Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

As far as Peter is concerned, the beginning of the end starts on a Tuesday.

Maybe it's the end of the beginning.

Or something else equally poetic.

Whatever.

Point is, the beginning of the end, or the end of the beginning, starts on a Tuesday when Peter, Ned, and Michelle find Mr. Castle's dog.

A sweetheart, all grey with white, old faded scars to match the best of them and a high-vis collar with a skull dog tag saying Max.

Peter has to coax him out of some bushes before they can really get close, but once they do, he's all tail wags and smiles.

"I love him," Ned whispers in awe.

Michelle sniffs indifferently, but he catches her rubbing behind his ears.

Peter crouches down to take Max's face in his hands, palms on his jaw and fingers reaching his ears, scratching across the broad of his neck and back under his eyes, making his ears flop.

Max gives him a doggy grin.

"Where's your dad, huh? Or your mom?" He asks.

Max does not answer.

"It's okay," Peter consoles and hugs him, "you don't need to talk, I'll still love you."

Max wags his tail and shakes his whole body with the force of it.

"I love him," Ned weeps.

"Oh my god."

Ned sniffles. "Michelle, how do you not immediately love this good good boy?" 

She stares unflinching. "I am beyond emotions."

"You got mad about the injustice surrounding pigeons at lunch today," Ned points out.

Peter remembers.

He filmed it.

Michelle sniffs haughtily. "Irrelevant."

Max looks at him with his big pit bull smile.

"They're ridiculous, I know," he complains, and then he flips the dog tag. There's one phone number and no address. "Let's call you dad slash mom, okay?"

Max wags his tail, as though excited about this prospect.

"Okay, y'all, I'm calling this number so shut up!" He yells.

Michelle looks at him, scandalized.

He's going to pay for his words later.

He knows this.

Ned just gapes, betrayed. "I can't believe you just said y'all."

"It's a valid word!" Peter defends while dialing the number.

His phone rings once, twice, three times next to his ear before the call goes through and he hears a gruff, "Hello?"

Peter freezes before deciding fuck, this might as well happen.

"I found your dog, Mr. Castle." He says carefully.

Michelle and Ned whip their heads away from whatever silent argument they were having to stare at him and his phone as though they had personally offended them.

Peter wrinkles his nose and sticks out his tongue.

Because he's mature like that.

"Mini Red," Mr. Castle sighs and sounds real tired. "You found my dog. Of course it was you that found him."

Mini Red.

Mini Red.

My god what till he tells Foggy.

"He's a good boy, and, unlike Normal Sized Red, I actually like dogs," he says. "Come get Max , Mr. Castle, before I steal him for your crimes."

Oh, the things he's confident enough to say over the phone but not face to face.

Ned makes a little whine in the back of his throat.

It's a sound of despair.

"Jesus Christ," Mr. Castle whispers.

He sounds pained.

Well, Peter thinks, shouldn't have lost his dog then.

"I'm gonna steal him, don't test me. This is like, quality dog real estate here."

"Parker," Michelle whispers, "what the fuck."

"Fine, fine," he grumbles. "Just… stop. Please. Where are you?"

Good question.

"Uuuuuhhhhh, we ended up in Central Park at some point? Near the uh, what's it? The castle thing?? Michelle, what's it called again?"

"Belvedere Castle."

"You complete me. Belvedere Castle. You know where that is?"

Mr. Castle is quiet for a bit, and that's when Peter remembers that his family died in Central Park.

"I could take him down to Hell's Kitchen or somewhere if you want–"

"No." Mr. Castle barks. Then, somewhat quieter, "Nah, kid, it's– stay put, I'll find you. Okay?"

"Okay. If we aren't here when you are just assume you took too long and I stole Max."

"I know where you live."

"Big deal, so does the cat in the alley behind my apartment. Comes right up to my window and everything."

Mr. Castle sighs deeply.

Then he hangs up.

Without even saying goodbye.

Like an asshole.

Michelle slowly clasps her hands.

And then she says, "Parker," in the most calm voice he's ever heard from anybody, "would you care to explain what the fuck exactly just happened?"

"If you're asking for my honest opinion–"

"I'm not."

"–I'd rather not."

"I will not ask again, Peter Parker, so help me God, if you do not answer, I will make your life a living hell."

"Did you just assume my life wasn't already?" He asks curiously, immediately regretting it afterwards because that's fucking suspicious.

Curse you, motor mouth.

Michelle pauses.

Ned inhales deeply.

Then he slowly puts his hands on Peter's shoulders.

"Are you okay?" He whispers.

Peter considers with a tilt of his head.

"I could be worse," he starts, very, very slowly. "But I'm happy, if that's what you're asking. I'm satisfied with my life right now."

This seems to make Ned more worried.

"That's a very adult answer, Peter," he says, it makes Peter wonder, for just a moment, when he stopped talking like a kid, like a teenager, careless and easy, and started talking like every word he said could come back to bite him.

Maybe it's when he looked the law in the face for the very first time and said fuck you.

"It could be considered a very adult question," he responds. "I'm alright. I could be better. The cold and the rain make my shoulder hurt, but Foggy's mom makes really warm sweaters when she isn't doing repairs."

Ned sits back. "You've mentioned him before. Who's Foggy?"

"He's… Foggy. He's my friend. Him and Matt are hopelessly in love and one day Karen and I will finally make them see it. We watch Stargate together and narrate it for Matt."

"Matt?"

"He's like the brother I never wanted and keeps trying to get me to read the Bible, but at this point I think he just wants me to do it so we can quote verses at Foggy cause he hates it."

"Karen?"

"She's a journalist and sometimes she takes me to Bulliten and has me run around like an unpaid intern. She has an alcohol equals solution problem but we're working on it."

He pats Max on the head and he snuffles.

Peter's heart is gonna burst he cannot take it.

"Are these the Nelson and Murdock guys?" Michelle asks.

She looks like she's putting something together in her head.

Whether it's something good remains to be seen.

See, Michelle is naturally suspicious. She catalogs everything she sees for later speculation, and then assembles a greater picture from those parts. She's a wait and learn kinda gal.

Ned is generally more trusting, but unconsciously takes in a lot of information, which usually helps with proving and buffing up Michelle's theories. He just has to be told to look more closely, to think more negatively, and once he's going, he doesn't stop.

Peter himself is suspicious of most people at this point, but leans more to the optimistic side. He has a good memory for taking things in and keeping them there. Where Michelle is suspicious and takes her time to accumulate findings, Peter is suspicious and immediately looks for connections to put things together without any care for how he does it besides don't get caught.

He deeply regrets them all becoming friends.

"They're the Nelson and Murdock guys, yeah. After Frank Castle v. The People, they had to dissolve the firm 'cause they took the case at all and lasting damage from the previous DA. They work at the same firm right now, though, and the office is all still friends."

"What's the deal with 'Mr. Castle'?" Michelle asks next, finger quotes included.

Peter thinks about it.

"I met him on accident before the Punisher thing. He helped me and a gal out," is a harmless enough answer.

Michelle raises an eyebrow in question. "Helped out?"

"Got us 'way from some assholes that were chasin' us. Didn't understand when a gal said no she meant no."

Her eyes narrow, and he thinks it might be for several reasons.

She doesn't end up saying anything at all, and neither does Ned, and Peter doesn't want to start a conversation he isn't confident he can finish, so they sit and wait in silence.

A quiet but stress filled twenty minutes later, Mr. Castle walks right up to them, in front of God and Central Park and everything.

Max perks right up at the sight of him and wiggles out of Peter's hug.

"You are," Mr. Castle whispers, "the worst fucking dog."

Max wags his tail, completely unperturbed.

He wishes he were that resilient against disappointment.

"You," he points at Peter, "are the worst fucking child."

Mean.

"I'm not the one that lost my dog." He dares to say.

Mr. Castle squints down his nose at him.

Ned looks like he's dying.

Michelle is staring at Peter intensely.

"Fair enough," he grinds out before turning and his heel and walking right back to wherever he came from.

Peter takes this as a victory.

Subsequently, Michelle and Ned do not let him live down the Punisher Incident.

They don't tell May and Ben, weirdly enough, though after some thought Peter suspects it's so that the whole thing can be used later as blackmail.

Sneaky, conniving bastards.

That's why he loves them.

———

"Pete– Peter, Peter I fucked up." Is the first thing that Matt says to him when he answers his phone at lunch.

"What??" Is his completely reasonable and confused response.

There's a high pitched whine.

Someone laughs in the background.

"You know how Claire quit Metro Gen?" Matt starts, sounding absolutely wrecked.

Peter kind of wants to laugh.

"I do in fact remember how Ms. Claire quit Metro Gen." Peter says, standing up. "It was right after that brainwashed kid killed his dad with a scalpel, the cops tried to cover up that dead twice guy, and Foggy got out of the hospital."

And goddamn was that not a whole ball of wax he Does Not Want to Touch.

A lot of people died that night.

Ned chokes on his water and Michelle drops her book.

He didn't sign an NDA.

Ms. Claire didn't sign an NDA.

He can say whatever the fuck he wants.

Cops can fuck off.

Except for Detective Mahoney.

And Uncle Ben.

Two exceptions.

But all the other cops are on thin fucking ice.

The day he gets Ms. Claire to talk to Karen about the whole thing is the day said thin ice cops will learn to fear the wrath of a pissed off nurse, and it will be glorious.

"Okay," Matt says, and it sounds kind of hilariously like he's trying to keep himself together. "Good. You remember what she told Foggy?"

Peter hums. "Yeah, that you needed to–" find a new nurse.

Find a new nurse.

Wait.

Wait wait wait.

Oh no.

Parker Luck, please no.

"Where is this going?" Peter asks while pushing the lunch room door open, feeling a little distressed himself.

"It was an accident I swear," Matt wheezes.

The person in the background laughs harder.

"MATT."

"I'M SORRY."

"Do you– do you understand what you've done Matthew? Do you understand??"

"I said I was sor– STOP LAUGHING FOGGY!"

"My two worlds they've– they've collided. How could you do this to me? I thought we were brothers, Murdock, is this– is this what betrayal feels like?"

Foggy laughs harder.

Peter slips into an empty computer lab.

"How did– how did this even happen?"

"I was resting on the roof!" Matt yells. "No one goes up to the roof! I thought it would be safe, but then she was on the roof, with coffee, for her coffee break! Claire took roof coffee breaks but no one else ever had so I thought it was safe! But it wasn't!!"

He's dying.

Peter's dying.

This is it.

This is the end.

"Matthew."

"She threw painkillers at me, Peter. Painkillers. What was I supposed to do?" Matt hisses.

Any second now.

Death will come for him.

They will sing ballads to remember his name and pass along the tale of his tragedy. 

Any second now.

"Run? Away? Run far, far away??" 

"She cornered me, Peter, you don't understand–"

"You're– You're a NINJA??"

"She didn't care," Matt whispers with fervent horror, "she didn't give a single fuck about my being a ninja."

Peter whines and slides down the wall, head hanging between his knees.

"She's grown too powerful," he wheezes.

Foggy howls, cackling with glee at their suffering.

You know who else didn't give a single fuck?

Foggy.

That bastard.

"May can never know you're you, Matt, do you understand?" Peter hisses. "She can never know."

There's a sound a lot like someone hitting their head on a desk.

Matt whimpers.

He sounds close to tears.

"O Lord, Jesus Christ, Redeemer and Saviour, forgive my sins, just as You forgave–"

"Jesus can't save us Matt!!" Peter yells.

"BACK OFF."

Foggy just laughs even harder.

———

Once is an accident.

Twice is a coincidence.

Three times is a pattern.

"I can't keep doing this." He whispers as a needle threads through his skin.

The needle pauses.

"I can't keep getting shot, and stabbed, and beat up. I'm scaring people," he says. "They're worried and waiting for me to tell them, but I can't. Something has to give, Matt."

Peter closes his eyes, and maybe if he can't see it, he can shut out the world for just a few seconds longer.

"I can't stop now."

If he listens closely, he might be able to hear the pulse of the city.

"I'm helping people."

The cars and the people and the blinding lights, the ships and the horns and the radio buzz, the gunshots and the laughter and the sirens.

The city that never sleeps.

"But I can't help them if I'm dead."

And the admission feels like a betrayal.

He's not sure to who.

Maybe just to himself.

Matt cuts the thread and leans back against the couch.

It's still bright out, liquid sunshine painting the dusk sky all pastel, but it's not enough to stop the billboard's technicolor pink and blue and purple from playing across Matt's face.

It washes him out in fantasy and Peter thinks that the world's never looked less real.

Matt sighs, and the sound echoes in the silence.

"I know," he says, and it sounds tired.

Then he gets up, slipping off his bloody latex gloves into the designated biohazard bin, and starts cleaning up the living room.

Peter gently prods at the four, five, six stitches from where a guy half out of his mind had thrown his knife.

Like someone desperate and scared of being caught.

Like someone so far gone he could hear colors.

Like someone that was an absolute fuckin dumbass, like seriously, who the fuck throws their knife?

Matt swatts his hand away.

"Don't touch it."

"It's number three, Matt." Peter says quietly. "I think I should just start taking the knives people stab me with away from them. They obviously don't know how to use them right."

He sighs.

It still sounds tired.

Achingly so.

"Already bounced back from the philosophy, kid?"

"It's still there," Peter mumbles. "I'm just being quietly existential now."

Matt smiles. "How considerate."

"I always am."

"Lying is a sin, child."

"I speak only the truth."

He unceremoniously drops clean pants into Peter's lap, ones that aren't soaked through in red. "In front of God and everyone, have you no shame?" He admonishes.

He's like a nun.

Jesus, Matt was raised by nuns.

Is that why he's so weird?

He had shitty foster homes and nice but strict nuns???

"I have so much. I'm so self conscious. I lay awake at night thinking of the one time in fourth grade where I traded my Reshiram card for four other Pokemon and then stole it back later."

Peter just… did not like that kid.

Did not like him.

At all.

But he wanted those cards.

He wanted them.

And so, he pulled off the greatest heist of the century.

Covered the pile with a knocked over tissue box and stuffed the illicit goods into his card tin and everything.

"A liar and a thief," Matt says to his kitchen plant children. "What have I done wrong?"

Matt's been trying to kill them for weeks.

They stubbornly live on.

He's thinking about naming them.

"You're a liar, Matt," Peter points out.

Matt gasps, mock offended. "But am I a thief? I think n–"

"Yes," Peter interrupts, "You are. I've held documents that you've stolen. I've seen them. Foggy's seen them. Karen's seen them. We all steal. We're like magpies."

Matt stops.

His eyes narrow.

"What did you steal?"

"I just– I just said, Pokemon cards. I stole Pokemon cards in fourth grade and I'm wracked with guilt."

Matt leans in close.

His face is one of judgement.

Immense judgement.

"But what else did you steal?"

"Uuuuuhhhhh, you're heart? Because I'm your brother and you love me?"

His eyes narrow farther.

"I'm callin' bullshit."

Peter throws his hands up. "I stole medicine! For you! You were there! I haven't stolen anything else!"

Matt clicks his tongue and wanders back into the kitchen.

The billboard changes to red, and it bathes the apartment in crimson.

The fantasy is gone.

Now it just looks like Hell.

He can't tell which puddles of red are just the light and which ones are blood.

"Hey," Matt says suddenly, and Peter startles so badly that he bangs his leg on the couch. "I have an idea. Put your shoes on."

"I dunno if I like where this is going," he says wearily, but does as he's told.

Matt disappears back into his lair for a hot minute and emerges in the most casual clothes Peter's ever seen him wear.

It's like getting cold water thrown in his face.

It's like when Ben had stubble for a while when he was six, and then he shaved it off and Peter had hid in his room for half an hour because who is that man??

It's like that.

Peter's really only seen Matt in the suits, in regular suits, work out clothes, and lone set of almost pajamas consisting of a Columbia hoodie that Was Not His and sweatpants.

Jeans and a leather jacket is so out of the preset parameters that Peter has to take a minute and squint.

"You look like a normal person what the heck."

Matt snorts. "Ouch."

"I've never seen you wear normal real-people clothes!" Peter protests. "It's weird! Leave me alone!"

"Yeah, yeah," Matt ruffles his hair. "Think you can walk?"

He shrugs, before pushing off the sofa.

It hurts, but it's bearable.

He doesn't feel anything tear either, so it's probably fine.

He wonders when a several-inches-long cut became a minor inconvenience.

He wonders when it become one for Matt.

"I think so, yeah." Peter says instead.

Matt dips his head in a nod and grabs his glasses. "Good. Let me know if it gets worse. We're meeting Foggy on the way."

Peter grabs Matt's cane and links their elbows.

"Why?"

"So he can supervise."

And that.

Hmmm.

That.

Does not fill him with confidence.

Yikes.

"Should I be afraid?"

Matt's lips quirk up in a smile.

"Nah. You'll like the idea. Probably."

"You're a shining pillar of certainty, Matthew Murdock. Truly, a lighthouse in the storm. A beacon of–"

"Silence."

Peter laughs at him.

Foggy ends up meeting them at a corner street, a scarf wrapped loose around his neck and fingers tinged pink.

It's a cold day in Hell's Kitchen, for all that the fading sun is bright.

"Alright, Matty, what's the field trip today?" He says, taking Matt's other elbow.

Time for Peter's favorite game.

Pretend to guide the blind man when he's actually the only one that knows where to go.

Matt makes a face.

"You're not gonna like it," he starts.

Foggy cuts him off. "Oh, I'm gonna hate it, and I know this, but I'm going anyway, like a sucker."

"We appreciate your support in these trying times," Peter chirps.

"Well at least someone appreciates me." Foggy says brightly. "So, what did you do today that's sparked this horrible decision, whatever it is?"

"I got cut bad again, on my leg, and had an existential crisis."

Foggy nods solemnly. "Of course. Makes perfect sense. I hate that this a normal conversation for me now. How's the leg?"

Peter makes a wavy hand gesture. "Eh. It kinda hurts but getting shot was worse, and it was long, not deep."

"Why do they– why do gunmen always go for the shoulder, man?" Foggy gestures to his own. "You, me, Matt. It's always the shoulder. Always the shoulder."

Peter shrugs. "I dunno. Arteries? Bullets like, kinda vaporize the tissue they go through when it's in and out, and it makes a kinda gaping hole so the blood can just gush out."

"Probably," he pauses. "Why do you know that?"

"It was bothering me for like, two weeks. I asked my teacher." Peter says. "It's why your phone case, when you drop it, just has the smooth dent like glass and there isn't a missing piece for it."

Foggy purses his lips.

"I'm concerned this is a thing you've thought about, but for you two knuckleheads it seems pretty on brand. So at least your special kind of crazy is still going strong."

"Thanks?"

"I'm not sure if that's an insult or a compliment," Matt mutters bemusedly.

Foggy pats his arm with all the seriousness of a father telling his daughter no, you CAN be a unicorn when you grow up. "It can be whatever you want, buddy."

"I'm going with compliment, then."

"Branching out, are we?"

"Everyone's bullying me today," Matt whines. "You, Peter, Father Lantom."

Peter snorts.

"RIP Matt, death by bullying from God."

Foggy bows his head. "And here we thought it would be the ninjas that finally did him in."

"We were so naïve, Foggy."

"I will turn this field trip around," Matt interrupts, "So help me God."

Foggy gasps. "I can't believe you said the Lord's name in vain, Matty."

"Oh my god, Matt, don't you know that's blasphemy??"

"I hate the both of you."

"Blatantly false," Foggy says breezily. "But seriously, I have no idea what we're doing or where we're going."

Matt grumbles something unintelligible before saying, "Peter needs more protection than a hoodie and jeans allow. We all know he's not going to stop. If we do it this way, he has supervision and back up."

What?

Oh.

Wait.

OH.

MATT.

Foggy stares blankly.

Peter isn't sure if it's because he doesn't understand, or because he's just that done.

He wriggles under Matt's arm, latching himself to his side.

The world is shaking, but that might be because Peter's almost jumping in place with excitement.

"Matt, Matt, Matt, Matt, oh my god Matty are you serious??"

Matt shrinks down into his jacket.

It cannot hide him.

Answer his queries, Devil Man.

"MATT."

Foggy takes a deep breath.

"Matthew," he starts.

Oh shit.

Full first name.

"Elaborate."

Matt starts rubbing his thumb across his knuckles and scrunches down even farther, like a turtle trying to retreat into its shell.

"If he has armor, he won't get shot or stabbed as often. It'll help block the blows," he mumbles. "It doesn't have to be fancy, or a symbol or anything, it just needs to keep him safe. Safer."

Foggy sniffs.

Raises a fist over his mouth.

Closes his eyes and breathes real deep, in what Peter guesses is a calming breath?

"I understand your logic," Foggy says, "and I understand the benefits. I'm not happy about it, but I think I get where you're coming from."

Matt tilts his head towards the ground and raises his shoulders.

Peter gets a full view of his face.

It's carefully blank and fragile, crumbling at the edges like a cliff into the sea.

"I don't want him to be a soldier," he says quickly, "but he isn't like that guy in Harlem. He's gonna get hurt. He's been getting hurt. He needs something stronger than denim and a cotton polyester blend."

Foggy sighs.

It sounds world weary.

"Yeah," he says. "He does."

Then he laughs.

"Man, is this a me thing? Do I attract you guys and your kind?"

Matt snorts.

"Our kind?"

"Reckless idiots," Foggy says without missing a beat.

Peter hums. "I mean, I found Matt first."

"True, true. Does Matt attract them then, I just find you guys by proxy–"

"We're here, you Godless heathens," Matt announces.

"Hey, I'm only like, kind of a Godless heathen," Peter protests.

"Silence." Matt intones.

Foggy scoffs. "This is religious profiling, Matthew."

"Silence."

"It's the hair, isn't it? The earrings?"

"Foggy."

"Is this hair racism?"

"Oh my god."

"Blasphemy!" Peter crows.

"Just cause a man has long hair does not mean–"

Matt slaps a hand over his mouth.

Well.

That's one way to end a conversation.

Foggy stares down at the hand unimpressed.

Then he looks at Matt's face.

Makes direct, unseeing eye contact.

Then the corners of his eyes crinkle and Matt rips his hand away with a furious squawk.

"Foggy!!" He shrieks.

It's the sound of the truest kind of betrayal.

Foggy laughs at him, loud and warm and completely unrepentant.

"You licked my hand, oh my god," Matt hisses.

"And yet," Foggy sing-songs, "you're still here."

Matt pouts. "This is ableism."

He doesn't even get through the full sentence before he's smiling again.

"Sure it is. I believe you, one hundred percent."

"Ableism," Matt grumbles, already walking away to knock on the door.

Peter and Foggy both shuffle forward to stand behind Matt's shoulders, Peter peeking out from behind his arm and Foggy resting his chin on Matt's shoulder.

He even leans into the crook of Matt's neck.

It's adorable.

Disgustingly so.

And incredibly aggravating.

It's times like these where Peter thinks how are they not dating?? Is this an old people thing??? A past twenties people thing????

The door opens slowly, and then all at once, quickly pulling him out of his thoughts.

A man stands in the entryway.

"This is my friend Melvin." Matt introduces, voice soft and low. "Melvin, this is my brother," he gestures to Peter, "and my best friend," he gestures to Foggy.

Melvin, the guy that made Matt's suit, is a big dude with a shaved head and built arms.

He's kind of intimidating.

But he also holds his shoulders soft, and his eyes are open and warm, and he smiles all shy when Matt calls him his friend.

Peter decides he loves Melvin then and there.

"Hi," he says, "Thank you for making his suit. He'd probably be dead by now without it."

Foggy nods. "Really, thank you so much."

Melvin looks kind of flattered, but also confused, like he doesn't know what to do with the praise.

"You're welcome? Mr. Daredevil, he keeps Betsy safe, so I keep him safe." Melvin stutters. "And, we're friends, so. I'm happy to. It makes me feel good, to be useful."

Peter smiles.

"I know. I still appreciate it."

"Thank you."

And the way Melvin says it is warm, pleasantly surprised.

Like he wasn't expecting the acknowledgement.

"You're welcome. Do you think we can be friends?"

Melvin smiles.

"Really?"

"Yeah! You're super smart and M– Red says I'm super smart, so we can be super smart buddies!"

"That sounds nice–" Melvin says. "Good. It sounds good."

"As nice as this has been, Melvin, we came here for a reason." Matt cuts in, and he sounds at least a little apologetic.

"Ah," Melvin says, disappointment blatantly open on his face. "So it's not like the visit about soft things?"

Matt smiles, a bit sadly. "No, I'm sorry. I should've been more clear about this. I have a request."

Melvin nods his head. "Okay. Come in. Don't want you standing outside. It's cold, still."

"Thank you, Melvin."

He shrugs, but doesn't say anything as he shuts the door and walks them to the back.

Melvin stands in the middle of the room, adrift almost, before leaning on a table, pulling something into his hands to fidget.

"Okay," he says. "What do you need?"

———

There's a hole in his chest and he doesn't know when or how it got there.

It's great and gaping, like the pit in Midland Circle he dared to seek out amidst the blood stains and concrete.

It twists up his throat and across his tongue and taints his mouth with an acid that burns through his nose and his head and his heart.

It's like drowning on nothing at all.

Like the quiet whispering of the ocean buzzing in his ears, an undercurrent of unease and restlessness.

A noose around his neck.

A snake hissing in his ears.

A Sai blade right through his heart.

And the pit, in sings and whispers and screams, howls and purrs in his ears, looping symphonies of You aren't good enough.

You aren't good enough, you will never be good enough, Matt was barely good enough how could you ever be better than him?

If Daredevil can't save the city, if Matt Murdock, super-senses ninja lawyer Matt Murdock, can't save the city, how are you, normal, little, weak , Peter Parker supposed to do anything at all?

It's like the undertow, and he's going to suffocate under thousands of tonnes of ocean.

Unforgiving and cold.

Skeletons of the long dead reaching up to welcome him.

The buried and bloated and water logged, the forgotten and weighed down and long gone.

The sailors and slaves from centuries ago and the murders and accidents from just yesterday.

It's all bones and silt and chilling currents.

It's all the same to the dead.

And it's so much easier to sink than to swim.

How do you fight an undertow?

How do you fight an emptiness that leaves you hollow?

How do you fight the feeling that you aren't good enough?

It's like trying to fight nothing.

It's like trying to fight yourself.

And you always, always lose.

It creeps up on you, sudden and swift, before digging in it's claws until you're drained dry.

Then it leaves.

And it waits until you're almost healed, until you're almost better, before swooping right back in to slip into your skin like fishhooks.

It's suffocating.

It's miserable.

Peter hates it.

And he hates that hate is sometimes the only thing he can feel at all.

Uncle Ben takes one look at him, at the invisible weight on his shoulders and shadows in his eyes, and he just has this horrible understanding that makes Peter want to throw himself into the Hudson.

He always understands.

Ben always understands.

It makes Peter want to scream, because it doesn't matter is Ben understands, he can't fix it.

When things are wrong with Peter, it's always intangible.

It's always in his head.

It's always something he has to fix because no one else can.

And just for once he'd like someone to reach into his head and fix it for him.

Peter is drowning in himself, in an ocean he can't see, and he's tired of being the one to solve it, to drain it all dry.

He wants help.

He wants it so, so bad.

But doesn't that just prove that he isn't good enough?

And the fact that he sometimes he does feel good, does feel okay, it makes him feel worse.

It makes him feel fake.

Like the trench in his chest traced right down his sternum isn't really there.

Like it isn't really real.

And when he sees Matt for training, he gets that horrible air of understanding too.

It's like everyone understands.

Everyone understands but it isn't good enough.

Just like him.

He wants to feel good and he wants to feel better, but when he does he just feels worse.

Was there ever really any problem in the first place?

It's a loop.

And endless, never ending loop.

A loop of highs and lows and wondering if he would've ended up like this anyway even if he'd never met Matt Murdock.

And on the really low days, where he just feels cold, and he wonders if it's worth it?

Sometimes he's not sure if the answer is yes.

He tries, though.

Lord does he try.

Because it has to get better.

It's what Matt said.

What Ben and May said.

What he said.

It has to get better.

He has to fight it.

Turn the hate against itself.

Peter will fill the trench with sand.

He'll stitch over it in Band-Aids.

He'll drown out the whispering seas and hissing snakes anyway he can.

He can't forget.

He's going to.

But he has to try and remember.

It has to get better.

He can't save anyone if he doesn't save himself.

———

There is no legacy to his silhouette, no tragedy tied to his name.

He's not the last Parker (the last Murdock).

He isn't known.

He never needed to be.

He was just helping people, anyway he could.

Peter didn't need a sign or a symbol.

He just needed something to keep all of the red on the inside.

To turn bullet holes and knife wounds into bruises and scrapes.

Melvin makes him one anyway.

And he loves it with his whole heart.

Black with red accents, leather and Kevlar and whatever the hell else it is Melvin makes, loose fabric for softer shapes, a hood shadowing out his face and a horned helmet stabbing through the bulletproof softness.

Extending claws for climbing.

Reinforced braces at his wrists and ankles.

Just the right amount of pressure on his chest that could be loosened and adjusted.

Melvin made it to last.

Taken in everything, with seams to rip as he grew.

It's the most perfect thing he's ever owned.

Built for him and around him and with Peter the one specifically in mind.

It's not scary, he doesn't think, not built to strike fear into the hearts of criminals or anything.

It was built to keep him safe.

When he pulls it on, it fits like a glove.

The helmet covers his upper face, plated and strong for all that it looks like fabric stretched over his nose and eyes.

It's like a two way mirror, almost.

He can see out, but they can't see in.

The hood has give, loose around his neck and shoulders from where the fabric stretches when pulled over the horns.

It's padded on the outside and soft on the inside, insulated at the soles and palms, smooth instead of scratchy on his skin.

All he can feel is warm, is an almost choking, bubbling happiness clawing its way up his throat, latticing its way through his lungs and his limbs and Peter's just so happy he can barely speak.

Matt catches him when he leaps, helmet removed so he doesn't hit anyone on the horns, and spins him around.

His eyes are crinkled at the corners with crows feet, and Peter isn't sure if he's smiling for Peter or for himself .

He doesn't really care.

Foggy stumbles when assaulted with his full body weight, but doesn't fall, just squeezes him so hard it might snap his ribs and puncture his lungs.

Almost like he's afraid of what will happen if he let's go.

He waits to see if Melvin will let him hug him, and when he does, lifts him almost an inch off the ground before his big arms wrapped around him tight.

He gives good hugs.

When Peter finds Matt for round two, he laughs.

"You like it, do you?" He asks, and his tone, it's the same kind of warm he uses when he leans into Foggy and the same kind of soft in his voice when Peter can get him to talk about his dad.

He hugs Matt tighter.

He doesn't really have words, not yet.

Peter knows that Matt will understand anyway.

Thank you thank you thank you.

Matt squeezes him so hard it's like he'll never let go.

"You're welcome," he whispers.

"You're so, so welcome."

———

Peter gains his reputation quickly, almost overnight, with no small amount of confusion.

No one quite knows what to do with the child seen lurking with Daredevil on rooftops, spotted leading civilians through the streets to the 15th, running through Queens far across the bridge and jumping over fire escapes in Brooklyn.

Witness reports say he has a preternatural grace, acrobatic as the Devil, flipping and twisting and scaling buildings in seconds, far faster than a normal man, far faster than a normal child.

Daredevil is never far from him in Hell's Kitchen, protective like a mother bear with her cubs, having him lead away hostages and victims more often than sending him into a fight.

That is not, however, to say that he is weak.

He's sighted to being soft spoken, incredibly kind, just as protective of civilians as the Devil is of him. He flips like a switch, quickly and efficiently laying into anybody that tries to tail or stop him while guiding people back to safety.

Smaller, petty crimes are stopped by him more often than not, and there are sightings of him in Hell's Kitchen, Queens, Brooklyn, even Midtown, without any pattern or reason.

There's speculation of his identity, of how he came to know the Devil of Hell's Kitchen, of just how old he is.

A son or a brother or yet another demon come to haunt New York?

Several titles are thrown around, but there's only three that stick, found in an article written by one Karen Page, fronted by a picture of the boy himself, light catching on his horns as Daredevil stands just out of focus behind him.

The Prince of Hell's Kitchen, the Son of the Devil, the Antichrist.

Chapter Text

The second sign, the second horseman, if you will, is when he gets taken to the principal's office, glasses cracked, nose bloody and broken, and the skin on his knuckles torn raw.

It's more of a comforting feeling than anything.

Grounding.

He's definitely bothered about being in the office, just on principle(ha), but the thing that's really setting him on edge is the fact that Flash, his bully, is sitting next to him and glaring at the same people he is.

They were friends once.

They were friends once, and it'll never stop stinging.

Peter's not sure if it's something he feels guilty about or not, them falling apart.

Before the divide, the tear, Flash would always defend him.

But now it's after the divide, and they're standing on opposite sides of the great gaping chasm of what used to be friendship where Peter doesn't have Flash to defend him anymore and he doesn't need him to.

Peter can take care of himself.

He goes looking for fights in his free time.

He helps other people.

He does not need help himself.

At school, if he lets the bullies call him names he'd rather forget and pick at his clothes and toss his books, then that's his choice.

They aren't worth his time.

Let them have their fun, so he can just get on with his day.

He wasn't expecting someone like Flash to get mad, an old ex-best friend that calls him names on good days and shoves him a little too hard on bad ones.

Better than it used to be after he almost broke his nose, but still not good like when they were kids.

But apparently, Flash draws the line at dead naming.

Who knew.

And he had gotten himself involved, taken a punch to the jaw for his efforts, and Peter had decided that people taking hits for him is where he draws the line.

That's when bullies become worth his time.

Flash had definitely been surprised, and so had everyone else that had been witness to watch.

And now they're here.

Glaring, or at least gazing unimpressed, at the same group of three boys who are definitely in worse shape than them.

Peter's never executed a spinning kick on someone before.

Matt had waited to teach him that.

Acrobatics are all well and good, and so are roundhouse kicks, but correcting course after a point of contact in the air takes practice.

He's only ever hit punching bags.

It leaves a nasty bruise on a person's jaw, purple and red and white.

Deeper than an ugly green and yellow.

Maybe it'll even turn blue.

It feels good.

It feels right.

Flash's mom arrives first.

Surprisingly, she fusses over the both of them.

Sweeps Flash's hair behind his ear to get a good look at his temples, carefully turns his face to look at his jaw, kisses his forehead, then turns to Peter and winces in sympathy at his nose, at his broken glasses and split lip, before brushing his hair out of the way, just a little.

She'd mumbled to Flash, something about "I thought you two boys didn't talk anymore?" and it felt good to have someone who'd known him since he was little call him a boy.

A nice, bright point in a shitty situation.

Flash had mumbled something back that he didn't catch through the haze of bubbles in his chest, but it had his mom pursing her lips and looking angry.

The other boys' parents trickle in after that, another woman first, then a man, and a bit after him another man.

Peter is the last one left waiting.

He doesn't know who's going to show up for him for the talk with the principal.

May was at work filling in for a friend and Ben was all the way in Brooklyn doing paperwork for a drug bust.

One of them would be home by the time school was over, but today, they were basically unreachable until the final bell rang.

Even if they answered, they couldn't be pulled away.

Peter might have an emergency contact, but he doesn't have a clue who it would be.

He's not expecting the rhythmic tapping of a cane on tile, not expecting the opening door to be for him, not expecting the suit and tie to be someone he knows until Matt is crouching down in front of him.

"Heard you got in a fight." Matt says quietly, and Peter can see himself reflected in Matt's red glasses.

He wrings his wrists and stumbles through the pleased surprise. "I didn't want to. Not at school. But someone else got involved and I had to do something." 

"What was the fight about?"

He scowls and looks away. "My name."

Something in Matt's face goes dangerous for a second, the Devil peeking out to play, before he carefully covers it up with a normal person kind of anger.

"Ah," he says, and Peter almost winces at the barely contained rage.

Then Matt pulls a thin and tall first aid kit out of his briefcase and holds out his hands.

Peter takes his glasses off and brings Matt's hands to rest on his face.

He catches the broken nose, and split lip, but pauses by Peter's cheek and clicks his tongue before moving to the first aid kit.

"We're gonna need to ice that. Your cheek, I mean. It's bruising, and feels swollen." He says as he stretches a strip of gauze over his nose. "Your lip should be fine. No stitches."

"I hate stitches." Peter mumbles and his shoulder twings at the memory.

Matt smiles. "I know. I hate them too. Be happy you don't need any. Hands?"

"Need wrapping." Peter grumbles. "They sting. Just closed, too."

Matt hums, "Thought so," and starts wrapping his knuckles. "Your aunt can check them out later, but it's good enough for now."

"Okay."

"We'll get Chinese later, all of us, how's that sound?"

"Sounds good. Can we say hi to Rudy?"

"Long as you don't give 'im a heart attack, sure."

Peter pouts. "It was one time."

"He thought Dad and me had come back to haunt him the way you were acting."

"You're not dead, Matt, you can't haunt people if you're still alive."

"I'm dead in spirit, Peter."

"That doesn't make any sense."

"Ah, but you don't sound like someone kicked your cat, so I think my point's been made."

"It's kicked your puppy, Matt."

"Dogs are evil beings from the seventh level of Hell."

"Matt." Peter gasps.

"Peter." Matt gasps back with a silly grin.

He sticks his tongue out and Matt can tell, somehow, because he does it too, and then Peter's laughing, small as it is.

"There we go." Matt murmurs softly. "Feel any better?"

Peter shrugs. "I guess. Maybe."

"That's good." He moves to sit on the chair next to Peter. "You get any good hits? You win? It's okay if you didn't. I won't be mad or anything if you held back, or even if you just lost."

"We won." Peter admits, and feels something that might definitely be pride. "I executed that spinning kick and didn't fall. Course corrected without any slip ups."

Matt hesitates a moment before ruffling his hair. "Good job. Your lungs feel okay?" He asks, even though Peter knows Matt can hear them.

"Mhmm. They feel fine. Stamina's a lot better."

"Who's the person that got involved?"

Peter hems and haws for a second, before saying very quietly, "Flash. We used to be friends a long time ago, before my parents died. Remember?"

Matt pauses.

"Yes," he says slowly. "I remember."

"You aren't gonna try and fight him are you?" Peter asks wearily. "Because you're that kind of person and I need confirmation."

"I'm not going to try and fight a teenager, Peter."

"Cool, can I get that in writing?"

"I'm blind."

"I never said it had to be pretty."

Matt snorts and shoulder checks him, except it's more that he just leans over the chair arm to shove all of his weight on Peter.

"Oh no, gravity's… increasing…"

He squawks, but it's more surprise than outrage. "Who taught you that? Who was it? Was it Karen? Was it Foggy? Oh my god it was Mi– Frank, wasn't it? It was Frank, he has betrayed me."

"I can educate myself," Matt defends. "Ye of little faith. I answered May's call, and this is the thanks I get? This?"

"I was wondering why you were here." Peter says.

Matt shrugs, still half leaning on Peter. It's a strange sensation. "She called and asked if I could fill in. Hogarth is ice cold but Foggy threatened to go instead if she wouldn't let me, and she likes Foggy more, so. I came."

"Why can't she like you equally? Is this an ableist thing? Do I need to fight a lawyer? Cause, I'll fight a lawyer."

"I think she's jealous Foggy likes me more than her," Matt says not at all seriously.

Peter latches onto it like a bear trap.

"Foggy likes you more than everyone–"

"Stop that. No. Silence, demon child." He flails a hand and slaps it over Peter's mouth, like a traitor. "It's not an ableist thing, kid. She just thinks he's better at his job, I think. I don't particularly care." He says.

You know.

Like a liar.

"Well I think you're better at your job than she is and my opinion's superior to hers, so there. I win."

Matt cracks a smile. "Excellent defense, Mr. Parker."

"It's ironclad, really."

The office door opens, and Matt's head turns to face it.

One of the office ladies beckons them in. 

"He'll see you now," she says.

And into the lion's den they go.

Peter doesn't get suspended. At least, not on record.

He does get told to stay home for a day or two.

Flash gets told the same.

The three boys are suspended for a week.

And after that, that's when the first rumor starts.

That Peter Parker fights like the Devil.

———

Peter finds dog number two three weeks after Karen branded him the Antichrist.

And he is the saddest looking, most ridiculously unphased dog Peter's ever seen.

He's missing an eye.

He walks into things.

This does not stop him.

He just keeps going.

Like the Brave Little Toaster.

Anyway.

It's admirable, really.

If, ya know, he thought that the dog had any idea where he was going.

He kind of just seems to be… puttering along.

Wandering through New York.

He comes when Peter calls though.

All it takes is a "Here, boy!" and a whistle, and he trots right over.

And then snuffles confusedly like he wasn't expecting Peter to be the origin of said calling.

It's like a great big sigh and kind of like a sneeze, and then he actually sneezes and Peter kinda wonders how he's survived this long.

Props to 'im though.

He's got a leather collar and like, four tags.

He jangles when he walks.

A chip tag, two vaccination tags, and a little silver bone that says LUCKY on the front and a phone number and an address on the back.

Lucky proves easily bribable when Peter gets him a hot dog so that he doesn't wander off again while he dials the number.

He has to call three times, but on call number three it only rings twice before someone blearily says, "Hello? Sorry, I didn't have my hearing aids in."

"It's okay, I just wanted to let you know I found you dog?"

"Lucky?" The man croaks, and if squinting could be a sound, that would be it. "Shit, did he get out again? Can't tell when there's a moth on the ceiling and not the table but somehow, he's a master escape artist."

Peter laughs.

"That sounds rough. Do you want me to bring him to you, or do you wanna come to me?"

The man grumbles something unintelligible, and then it sounds like he trips, followed by swearing.

"Goddamn– I told her not to leave that in the middle of the floor– Christ." He sighs, long and drawn out.

"Where are you, kid?"

"Queens."

"Yeah okay, I'm in Brooklyn. Bed Stuy."

Peter nods and scratches Lucky behind the ears. 

"I'll go to you then. I need to check on a friend that a ways anyway."

"Fantastic." The man says, and it only sounds a little sarcastic. "See you when I see you. Don't let Lucky con you into too much street food."

Lucky perks up at the mention of his name over the receiver.

He looks so excited.

His raggedy tail wagging in joy.

"I'll try my best," Peter says, "but he's very convincing. See you when I see you."

He hangs up.

The hot dog is gone.

"Okay, Lucky," Peter whispers. "We're gonna take you home to your dad, okay?"

Lucky's tail increases in wagging frequency.

"Yeah, you know what's up. You're a good half blind dog."

Lucky's whole back half moves with the wagging of his tail.

Said tail isn't even wagging properly.

It's like a broken helicopter.

Good God.

This boy.

What a character.

Peter ruffles his ears and they flop like crazy. "Let's try and not get hit by cars, yeah?"

Lucky seems amicable to this decision, and then immediately tries to run across the street two seconds later.

Zero depth perception.

Zero self preservation skills.

Peter has found a kindred spirit.

And so began their valiant quest to Bed Stuy.

Lucky almost dies no less than five times.

Lucky starts to feeling like a ridiculously well earned name.

The third time he doesn't die by car, Peter has to take a moment and marvel at the possible dog shaped reincarnation of like.

Tyche??

Trivia???

Some other pagan luck god???

Did Lucky eat a bunch of tiger's eye? Clovers?? Was he blessed by a hedge witch???

Peter doesn't understand how he's survived as long as he has.

By the time they make it to the address in Bed Stuy, Peter's sporting scapes on his hands and knees from tackling Lucky out of the universe's Next Top Murder Attempt, and Lucky himself is completely oblivious to his many near fatalities.

It's stressful.

He's stressed.

Is this what Matt feels like when they go out?

May and Ben when he leaves for school??

Jesus.

Lucky happily trots into the elevator, and Peter shuffles in behind him, hoping against hope that it won't turn into a metal death trap.

They reach the top floor unscathed and Peter makes a mental note to leave offerings by the kitchen window.

He knocks on the door, once, twice, three times.

He might have to wait awhile, the guy said he had hearing ai–

Nope.

Nope, nevermind.

A plethora of curses comes from the condo behind the door, along with the sound of something being knocked over, several thunks of someone tripping, and the high pitched laughter of someone cackling at someone else's misfortune.

Then the door is yanked open.

And–

Oh.

Oh shit.

Peter feels his eyes widen in surprise and his shoulders raise defensively.

"Lucky you didn't say your dad was Hawkeye." He hisses.

Lucky snuffles and walks around his legs to look up at Hawkeye.

Peter has to, with difficulty, force himself to calm down.

Because holy shit it's Hawkeye and Peter just found his dog but also because it's Hawkeye and Peter is a vigilante.

Matt is a vigilante.

So many things could go wrong.

But.

Then again?

He doesn't think Hawkeye technically works within the law either?

Like, he's a SHIELD agent, but also.

He's a spy.

That's.

That's all kinds of law breaking right there.

Right??

Hawkeye huffs at Lucky and drags a hand down his face.

"Thank you for finding my dog," he says from behind his shield from the world. "I am so sorry."

"You're welcome?" Peter wrings his wrists and shuffles his feet. He has no idea what he's supposed to do in this situation. "He kinda, uh, almost died like four or five times. Maybe six. He was really determined to become friends with the road."

Hawkeye groans.

"Lucky why?"

Lucky sneezes.

"That's not–" Hawkeye wheeze-coughs into his hands. "That's not an answer, man ."

Lucky wags his tail into the door frame as he tries to squeeze past Hawkeye's legs.

Peter winces at the sound.

Does he?

Does he not have any nerves?

Or something??

"Jesus," Hawkeye mutters.

Lucky finally squeezes past the door frame and Hawkeye's legs like the Argo and the Clashing Rocks before disappearing into the apartment.

There's another crashing sound.

Peter winces again in sympathy.

Someone else coos from inside the apartment.

"Is he– is he just like that?" He asks helplessly.

Hawkeye closes his eyes, inhaling deeply.

"Yeah," he says, and his voice cracks. "He is."

Then he finally removes his hand from his face to hold onto the door frame and riffle through his pockets.

He thrusts three crumpled twenties into Peter's hands.

"Thank you, again."

He holds the money loosely in his hands. 

"You don't, uh, you don't have to pay me? I was gonna head this way up anyway, and you aren't the first person who's dog I've found." He rambles.

Hawkeye squints.

"Really?" He asks, and it's sounds.

Suspicious??

This has been.

The most confusing encounter.

Peter absently smooths out the cash in his hands.

"Er, yeah, I kind of. Found a, uh, a friend? Acquaintance? Acquaintance, of mine's dog? Uh, Mr. Castle, I found his dog in Central Park a couple months ago? I think? I'm bad at dates, and like, time in general." He shrugs, trying to figure out what exact words he'd just said because there were a lot.

Hawkeye stops completely.

Then he makes a face like he's doing complex math equations in his head before it morphs into one of immediate regret.

Michelle makes that face a lot.

She's really, really smart, and understand math super, super well.

She still super, super hates it.

Hawkeye purses his lips and holds a fist over his mouth.

"You– Castle??"

"That's what I said?"

"Castle like, Frank Castle?? Punisher, Castle??? He has a dog??? That you found??"

"It could be another Castle," Peter hedges warily.

"There's exactly one Castle in New York and it's that guy," Hawkeye says with resigned certainty. "But no, seriously, he has a dog?"

Peter squints at him.

"I'm pretty sure he rescued him from being a fight dog? Like, ones that they pit against one another?"

Hawkeye looks like he's transcended reality.

"Oh my god do we all get our dogs from fighting rings? What the fuck?" He whispers, turning to, presumably, look at Lucky. "What the fuck?" He says louder.

Peter hears Lucky sneeze.

Then Hawkeye freezes.

"Wait," he mumbles. "Wait, wait wait. Kate! Katie-Kate, c'mere!"

"Why?" Asks a young voice, who he's guessing is Kate?

"Thought experiment? I'm your mentor and I offer you free room and board? Because I asked you??"

Kate sighs, loudly and dramatically.

"Yeah, alright."

And it sounds.

Familiar.

She sounds familiar.

Someone pushes into the doorway under Hawkeye's arm and–

It's the girl.

It's the girl from Central Park.

What the fuck?

"What the fuck?" Kate says for him. "You're– it's that guy," she says to Hawkeye. "It's that guy, the one I told you about, with the asthma. You brought Lucky back?"

"Small world?" Peter mumbles.

Hawkeye huhs.

"Weird." He says. "Absolutely fucking wild. What are the chances?"

Peter shrugs. "I'm incredibly unlucky, so. Pretty high."

Hawkeye huhs again.

Then he disappears into the condo.

"Wait there," Peter hears him mumble.

Which.

Leaves just him and Kate.

Who is staring at him.

With immense scrutiny.

Then she huhs.

What the fuck does 'huh' mean?

Is it a code word?

Code sound?

He feels like the physical embodiment of ????

Hawkeye ambles back into view, physically shoving Kate back into the apartment.

She squawks in indignation before squirreling her way back under his arm.

He hands Peter a sticky note with a name and phone number.

"If you ever need any help, call that number, okay? Or if you ever see something shady as hell and can't get it to somebody like, Daredevil or that Harlem guy." Hawkeye says.

And.

That's.

Wow.

Holy shit.

"Thank you," Peter says, carefully folding it and pulling his phone case off of his phone to slide it into the hollow. "I'll uh. I'll let you know."

Hawkeye nods. "Good."

Then he holds out his hand.

Peter takes it wearily.

"I'm Clint Barton, but you knew that," he says with a crooked smile. "Call me Clint. You are?"

"Peter." He says, and shakes Clint's hand. "Peter Parker."

Clint's smile widens.

"Nice to meet you, Peter Parker."

———

Peter wasn't lying when he said he was already going up to Brooklyn to see a friend.

Not really.

That friend just… wasn't going to be in town for another few days.

He was going up to Brooklyn to find Bucky's drop spot for the location of their next meeting.

It's.

Really convoluted.

But it makes Bucky feel safer, so.

Peter doesn't really mind.

It's an apartment, this time.

An apartment with a clunky lock and newspaper-ed up windows, living room slash kitchenette, bathroom off to the side.

Sturdy little bookcase made of plywood filled with journals and newspaper clippings and binders.

Cheap, dry foods lined up along the counter.

Plastic bag full of spices.

An old couch, a ratty arm chair, a bed roll tied up nice and neat by what he thinks might be a go bag.

It looks… 

Barren.

Clumsily filled in.

Maybe, just maybe, like the beginnings of a home.

Peter arrives first.

Bucky arrives last.

And he looks…

Better.

His hair isn't as dull.

His eyes look brighter.

His clothes look worn but good.

There's deeper creases by his eyes, and his hair is braided through with a dark purple ribbon, and while his face is kind of scruffy, it's not from lack of care.

It's choice.

And it feels like maybe Bucky's starting to remember how to be human.

And it makes Peter feel… something.

Something warm.

Something like sunshine and honey and tacky-caramel-sweetness.

Bucky, he pops into New York every couple of weeks, once a month at the longest, and Peter always makes sure to clear his schedule.

Whether it's for walking around Brooklyn and remembering the streets Bucky grew up in or showing him how to paint his nails.

Big things and little things.

Peter watches a lot of how to videos now.

To learn things he didn't know before and pass them along.

Things that feel good, things that are for fun, things that a weapon wouldn't know and if Bucky knows them then he can't a weapon, can he?

Like how to stitch little embroidery stars and flowers into scrap fabric, how to color code his journal for the aesthetic, how to braid his hair even if he can just tie it back.

It's important.

Peter thinks it's important, that they're important, because they're very human things to do and they remind Bucky that he's still human.

That he's still alive.

That he's not the Soldier anymore.

He likes to think that Bucky thinks they're important too.

It's kind of hard to tell sometimes, what Bucky's feeling, but he gets better every time Peter sees him.

Like the crinkle at the corner of his eyes that turned into a sharp, almost-cough laugh that turned into a smile thinner than a hair.

It's progress.

It's progress and progress means change and change means evolution.

It means growth.

It means learning to be a different person than who you were before.

And Bucky needs that.

And Bucky's getting that.

He's learning and getting better and there are days when English flows freely off his lips.

Sometimes he even as an accent.

One from Brooklyn.

Bucky silently clicks the door shut behind him.

"Солнышко," he says quietly, with what might even be amusement. "Why're you vibrating? You look like a cartoon that got hit with a frying pan."

Solnyshko.

Small sun.

"So you did do your research," Peter responds happily. "Also, I'm not a small sun. I am the night. I can feasibly judo flip a man several times my size."

Bucky's eyes brighten in a smile even as his mouth stays mostly flat.  "So you did your research."

He shrugs. "I like learning. And learning another language is difficult, which makes it fun."

"Strange child," Bucky rumbles, and then lugs a big metal box out of one of the cabinets.

When he opens it, it turns out to be a cash box.

Full of cash.

Each tab labeled with things like rent and food and bills.

"JB!" Peter gasps. "Are you puttin' down roots for a bit?"

Bucky shrugs.

"Something like that," he says.

He divvies up cash magicked from his inside coat pocket, slipping them under the tabs before closing, locking, and putting the box away.

"So," he says, turning to lean a hip against the countertop. There's a long pause after his So, like he'd forgotten what he was going to say, or maybe just the words that went with them. "Vibrating. Why?"

Peter perks up.

"I got you a present!" He crows, pulling said gift from his backpack to brandish it like the Holy Grail. "It's an engineering textbook. It's what you were going into before the war, right? Engineering?"

Bucky's eyes are wide.

Wide like saucers, like dinner plates, like a full moon.

Like surprise, like shock, like disbelief.

"How'd you know that?" He whispers, velvet soft and twice as fragile.

Peter smiles.

It's crooked.

"I went to the Smithsonian." He explains quietly. "I got… kind of angry while I was there, actually. A lot of Mr. Rogers personal stuff and sketchbooks are in there, and he's not dead anymore but they haven't given it all back and it just–" Peter huffs loudly. "It ain't right. Whatever. Not the point. I checked out your section of the exhibit, and it talked about how you'd started college before you were drafted. Engineering. So I got you a textbook, if you ever wanted to pick it back up again."

"Oh."

Bucky sort of– stumbles forward on tin soldier legs, lightly taking the book from Peter's hands with a gentleness more often seen in a bomb squad.

He barely feels the brush of fingertips as it's taken from his grasp.

Barely a butterfly amount of pressure.

Bucky holds the textbook like if he squeezes it with anything more than the barest amount of pressure, it'll shatter like stained glass windows, twisted metal and broken color.

His throat bobs, and he bows his head to rest it on the hardcover.

"Thanks, kid," Bucky croaks, and it's probably the most emotional he's ever seen him outside of an outburst.

Those were startled moments of clarity, of remembrance, of what kind of person Bucky Barnes had been.

This though?

It crept up slow, tied to the present and not the past, a living and breathing monument to the very real person in front of him that was learning to remember that personhood.

It makes his heart feel warm.

Peter curls up in the arm chair and hums.

He hides a smile behind his knees and folded arms.

"You're welcome, Bucky."

———

"Hello, Detective."

Sergeant Mahoney jumps like a back alley cat, nearly dropping the phone and keys in his hands.

He startles so hard he almost bangs his head on the fire escape.

Peter can't really help a grin and a snort.

Just one.

Maybe two.

It's funny.

"Jesus," Sergeant Mahoney hisses in surprise, clutching at his heart.

"Aw c'mon, I couldn't have scared you that bad, Detective." Peter teases. "I'm little. Not scary or anything. You could've seen me."

Sergeant Mahoney mugs at him, scuttling back towards the door, weight on the railing, before finally talking.

"You weigh maybe ten pounds soaking wet and walk on your light-stepped-ninja-feet. You wear black. I'm only just barely convinced that you even breathe."

Peter laughs at that, big and loud and full, little chortles that get caught in his throat before bursting right out and into the air like blooming flowers.

"I breathe, I promise," he says, tapping out Lost Woods against the railing with his claws. "Crowbars wouldn't hurt so much if I didn't."

Sergeant Mahoney purses his lips, absently tapping out Peter's rhythm on the railing he's leant against.

"That shit? Your little baby face voice sayin' that? That's what makes you scary, just so you know."

Peter tilts his head like an owl, leaning with the force of his whole body.

Animal mannerisms always super weird people out, even if they don't quite know what he's doing, just that a human shouldn't.

"I don't understand," he admits bemusedly.

"You freak people the fuck out because you're probably a goddam fetus," Sergeant Mahoney explains in a tired voice. "And you run around fighting criminals with the Devil. Could be a small ass adult. Fetus is the general consensus though, and child soldiers ring wrong with most folks."

He smiles with all his teeth.

"That's sweet. I ain't a child soldier, Detective. I signed up for this shit."

Mahoney sighs. "You're not inspiring confidence here, Prince of Hell. 'least maybe Evans will calm down. She's halfway convinced you've been brainwashed."

"Red would never," Peter barks out harshly with maybe more force than necessary.

It rings in the air unpleasantly.

Mahoney holds up his hands in apology.

"Sorry, sorry. Hit a nerve. Sorry."

Peter squints from behind his mask.

"Red doesn't do that shit," is what he finally says. "We fight the guys that do. You remember the incident at Mentro-Gen like a month or two ago?"

"You're gonna have to be more specific than that. Lots of shit goes down at Mentro-Gen these days."

"The kids Double D found that were gettin' drained dry."

Mahoney purses his lips and looks away, shifting uncomfortably.

Three bodies in the autopsy room that day.

"Yeah, I remember."

"They were brainwashed," Peter says without preamble, "and the folks that did it are on the other side of the war Red's fighting."

"Just him?" Mahoney asks with a raised eyebrow. 

Peter shrugs. "I'm not allowed to be involved in it. I don't really want to be. It's the real deal, though. The real kind of underground hidden war shit."

"Yeah? You sure?"

He smiles, sardonic and bittersweet. "People are dead, aren't they? A son killed his father and a nurse died in defense of her friend. An old friend of Double D's is dead too."

Mahoney winces. "Shit."

"It's bad, Detective. Don't go getting any ideas. You stay far the fuck away from it. It's a war for soldiers and weapons, not cops on the right side of the law."

"Uh-huh." Mahoney says. "And what does that make you?"

Peter bares his teeth.

He's not sure if it's in pride or defiance.

Maybe it's both.

"Neither a soldier nor a weapon. I don't work for that old bastard. Red's got ties, but I don't. And Red's a person, don't get me wrong. I've been drilling that shit into his head for too damn long to say he ain't. But he trained to be a soldier and a weapon. And he's really, really good."

Mahoney goes still.

"You sayin' the Devil's a child soldier, AC?" He asks real slow.

Peter tilts his head back and rocks on the arches of his feet, carefully balanced on the railing.

"I said nothin' of the sort. You reached your own conclusions. All I said was that Red is good at what he does, and what he's doin' besides beatin' the shit outta lowlife criminals is fighting a war you can't see. And you need to stay away from it."

Mahoney grits his teeth and takes a deep breath. "I can't stay away from something I can't see." He stresses.

Peter rolls his shoulders, tries to jostle off the cold starting to lattice it's burning strands in his scar tissue.

"Blind folks do just find. I'm sure you'll manage."

"At least give me something."

He cocks his head.

Then he hunches forward, hands holding him in place as he leans past his careful balance.

"Men dressed all in black, like ninjas. Arrows, shurikens, knives. Old school weapons. If you gotta dip your toes in so be it, but if you find murders that're too clean, you might wanna get outta dodge as fast as you can."

Mahoney bites his cheek.

"Thank you," he finally says.

Peter shrugs. "No problem. Thanks for not arrestin' me or Double D. It means a lot."

"Yeah, well," Mahoney huffs. "I still think he's a teeth smashing fuckhead that could probably do with getting his head checked, but… he does good for the city. He gets to the part we can't. Fisk would probably be long gone without him."

He smiles.

"I'll let him know you had such sweet things to say."

"I didn't say you weren't a teeth smashing fuckhead that could probably do with getting your head checked, so don't go getting cocky." He grumbles.

"Awwwww," Peter coos, "you care. That's so cute."

"I do not. Shut the fuck up, you demon child."

"Such sweet things, Detective."

"Shoo. Before I start testing Maynard's holy water theories," Mahoney threatens.

Peter wiggles in place before standing up on the thin metal bar.

"Sure thing! Side note though, the real reason I came here? Turk Barret's violating his parole again. He's out cold at the docks."

"Son of a bitch," he hears Mahoney swear. "Stop bringing me criminals like dead birds!"

Peter disappears into the shadows over the lip of the roof still laughing.

Chapter Text

The red sky at morning, sign number three, is his two best friends.

Ned gazes at him very seriously.

Michelle crosses her legs and folds her arms.

Shadows cross their faces.

Curtains block out sunlight.

Towels are neatly stuffed along the crack under his door.

It's dark, still, and serious, the outside world muffled to a dull white noise.

The air hangs heavy.

It's just… all sort of offset by the fact the Ned is gazing seriously down upon him from his Star Wars-sheets bunk bed and Michelle is criss-crossing everything on his sticker-covered spinny chair.

There's a little smiling watermelon next to Michelle's cold, suspicious eyes.

"Is this an intervention?" He asks cautiously.

Ned and Michelle trade glances.

They look back to him.

Michelle leans further back into her stolen chair.

The low creak wouldn't be out of place paired with a guillotine.

"Today, a little birdie told me a story about a kid with a bloody red bandana and cord wrapped wrists."

Calm your racing heart.

Peter hums. "Yeah?"

"Little kid, maybe a year younger than us, that ran around the boroughs, fighting everyone they could get their hands on. Bullies, muggers, stalkers."

Ease the bar through your spine.

"Sounds like a good person."

"The bird was much more prolific. He called them a saving grace. A God send. An angel."

Don't laugh even as the Devil howls in your heart.

"Huh. We could use one of those, now a days." Peter folds his arms. "There's demons and devil's everywhere. And I'm not talking about the ones in Hell's Kitchen."

Michelle purses her lips.

"Yeah. We do."

"Peter," Ned whispers from above, "we need you to be honest with us. Please?"

He twists upwards to look at him, to take in the seriousness and the gravity of his gaze.

They're so dark he would probably fall forever if he fell in.

"I'll do my best," is what he says, and he can tell that he's already said the wrong thing.

Ned still says, "Okay," hush-silent in the heavy atmosphere.

"Parker," Michelle cuts in. "I'm going to ask you some questions, and you're going to answer them. What happens in this room stays in this room. I'll only say this once: please don't lie."

Peter stares at her for a long moment.

Rolls the words around in his mouth.

It feels sort of like opportunity knocking.

Like maybe, it's a chance to be honest.

To be really, actually honest, instead of twisting reality until it suited him.

To give them another itty bitty piece of the truth.

To stop lying by omission.

(Are you even really blind rings unsaid, as Matt and Foggy fall and break and shatter into stardust)

He dips his head yes.

Michelle closes her eyes for a long moment, before opening them again and leaning forward to rest her elbows on her knees.

"Peter Parker," she intones quietly, and he can see himself reflected in her eyes. "Have you ever picked a fight?"

"No." I finish them.

"Are you in any danger?"

"No." I'm safer than I've ever been.

"Are you mixed up in something dangerous? Something bad?"

"No." Matt doesn't let me be.

"Do you go around saving people in a red bandana?"

"No." Not anymore.

Michelle stares at him.

Squints.

Blows a stand of hair out of her face.

"Alright," she finally grumbles. "I believe you."

Some of the tension in his shoulders slips away unbidden.

His left feels tight.

His heart hammers in his chest.

But Peter keeps his breathing even, keeps his gaze steady.

He's not scared.

He's not scared.

And if he thinks it enough times maybe it'll become true.

"Peter," Ned starts, then stops, shifting around and folding his arms. "Peter," he tries again. "You've been acting really weird."

"Real fuckin weird," Michelle chimes in.

He stops staring at Peter to mug at her.

She mugs back.

Ned tosses his hands into the ceiling and looks back to him.

"You've been acting weird. Like, you got in that fight a couple weeks ago and freaked every one out. You were like… frickin' Kung Fu Panda or something. Karate Kid."

"Wendy Wu: Homecoming Warrior," Michelle suggests in a speculative tone.

Peter snorts and almost chokes on air.

Ned points at her dramatically while Peter's dying. "Yes. Exactly. That."

Then he points at Peter, still coughing. "Bicycle kick, dude. You did a bicycle kick on someone's face."

Peter nods his head and moves to dig out his inhaler when another cough jumps up his throat.

He gives Ned a thumbs up and waves off Michelle's hand.

He'll be fine.

He just needs his frickin inhaler.

Like, no, jumping buildings? He's totally fine.

Chokes on air? It fuckin does him in.

That's it.

That's the end.

Not leaping over buildings and parkour.

A snort.

Why???

Ned waits until he's used the damn thing twice and the coughing's gone away to continue.

"And you're always beat up, not as much lately, but like. Your knuckles are basically just calluses from how much you tore them."

Michelle nods. "Scar tissue," she adds.

"Calluses and scar tissue." Ned says. "You've got black eyes and split lips and bruises everywhere? And we all know it isn't May and Ben so like, what are you even doing to get so messed up, dude?"

"I found bloody bandages in your trash, Parker," Michelle says, lips pursed and knuckles white. "I knocked it over and expected paper and tissues, and what I got was dried, bloody gauze and tissues twisted up and soaked from nosebleeds. You're really lucky May or Ben didn't find those, because they would've lost their shit."

"Who's hurting you, man?" Ned asks, voice hushed and quiet, like he's afraid to say it any louder than a whisper.

Like he's afraid someone might hear.

"I don't pick fights," his mouth quickly says for him, just as quiet and still. "I don't. I just– I just find them a lot. I'm unlucky. Incredibly unlucky. Ben– Ben calls it the Parker Luck."

And it leaves no survivors.

Peter buries his head in his knees, presses the top of his head against the bone and muscle and tissue as hard as he can.

He changes his mind.

He can't lie.

He is scared.

"I'm unlucky," he lamely repeats. "And I get hurt a lot because of it."

He closes his eyes.

He wants to drown out the world.

Instead, the silence rings and boils in his ears.

Does he feel good, telling the truth?

Not lying?

Laying out his cards?

Or does he feel worse?

Truths slipping through his hands like fine grains of sand?

He can't tell.

At this point, Peter honestly can't tell.

Maybe it does feel good to stop lying.

Maybe.

But he can't see it past the almost nauseous feeling buzzing in his head.

His secrets aren't just his.

They're not all Peter's to tell.

"Are you hurt right now, Peter?" He hears Ned hesitantly ask through the ocean roaring in his ears.

And he can't stop himself.

"Yes."

Someone moves closer to him.

He can hear it.

He won't open his eyes.

He can't.

He can't do a lot of things.

"Where are you hurt, Parker?"

Michelle.

It's Michelle.

"It's old," Peter rasps. "Nothing new. Just my shoulder. Just my shoulder. Knee hurts a bit. Jumped too far and stumbled. Nothing big."

There's a creak of metal.

Rhythmic and even.

Steps down a ladder.

It sounds different on a rusty fire escape.

Ned comes around to his other side.

"How bad is it?" He says, voice soft, voice gentle.

Peter finds a hand pressing itself into the scar, thumb digging into the shallow, barely-there groove. He's not sure he actually remembers moving it. "Shrapnel," he whispers. "Shrapnel hurts today. Since we started talking. It's psycho– psychosomatic. Nothing's really wrong. It's been a long time. It's healed."

The air is stifling.

"Shrapnel?" Ned echoes, voice shaking.

"Bullet," Peter breathes, and his shoulder burns.

Bang bang.

Ned inhales sharp enough to cut stone.

Michelle makes a sound between a cut off laugh and keening.

He can hear her get up and walk away.

The chair creaks.

He feels cold.

"What happened?" Ned whispers, voice horrifyingly steady, like he's doing his best to keep it together and succeeding. "Why did you get shot, why didn't you tell us?"

He curls away.

Leans his forehead against the wall.

Tries to just breathe.

"It was an accident. Some– idiot, trying to rob a scared kid. Didn't even know how to use it." Peter recites, and it feels like something's died and decayed in his throat. "The first shot missed. The second one didn't. It–"

Bang bang.

He thunks his head against the wall and tries to push the rattle out through the starbursts in his vision.

Tries to speak past the needles of phantom pain, spiralling out and out and out even though there's nothing wrong.

He'll get over it.

He'll get over it.

"It had to be dug out," he continues, babbling, almost. "There's still– There's still shrapnel in my shoulder. That's why it hurts when it's cold and rainy. I got stitches. Six. Stayed the night where I got fixed up. Then I came home."

Michelle breathes deep.

"Why were you even there?"

"He needed help," Peter croaks. "And everyone just kept walking. So I didn't."

A hand finds its way to shoulder.

Peter flinches at the sudden touch and Ned rips it away. "Does May know? Ben?" 

His brows furrow so hard it aches.

"No."

"You got shot," Michelle repeats, "and you didn't tell anyone."

He can't tell if it's accusatory or not.

Maybe that's worse.

"No," Peter says. "No, I didn't tell anyone. Not anybody that didn't already know."

"Why?"

"I don't know," he answers lamely. "It was like if I said anything, it would all come crumbling down. I would never be left alone again. I would get treated like glass. Everyone would worry over and smother me. I dunno know. It just… 

"It felt better to lie."

The room is silent.

It is so, so silent.

The weight of it presses down on his shoulders, almost suffocating in it's heaviness.

It feels like the whole world is balanced shoulders.

And it feels like he's going to stumble and fall.

Michelle inhales.

Slowly, shakily.

Then she exhales.

Rinse and repeat.

In, one, two, three, out, four, five, six, in… 

Peter finds himself copying her.

Ned shuffles back over to sit next to him.

He can feel his body heat, hear the scuffle on the floor.

"Can I see it?"

He nods into the wall, and twists the fingers digging into the groove to tug down the shoulder of his shirt.

Michelle stops breathing, and Peter continues alone.

He curls his head around to look left, and opens his eyes.

The skin is pink and old, white at the edges and puckered in.

Ned stares at it like it's a brand, like it's a twisted, blackened burn on his skin.

A sort of fascination and deep concern and a look in his eyes that says I want to fix this.

He can't fix it.

It's old, and healed, and most days he forgets it's there.

Ned swallows. "Who stitched you up?"

He looks away.

Takes a deep breath.

And shakes his head no.

He's tired.

"Can't say."

Michelle huffs.

It doesn't sound impatient or annoyed.

Just resigned.

She's tired too.

Maybe that's what that drawn look to Ned's face had meant.

Maybe they're all just tired.

"Can't or won't?"

"Both. Not my place to say."

"Why's it a secret?" Ned asks.

He shakes his head again.

"It's not my place to say," Peter repeats. "It's not my secrets. I messed things up once. I'm not doing it again."

Ned and Michelle… don't seem to know how to respond to that.

He's kind of glad.

He doesn't want to answer anymore questions.

He might say something that he shouldn't.

He might say something that he'll regret.

"Okay," Ned mumbles, and leans into his side.

There's a creak and a shuffle, and then Michelle has one of his hands in hers.

She laces their fingers together, and Ned finds his other hand.

"Thank you," she whispers, voice strangely soft, "for telling us the truth."

Peter closes his eyes.

He can't bear the look on her face.

"Don't be," he whispers back.

His eyes burn.

"Don't be."

———

It makes his skin burn like fire, but Peter learns to use makeup.

To cover the purple shadows under his eyes and the fingers wrapping around his throat, the bruises painting his arms like a masterpiece and the scars of things long healed branded along his skin.

Discomfort wholly of his own making is a price far easier to pay than the ones born of rumors.

Because there are rumors.

Things like Natilie is dating so and so and Jacob got detention again and Mrs. Johnson is getting divorced.

Little, inconsequential things.

Run of the mill gossip.

What else would anyone talk about in school, during class and lunch, than rumors?

Maths? English? History?

Don't be daft.

It's all gossip, even if you don't have a face to the name.

Everyone knows Julian has a crush on Ron except Ron, everyone knows Katie will hand out filled study guides for a price, everyone knows Mr. E will extend your deadlines if you bring him snacks and an explanation.

And then, of course.

The fan favorite.

The underdog.

Peter Parker fights like the Devil.

It spreads like wildfire in the days he's gone, days full of stern whispers at home and roaring gossip at school.

Ben and May had been startled, worried, when they'd found out what exactly the fight had been for.

Initially angry at him for fighting at school and then dreadfully understanding of why he'd fought at all, tempers cooling and replaced with a quiet concern.

One that said We're so sorry you have to defend who you are and This never should've happened and How do you know how to fight so well?

He comes back to school and is greeted with wide eyes and hush-silent halls.

Whispers behind his back from the timid and questions asked plain in his face from the bold.

It's a strange, tense two days before the weekend, and when Peter gets back on Monday, it's only marginally better.

The only ones that had treated him with some semblance of normal had been Ned, Michelle, and, strangely enough, Flash.

It's almost a month before people finally stop looking at him like he's something to be wary of.

He's used to it being aimed at the Antichrist.

He's not used to it being aimed at Peter Parker.

When he's the Antichrist, it's funny.

Useful.

Easily brushed off.

With Peter Parker, it's frustrating.

Suffocating.

Lingering like a bad bruise that takes days and weeks to heal, damaged down to the bone.

Over two months after and he can still see it, in the way the 6th graders stare at him in awe and fear, in the way the 7th graders approach him like a wild dog, in the way his fellow 8th graders watch him out of the corner of their eyes like hawks.

He can't wait for Midtown.

He wants a reset.

A do over.

For people to stop looking at Peter Parker and seeing something to be afraid of.

To stop looking at Peter Parker and see methodical destruction.

So he learns how to do makeup.

He learns how to cover the bruises, and the scars, and the scabs.

He dresses as nice as he can, puts as much effort into his appearance as he can.

Takes pages out of Matt's book, holds himself small and meek and slim, speaks soft and smiles warm, does everything he can to go back to being little Peter Parker, who would never hurt a fly.

Could never hurt a fly.

And really, it sort of almost works.

Over three months, and the 6th graders are soothed, the 7th graders stop caring, the other 8th graders have better things to worry about.

But it's still there, in the backs of their minds.

It's always there in the backs of their minds.

He's still Peter Parker.

And he fights like the Devil.

———

Man, he just wants to go take pictures.

That's all he wants.

A nice, normal day, takin' pictures.

And instead he finds someone's dog god fucking dammit.

An itty bitty little white thing with thick curls and dark brown eyes hidden in it's mane of hair, a little pink collar around its neck, and dragging one of those extendable dog leash things along the ground behind it.

Because of course he does.

Of course he does.

The dogs stares up at him with it's little brown doe eyes and Peter wants to scream.

But it's.

You know.

Rude to do that in public.

He settles for crouching down on his toes, leaning his head onto his knees, and swearing in as many languages as he can.

Which is actually a lot.

Curses are usually the first things he learns and commits to memory.

Always good to know when someone's shit talking you and all that.

The little dog wags its tail in confusion when he finally emerges from his fortress of solitude.

"Why?" He asks the universe. "Why do you do this to me?"

The universe does not answer.

The dog gives an experimental bark.

Peter's gonna cry.

He picks it up and holds it like a baby, paws dangling over his shoulder and feet resting on his arm.

The collar has a tag that says Lily on the front and a phone number on the back, with the last two letters scratched into nothing.

Shit.

Lily noses his face and Peter groans.

He's gonna have to walk Marine Park and search for her owner on foot.

He groans again and buries his face in Lily's fur.

She sneezes in his ear.

Why does the universe hate him?

"Hey, kid!"

Peter turns, relief filling his body, tension rolling off his shoulders–

He takes it back.

HE TAKES IT BACK.

The Falcon runs up to him, panting in running clothes.

Why.

How.

Whomst???

Is–

Is this– is this Clint poking fun at him?

For something?

Did he set this up?

It feels like the kind of thing he would do.

Guy's weird.

Do bird people communicate??

Did SHIELD or like, SHIELD's skeleton find out about Bucky?

The Falcon leans over, hands on his knees to catch his breath, and Peter takes that as his cue to remember to breathe.

Why.

Why.

Why does this keep happening to him?

He can't do this.

He can't keep running into heroes.

His fanboy heart can't take it.

His vigilante law-breaking heart can't take it.

It takes everything in him to even act like some semblance of a normal person.

A normal person talking to another normal people and not a person with more secrets than fingers to someone that could ruin the lives of at least a handful of people he cares about.

The Falcon takes one more deep breath before pushing off his knees to stand up straight.

He smiles.

He has gap teeth.

"Thank you so much for catchin' her, kid. She's been givin' me the run-around for almost half an hour now, and my mama'd kill me if I lost Lily." He says, making knife hands to stress his point.

Peter does his best to just fucking relax.

"You're welcome," he responds, and then squints suspiciously, trying to find something to talk about that won't make him nervously spill his secrets. "Aren't you supposed to be in Europe with Captain Rogers, Mr. Wilson?"

Did Clint put you up to this birdman???

He keeps sending Peter memes.

He didn't even know adults knew what memes were.

But Clint does, for some fucking reason, and interspersed with warnings about kidnapping rings and pictures of Lucky, he sends Peter memes.

He doesn't know how it happened.

Peter sent him one text about some shady people he saw in Brooklyn that looked too much like Bucky's descriptions of HYDRA agents for comfort, and suddenly he's got the guy sending him Vines.

What is his life?

The Falcon grimaces. "It's my dad's birthday tomorrow and my ma'd probably skin me if I missed it. 'ppreciate you not using code names, kid." He adds. "Never know who's listening."

"No problem," Peter hums absently, and then slowly hands over the dog. "So… Clint doesn't have anything to do with this? Do you– do you even talk? Do bird people communicate?"

The Falcon stares blankly.

"Clint?"

"Barton." Peter clarifies. "Hawkeye."

Aaaaaand, yup.

There it is.

He can see the dawning fear in the Falcon's eyes.

The pure apprehension.

"Child," the Falcon whispers with possibly unnecessary horror, "why do you know that disaster of a man?"

"I found his dog," Peter explains with a shrug. "He sends me memes. I'm not sure why, but they're pretty good memes, so I kinda just let it happen."

The Falcon holds Lily, the tiny, fluffy white dog, in his arms like a shield, as though she can stop the words Peter is speaking from reaching his ears.

"Why?"

"No idea. He's weird. But like, to clarify: he didn't put you up to this?"

"He didn't," the Falcon assures him. "Haven't even spoken to the guy since the whole…"

"Ultron thing?" Peter says quietly.

He grimaces. "The Ultron thing," he says, just as quiet. "Goddamn disaster, that was."

And that–

Yeah.

Yeah, it was.

Peter remembers.

It was the day the whole world stood still, eyes trained on tiny glowing screens, household TV's, city-center billboards, the entire planet holding its breath.

And it all started in New York.

At Avengers Tower.

And more often than not, at Tony Stark.

(It always starts in New York.)

Peter looks away, throat bobbing. "His intentions were good. Mr. Stark's, I mean," he hastily adds at the Falcon's look. "It was noble. A suit of armor to shield the world. And when that– when it went wrong, he didn't run away. He tried to fix it. He's still trying, paying for repairs out of pocket, offering relief. It was a disaster but at least he's… trying to make up for his mistake. It doesn't bring people back, but at least he's trying. Not a lot of people do that." He mumbles.

The Falcon eyes him, something different shifting in his gaze.

Something heavy.

Something calculating.

It feels a lot like when Mr. Castle did the same.

But then, the Falcon is ex-military, isn't he?

"You a fan?"

Peter tilts his head.

"I think he makes a lot of mistakes, because he's human. But he's also a genius, and he's really, genuinely trying to make the world a better place. The Clean Energy Movement, the Maria Stark Foundation, medical advancements, techno logical advancements. He made a new element. He made one. And that's– it's incredible. The science alone is– it's amazing. And he isn't just a hero as Iron Man. He's a hero as Tony Stark . And people know him, not just because he's an Avenger, but because he's, again, Tony Stark. He cleans up after his mistakes and offers jobs and builds shelters. He's dedicated an entire floor in Avengers tower to college students that need a place to sleep and food and coffee and textbooks and WiFi. And I– I guess I'm– I'm a fan, yeah." He finishes lamely.

Then he blinks and makes a face.

"I'd probably fight him though, just so I could say that I've fought Tony Stark." He adds with a shrug.

The Falcon kinda just.

Stares at him.

Then his eyebrows draw down in confusion, a bemused smile splitting his face.

"You'd– you'd fight him?" The Falcon croaks, wheezing. "After all of that and you'd– fight him?"

"I'd fight a lot of people?" Peter says helplessly. "Foggy says I got a sense of justice problem and that there's somethin' wrong with my head?"

The Falcon clasps his hands over Lily, raising his index fingers to his lips.

"This Foggy guy? He gets me. He understands my struggle."

"What??"

"Steve wants to fight everyone," he elaborates. "Because he has a sense of justice problem and there's somethin wrong with his head."

"I feel like that's valid though?"

"Valid, but inconvenient. It's frowned upon to duel the elderly." He explains tiredly.

Peter makes a hand wavey gesture. "I feel like if he's fighting the elderly it's for a good reason though? He's all about social justice and stuff, LGBTQ+ rights, women's rights, religious freedoms, rights for minorities."

The Falcon squints.

"LGBTQ+? I mean, you're right, but–"

"The 'friendship' kiss." Peter quotes.

"The 'friendship' kiss!" The Falcon crows. "Jesus, that plaque made him so mad."

"I can– I can understand why." Peter says through a smile, and definitely doesn't think about how Bucky had lost his mind about it.

He had laughed for ten minutes.

Ten minutes.

Then, he'd been pissed for another fifteen.

It had been a wild ride.

Remembered a whole bunch of things that day.

A loud ding suddenly sounds and Peter nearly jumps out of his skin.

"Ah– shit." The Falcon mutters, tugging out his phone. He looks back up at Peter and smiles. "It been fun talkin' to you kid. Thanks again for catchin' Lily. You ever need anything, I owe you one. Don't be a stranger."

He holds out a hand.

Peter hesitantly takes it.

He grins.

"I'll do my best to remember that."

———

Peter pushes his food around his plate.

Bacon and eggs and pancakes.

Nice morning breakfast.

He's not hungry.

"I don't know what you want from me."

Uncle Ben sighs, already in his uniform.

Aunt May rests her head on her raised hands.

She just got in from her shift.

"Pete–" Ben starts, then abruptly stops. He looks away for a moment before focusing back on him. "We want you to be honest. That's all. Just a little."

Peter remains silent.

"What's going on with you, kiddo?" He asks oh so gently.

Peter hates it.

It makes him feel worse.

"I don't know what you mean," he woodenly bites out, but the subtle cracking in his voice betrays him.

Ben sighs again.

He sounds so wary.

"The foundation," Ben says, "the make-up wipes, the first aid kit, the bags under your eyes, the scars. We're worried, bud. What's going on with you?"

May tiredly takes off her glasses and looks at him, full in the face.

"Pete, please," She whispers. "We don't know what's happening and we just want to help."

"Yeah well I–" Peter chokes. He pushes his food away for good. "I don't need your help. Thank you," he adds, "but I don't need it."

"Peter–"

"I'm fine," he interrupts. "I'm good. I'm great. I don't need help."

May purses her lips.

Ben drags a hand down his face.

They look tired.

In a way that's more than just exhaustion.

And Peter feels so damn sorry.

"Just– please. Whatever you're doing," Ben pleads, "whatever you're doing, is it dangerous?"

Peter digs the palms of hands into his eyes.

"It's safer than what I could be doing," he half answers, throat scratchy and raw.

Pigeons are cooing.

The Sun is shining.

The stones and crystals arranged in the kitchen window gently sway in the morning breeze.

It's a beautiful day and Peter wishes it would stop being so damn beautiful and start being full of the freezing kind of rain that makes his shoulder tight and his hands ache, because at least then it would feel less like the world was mocking him in it's splendor.

"It makes me feel good. I like doing it. It's worth something."

He can hear Ben and May's concerned looks.

Knows the way Ben's eyes will get tight and his shoulders will slump, knows the way May will school her face blank and link her hands together.

He knows them.

He knows them better than anyone.

And they don't know who he is at all.

Not anymore.

They don't know about the stitches on his thigh or the bruise on his back or the scabbing under his shoulder blade.

They don't know about his barbs with Mahoney or his training with Matt or his language lessons with Bucky.

They don't know that he's stuck on adrenaline like a drug, waiting for his next fix to feel alive and good and worth something.

They don't know.

They don't know.

"Okay, Pete," May whispers, and it feels damning, like the sound a gavel makes when it hits wood in court. "As long as it's something that makes you feel worthwhile."

He nods into his palms.

He feels Ben's heavy hand reach his shoulder.

He kisses the top of his head.

He ruffles his hair gently.

"As long as it makes you feel good," he says, and it feels like it's own special sort of forgiveness.

It's own special sort of hell.

His eyes burn.

They seem to be doing that a lot lately.

And maybe there's a reason for that.

"I'm not ready yet," Peter whispers, and it cracks. "But I'll tell you. I don't know when, but I will. I promise."

Ben gives him a small sort of smile and May moves to kiss his forehead.

"Okay," She smiles. "Okay."

"I gotta go now," he says quietly. "If I don't wanna be late."

And they let him go, with one more hug and one more squeezed shoulder and a pancake in a napkin folded like a taco, full bacon and eggs for the road.

The sun warms him down to the bone as he scarfs down his breakfast.

His backpack jostles with every step.

His ankle twings from where it got clipped by a bat.

There's barely a cloud in the sky that isn't white and puffy like crystalized cotton candy strands.

It's a beautiful day.

And maybe if he walks fast enough, he'll have enough time before school to stop the tears and appreciate it.

———

"I just want it on record that this ain't my fault, Miss Claire–"

"Zip it."

"Yes Miss Clair– Ow fuck."

Peter flinches away from Miss Claire's needle.

It only sort of works because she's stitching up a cut along his ribs that runs all the way to his back.

Some bastard that got a lucky hit with a knife that was far too sharp for his own damn good.

Seriously.

Who needs a knife like that?

No one, that's who.

He feels sort of disgustingly exposed, but Miss Claire's never said anything and both Matt and Foggy knew, so–

Maybe one day it'll stop feeling horrible.

For now though, he'll just have to suffer through it and hold the folded towel close to his chest, white edges stained with blood.

"Matt?" Miss Claire asks, deceptively sweet as she ties off a stitch. "What the fuck? I knew you had a kid running around with you but this is a kid. And I thought you found–"

"She's my aunt and really she just gives him supplies, but she's met the both of us, obviously, so we can't really… go to her." Peter cuts in.

Miss Claire snorts.

If a snort could sound despairing, that would be it.

"Of course she is." She mumbles and finishes another stitch. "You gonna defend yourself Murdock?"

Matt whines from the couch.

"No," he draws out, and Foggy gently pushes him back onto the couch.

"He bullied Matt," Foggy explains.

"I did not." Peter huffs, indignante. "I bribed him. Get it right."

Miss Claire squeezes her eyes shut and Peter sees her physically resist the urge to pinch the bridge of her nose.

"You bribed him–?"

"I stole from a hospital."

"You–" Miss Claire purses her lips very tightly. She makes a face Peter thinks means I'm regretting all of my life decisions. "You stole. From a hospital."

"That's what I said."

"You sure your last name ain't Murdock?"

"Pretty sure."

"Right, cause that? That thing you just said? Right up there with other feats of Murdock dumbassery."

"I'm torn between accepting that as an insult or a compliment." He says bemusedly, and Miss Claire runs another stroke of thread through his skin.

"I'm changing your contacts in my burner," Miss Claire grumbles. "To Murdock one and Murdock two. Maybe dumbass one and dumbass two. I'll hold a poll. The words are almost synonymous at this point."

Peter snorts and Foggy chortles quietly to himself.

Matt makes a confused sort of noise, but then again, he does have a concussion.

Peter has a mild one, if at all, but Matt definitely has a roaring concussion rattling around his skull.

RIP Matthew Micheal Murdock, October something 1981 to April something 2015.

He lived a long life, full of tragedy and being a dumbass.

"Matty, why's your life so tragic?" He asks.

Matt snort of snuffles.

"I dunno. Mudock's got devil's. Why's your life so tragic?"

"Parker Luck don't leave no survivors." He recites sagely.

Miss Claire pauses.

"Parker? Like, May Parker? You're May's kid?" She mutters, eyebrows drawn in confusion. "That– that makes a lot of sense, actually. I was wondering about the witch stuff in Matt's kitchen."

"He hates it," Peter chirps and stiffles a wince at the tugging of the needle. "But he doesn't want to hurt my feelings by losing anything so he settles for trying to kill the plants. I'm naming them right now, cause they refuse to die."

"After what?" Miss Claire asks wearily.

He snorts.

"Saints. The string of pearls is Genesius, patron saint of lawyers, attorneys, and barristers. The burro's-tail is Sebastian, patron saint of soldiers and athletes," he hums. "I spent maybe five minutes looking for those on Google and Wikipedia. I haven't named the others yet."

"Google." She says dryly.

"I'm not Catholic." He shrugs. "Ben's Jewish and May's a witch. In what world do you think any of that would equal me knowing Catholic saints?"

"Google it is." Miss Claire drawls.

"Wait– wait!" Matt suddenly yells, struggling to sit up again. "Kid– kid if you read the Bible we can harass Frank. He'll hate it. He'll hate it so much."

"But Mr. Castle tolerates me," Peter whines. "I can't jeopardize that."

"Nah, nah," Matt says excitedly, if a bit deliriously. Foggy grabs him by the shoulders and leans him back into the couch. "You're a baby, so you've got immunity. You can pull shit that I can't."

"That's a terrible idea," Peter says. "He ain't even in New York right now."

"When he gets back," Matt insists.

He thinks about it for a moment, and Miss Claire finishes his last stitch.

"Yeah alright."

Matt fists bumps the air and almost takes out Foggy.

"Yes!!" He crows excitedly.

Foggy slowly drags a hand over his face and Miss Claire starts packing up her stuff.

"Why," he whispers. "Why are you like this and why do I enable you?"

Peter smiles, with all his teeth.

"Cause you love us, Foggy."

He looks at Peter.

His face is tired, but his eyes are warm.

Foggy switches his gaze to look at Matt, who's mumbling to himself.

He looks terribly soft.

Matt can't see it.

"Yeah," Foggy says quietly. "I suppose I do "

Chapter Text

The fourth sign, the final days, are innocuous.

They don't stand out from any other days or weeks or months.

They aren't special or fraught with foreshadowing, with omens or signs.

They just are.

And the first of them is Peter getting arrested for assault, three days after graduating from middle school.

He doesn't feel a damn lick of guilt.

Not one shred.

He ain't sorry.

And he lets himself be cuffed without protest.

Granted, the officer looks very reluctant arresting him, one Officer Davis, but he arrests him nonetheless.

The other guy gets pulled into a different cop car, and Peter shouts at his red-banded arm in as many languages as he can before he ducks into the back unaided.

He seaths silently.

Officer Davis risks a glance back at him.

He glares.

Officer Davis focuses back on the road.

Peter settles back into his seat.

The cop seems nice.

He does.

But that doesn't mean Peter has to trust him.

After all, Matt seems perfectly nice too.

A kind man with a nice job at a pretty firm, changing the world one court case at a time using hard earned skill and the power of the law.

And he is.

It's not just a good story.

Foggy may have gotten him his position at Hogarth, Chao, and Benowitz, but Matt's the one that kept it.

Over time, Foggy had laid out all the contributing cards from Matt's absence in the Castle case to Hogarth, painting a clear picture that said the only reason Matt hadn't been at the trial was because an old friend of his was dying and then dead.

He even brought her to the grave, showed her the date, the records.

He'd laid out every one of their cases, transcripts and mock trials and recordings, not a single loss in their papers.

Hogarth wasn't a sympathetic woman.

Peter didn't like her very much.

But she at least knew what a good lawyer looked like when she saw one.

She snapped Matt up before anyone else could.

And despite everything, a lot of people had genuinely tried.

Foggy's words had spread through his new job like a plague, and they'd been out the doors and in the streets and into new firm's before even a day had passed.

Everyone knew the only reason why Matt Murdock and Foggy Nelson hadn't won the case was because Frank Castle was an unpredictable son of a bitch and there had been a near corpse on Matt's doorstep.

And then he'd had a new job, easy as that.

A new, pretty job, to go with his nice, easy-going exterior, to cover up the blood and teeth and bones hiding beneath the surface.

Plenty of people seem nice.

More often than not, it means they aren't.

And if Peter's learned anything, it's that you can't trust anyone until proven otherwise.

Officer Davis takes a deep breath.

"So… what was that about?" He tries in a conversational tone as they take a right.

Peter narrows his eyes.

"Just try'na make small talk," Officer Davis says defensively. "You're glaring right now, aren't you? My son does the same thing when I tell him to stop drawin' and start eatin'."

He purses his lips.

"I don't think you're supposed to talk with your detainees, Officer." He drawls slowly.

Officer Davis chuckles. "Maybe not, but… I'm curious. Really. You're, what, maybe five foot? The other guy, a clean five eight at the least. And you knocked him flat on the ground. Not a lot of folks can say they've done something like that, especially not ones as young as you. You're, what, twelve? Maybe older?"

"Fourteen in a few months," Peter mutters defensively.

"Fourteen," Officer Davis says in wonder, one hand coming away from the wheel to mime his mind being blown. Peter wonders if he's being more comical for his benefit, or if he's just like that. "That's insane, kid."

Peter sets his jaw.

He thinks he likes this guy.

He reminds him of Detective Mahoney.

Maybe less upright, more friendly.

But still.

Until proven otherwise.

"He deserved it. I'm not sorry."

"I wasn't expectin you to be." Officer Davis says evenly. "If you ask me, the other guy deserved it. But you didn't, so I didn't say that." 

"Say what?"

"Exactly." He smiles. "At least tell me he threw the first punch. That'll make gettin you out of this a lot easier. You got a lawyer?"

Shit.

That might be the beginning of proven otherwise.

"I got lawyers, yeah." Peter answers. "He didn't throw the first punch, but he did provoke me."

"Define 'provoke'."

"Talked shit 'bout Jewish folks. My uncle's Jewish. Singled me out and called me names. He knew what the pin on my bag meant." He growls quietly. "мудозвон."

Officer Davis is quite.

"I ain't a lawyer, but I'm pretty sure something in there constitutes as harassment." He finally says.

"Probably. Can you arrest someone for being a homophobic, anti-Semitic prick?" 

Davis snorts. "I wish, kid. I'd make my life easier, I'll tell you that. What was that thing you said? Mudo–?"

"мудозвон. M-u-d-o-z-v-o-n." He sounds out slowly. "It's Russian. Means asshole. You could also say мудак or мудила, but those aren't as rude."

Davis snorts. "You bilingual?"

"I know most insults," Peter shrugs. "I know a lot of general Russian though, outside of curses. Some Spanish. I mostly just know when someone's shit talkin' me, though. Eight or so different languages and ways for someone to say fuck you are in here somewhere."

"Useful skill," Davis observes. "I'm a little impressed."

Peter smiles.

"Thanks. Took like two years of language lessons and getting yelled at by folks who think they're hot shit."

"And what happened to them?"

"I called the police and they were arrested for assault," he answers breezily. "Oh, how the tables have turned."

"Huh," Davis mutters. "Say, you from Queens?"

"Born and raised," Peter says proudly. "How'd you guess?"

"You got an accent kid," Davis glances back in the rearview mirror. "Somethin' else in there though. You spend time on the island?"

"Hell's Kitchen, yeah."

"Ah," Davis nods, "that's it. You got a boxer's voice, you know. Didn't realize until I got you talking for longer, but it slips in."

"I'm good at making myself sound nice?" Peter scrunches up his nose. "People take you more seriously if you sound like you know what you're talking about. Presentation is half the battle."

"Appearances are the difference between an interview and a job." David responds sagely.

"Mhmm."

Davis slows the car to a halt and twists to look at him through the netting. "Alright, kid. Let's get in there, have you call your lawyer, and see if we can't get you out before dinner."

Peter nods and Davis gets out to open the door.

"Thank you," he says quietly as they walk into the precinct.

"For what?" Davis asks bemusedly.

"For being someone I can reasonably trust to not shoot me."

Davis purses his lips. There might be concern in his eyes. "That a problem you ever had?" He asks lowly.

Peter hums.

"I spend time in Hell's Kitchen. And everyone knows it used to be Fisk's city."

"Yeah? And whose city is it now?"

He smiles.

"I'd say it's the Devil's."

———

"Do you miss the stars, Red?"

Matt stills beside him.

Then he sighs and sits down, drawing a knee close to his chest and letting the other leg dangle over the edge.

"They were never very clear, when I could see," he admits quietly. "The lights were too bright, and they got drowned out. I'm not sure that I so much as miss them, as I miss the chance I had to see them."

Peter wraps his arms around his knees.

"That's kinda sad, Double D. Sometimes, May and Ben and I, we go out into the woods and camp. The stars are really clear out there."

Matt huh s.

"Yeah? What's it like?"

Peter hums and tilts his head.

He closes his eyes and tries to think.

"It's like… so dark it's endless on all sides, except for the middle where it's been cracked open, like a geode, and it's just light and color. Cold bright in the center and then radiating warm color out to the edges, where it swirls with more shades than you can name. And the stars are– they're everywhere, like spilled and splattered paint. Like pinpricks of dust across the stained-glass sky."

He opens his eyes.

"It's kind of like looking at the skyline with all of the windows shining so far away. The street lamps and the open signs and the bright strip of asphalt, and the bridges over the water."

Matt's smiling when Peter looks over.

"I think I remember the skyline." He says quietly. "The white and yellow windows, the red lights on the top. The gold over the bridges."

Peter catches the edge of his hood with his fingers and absently rubs along the length, cheek resting on his knee.

"What else do you miss not getting to see?"

Matt hums thoughtfully.

"I got to see it, but I don't really remember snow," he finally says. "What's it look like falling?"

Peter swishes the words around in his head, and finally settles on something he read in passing.

It stuck.

"It's like the stars have come down to kiss the Earth goodnight."

Matt laughs, so very quietly.

"I think I like that one." He says softly. "Tell me about the falling leaves?"

Peter hums and brings a hand to his chin to stroke his non-existent beard.

Matt snorts a little at his theatrics and Peter grins.

He wasn't sure he'd be able to catch it.

"It's like cold fire raining from the sky." He decides. "Hot and warm without heat. Every single shade of red and orange and gold. Like blood and sunshine and nothing hurts."

"Lightening?"

"Like swords and knives coming down from the sky to slay the Earth. Burning, after-image bright, turning the clouds purple and lavender and smoke."

Matt lets go of his knee and leans backwards, dangling both legs over the ledge and head tilted up to the clouds.

"Like beasts from Heaven," he muses to the sky. "Raining down justice from above."

"Or maybe Thor's just like… drunk or something." Peter suggests.

Matt chokes and starts to laugh.

"W-what?"

"Maybe Zeus?" Peter asks, uncertain. "I mean, if Thor is real, maybe Zeus is real? Maybe all of the gods are just aliens like Stargate said??"

He gasps.

"Red, what if God is an alien?"

"P-please stop," Matt wheezes out between breaths of laughter. "My Catholicism c-can't take it."

"If I ever meet Thor," Peter says, slamming his fist down into his palm, "I'm gonna ask him if he knows God."

"Jesus Christ."

"Him too!"

"Okay, we're done," Matt declares abruptly, hoping to his feet and then falling off the building.

Shit.

There he goes.

Ah, wait, no, he caught the fire escape, ha HA Pete, guess who you don't have to scrape off the concrete??

Peter leans over the ledge and rests his head in his hands.

Matt clutches at the rusty bar and swings himself back up to the landing under the landing.

He smiles. "Did you have fu–"

"Totally on purpose, no idea what you're talking about, oh look a robbery, welp, there I go," Matt interrupts breezily and then jumps off of the fire escape, this time with purpose, and scales up the neighboring building.

Peter scrambles after him, jumping the gap and rolling on impact before popping to his feet.

"Hey!"

"Sorry, can't hear you over my brooding Catholicism," Matt shouts back.

He laughs, which is maybe not the smartest decision while running.

Whatever.

He'll live.

"Goddamn– I'll stop, I'll stop!" Peter yells.

Matt halts in his movement so abruptly it's unnerving.

Like his entire body was put on pause.

"And besides, it's almost three," Peter huffs. "We gotta head back soon."

Matt sighs dramatically. "Cons of working for someone other than yourself: you don't get to set your own times."

"Speak for yourself," Peter grumbles. "It's my first day of Midtown tomorrow."

Matt perks up. "It is!"

Then he picks Peter up around the ribs. 

"I'm so proud of you," he fake sniffles. "Going off to smart folks school."

Peter shrugs his shoulders uncomfortably.

"I mean… it's my dream school, and I'll get to sort of start over, but what if I'm not… smart enough for it?"

Matt stills and sets Peter back down.

His face is… 

He's not sure what expression that is, actually.

Nostalgia?

Understanding?

Sympathy?

One of his hands settles on Peter's shoulder and he finds one of his own being pulled to Matt's heart.

The steady beat under his fingers is reassuring.

It always has been.

"You'll do great," Matt says softly. "I'm sure of it. You're one of the smartest people I know. Probably the smartest. You don't have anything to worry about."

Peter sniffles and looks at his feet.

"Thanks."

Matt sighs, big and loud, and then holds his arms out and open.

An invitation for a hug.

Peter sweeps into it gratefully.

He hums into Matt's shoulder and closes his eyes.

"Thank you so much. For everything."

Matt squeezes him tighter.

"You're so welcome." He whispers.

His voice is kind of wet.

Kind of choked.

Peter pretends not to hear it.

"You're so welcome, buddy."

———

Peter shakes against the pretty glass wall and wraps medical tape around the bite as fast as he can.

The bite.

The bite.

Stupid, stupid, stupid.

He'd just–

He was bored.

He was bored and he wanted to see more and Karen was writing a piece on Oscorp on the back burner so he thought he'd look around and tell her about anything weird and–

And their security was shit.

Even if he didn't have the kind of training he did, he's almost 100% certain that he still could've snuck in.

A frickin' toddler could've gotten past those guards, Jesus Christ.

His glasses start to slip and he lets them fall, trying to just pull the tape tight enough that maybe his wrist and his arm and his hand will stop pulsing.

It hadn't hurt at first, and that's probably the part that freaked him out the most.

He just–

He'd been curious.

Drawn to it.

Like Sleeping Beauty and the Spinning Wheel.

He couldn't walk away.

And curiosity killed the cat.

The clear terrarium, full of branches and leaves and rocks, a big crack down the middle and a small piece of glass gone from between the forks.

The door between it and him with the key still in the lock, not quite turned enough to shut it.

The tickling sensation on his hand, like hair brushing the back of his neck.

The strangest colored spider he'd ever fucking seen with– goddamn numbers on it's back, walking slow, not delicately, slow, like it was flagging.

It's pincers suddenly sinking into his wrist, without a single pain receptor going off.

It hadn't hurt, not even a bit, like they were so sharp his brain couldn't process it.

The spider had spasmed and shuddered and let go.

And then it had fallen to the floor, off his wrist, legs curled before it hit the ground.

Dead.

Peter had run, slinking out of the room and through the halls and under any cameras he could see.

It didn't start hurting until he'd gotten past the security guards and slipped into an empty hallway closer to the ground floors.

He hadn't felt anything at all until he was feeling too much at once.

Sort of like a stab wound and a bullet hole rolled into one.

It's not normal.

He's been bitten by spiders before.

It's not normal.

Peter drunkenly picks up his glasses and pushes off the wall with a stagger, and then desperately falls back against it as the world spins and spins and spins.

Something's wrong.

Something's very, very wrong.

He hears someone shout.

His hands feel clammy against his forehead as he tries to grind the pulsing out of his head.

It doesn't really work.

The world looks too bright and sounds too much, so he just closed his eyes and covers his ears and tries to stop existing.

That doesn't really work either.

Everything is pulsing and his ears are filled with a roiling noise and Peter wants to vomit.

Someone touches him.

He doesn't know who.

Someone says something.

He doesn't know what.

Someone starts to move him.

He doesn't know where.

All he knows is that something isn't right.

That something's wrong.

———

Peter swings his feet anxiously in Matt's apartment, kicking his shoes a little bit each time.

Karen pokes around the kitchen trying to find the tea, having previously refused Matt's help.

He's silently glowering and Foggy is absently going through emails on his phone.

It's as good a time as any.

"So. Um–"

Everyone swivels to look at him and his throat closes up.

Well shit.

He coughs a couple times and pushes off the sofa.

It's a little awkward because he's got a new two or three inches.

He'd spent most of last night ripping some of the seams on his suit to add more length.

He's gonna need to get Melvin to adjust it soon.

He nervously swings his arms and walks up to the nearest clear wall.

"So. Um. You know how I got the flu?" He stutters more successfully than the first time.

Karen squints at him but nods.

"Yeah," Foggy says, and raises an eyebrow. "Hard not to when my mom was making me take you soups."

Matt tilts his head.

There's something curious to it, and he doesn't do anything else at all.

Peter takes a deep breath and braces himself.

"Don't freak out?"

He puts one barefoot on the wall.

And then he swings the other one up and stays there.

Foggy's protest of 'please don't put your feet on the wall' dies like it was killed by cyanide.

Peter walks a little bit further up the wall and does jazz hands?

"I can kind of walk on walls now?" He says lamely. "Cause I got bit by a spider at Oscorp?? Do you uh, do you think I can sue Oscorp for shit security?"

Karen stares at him with wide eyes.

And the first thing she says is, "Holy shit the Exorcist was right."

"Karen!" Foggy hisses.

"W-what?"

"You walk up walls," Karen explains thoughtfully. "Like the antichrist in the Exorcist. But is it life imitates art or art imitates life?"

And.

That's.

Hmmm.

Good job, Karen.

Asking the real questions here.

Foggy stares at her like she's grown a second head. 

"The Exorcist came first?"

"Yeah, but Peter's name and, uh, powers were given to him by outside forces. He didn't do it on purpose. So he's not imitating anything, it just happened. So would it be art imitates life or not?"

"I hate that this is where your brain went. I hate it. Now it's all I can think about too."

"It's an important avenue of questions. I'm a reporter. It's my job to ask the questions that'll keep you at night while you have a crisis."

"Hate that. Hate that."

Matt abruptly makes a choked sort of… snuffle? And then launches himself off the couch.

"It makes a sound," he whispers with fascination. "Between your feet and the wall there's a sound and I've never heard it before, do it again."

Peter's eyebrows draw down. "O-okay?"

He moves a bit further up the wall and Matt practically vibrates.

"Oh my God that's crazy," Matt says for probably all the wrong reasons.

Like, Peter walks up a wall and he wants to listen to the sound that it makes.

"Matthew you're scaring the child," Foggy chokes out in a strangled voice.

He sounds kind of relieved though.

Probably because he was able to escape Karen's questions?

She's still muttering to herself and Foggy flinches every time she makes a hand gesture.

One of them looks like the ALIENS guy one.

Matt frowns and swivels to look almost right at Peter's face.

"Am I?"

Peter shakes his head rapidly.

"No no no, you're taking this… really well, and it's kind of weirding me out? Karen's freaking me out more than anything, I guess, but she's just. Like that and revels in suffering."

Matt huhs and then presses his ear up against the wall.

"Do it again."

Peter does it again and hits the ceiling.

Then he reaches out with his fingertips and swings onto the ceiling.

Matt scrambles away from the wall and leaps onto the top his couch, almost knocking it over, leaning to get close to where Peter's hanging.

He doesn't think he's ever seen Matt this excited.

Maybe.

It's kind of great?

Then a feeling like hot-cold ice shoots down his spine, the couch rocks, and Peter stands on the ceiling before grabbing Matt by the arms and holding him suspended over the floor as the couch rocks, tips, and falls with a thunk.

He sets Matt down gently and flips off the ceiling into a graceful heap.

"Well," Peter wheezes to the hardwood. "That was fun. Oh god. This is too much to process right now."

Karen gives him a thumbs up for his? Landing? Maybe?

Maybe it's a 'Hang-in-There kitten poster' kind of thumbs up?

He appreciates the toned down support and mild harassment of Foggy because it gives him something to focus on and Matt is a lot.

Speaking of which.

Matt looks fucking spellbound.

"You tensed before the couch fell," he whispers excitedly. "I was going to jump off but you got me first, Pete did you know it was going to fall did you hear it?"

"Maybe? I got anxious? It's was like," he struggles for words and shifts his shoulders uncomfortably. "It was like twenty ice cubes going down my spine and I just knew something was wrong? I guess I probably could have heard it was falling though? If I tried? Everything's been a lot louder since I got better."

"And you were able to hold up my body weight," Matt grins, already back in nearly vibrating mode. "Your muscles sound different. How strong are you?"

"Your muscles sound different," Foggy repeats numbly to himself.

Peter shrugs helplessly.

"I dunno. Pretty strong. I found a warehouse to test it out, but I didn't get much done. I can lift at least… I dunno, four, five times my body weight? At least."

Matt tilts his head directly at him, unseeing eyes fixed on his face.

He's wearing the brightest smile Peter's ever seen.

"Gym!" He yells excitedly. "We should go to the gym, let's go to the gym, Foggy c'mon let's go test Pete's powers let's goooooo."

"Jesus– fuck, Matthew, personal space." Foggy hisses as Matt wiggles under his arm to get in his face.

Matt makes–

Holy shit are those super effective puppy dog eyes?

Heckin heck, Peter needs to combine their powers.

"Gym??"

Foggy tilts his head away with a grimace.

"Stop with– with the eyes, good God, you're killing me yes we can go to the gym."

Matt makes some sort of incomprehensible roar of excitement and leaps off of Foggy to find his shoes.

Peter slowly creeps over to the still-knocked-over couch and gently rights it.

It's a strange sensation, because he's moved the couch before, and it was a lot heavier then than it is now.

It feels kind of like cheating.

Something sour roils in his gut and splashes at his teeth.

Peter shakes his head and goes to grab his shoes.

"I love this," Karen says. "I love everything about this. Matt's like a huge puppy. Foggy's dying. Peter found evidence Oscorp is up to some weird shit even if I can't actually use it. This is great!"

Foggy puts his head in his hands and groans. "Now I have two superpowered idiots. It was bad when it was just Matt but now Pete's even more like him and wow just kill me now? Lay me to rest, Karen."

"No."

"It was worth a shot. Maybe I'll just go and be a butcher after all."

Peter hesitantly sticks up his hand. "I reserve the right to free meat? I'm… actually really hungry right now, and kind of all the time."

"Free meat right granted." Foggy mumbles into the couch arm.

Karen hums and types something on her phone. "We can get food on the way."

Peter ducks his head. "I'd like that."

"Cool," Karen says, tucking her phone away. "That's the plan, then. Food first, gym second."

"Ugh."

"Chin up, young Padawan," Karen soothes, patting Foggy's back. "You'll survive."

"Ugh. I know."

Matt leaps back into the room with his gym bag slung over his back, already heading for the door.

And then he stops.

Tilts his head.

Maybe sniffs the air?

And his energy levels seem to drop as his shoulders untense.

"Where are we eating?" He asks evenly.

Karen loops her arms around Foggy and shoves him off the couch.

He barely catches himself and pops back up into a sitting position.

He glares at Karen's head.

She expertly ignores it.

"Thai place on the way to the gym."

Matt blinks.

"Okay. Think you guys can get a head start and place our regular orders? It'll take longer if I go with you, and we can eat at Fogwell's after."

Karen squints again.

"Sure. C'mon, Nelson, off the floor."

Foggy grumbles something that sounds a lot like "Rot in Hell, Paige," to which Karen says, far more sweetly, "Already there, Foggy-Bear."

Foggy winces.

"Oh, God, you've been talking to Marci, haven't you?" He asks, voice laced with dread.

Karen laughs and tugs him out the door.

"I would never."

Peter can sort of hear them bickering all the way down the hall and to the stairs.

Matt swivels to face him, and sits down on the floor where Peter still hasn't finished tying his shoes.

He just.

Can't.

His fingers feel numb.

"What's wrong?" Matt asks softly.

Peter raised his shoulders defensively.

It's the only shield he has.

He can't lie to Matt.

He swallows harshly.

"I worked so hard to get to where I'm at," Peter answers in a whisper. "And I worked so hard for years so that I could get past everything that was holding me back. And these powers are like… all of my problems are solved. I'm strong and fast and flexible and it doesn't hurt to breathe and I can see without my glasses and– and all off my problems are fixed because of some spider instead of being because of me."

Peter angrily rubs at his eyes.

"It's not fair," he hisses and squeezes his eyes shut. "It's not fair. These powers are amazing and I can't enjoy them at all because they took away everything I worked so hard for. It's all gone. I'll never know how good I could've been without them. I'll never know.

"I hate them and I hate that I hate them."

Matt wraps his arms around him and pulls him close.

Peter sniffles and reaches back.

"It's not fair."

Matt sighs.

"A lot of things aren't," he says quietly. "And I don't know how to help you not hate who you are." I'm not very good at it either, rings unsaid, but Peter knows.

He's always known.

It was easy to find.

It was even harder for Matt to hide.

"But it'll be okay," Matt continues. "Because it has to be. One day, you'll find something in your powers that's worth not hating."

"Did you?" Peter mumbles into Matt's shoulder.

He snorts. "I always know when it's going to rain so I get to laugh at Foggy when he doesn't have an umbrella."

Peter smiles, confused. "You always share the umbrella." He points out.

"Of course I do," Matt says easily. "But then we get to laugh at the other people that didn't together."

He laughs.

"That's mean."

"It's funny," Matt defends.

Peter laughs.

"Only a little funny."

"No, no," Matt says. "It's very funny. The funniest thing on this horrible planet. This is New York. You have to laugh at other people's suffering. Especially if they're rich."

"I thought it was fight the rich?"

"That too."

"Wait, wait!" Peter gasps. "Matt! Fight! We can real people fight now! You won't break me like a toothpick. Matt we can spar spar!!"

Matt laughs.

"See?" He says proudly and ruffles Peter's hair. "You already found it."

———

"I'll crack your goddamn collar bone," Parker wheezes, threatens, eyes red and knuckles white, and even to his own ears he sounds dangerous.

The man laughs behind his mask, but it's not malicious.

It's almost humorous.

He sounds like he's having fun.

"Of course you will," he says easily. "And I'll learn better how to fight you before subduing you again. Photo-reflexive memory, kid. This is one battle that, for all your skill, you can't win."

Peter hisses with all his teeth and struggled against his binds, even as they burn through the suit and into his skin.

They're like bolos flooded with an electric current.

They hurt.

"You should've kept your head down, kid." The man continues, and it almost sounds pitying.

He hates that.

He hates that.

"Shut up. I don't want pity from the man that's gonna to bring me to his master like a fucking dog."

The man either ignores him or just isn't bothered in the slightest from Peter's words.

He hates that too.

"I don't know what you did," lie, his heart almost imperceptibly flutters , "but you sure kicked the hornet's nest. There's a thousand prices on your head, kid. I'm just the first that's actually taken the job."

"Lucky you," he growls. "What's it like not havin' a conscience?"

"It suits me well," the man says. "You should try it sometime. You pull your punches far too often. You're afraid of breaking someone irreparably. You should stop that. It's a hindrance."

"I didn't know you were my psycho life coach. That's for the tip, Skull Guy." He drawls.

Peter thinks the man side eyes him.

It's hard to tell because he's wearing a giant goddamn skull mask.

"You may call me… Taskmaster."

"Ooo, did my life coach thing inspire you? You should try it. It's probably your passion."

Taskmaster pulls out a phone.

It's obnoxiously high tech, just like his electric eel bolos who is supplying this guy??

"I wouldn't know." He says flippantly.

Peter wrinkles his nose at the smell of his blood and skin burning and winces at the full body pain.

The current's finally finished cutting through his suit.

"Because you're busy capturing and torturing children?" Peter suggests helpfully.

Taskmaster swipes up on the phone screen.

The current drops a watt.

The sentiment is twisted and surprising.

It still burns.

"I don't remember." He says without pausing. "It could've been. I don't really care. They're paying me six figures to bring you in. Speaking of which: you've got ten minutes, kid. Try and commit the sky to memory. You never know when you'll see it again."

Peter snarls and wraps his hands around the bolos.

If he goes down, he's going down fighting.

Taskmaster barely glances up.

"We've already done this song and dance kid, but if you really want to get out of here, you're going to have to do better than that."

He grits his teeth.

He braces against the ground.

And he crushes the bolos with all his strength even as they burn through his suit.

The current fizzles out into the exposed air.

Taskmaster sighs and tucks away his phone, already pulling out a baton-like sword flooded with orange electric current, as opposed to the bolos' red.

"Let's get this over with, okay, kid? I've got other jobs to do tonight."

Peter stumbles to his feet and raises his fists.

He can't lose this fight.

He can't.

He won't be a prisoner.

He'd rather die.

Something whistles through the air.

Something clatters to the ground.

And then Taskmaster crumples like sand in the tide.

Peter struggles to breathe and inhales deeply.

He can taste blood and sweat and paper and–

And pine.

And lavender.

And the battery-acid splash of bruises.

He stops breathing again.

Holy shit.

Goddamn, goddamn, god bless.

Red's here.

Peter feels a laugh bubble up his throat, hysterically.

He claps his hands over his mouth and it stings on contact.

He can taste blood and singed leather.

It's sweet as freedom.

Matt leaps over Taskmaster and onto the roof.

Peter stumbles away from the trashed bolo.

An arm comes around his shoulder in support, and then another under his knees.

He doesn't protest.

He can't.

The relief is making him dizzy.

It's ten rooftops before Peter wiggles out of Matt's arms to stumble into a run beside him.

The constriction of breathing burns his sides but he doesn't care.

Maybe it'll reach a point where it hurts so much it doesn't hurt at all.

They just need to get away from Taskmaster.

That's all they need to do.

When they reach Matt's apartment, he's finally almost numb.

His wounds are starting to heal over.

His head is spinning and he stumbles over to the couch.

His hands sting and burn from use, but in a distant buzzing way that he barely feels.

Peter is suddenly very tired.

Matt tugs off his hood and cowl, and Peter closes his eyes against the billboard lights as the first aid bag is lugged out from under the sofa.

"How you doin' kid?" He asks with the rustle of the zipper.

Peter takes a deep breath and counts the rattle of pill bottles. "Pretty shitty," he wheezes.

Matt barks out a laugh.

"Sounds about right." He holds up a clear bottle with blue cap. "Ibuprofen?"

"Gimmie."

Four pills fall into his hand and he tosses them back as quick as he can.

He hates dry swallowing, it leaves a weird taste in his mouth, but it's better than waiting for water.

He leans his head against his knees.

"Thanks," he breaths out.

Matt sighs and throws an arm around him for a quick moment.

"You're welcome."

Then Matt retracts his arm to put his hands on his knees, pushing into a standing position.

He wanders over to the wall dividers. "You got a clean bag here?"

"In the closet, on top of the chest," Peter calls softly.

The numbness is starting to set in as everything knits back together.

It's pretty deep though.

He wonders if this one'll scar.

Around his torso and across his arms and on his palms.

They all used to, but since the bite, it's only been the big, nasty wounds that left a mark.

He thinks this one counts as a big, nasty wound.

Matt drops the backpack next to him with little ceremony and sits down on the couch across from him.

He takes a deep breath.

It sounds heavy.

His breathing changes over and over as he tries to find words that won't leave his throat.

Peter gives him time.

"You need to keep to ground indefinitely." Matt finally says, and Peter doesn't protest.

"I figured," is his response. "If people like Taskmaster are gonna be the ones sent after me. He had a– a photo-reflexive memory. He could do everything I did after seeing it once."

Matt grimaces and drags a hand down his face.

He looks tired too.

"Think I've heard of him. He's bad news."

Peter laughs, and it's humorless.

"I could tell."

Matt sighs and laces his fingers.

"Just– stay low. Stay low, leave the suit at home, don't go out. This guy is hunting you, hunting the Antichrist. There's dozens of prices on your head, on ours. So just– don't be the Antichrist. Be Peter Parker.

"I'll stay low too.

"We'll wait for it to blow over."

"… Alright."

"Yeah," Matt mutters with another sigh. "I don't like it either."

"Better than being dead or captured, though," Peter replies. "Better than being sent off to whoever sent Taskmaster."

And it's–

It's kind of strange and horrible and funny in a morbid way that those are words that he's said in his life, completely serious and in reference to his actual, real life.

Not a game.

Not a story.

Not a joke.

———

"I've heard them calling it a Death Knell." Someone says in the halls, and Peter is pulled up short.

Someone else stumbles at the same time. "What?"

"You know, that thing the Antichrist and Daredevil do?" The first one says. "When they whistle and the other one suddenly appears? It's freaky."

Peter forces himself to breath even.

"Really? That's such a cool name, though."

"Oh yeah, it's just like. Really weird, you know? It's like… a reminder that they're more than normal people, you feel?"

"Yeah, yeah, just never say 'you feel?' ever again, dude."

Peter pushes around the corner and ducks his head into his sweater.

He just wants to get to practice.

That's all.

"Hey," he hears someone new say. "You heard about how they haven't seen the Antichrist lately?"

"Who?"

"Uh, the Antichrist? He's like, Daredevil's protege?"

"Holy shit, he's real? I thought he was like, a rumor, or something."

Just breathe.

They snort. "Uh-uh. He's super real. I saw him once. But nobody's seen him lately."

"Oh. That sucks." Their friend says. "I hope he's okay."

"Me too."

He weaves through the crowd and tries to push it all out of his mind.

They're not talking about him.

They're talking about the Antichrist, not Peter Parker.

They don't know.

Everything's okay.

Everything's okay.

Another conversation grabs his attention.

"I saw the Hero of Harlem a couple weeks ago and like, dude. That guy's huge!"

"Woah. Man, there's so many heroes popping up lately."

The person laughs, uncomfortably. "Well, I mean we've had aliens and SHIELD and people like Wilson Fisk. New York's gotten really dangerous. We need heroes."

"I'd hate to see what would happen without them…"

"Nothing good, that's what."

Peter flinches away.

His burns throb.

Someone laughs. "Have you ever seen Daredevil?" 

"Nah."

"But you live in Hell's Kitchen!" They protest.

"So? You live in Upper East. You ever seen Iron Man?"

"Fair point."

"Besides, the Devil's been laying low lately. There's been some freaky guy running around Hell's Kitchen. My uncle says he's on a Devil Hunt, and that's why no one's seen him."

"God. I hope he's okay.

"Yeah, me too.

His burns are scalding.

He walks faster.

The way to practice has never felt so long.

"I saw a bodega robbery in Queens yesterday," a voice whispers. "And the Antichrist wasn't there."

"I heard about that. My aunt's a cop, and she said that they haven't seen him in weeks. She's kind of worried something happened to him. She said he's just a kid, like us."

Their friend shivers. "I could never do what he does. I hope he's okay."

"Yeah. We all do."

The stairs.

Peter just needs to reach the stairs, and then he'll be away from the crowd of exiting students.

He just needs to–

"Crime's getting worse." Another voice says. "My brother got robbed the other day."

"Oh God, is he okay?"

"Yeah, he's okay. But the Antichrist would've stopped it, if he'd been there."

It's like a knife to his heart.

He freezes, one foot on the steps.

His eyes burn.

Stop it stop it stop it.

"He wouldn't abandon us," the voice's friend says firmly. "Something happened to him."

"Maybe. He saves us, though. Who's gonna save him?"

"… I dunno. He'll be okay, though. He has to be. We need him."

"Yeah. Yeah we do."

His shoulder hits the wall.

His hands cover his mouth.

They hadn't scarred after all.

Just his arms and his torso.

His face is wet.

His whole body shakes.

Peter is late to practice.

———

In the end, the world goes quietly.

It isn't fire, or brimstone, or ash and sulfur and dust.

It's December.

It's waking up.

It's a gunshot.