Come on in
It started, like most things did, when Peter got in over his head.
He didn’t mean for it to happen, exactly, but the unfortunate thing about enhanced senses is that they tend to be, well, enhanced. He didn’t mean to overhear the blank instructions of one arms dealer to another, accents deep in their throats and indistinguishable outside of a vague European tilt. He didn’t mean to slip into the nearest alley, scaling the wall and following the conversation as the men loaded a van, intending to take their shipment to a bigger warehouse, then eventually to the harbor. He didn’t mean to memorize every detail, every name and address and time stamp mentioned.
Of course, he didn’t mean to, but that didn’t stop it from happening.
He sat on the edge of the roof for a while, still in his regular clothes, wondering exactly how he should approach this. Typically, he would don the suit and track them down himself, but everything he’d heard detailed dozens of men, waiting for anyone trying to stop them so they could put their ammo to good use. There was also the very real, very dangerous possibility that they could have their hands on alien weaponry, and Peter knew all too well how that usually plays out. He could send a message to the Avengers, but they barely glanced at lower level players, and this had the mob written all over it.
Contrary to the general evidence, Peter didn’t like getting beat up, and he was still trying to recover from his last fight with the Rhino, his back protesting at most sudden twists that follow swinging around the city. He really couldn’t afford to get shot. Again.
He sighed, collecting the bag he had dropped in his hurry to duck closer to the roof's edge, and heading towards the building's fire escape.
He had an online test due for his calculus class. He had told himself he would make something for lunch. He was having a really hard time resisting the urge to sprint across rooftops after the stereotypical men in a white van with illegal weapons strapped in the backseat. Was there anyone else who would notice this? It seemed like every time something nefarious was happening in a back alley, Peter was literally the only one to overhear it. Didn’t they have wizards in this city? What did they even do all day? Couldn’t they see these things through their magic orbs? He needed to ask the Sorcerer Supreme about this, something wasn’t adding up.
Forcing himself back towards his apartment, he scrolled through his phone, trying to muster up some sort of courage to text Sam Wilson about this, or Wong, or maybe Johnny Storm—though he would most definitely assume it was a booty call of some sort. He flipped between contacts, staring at past conversations and running through the pros and cons of calling in a favor. Most of the superheroes who had ever stepped foot in Manhattan owed him something, whether it be some metaphorical honor-bound service, or actually American dollars (Hawkeye’s replacement, Hawkeye, really needed to learn to keep cash on her).
Despite lending a hand in any sort of crisis, Peter didn’t think he could handle asking for one. He was the friendly neighborhood vigilante, the Avengers were, well, pretentious assholes. He could barely send cute pictures of dogs to Ms. Marvel without getting a dozen calls demanding that he talk to SHIELD for an official spot on the team. Sometimes, they would try and force him into debriefing meetings, or they’d ask him to write a report on the most recent villain prowling through Brooklyn, declaring that they were going to kill (or sometimes ‘squash’) him. He really didn’t want to open that can of worms, especially not when he had yet to answer the new Captain America’s text about his last fight (the Rhino typically spurs at least a little concern from them, usually when there is video footage of him very possibly breaking his spine under a mechanized foot).
He needed backup. He needed to do this alone. He needed to talk to a therapist.
It wasn’t an uncommon feeling to Peter—being alone—not since everyone in the entire world forgot he existed. It still stung sometimes, when he remembered that all of the heroes who used to know him by name, who used to see him and ask about classes or about his friends or about his Aunt, just didn’t anymore. It was a strange, empty feeling, when they would call out to him by his persona, the masked menace he had made himself become. Peter was good at adapting, though, so he got used to the grief. It was almost like company.
He paced around his kitchen for a while, almost starting to make a sandwich before he was distracted again by his phone, or the imminent threat of a weapons deal, or the fact that he should probably at least start his math test. There were too many things he needed to do, all of them culminating in a weird, tingly type of anxiety that danced over his skin and made his stomach tie itself into knots. He shouldn’t even be worrying about those men on the street, he needed to take time to be more than just Spider-Man. It was so hard, he realized, ignoring the itch along his spine, the urge deep in his brain that it didn’t matter that there was someone behind the mask—that he had a responsibility. He had these powers for a reason, he had overheard something and it was because of that spider bite. Peter Parker could wait, couldn't he?
Oh, but he really didn’t want to fail an entry level math course.
As soon as the sun began to set, Peter had managed to stuff a few PB&J’s down, got through his entire online exam, and had washed out the last few blood stains on his suit. He checked it over, making sure all of the holes and scrapes had been successfully mended, and he stood in the middle of his apartment, truly considering whether or not he could stand a little more back pain. He didn’t like getting his shit rocked, but that didn’t mean he was self aware enough to give himself the full recovery time. It was his classic ‘I don’t know how to take care of myself ’ game that he played, quite literally, every day.
He donned the suit after a very short moment of deliberation, which almost seemed like part of his routine at this point. The men in the van spoke about the harbor, and if they had reached their first destination earlier that day, then he had a feeling he would find the bulk of them there. He swung through Queens, only slowing once he could smell the salt and garbage that always came with the shoreline. He hopped across the top of buildings, picking up quickly on the same grumbled conversation that he’d intercepted earlier, the main gist being: something guns, something illegal, money!
He peered over the side of the building just across from the docks. There were big storage containers spread across the general area, men wearing dark clothing and holding machine guns patrolling the paths between open units and stacks of crates, most of them being unloaded still from vans. There was the expected number of goons milling around, but then more rounded the corner, and even more after that. He knew he was going to be outnumbered, and he expected the flutter of nerves in his chest, but not the tight, freezing feeling that seized through him when he saw all of them. Not dozens. Hundreds.
Backup, he thought to himself, faintly, as another dozen trucks began to pull in, why didn’t I just ask for backup?
He wanted to punch a wall, or some other outlet of poorly suppressed rage. He wanted to curl up into a little, pitiful ball and cry. Instead, he stood at the edge of the roof, his breaths hot against the fabric of his mask, his shoulders tense as he watched the scene below him grow more and more out of hand. He couldn’t do this alone. He couldn’t ask for help.
He was preparing to fling himself into action, ignoring every instinct in his body telling him to retreat; to swallow his pride and call the fucking Captain of America, but something stopped him. Soft footfall approached, quickly. The thudded pace of a heavy boot along the rooftops just behind him. He turned, stepped away from the ledge, and prepared himself for a fight. He watched as a blur of red flung itself onto the roof, yards away. There was a man in a leather suit, wearing a mask with little red horns just above the brows.
Peter had definitely heard of the other vigilantes before, and he knew the basic list of those nearby (he liked to take note of how many other nut jobs were running around NYC with a hero complex and a lifetime of guilt). He also knew that the Devil of Hell’s Kitchen was ruthless, territorial, and quite possibly a domestic terrorist.
He was also, bone chillingly, outside of his beloved corner of New York.
“Hey,” Peter called, when it seemed like he should at least introduce himself before getting into some type of street brawl. “I don’t know if you knew, but I was already kind of using this rooftop tonight. I can totally leave if you’ve, like, reserved it. I think it might be a first come, first serve kind of rule, though, so you might have to,” He made a shooing motion with his hands. “Relocate,”
The man stood there, motionless, and Peter could just make out the scowl he already had on his face. There was another moment, where the silence between them was only broken by the sound of criminals with cargo and tires against cement. Peter knew he would have to psych himself up all over again if he was going to jump into the fray.
“You’re here to stop them?” Daredevil spoke, at last, just as he was about to turn around. His voice was kind of raspy, in a way, as if he had just smoked, or if he was getting over a cold. It was intimidating, of course, but Peter was also very tempted to offer him a lozenge.
“I am,” He agreed, a bit confused, hating how frustrated he was already feeling. Was he being patronizing? Nosy? He couldn’t tell, and the way he just stood there stoically was starting to piss him off a little. “It didn’t seem like anyone else was going to do anything. God forbid the Avengers get involved in illegal weapon smuggling. It’s not like it’s happening in the middle of the city they so graciously protect,”
He sounded bitter, and he wasn’t sure if it was his unresolved resentment towards the superheroes talking, or the flaring pain in his back. Probably a bit of both.
“You’re angry,” The vigilante said, in that deep, gravelly voice. Peter watched, carefully, as he cocked his head, his mouth slipping into a perfectly unsettling smile. “We’ll get along,”
“Um,” He replied, as Daredevil flipped a club in his hands, still giving him a creepy smirk. He needed help taking these guys down. He considered the situation for a moment; would accepting help from the more dangerous equivalent of a stranger have a level of unforeseen consequences? He found that he didn’t really mind where he got it from—as long as it wasn’t the Avengers, he could use the assist. He shrugged. “Alright,”