’s fine, I guess. It hurts, more than normal, but it’s fine. Nothing I’m not used to.”

Stark frowned, concern dancing across his face. “Look, kid, I know you don’t want to burden me. Hell, I get being closed off from others’ concern. I get that you don’t want to weigh down others. But listen, you’re allowed to rely on us.” He pulled Peter into his arms, sitting himself on the bed next to the boy. “We’re here with you, and we’re here for you.” 

He pulled his head back to make eye contact with Peter, who looked up at him with tears forming in the corners of his eyes. “Me especially. I love you, kiddo, and you’re important to me. I know I’m not the best at showing it, but you mean a lot to me, and I don’t want to see you in pain. So rely on me, okay? Ask me for food or money when you’re hungry, stay at the compound when May’s working overnight, watch movies with us all when you’re sad. Just, take what you need. We’ll give what we can. You’re an incredible kid, Peter- don’t give me that look, you know you are. We’re all lucky to know you, and we’d be stupid not to help you in whatever we can. Can you let us?”

Peter, not trusting his words, simply nodded.

“Good. Now, go back to sleep, Pete. I’ll be here when you wake up.”

—

Peter woke up, head pounding, ribs aching, and shitting himself. Not literally, thank god, but he was close to it. 

He blinked, his senses hitting him fast and hard. He was in a completely unfamiliar room, with ruined floors and walls, glass shards strewn from the window, blood streaking the floor, and the smell of burn leaking from under the door. 

He had been kidnapped.

Fuck , of course he had been kidnapped! He was practically begging for it! 

Peter couldn’t remember shit from the night before, which was already a terrible sign. 

He could smell the city outside, he was still in Manhattan, not far from his building. He could make this work.

But, also, if he had been kidnapped, there was a chance that whoever took him might have taken others, or might take someone to replace Peter. He’d have to take them down. With an aching head, body, and spirit, he first listened for cameras. 

His hearing wasn’t as good as Daredevil’s, but he could still catch the faint whirring of most cameras, if he really focused. 

Nodding to himself, he cleared the room of cameras. Listening devices were harder to hear, as less parts worked in tandem for them to function. So, as a precaution, he would just have to stay silent. Not a problem, spiders were pretty quiet naturally. 

He raised himself to sitting, then slowly reached up to send a web to the ceiling. It wasn’t exactly silent, but it could easily disguise with the radio static, or a shifting of sheets if one didn’t know exactly what to listen for. 

Lifting himself feet first, he pressed his arms into the bed with enough pressure to stop it from squeaking as his weight shifted, then eased off. Firmly standing on the ceiling, he glanced towards the door.

He needed a plan. The last few times he’d been kidnapped, he hadn’t been lucky enough to be left alone. Usually, he was also only held for a few minutes before escaping, he’d never stayed asleep like this; it was a new experience all around. He’d just have to find whoever kidnapped him, take them down, and get the hell outta dodge. 

Nodding to himself, he readied his wrist shooters for combat, sticking his arms in front of him. Their presence meant the kidnapper probably  didn’t know he was Spider-Man. He’d have to use that in his favor- element of surprise and all that. 

He crept towards the door, listening for any noise. 

Suddenly, he heard a quiet sizzling. A bomb? A nuclear device? A new gas emitting device? His mind raced with possibilities, trying to prepare himself to take it down before it caused any harm.

Two steps closer, he smelled what was sizzling. It was… flour? No, batter. Judging by the limited ingredients, he’d guess pancakes or waffles. Was this kidnapper running a pancake house as a front for their illegal business? Damn, it was one thing to kidnap children- or young adults, as he’d argue to anyone else- but to disrespect pancakes like that? That was just wrong. Pancakes were joy and love, crime was- well, illegal to start, actively harmful and immoral to finish.

With returned determination, he slipped to the door, and eased it open. Crouching on the ceiling, he poked his head through. 

There was a short hallway stretching to his right, but the room to his left opened almost immediately into a kitchen. Not a restaurant-grade kitchen, but a house’s kitchen, not dissimilar to the one in May’s old apartment. The main differences were the glass shards leading from a broken window; dried blood. old and new mingling together, streaked across the floor; and every plate, fork, and furniture either shattered or damaged almost to the point of ruin. Everything was technically usable still.

But none of these were the strangest things. No, in fact, the strangest thing was standing in front of the stove, back facing Peter, wearing a full kevlar red and black suit— with a blue and pink apron tied tightly around his waist.

Peter let out a short breath of relief, dropping from the ceiling into a handstand. “Oh, thank god. I thought you were dishonoring pancakes, and I was gonna have to kill you.”

Chapter Text

Matt Murdock is no stranger to odd things happening.

Hell, he got enhanced senses at the ripe age of 9, he became The Devil in his 20’s, and he fights crime every night. As Deadpool once oh so eloquently put it, he was “like a freaky ninja that broke out his BDSM gear to make the enemy feel awkward enough they’d just give up.” Not quite how he’d describe it- he would include a lot more vengeance, justice, religious trauma, and brooding.

But, point being, Daredevil knows how to navigate strangeness. 

That being said, even he will admit, a kid- maybe he was a young adult, but Matt doubted he was 18 yet- bleeding out on the side of a building is not something he’s got experience with. Then again, it wouldn’t really strike him as strange- if it weren’t for the way he could hear the kid’s bones knitting themselves back together.

Yeah, okay, whatever. Still not that strange. Matt meets enhanced people all the time!

Except that he knew this kid . 

He didn’t know how he was so familiar, Matt couldn’t recall any interactions, and yet he definitely knew the kid. He recognized the heartbeat- just a little faster than an average human’s- and the breathing pattern- shallow and short, like he was running out of breath even though the rest of his body oozed calm (which it should definitely NOT do considering how many broken bones the kid had).

This kid’s presence brought memories— not events, per say, but emotions. 

Watching him, beyond the unsettling feeling of hearing his bones mending (like, what???) , there was a fondness, a caring in the way that an uncle watches out for their nephew, a nervousness that came with people you care about making decisions you don’t agree with, and a fond frustration with their stubbornness. 

Matt needed to figure this out. 

He also needed to not freak the kid out. The kid was young, and clearly enhanced in some way. 

Was there a way that the devil could approach a teen without scaring the absolute shit out of him? 

Matt sat down on his bed that night, still thinking it over as he pulled off his cowl and changed into some loose silk PJ’s for the night. He was very particular about his PJ’s, and Foggy had bought him this set. It was soft, and didn’t trap heat like cotton did. Foggy said he looked like a rich asshole in them, but his heartbeat had stuttered a bit when he saw Matt in them. 

Matt was startled from his thoughts by his phone ringing, “Foggy, Foggy, Foggy.”

He picked up, wanting to let concern take over his voice so he could beg, ‘is everything okay? Are you okay? Is your family okay? It’s late. Why are you awake? Could you not sleep? Is there anything I can-’ but instead schooled himself, and went for a casual, “Hey Fogs.”

“Matt, I just saw on the news that Daredevil brought down three gangs in one night. First of all, wow. You’re awesome-” Matt’s heart seemed to cartwheel at the slight praise from his friend, something Matt was decidedly not thinking about - “second, are you okay? I know sometimes after big fights you feel.. more alone than usual.”

That was.. really sweet. Matt’s chest clenched tight at the thought of Foggy’s comfort. God, he wanted nothing more than to curl up on the couch with his best friend, fingers running lovingly through his hair, Foggy’s heart thumping a slow rhythm of love .

Matt knew that Foggy loved him. He realized it- although belatedly- sometime after college, when the evidence was too much for him to ignore. The quick touches, quick heart rate, warmth in his cheeks Matt could feel from across the room all became just too obvious to ignore, and it hit Matt like a truck.

Matt knew he loved Foggy back. He realized it sometime during college. 

Matt could never pursue anything with Foggy. Their friendship had barely survived Daredevil- he was ruined when they broke up the law firm. Foggy was all that he had, all that he cared about. Without Foggy Nelson, Matt Murdock was nothing. And Matt couldn’t lose that.

He knew that their relationship wouldn’t be able to take the strain of the Devil. He knew that each time he came home, bloody and bruised, it would hurt Foggy a little more. 

And the last thing he wanted was to hurt Foggy.

“Matt? Bud? You still with me?”

Right, Fogs had asked if he wanted to come over. 

“Yeah, sorry. No, I think I’ll just be heading to sleep for now.”

But, Foggy was always much more emotionally adept than him, maybe he could- “hey Foggy, before I go. Do you know…” he trailed off as he figured out how to ask.

“Probably not. If the question is anything about, like, math, or science, or really anything except law. Or how to bake bread- I can make a mean sourdough.”

Matt rolled his eyes, very well acquainted with Foggy’s sourdough starter named Dina. “No, sorry Fogs. Do you know how to interact with a teenager while dressed as The Devil without freaking him out?”

Foggy’s snort was audible even without Matt's enhanced hearing. “Yeah, no, don’t make a first impression as the devil if you’re not going for intimidation. I’d probably try to get Matt to meet him first.”

Matt nodded, despite knowing Foggy couldn’t see it over the phone. “Yeah, okay. A little risky if the kid’s enhanced but I can do that.”

Foggy’s breath stuttered, “enhanced? What- Matt! What are you- maybe- enhanced??”

Matt laughed as he hung up, plugging in his phone before settling into bed again.

He’d have to figure out how to “meet” the kid organically as Matt Murdock.

—

The Mercenary cackled from the other side of the room, bent over with laughter. He was ignoring the pancakes on the stove, which were starting to smoke. 

Peter crossed the room quickly, snatching the spatula from Deadpool and pulling it swiftly towards the pan. Without hesitating, he scooped up the pancake and tossed it onto the plate Deadpool had set out, which already had four other crispy pancakes. Peter repeated this with the other two pancakes burning in the skillet before gently pouring new batter over the stove to replace them, deciding he would be in charge of making the pancakes now. 

Clearly mercenaries were not to be trusted with cooking pancakes; that’s lesson number one that Peter learned in his time with Deadpool.

Lesson number two, now that Peter thinks back on his earlier interaction with the man- in which he understood nothing that was said- is never take anything the man says seriously. 

So, when the eyes on the deadpool mask go wide, and he says, “oh em gee Spidey, this is so domestic. Are you moving in?! My own little spider housewife. Except without the actual marriage part because you’re a little baby and I break a lotta laws but not that one. No siree that’s gross,” 

Peter ignores him. Doesn’t even look. Not his problem. All that he's concerned about right now is making sure that at least one pancake is edible. 

The scene is much more domestic than Peter’s used to. He used to cook pancakes for May, back when she was alive, before everything went to shit. 

He remembers one day, when MJ and Ned had come over, and they had made May a “gourmet 5 Michelin star meal,” according to Ned. It was pancakes with sliced fruit and toasted banana bread on the side- May was unendingly grateful, and insisted Peter bring the two by more often. She said it was because they were “such nice kids,” but Peter suspected she just wanted more of Ned’s banana bread. Not that he could blame her, really. Ned was a great chef, he said his Lola taught him how to make all of her special Filipino recipes, and he tried to learn new American ones to teach her. 

Peter missed his friends.

And he missed them even more as a man in red spandex poked the side of his head, waiting for Peter to return from his trip down memory lane.

“You’re gonna burn the pancakes.”

Peter rolled his eyes, resisting thwacking Deadpool in his stupid face with the spatula. “You’d know something about that, huh?”

Deadpool made an offended noise, as if he hadn’t been creating pancake char for at least twenty minutes before Peter awoke, if the lingering smell of smoke lining the ceiling was anything to go off of. 

“Listen, Deadpool. We’re gonna have to have a talk. A serious one, at that. I know that’s not your strong suit, and I know that’s gonna be next to impossible for you, which is why I can’t do this on an empty stomach.” Peter pulled the pancakes off and flipped them onto the same plate with the others, ignoring how… crispy they were. Yeah, not burnt; crispy. 

Deadpool sighed dramatically, but retreated to the counter to watch Peter with a deceivingly relaxed eye. After the next batch was on the stove, Peter took a second to size up the man.

His heart was beating steadily, and his scent oozed comfort, but he still sat rigidly. 

As fluid as the man could be, and as flippant as he acted, Peter wasn’t sure he ever truly relaxed. The mercenary seemed to be on edge constantly, especially when he was pretending not to be. 

Peter could definitely understand that.

He looked back at the pancakes as he flipped them, revelling in the small moment of peace as Deadpool began bickering with nothing- or, Peter knew nobody was there at least. He hated to disregard whatever the man was seeing or hearing just because he didn't understand. 

As Peter collected the heap of pancakes, he went searching through the cabinets for a second plate. He originally wanted a third, one for each of them and one for the pancakes, but all of the merc's plates seemed to be in a horrendous state of disrepair. Some looked as if they had simply been set down with too much force, and some looked like they had been chucked across the room with full force and hastily super glued back together.

Peter presented his pancakes- yes, his , he was the one who made the vaguely edible ones, so he was claiming ownership over all of them- and revelled just a bit (not that he would ever tell anyone) in the crooning noise made by the mercenary just before yanking off his mask, forking half of them over, and digging in. With each bite, Deadpool made lewd groans in delight, and after finishing the first one he told Peter that he had “done a great job, baby boy. Best pancake maker ever.” Then hastily continued onto the next.

Peter hated being babied, normally. Any other time, if someone swooned at him completing a basic task, he would grumble about it and walk away- a classic teenage move. But when Wade did it, it was different, because Peter knew he did this with everyone. He knew that his tone wasn't laced with judgement, but a teasing banter that Peter thinks he'll enjoy. If he gets to know the man.

Which he won’t. Peter was getting ahead of himself, because he had some serious concerns to talk through!

“How did you know I was homeless?”

The Merc didn’t even slow his pancake chomping, electing instead to just talk with his mouth full. “I read the fic tags. Normally I don’t, I like the surprise, but I was bored and this one had such a boring start! No action! No evil bad guys trying to take over the world! Just, like, sad depressed Peter Parker beating up cops. Boooring.

Peter tried really hard not to show his surprise, but literally how does this man know about that?! Considering the nonsensical response to his very sensical question, Peter was abruptly faced with the realization that no matter what he asked, he would not understand the response.

To test this theory, Peter tried the absolute most logical question he could, “why am I in your house?”

Deadpool, finishing his last bite, cocks his head and looks at Peter like a confused dog. “Got somewhere better to be?”

Ouch. 

Peter has never felt so clocked by someone he barely knows. He couldn’t stop the offense from knotting his eyebrows, but quickly released them with a sigh of resignation. 

“No, I don’t.”

Deadpool patted his head like he was a rowdy dog, and stood up. Surprising Peter, he took his plate to the sink and washed it, though there was no dish soap so it was more scrubbing it with a wet and mildewy sponge. 

“Alright Spidey, now that you’re up I gotta run. I gotta break it to my buyer that he will, unfortunately, not be getting the Baby Spider’s head on a stick today. Maybe next time!”

Peter, suddenly grateful to not have to fight off the man’s katanas at the moment, looked up with wide eyes. “Bye, Mr. Deadpool.”

Peter tried his darndest not to cringe at his own words, but they made the merc’s laughter bubble, his smile growing so wide Peter could see it under the mask. “Bye, baby boy! Seeya for dinner!”

Hah! As if Peter would still be here at dinnertime. He knew that the merc was just being nice, and probably didn’t want to have to buy food for them both, or come home from a long day out and have to deal with him.

Peter would probably come back here to sleep, though. Not like he had anywhere better.

“Oh shit, Wade, wait! I still have more questions I was supposed to ask!”

Deadpool’s door slammed shut, a devious cackle sounding down the hallway.

—

Daredevil and Deadpool have worked together a few times.

Matt tries to avoid the man, only working with him when forced to.

More often than not, when they see each other, it’s Matt trying to convince Deadpool not to kill someone. Not because Matt has a problem with the merc killing scum of the earth- God knows Matt has wanted to do so, and only barely restrained himself each time- but because a death would slow down progress on his systematic deconstruction of deeply rooted crime or trafficking rings. 

Matt is methodical. If he saw illegal activity and simply took out what he could see, he would miss what was hiding underneath. Much like cutting off the heads of a hydra, he must burn the whole organization, not just to the ground, but into hell. He has to chase down every last gang leader, every rich person financing evil in the city, and once he shakes names out of them, he ensures they never return to a life of crime. 

Sometimes it’s easy, like with the lower level drug runners or thieves. They’re usually people simply trying to live, with people depending on them. More often than not, the legal system has failed them in some way, and they were left unable to get a legal job, or unable to make enough at that job to support the people they need to. 

For those situations, Matt helps. He carries around business cards, and has addresses memorized. He can send them to Nelson and Murdock to help them out of whatever legal troubles they may be in, but where the law doesn’t help, he knows a few people that offer housing for cheap, people looking for manual labor that pay minimum wage and don’t ask questions, and every local restaurant or cafe that gives out leftovers at the end of the day.

In some situations, he’ll recommend the lovely woman who is incredible at forging documents. Matt is all too well acquainted with how impossible it can be to succeed in a country that won’t let you live without an ID, or a birth certificate, or a social security number. So he has his ways to help people.

But when he gets to higher level crimes, the proportion looking for a way out lessens drastically. He still helps where he can, but many of these people have accepted that the only way to live happily is through hurting others, and refuse to listen. 

When Matt encounters these people, he first tries to scare them off. Fear is a powerful motivator. Daredevil, or the Devil of Hell’s Kitchen, is intimate with fear. It follows him everywhere he goes, his oldest and most reliable companion. And when he harnesses his intimidation, pairs it with violence, it works. 

When it doesn’t? In those cases where the criminal lacks self-preservation enough to run?

One of two things happen: either one of his police contacts finds themselves with a thorough file of evidence on his desk, or he calls in a friend. 

Most of the time, this friend is Frank Castle. The Punisher knows that when Daredevil calls, it’s to take down someone truly heinous, something causing direct harm to his city. So when Daredevil calls, despite the complaints and protests, Frank does his best to show up.

When he doesn’t, Deadpool does. 

Matt would say Deadpool is a last resort, but the mercenary is never called. Matt doesn’t have any way to get in contact with him, but when he’s needed, he shows up. 

They haven’t figured out how he does that yet.

—

Matt is getting the feeling that he’s going to need Deadpool for this one.

He had just stepped foot in the room, investigating a new lead on some weapons dealers that had been pestering him for months now, but he already knew he was in over his head. 

There were bodies on the floor already, each taken out with a single slash in their throats. It was clean, and precise. Matt didn’t smell excess blood on any of the victims, so there wasn’t much of a fight. It’s odd, usually when more rudimentary weapons are utilized, like swords and knives, there’s grazes and slashes covering every body- it’s difficult to be so precise with a moving target. The single cut intrigued Matt more than the dozen bodies littering the warehouse floor, more than any potential documents explaining what was going on- not that Matt would be able to tell what was useful until he brought everything home- and more than the smell of gasoline growing stronger by the minute.

Oh. It was growing stronger.

Not good. 

Matt’s head shot up from the body he was investigating, nose in the air, locating the source of the gasoline. He rushed to the door, and wrenched it open just in time to watch a car drive away, trailing the smell of gasoline after it.

God damnit, it’s unlike Matt to get distracted and miss important details. The smell of gasoline evades him better than every smell, ever since the accident it’s always there. Matt smells gas everywhere he goes, so sometimes it’s difficult to discern what’s really there.

In this line of work, that’s a real character flaw. 

Oh yeah, and the building is on fire now.

Matt rushes back into the now-burning building, takes one final cataloguing sniff, and rushes back out to follow the car.

He’s too late, though. He can no longer see them, and the smell of the burning building behind him is overpowering his senses. He tries to ignore the memories pushing their way into his head.

Memories of how this all started, and how it’ll inevitably end.

He’s on the ground, someone calling him a hero.

God, he can’t think about that right now. He needs to get out, get away from the smell, the feeling of his back heating up as the fire licks closer to him.

He doesn’t feel like a hero, he feels hurt. There’s something oozing towards his face. Towards his eyes.

He needs to get somewhere- he needs someone. Who does he need? He knows there’s someone he goes to when it’s all too much, too much, 

I can’t see. I CAN’T SEE! I CAN’T-

“Foggy. I need-” Matt’s holding his phone, a nervous breathing floating from the speaker, “Foggy.” He starts again. 

“I know, bud. Need me to pick you up?”

God, this man. 

He doesn’t remember dialing, but he doesn’t have to. Foggy will always pick up, even when Matt doesn’t call.

“Yes please, Foggy.”

He was a failure, he really was. He just got here, found no information, and is now running off without finding the people. 

All of those people in the building died for nothing. Matt knows their deaths will be in vain unless he can find any evidence to lead him to the group responsible for their deaths, and take them down.

Forgetting his phone call, forgetting the drivers and the gasoline and the fire, he rushed back into the building.

He couldn’t leave, not yet. He hadn’t even gotten started. Dashing past the bodies, he filtered through his senses, but just as quickly disregarded them. Every sense except hearing was filled with fire and gas, and he couldn’t go back to that now. That would be a problem for later, to ruin his night’s sleep.

So he listened. For anything, for nothing. Sometimes silence could be just as telling. 

He turned into each room around him, until he found what he was looking for. One direction that somehow didn’t emit the sickening smell of fire, a room that the heat seemed to bounce off of.

There was some sort of fireproof bunker under him. 

Now that he knew what to search for, he was able to feel where the heat bounced, taste where the dust patterns switched from a door in the floor.

He laid his hands flat on the floor, and felt around, hoping for some sort of handle. He found it in a loose floorboard that came up, providing a divot to fit his hand into, which gave him just enough leverage to pull the door open.

The flames licked their way into the room. 

He had to be fast.

He launched himself through the hole, finding himself in an incredibly small chamber. It was most likely designed to be a panic room, but the smell of canned food has long faded from the shelves lining the walls. They are now covered in paper, mostly untouched printer paper, though there are stacks of lined sheets. There is a bucket in one corner of pens and pencils, all dull or snapped. 

This room would be torture for a writer to be trapped in, unable to write yet provided so much material. It’s deeply confusing for Matt, who cannot figure out what the hell it was supposed to be used for. 

What’s even stranger is the computer in the center of the room. It’s not on a table, there is no chair, and the monitor is perched atop the computer itself. No mouse or keyboard, either.

Matt really hopes it has useful information, because he doesn’t have time to look around for anything else.

He grabbed it, and hoisted himself and the computer- he left the monitor, of course, it’s totally unnecessary. He learned that early on- back onto the main floor. The fire had overtaken most of the room, and, most importantly, the exit.

Well, shit. Nothing is coming easy tonight, apparently.

Matt, now fully standing in the flame-ridden room, located every possible exit. The door was completely enveloped, no use even trying there. There were only two windows, one on the same wall as the door, and one on the adjacent wall. 

He opted for the one further from the door, hoping the distance would buy him some time. He rushed towards it, dodging burning bodies everywhere. The flames formed curling lines along the floor, mimicking the pattern that the gasoline was poured. Areas between these lines were beginning to fill with fire as Matt moved. 

In a matter of minutes, the whole building would be covered.

Arriving at the window, he listened below. The ground was close, but mostly on fire. There was very little area for him to jump onto, certainly there wasn’t enough for him to stick a landing from a melting window. He was stuck, and jumping would most likely end in his death.

Luckily for him, he seems to be a natural at skirting death, and Foggy chose this moment to join him, tires screeching as he spotted his best friend stuck by the window. Without hesitation- god, Matt loved this man- he whipped the car in a violent u-turn, ramming himself closer to the building, so that he was within jumping distance for Matt.

Matt was pretty sure he could smell the car’s tires beginning to melt, so he launched himself without thinking or planning, arcing himself to the best of his abilities to land atop the car.

By some miracle, he made it. 

Foggy trusted Matt to hold on as he shoved the car into first gear, accelerating with a lurch. Once he was safely away from the fire, he stopped for just long enough to scold Matt.

“You fucking idiot, you’re gonna die, and it’s gonna be your fault but I’ll feel like it’s mine! I mean, a burning building?! God, Matt, do you have any idea what you do to me? Just when I think my worries have been needless, and I’m overreacting, I’m reminded that no, you’re just clinically insane. And not in the cool Moon Knight way, in the ‘I’m gonna stress the hell out of the only person that loves me enough to come rescue me when I fuck myself over’ way! Matt, why don’t you just-”

He’s silenced by Matt’s lips on his, hands wasting no time in gripping the back of his neck like it’s the only thing grounding him, reassuring him this was real.

“Thank you, Foggy.”

And maybe Foggy was the only thing grounding him, but right now, Matt felt like he was floating.

Chapter Text

Peter sat on the roof of Wade’s apartment, looking blankly over the city. It wasn’t queens, or anywhere close. He was right outside of Hell’s Kitchen, in a low income area. 

He listened to the people in the building below him. On the first floor, one of the families was arguing. The oldest daughter had been caught sneaking out of her bedroom window. Her father was yelling, and she was crying.

Next door to them, a couple was enjoying a late dinner, chatting casually about their respective days. They had both been asked to stay late at work, and were finally home, reveling in each others’ company. 

One floor above, a teenager was approaching their mom. She was reading a book as she drifted off to sleep. Peter listened as the teen timidly took her attention, and confessed they were trans. The ensuing snot-ridden hugs and words of support filled Peter’s heart, but also made him ache in a way all too familiar.

Peter missed his family.

Aunt May supported him when he came out as bi, of course she did. She went overboard in making shirts and pins that had rainbows, or spelled out “proud mom” in colorful letters. 

Peter always whined and laughed at her antics, but they both knew how much it meant to him.

Peter missed dinner with her and Ben, he missed getting scolded for sneaking out, and waiting by the door with dinner for her to come home from a late shift. He missed laughing about his friends with her, making fun of her terrible cooking, even just waking up in the same house as her. He missed hearing her heartbeat through the walls, listening to her deep breathing quicken as she woke up with her alarm.

Footsteps sounded from behind him. It barely took a second for him to recognize the heartbeat and breathing as Wade’s. His heart stuttered through every beat, stumbling over the rhythm, a constant reminder that without Wade’s healing, he would be dead instantly. His body was constantly dying, but he was healing so quickly he didn’t even seem to notice.

Wade sat down on the ledge next to him, dangling his legs out above the street, and swinging them back and forth. He let his heels hit the building with each swing, the grating noise distracting Peter from snooping on his neighbors.

“Petey-pie! You missed dinner! I had to eat all of your tacos for you. It was very hard for me, I can’t believe you.” Wade nudged his shoulder into Peter’s, who barely stirred.

“Do you know your heart does that?” Peter kept his gaze fixed on the skyline, though he wasn’t really looking at anything.

“Does what, baby boy?”

“Dies. Every beat should be its last, you should die with every stutter. But you don’t, it just does another pained beat.”

Wafe hums, “now you’re sounding just like Red. He said I’m harder to read cause my heartbeat’s too fucked up. I think it’s the cancer, I hear that’s not great for your health or something.”

Peter broke his gaze, peering at Wade with curiosity but choosing not to ask his questions. Wade continued kicking at nothing, not even acknowledging Peter’s interest.

Peter resigned himself to silence between them, deciding that if Wade wanted to talk he would.

Wade started humming Shake it Off by Taylor Swift

Peter really doesn’t understand Wade

They sat like that for twenty minutes before Peter thought he was gonna lose his marbles from Wade’s pitchy rendition of Taylor on loop for so long. He stood up abruptly, startling Wade, and turned on his heel. As he walked, he tried for nonchalance. “Got a spare bedroom?” 

Wade shrieked, a sound reminiscent of a preteen girl being told her crush liked her instagram story.

“Oh my gosh!! Spidey and Wade sleepover!!! It’s happening!!” His jazz hands were somehow audible from across the rooftop.

—

The next morning, Peter woke up on Wade’s couch- turns out he did not, in fact, have a spare room- to the sound of the mercenary bustling around the kitchen. 

Maybe ‘woke up’ is too strong of a term. Wade was loud as hell, so Peter had been awake since he’d left the bedroom. A more appropriate term might be, ‘decided fuck it he was awake he might as well get up.’ 

Damn, his head hurt. 

So, today was a wake-up-with-a-headache day, huh?

Peter is cursed. And he knows that on wake-up-with-a-headache days (otherwise known as WWH days, because they happen often enough and are bad enough for Peter to need an acronym) everything bad will happen at once. If he forgot to do something a week ago, it would bite him in the ass today. Bad decisions he’s made would inevitably only hurt him starting today.

It was a rough lesson to learn, but Peter is ready now. It won’t catch him off guard, not today.

Peter sat up, watching the mercenary whistle as he tried to make an omelette, before giving up and pulling out his phone to order food delivered. The kitchen was small, only squeezing in a stove and a fridge, without actual counter space. In lieu of a table and chairs, there was a small kitchen island across from the stove that had three bar stools, all in various states of disrepair, and all different types of wood. If Peter had to guess, Wade had taken a stool from a few different bars or restaurants, and brought them home. 

The kitchen and the living room (if you can even call it that) were one room, with different flooring where they split to differentiate the spaces. The living room was just a ratty old couch with suspicious stains covering it- mostly blood, a lot of blood- and a TV that looked brand new. 

Wade definitely did not pay full price for that, but Peter wasn’t sure if he wanted to know where it came from. 

From the living room there was a short hallway containing only two doors, one leading into the bathroom and one into the bedroom he woke up in. The bathroom was surprisingly well-kept. Peter hadn’t been in there yet, but he’d expected to smell every bodily fluid, dried and disgusting, wafting from the room. Instead, it held the faint smell of bleach, but that was it. Clearly it was the only room Wade bothered to keep clean.

“Yo, Petey-pie, you want brekkie?”

Walking over to the kitchen, he sat on one of the barstools, pulling his knees up under his chin and pushing his weight forward into the island. 

“What are you getting?” It didn’t matter. If Wade was offering to buy him food he could never say no, but he had to at least pretend to have standards. 

Wade paused scrolling long enough to look up at Peter hopefully, as if expecting permission to get whatever he wanted. “IHOP?”

Peter sighed, pretending to think it over. “I mean, we just had pancakes yesterday. I’d have to get something different. What am I allowed to get?”

Wade blinked, “absolutely anything, baby boy. I know you probably have a freaky super metabolism, so get whatever you need.” He tossed his phone in Peter’s general direction, knowing the boy would reach out to catch it.

Instead of answering, Peter hummed and opened the menu. Despite what he’d been told, he would try not to go overboard. Wade definitely didn’t comprehend just how much he needed to feel full. He picked out the most filling things he could, deciding on a chicken salad meal with a side of sausage patties, and a large water. He handed the phone back to Wade, unable to help himself from the smile that took over his features. The food sounded so good ! 

Wade pressed a few extra buttons, sending a mischievous glance to Peter before announcing that the food would be here in 20, and Peter should use this time to take a shower. 

Peter honestly agreed, he probably smelled terrible. 

He hadn’t taken a true, comfortable shower in a long time. He’d taken rushed ones at various gyms across the city, but he always had to be quick and they were never very warm.

So this? Standing in the near-boiling water, letting it fall onto his shoulders as he watched dirt and grime wash down the drain?

Maybe Peter died and went to heaven. That must be it- he died when he fell off the building (as most people would), and this is all some heavenly fever dream. 

That would explain perfectly why the shampoo and conditioner were scent-free, (the smells always overwhelmed Peter’s senses for the first day) why the water didn’t get cold even after 20 minutes of Peter standing under the stream at max heat, and why there were clean clothes sitting just inside the door when Peter finally opened the curtain. 

They were clearly Wade’s, a pair of sweatpants and a Madonna t-shirt, both hung loosely over Peter’s malnourished frame. 

They were absolutely perfect, and Peter knew immediately that he was never giving them back. Wade would have to follow through on his initial threat to kill Peter if he wanted them back.

Once changed, hair shaken with enough vigor that droplets freckled the walls, he left the room. He expected to see Wade waiting with a plate or two of food, maybe a few extra containers for sides. 

He did not expect to come back into the room to see a counter stuffed full of food, containers covering every surface in the tiny kitchen. Peter’s pretty sure that there’s enough food here to feed a small army. There’s almost double what it would take to fill Peter- and that on its own is a feat.

Wade, turning around and seeing the young boy drowning in his clothes, mouth agape and eyes wide with shock and desperation, couldn’t help the wide smile that split his face. 

“Baby boy!! Ready to feast?! I ended up getting everything on the menu!”

“How did you-” Peter almost wanted to cry with how hungry he suddenly was, “Why?”

Wade blinked, cocking his head as if this was a stupid question. “I was hungry, duh.”

The two ate, Peter silently appreciating how full his stomach was getting as he made his way through a truckload of food, ranging from the original chicken salad to pancakes with every topping one could imagine. Wade used this time to tell Peter all about his adventures with some time-related agency and Wolverine. The story was hard to keep up with through all of the passionate rants and tangents Wade went on, but Peter was trying his best to commit it to memory, and the merc seemed delighted whenever he asked a clarifying question.

“So, Wolverine is alive again? Or, a version of him at least?”

“Yep! Wolvie is my boyfriend! Well, he doesn’t know it yet- but trust me, we’re definitely together. That’s my wife right there!” Wade pulled out his wallet from his pocket, producing a small grainy picture of The Wolverine, bloody and looking at the camera with pure malice. Wade had taken a pink sharpie and drawn cat ears and whiskers over his face.

A bark of laughter escaped Peter, surprising them both. They looked at each other for a beat, pure silence, before both erupting into full cackles. Peter was laughing at the pure absurdity of everything. Not just the picture, but him sitting here, in Wade’s apartment eating an ungodly amount of IHOP not even 24 hours after being kidnapped by the aforementioned man. He laughed at the idea of Spider-Man and Deadpool enjoying a domestic morning, eating together despite one killing for a living, committing way too many crimes, and generally causing problems every day in citizens’ lives, and the other spending every day working against crime, and investing in the convenience of civilians. 

They should, by all means, be sworn enemies. They should dramatically declare their hatred of each other, and fight to the death. There should be uproar in the streets, news stations documenting their battles, and the Avengers should have to intervene.

But then there wouldn’t be pancakes. 

So Peter laughed, and ate, and enjoyed the company of a mercenary.

As they wrapped up their meal, Peter helped to clean up what he could. They filled an entire trash bag with empty containers- between the two of them they had decimated the kitchen-ful of food. 

Peter was opting not to think about the environmental impact their breakfast alone would have. 

As he tied the bag closed, he swung it over his shoulder, and stepped toward the door.

“Wade, where exactly is the trash can?”

The man was all too pleased to take a small walk with Peter, never mind that it would be easiest for Wade to just take it. He stood, joining Peter as he opened the door.

On the other side of the door, however, stood a police officer, one arm raised to knock on the door.

“Which one of you is Peter Parker?”

Peter pointed at Wade, and Wade pointed at Peter.

The officer sighed, and requested them both to follow him.

—

“I want a lawyer.”

“Mr. Parker, please. You aren’t in trouble, we know you were under an immense amount of stress, and injured. We just need to know what happened.

Peter sighed, looking tiredly up at the man that had identified himself as Officer Mahoney. He wasn’t at the convenience store when the shooting happened, so Peter hoped any aspects of his behavior that could link him to Spider-Man hadn’t been noted.

Officer Mahoney seemed like a nice man, who genuinely cared about his job, which was hard to come by in New York. He had gotten the farthest with Peter, who hadn’t even spoken to the gruff officers that came in before Mahoney. 

Not that he was having much better luck.

Peter looked at him, bored out of his mind. “Here, I’ll tell you what happened.”

“Really?” The officer perked up in surprise.

“When I get a lawyer.”

Officer Mahoney sighed, his resolve crumbling after getting the same response for fifteen minutes. “Alright, Mr. Parker. You may call your lawyer.”

“Thank you,” Peter smiled to himself, happy with his success. “Can I borrow your phone?”

The man stood, and told Peter there was a phone attached to the wall outside he could use, asking the boy to follow him.

Now came the fun part. 

Peter doesn’t technically have a lawyer, not anymore. His lawyer forgot who he was, along with everyone else. And Peter didn’t want to even try to explain how he knew Mr. Murdock’s personal number off the top of his head even though there was no record of Peter calling him.

But also, it would be nice to see Matt again. 

They used to be close, fighting together as Daredevil and Spider-Man when the case called for it. And maybe they used to make excuses to wander into each other's territories every few nights. 

So, ignoring the discomfort brewing at having to eventually explain himself, Peter dialed Matt’s number.

It rang three times, before a quiet breathing came down the line. The steady and familiar rhythms soothed Peter, bringing a calmness to him he’d been missing since the police showed up at Wade’s.

“Hello? Who is this?”

Right. Matt doesn’t have his number anymore, obviously. Minorly heartbreaking, even if Peter should have expected it.

“Hey, Mr. Murdock. I know this isn’t the right number to call for legal troubles, but it’s the only one I have right now, and I know that brings up a whole bunch of questions, but worry about that later, trust me. My name is Peter Parker, and I was arrested this morning. I can explain more when you come in.”

Matt breathed in, likely confused, and by the slight catch in his breath, he was almost definitely at least minorly injured. “Peter Parker,” he repeated. “You sound incredibly familiar, do I know you?”

“Not anymore.”

—

Matt and Peter sat across from each other, neither daring to start the conversation. Both looked equally nonchalant, as if they didn’t care in the slightest how this would go.

Peter, however, was masking the immense pain and memories that came with seeing someone he cared about, now sitting blankly across from him- no hint of recognition in his eyes, no fondness that usually greeted Peter, nothing. 

Matt was masking his intense confusion. He had been struggling for days over how to hunt down this kid to meet him in a casual way, so as to not alarm the kid or give away his identity. And then he had just… called him? And asked for his help! 

Definitely odd.

Peter looked intensely into Matt’s eyes, not that it did much good, but he swore the man would feel his gaze. 

“Alright, man, someone’s gotta talk, I need a lawyer.”

This seemed to shake Matt out of his thoughts, as he finally opened his laptop sitting in front of him and raised his arms, presumably ready to type. 

“Why don’t you walk me through exactly what happened, exactly as you see it?”

Peter told him the story, starting with describing his job in as few details as possible (carefully omitting that he was undocumented and paid under the table, though by a raised eyebrow Peter knew Matt understood) and then telling Matt a carefully woven tale. He told Matt that he had shown up for his shift, heard a gun being fired, and went to investigate. There, he had tried to stand up for his boss and was shot in the leg for his efforts. He was freaked out, and couldn’t see properly, leading him to run from the police, thinking they were the gunmen. Peter punched the officer in a moment of hysteria and perceived self-defense. 

It was an easy thing to get a court to believe, given Peter’s size and youth. 

Both men knew it wasn’t true. A huge exaggeration, to say the least.

Peter knew that every time he skirted the truth to hide that he was fighting the criminals, or played up just how injured he had been by the gunshot, Matt could tell through his heartbeat, but he ignored this fact.

Matt tried to stop him multiple times, arching an eyebrow when the story became too hard to believe, but Peter didn’t take the bait. He didn’t hesitate in the slightest; instead, he kept his breathing and heart rate completely steady, his posture firm and unwavering, daring Matt to question his tale.

A silent challenge stood between the two, though they both knew neither would win. Peter knew Matt would never believe what he was saying, but Matt knew Peter didn’t care, so long as he didn’t say anything about it. 

What Matt didn’t know was how Peter could read the man so easily, and guess his thoughts.

He would never guess the truth, that they had known each other for months, and grown incredibly close in that time. He and Peter were the same, Peter could guess what Matt was thinking because it’s exactly what he would be thinking if the roles were reversed. 

Matt sighed, unsatisfied with the answers but acknowledging it was the best he was getting for now. 

“Alright, Peter, let’s get you out of here.”

—

Watching Matt work was like watching a fly dancing through a Spider’s Web.

The policemen tried to catch him in his words, tricking him into a blunder that would see Peter here for another day, giving them time to weave their web thicker, making it impossible to escape, or to continue dancing as Matt does. 

But Matt slipped through the intricate weavings, somehow able to keep up with his own words as they flew from his mouth, a feat that confuses the spider into pausing, giving Matt an out.

Peter wasn’t used to actually witnessing Matt’s work, he was usually good enough at avoiding the cops as Spider-Man, and this was Peter Parker’s first run-in with them. 

He had let himself get caught, and Matt was getting him out.

Maybe Peter could be friends with him again, regain a relationship from his past. 

Daredevil didn’t know Spider-Man, but maybe Matt Murdock could know Peter Parker.

It would be dangerous. Until Peter was ready to share his identity, he’d have to avoid Daredevil. Matt would recognize him instantly, with his freaky senses. 

But maybe it would be worth it, to finally let himself have something as Peter. Since Strange’s spell was cast, Spider-Man had gotten everything and Peter nothing. People never forgot the hero. 

Peter had thought, for some time, that this was better. Your secret identity can’t be discovered if it doesn’t exist. Peter could exist only as Spider-Man, only using his civilian ID as a mask to give him some normalcy in his day-to-day life.

But that was exhausting.

Being Peter Parker used to be his only reprieve from the constant danger and anxiety that came with being a vigilante. 

But now, being Peter Parker was lonely.

Maybe he could let himself have this. Maybe it was worth the risk, the effort it would take to maintain his two identities.

Maybe he was worth it.

—

Matt was lost in the labyrinth that was Peter Parker.

He wanted to get to the core of it, wanted to understand who this scrawny teenager was that had punched an officer hard enough to give him a severe concussion.

It shouldn’t be possible, but then again his bones also shouldn’t be able to mend themselves after falling off of a building. So.

Peter Parker was a trip, that’s for sure.

Matt couldn’t figure out why this kid knew him.

When he entered the room, the boy’s breathing had stuttered slightly, before he caught himself and forced himself normal.

The kid was familiar with him, looking at him with barely concealed sorrow. Matt couldn’t see it, but he could hear the longing in the twitch of his fingers, the slightly pained breathing when Matt introduced himself.

And looking at him, those vaguely paternal feelings returned. The urge to protect him, scold him for lying, yell at him for punching an officer. Matt felt something for the kid, but he didn’t know where the hell it came from.

Matt hated kids.

Why was this one different?

All that he knew for sure was that after he got the kid out of here, he was going to force Peter to eat something.

He could hear the kid’s stomach from here, and he’s pretty sure anyone without super hearing could too. It wasn’t subtle.

The hunger wasn’t just surface level though, it didn’t come from one or two skipped meals.

It was bone-deep, ingrained into his core. 

The kid hadn’t been properly fed in months, most likely. It sounded like he was barely eating enough to stand- any further exercise would destroy his energy.

There was more than the hunger, though, that concerned Matt. Peter was dirty. He had showered recently, but the city’s grime had a way of clinging to those who lived outside of comfort even after showering. 

So, this enhanced kid was starving and homeless.

Not at all concerning, definitely not.

Man, Foggy was gonna be so mad when he found out Matt was bringing home a superpowered kid.

—

Peter was incredibly relieved.

The police- after getting Matt’s stern speech about arresting a scared kid, and trying to pursue the fearful little boy that was just trying to keep himself safe from shooters- had bashfully offered Peter a ride home.

He didn’t accept- riding to Wade’s in a police car sounded like a bad idea to him. 

Matt turned to him, barely resisting the sympathy leaching into his tone. “I can see you home, maybe we can stop for lunch on the way, I know you’re probably starving.”

Peter huffed out a laugh, muttering something about Matt not being able to see him anywhere, and accepted the lunch offer.

If a stranger asked to buy his lunch, Peter would never accept. He would feel too bad about taking money from someone taking pity on him.

But this wasn’t a stranger, this was Matt. 

So he let himself be walked to a nearby sandwich shop, ordered something simple off the menu, and sat down in a booth with Matt. They sat in silence for a few minutes as they ate, content with the company for the time being.

But then Matt had questions. And Peter knew he would, but that didn’t mean he wanted to deal with them.

It took a tremendous amount of effort to lie to Daredevil, but he’d taught Peter how during their time together, claiming that if anyone with super senses tried to get information out of him he needed to be able to lie better.

So, he steeled himself, preparing to give half-truths until the lawyer gave up. It’s always worked in the past.

“Listen, I’m not a cop. You don’t have to say anything you don’t want to, I’m just trying to understand how I can help you. No answer you can give will scare me off, I’m going to do as much to help as you’ll let me.

Peter nodded once, shifting his body language to ooze boredom, as if this conversation meant nothing to him, and he didn’t care how it ended.

That couldn’t be further from the truth. The outcome of this conversation meant everything.

“Do you have a place to go after this?” Matt cut straight to the hard topic, huh? No funny business with this guy.

Peter sighed, “if you’re asking then you know the answer.” He crumpled up his sandwich wrapper in front of him, having scarfed his food in the time it took for Matt to eat half of his. 

It was nowhere near enough, he was still desperately hungry. “But, I have a… friend. He lives nearby-ish, I stayed with him last night, and I’m pretty sure he expects me to stay again when I get back. He’s probably worried about me, come to think of it.” Peter really should have called Wade after he was arrested. But he was only given one phone call, and he figured Wade’s snarky comments regarding police would only serve to hurt his chances of getting out quickly.

Matt, seemingly satisfied that Peter wasn’t totally alone, dropped the subject and seemed to sift through his catalog of questions for the most pressing one.

“Do you have any source of income or resources? Are you still working overnights for this very legal convenience store?” Matt put dubious emphasis on the legality of the position, encouraging Peter to confide in him.

Peter hummed, considering how best to answer this question. “Well, I guess not. It’s only been a few days. I’ll start looking for new work soon, I have a feeling Harrison won’t be in business long after this.”

Matt frowned, “if I promised not to tell anyone without your explicit consent, would you tell me how you ended up unable to find legal work?” 

Peter dropped his bored facade, pretending to be caught. Of course, they both knew Peter’s work wasn’t legal, but maybe if Matt thought that was all he was hiding he could keep the rest of his secrets. “I don’t exactly have any documentation or ID.”

Matt’s eyebrows knit, a small frown gracing his features. Clearly this was not the answer he was expecting. “Why not?”

Peter needed to perform this well, control his breathing. He intentionally hitched his breath, then forced tears to his eyes that weren’t entirely fake. He looked down, and shook his head. It was something that nobody else would expect Matt to pick up on, but Peter knew he would. Hopefully Matt would assume that he was too distraught to realize his visual clue.

“I don’t want to talk about it, please.”

He breathed in and out, blinking away his fake tears.

Then looked back at the lawyer across from him with pleas in his posture. 

Matt sighed, dropping the subject yet again. He was starting to run out of subjects here. 

—

Matt knew Peter was full of shit. His lie was carefully crafted and beautifully executed- he’d almost tricked Matt’s super senses. This only alarmed him more, though, because nobody should be able to get past him like that. 

Someone with incredible senses had taught him, likely someone who knew Matt and could provide that sense of familiarity. Maybe someone who had relied on him in the past, that might give Peter his number in case of a legal emergency. 

Shit, there was only one possible answer.

Goddamn, this complicated things.

Peter must have been trained by Stick.

Matt knew immediately that this must be the case. Stick was the only person, other than himself, who would be able to teach Peter that well.

Matt had to keep him close.

“Hey kid, need me to walk you to this friend’s house? It’s getting late.”

A small smile spread across Peter’s lips. “Oh, I’m not worried about it. Daredevil patrols around here, I’ll be safe.”

Matt smirked, “you really trust him that much? What if he’s busy?” Of course, he definitely wasn’t going to be too busy to help the boy tonight, but he didn’t know that.

“He’s not, don’t worry.”

Or, maybe he did.

They left the sandwich shop, Peter chatting animatedly about how much he loved Daredevil, and all of the incredible things he’d done.

Maybe that was how Matt knew him, maybe he’d saved the boy a few times and just didn’t remember.

Peter was directing them to a small apartment complex in Hell’s Kitchen. As they neared, Matt grew nervous. 

Peter’s friend lived with Deadpool. Wade wasn’t exactly stable enough for a kid to live that close to, even though he’d never directly hurt the kid. 

But, he’d be okay for a few nights, until Matt could help him find something more stable.

They entered the building, Peter walking slightly in front to show where to go, somehow still talking about Daredevil.

“Mr. Murdock, you don’t get it! It’s so cool, he, like tilts his head to listen- like a puppy! And then he can hear practically anything! He can hear when you’re lying based on your heartbeat. And, he’s super chill with other vigilantes!”

Peter kept ranting, entirely oblivious to Matt’s sudden stillness.

“I mean, he’s worked with Deadpool, Jessica Jones, Iron Fist, Luke Cage, and probably more I don’t know about. Their team-ups are so cool! And like-”

“Peter.”

“I really respect a guy that can work with a wide variety of people, you know? And I mean-”

“ Peter. ”

“You don’t get that a lot nowadays, with the Avengers broken up everyone is super separate-”

“PETER!”

Peter blinked, suddenly aware of his surroundings. “Yes, Mr. Murdock? Is something wrong?”

Matt just stared back, “Do you… Live with Wade Wilson?”

The kid turned, as if just realizing they had reached their destination. 

“Oh. Yeah. Uh.”

Matt took a deep breath, counting to five before releasing it. 

“Do you know and understand what he does for a living?”

“...yes?”

“If I’m going to leave you alone here, I need you to understand the risk you’ve been taking every night you stay with him, and the risk you’re taking tonight. It’s not safe. You’re playing with fire here, kid.” He grabbed Peter’s shoulder with his right hand, “do you understand?”

Peter smiled and let out an awkward laugh, “I mean, yeah, I guess. He did kidnap me here on night one and all. But he’s super nice! He even decided not to kill me!”

A moment.

“Nope. You’re not staying here.”

“But, Mr. Murdock-”

“Don’t care. It’s not safe. You can stay at my place.”

Peter pouted, but followed him.

Peter has a running streak for vigilantes kidnapping him, apparently. Who’s next, Frank Castle?