2
It's just Johnny's luck that Spidey turns cryptid on him the second he decides to hunt him down.
Sure, the days that passed were peaceful, deceptively so, as if all the evildoers were on sabbatical. It should be a good thing, but it's not doing Johnny any favors when criminals decide to take a week, two weeks off. Spiders don't show up when there aren't any insects to catch.
"Why is nothing happening!?" Johnny gripes loudly, flipping channels on the TV in the living room and grumbling.
"Only you would complain about the lack of gang activity. And heists. And alien invasions," Ben gruffs out from the kitchen counter, scooping more bran into his mouth and shifting in his seat, the titanium reinforced stool capable of withstanding the weight of his rockification making dying noises underneath him.
Johnny turns to him, disgruntled. "I'm not complaining!"
He gets a slab of raised eyebrow in return. "You're bored. You complain when you're bored, and ever since we told you that you did, you find ways to complain so that you don't say the word 'bored'."
Johnny stays silent, but he gives Ben a nasty look. The rock man shrugs back at him.
He spends one afternoon just lounging lazily on his sofa in his room, imagining several ways to explain Spidey's absence. Harrowing scenarios where Spidey gets smushed, his web snapping mid-flight and him splattering against the side of a building Wile E. Coyote-style. Maybe Spidey caught more flies than he can string up, got munched on by mutated alligators in the sewers, or got tied to a rocket and shot off into space by a dastardly villain.
The scenes he comes up with using his overactive imagination all veer toward ridiculous, because somehow he couldn't imagine Spidey actually dying in a morbid or intensely real way.
No, Spidey wouldn't just die like that, the way people die in the six-o'clock news, uneventful, like a passing thought.
Spidey can avoid bullets. He's seen the guy duck from a gunshot at point-blank range. How he just knows when a shooter's gonna pull the trigger, Johnny has no idea.
He's too bendy and agile to be incapacitated, either, like a lovechild of a cirque-de-soleil headliner and a squirrel. And he's quick on his feet. Resourceful. Johnny's also pretty sure Spidey can regrow limbs. Spiders can do that, right? So that leaves out being kidnapped, tortured, or hacked into pieces with a saw.
Spidey just doesn't seem the kind of guy to die easily, much less get injured. Spidey has shrugged off more blows than Deadpool, and the merc's a freak of nature. So death and injury fails to explain where Spidey is. (Or does it?)
Johnny also knows that Spidey likes to do patrols, scour the city at nights and look for illicit activity. One time, Johnny caught a glimpse of the guy alone at the edge of a rooftop, crouched and poised to lunge, but never actually doing so, peering down at the streets, unmoving, always standing vigil.
It might have been a gargoyle. Johnny isn't sure now. But he hasn't seen Spidey doing rounds either, which is suspicious and weird.
Maybe Spidey took a few days off, too. Maybe he saw that crimes weren't criming and decided to kick it back for a while.
Or maybe ... maybe he controls the criminal activity in New York, and does these vigilante crime busts as a way to cover his tracks and throw off suspicion! Maybe it's his 'going on vacation' that stopped all crime from taking place. It can't be a coincidence!
Johnny mulls over the idea, shoots it down, picks it back up. Turns it in his fingers, chews on it, throws it in the trash, fishes it out.
Somewhere in the back of his mind is a voice that sounds suspiciously like Sue, telling him that this mental Spidey-spiral is a sign of obsession.
It's not. It's just been quiet, and when it's quiet, Johnny gets bo—stagnant, and his thoughts go in circles over and over.
Although.
There was one whiff of nefarious activity, so inconsequential the people involved might have just imagined it. No one new exactly what the crime was or who perpetrated it, so it might as well have not happened at all. It was still quiet, but the incident caused some disquiet.
The only head's up that Stark Industries, or what's left of it, gave them at the Baxter Building was that someone had infiltrated one of their buildings. Happy, the man in charge of their security, was anything but happy when he rang. He told little to Reed, who, upon being warned, reinforced Baxter Building's security measures for the time being, until they could figure out what the whole ordeal was. Just a precaution, but there's really not enough to go by to go on total lockdown.
Sue cautioned against going out to do Johnny things, like going to parties, shopping, or diving headfirst into the latest trendy extreme sport, but Johnny waved her off. He might not be as smart as Reed or Sue or as immovable as Ben, but even he knows that guys like that, criminals who sneak in and out of heavily fortified facilities without leaving a trace, they're usually only good at sneaking and subterfuge and not direct confrontations. Whoever it is, Johnny is confident he can take them in a fight.
Not unless it was Spidey. Maybe he was the one who did it.
Hmm.
But why would he? As far as Johnny knows, nothing was stolen from the place, and Stark Industries hasn't kicked up a fuss about it, just told his family to watch out and stay alert. It doesn't feel like something Spidey would do, because Johnny knows that since they met, Spidey's only ever been interested in beating up bad guys. He'd have no reason to infiltrate Stark Industries.
However.
There were rumors that he was an Avenger for that One Time. That One Time being the most important one time, the one time it mattered and the whole universe was threatened with genocide at an unprecedented scale.
That one time, before The Blip happened.
It happened anyway, and it was widely believed at some point that Spidey was there when things went to shit, when Thanos was defeated.
When Tony Stark killed him, and died of his injuries in return.
People said Spidey was there. But for some reason, no one knew of his identity still.
There were speculations that Tony Stark knew, and that he took this secret to his grave. But when would they even have formed a relationship at all?
It stays at the forefront of his mindscape, that strange connection between Spidey and the Avengers, all the way to when he's tucked in bed, staring at his ceiling.
In his half-awake state, when thoughts about cars and sex and Netflix shows and Pokémon and Twitter and the NFL all intermingle into a jumble of ideas, one string of thought starts forming. Tony Stark. Spidey. Avengers. Criminal activity. Alert level raised. Happy.
Tony Stark. Spidey. Avengers. Criminal activity. Alert level raised. Happy.
Happy Hogan would have had at least some of the Avengers on speed dial if someone infiltrated Stark Industries, but he made no mention of this in his call to Reed. Which either means that the band of superheroes are not on top of the situation, or that they've been deployed on the ground, investigating something top secret. Some of them, maybe. The more covert ones.
It would explain the reduction in criminal activity. If the gangs and syndicates had eyes and ears on the ground, they would be more cautious about perpatrating crimes when they sensed that superheroes were on the move.
And Spidey's been MIA for weeks, which could mean one of two things: A, that Spidey was the culprit in the break-in, and is currently laying low, or B, that Spidey's been deployed to investigate, and is still an Avenger. Option C, Spidey isn't involved and is having mimosas on the way to Hawaii, isn't on the table, because everything is too much of a coincidence.
Johnny's eyes, tired and bloodshot, widen as he slowly wakes up to the realization.
Whichever case it is, one thing's for sure.
Happy Hogan and the Avengers have to have intel on Spider-Man.
--
When Matt comes to work that week, it's to an all too-familiar guest trying to install a flat screen into the concrete wall in the meeting room while his secretary supervises the work.
He could hear their laughter a block away, and had mentally prepared himself, but nothing could steel him from the onslaught of the man's presence.
He sidles over to the doorframe of the meeting room and tilts his head, ignoring the assault to his senses, holding his cane with both hands, wary and poised to act. His face however betrays nothing but mild curiosity.
"Peter. What brings you here?"
Peter and Karen both turn their heads, and Peter's heartbeat picks up again, like the frantic pitter-patter of a puppy welcoming home its owner. The grip on his cane gets a little bit tighter whenever Peter's heart does that sound.
"Matt! I, uh," he glances at the flat screen TV, whips his head back, opens and closes his mouth. "Um."
Karen snorts. Matt turns his head towards her in askance.
"He's giving us a television. It's a flat screen. He's mounting it right now," she explains, though she knows that Matt already sees that happening, that she's just keeping up pretenses with someone like Peter in the room, someone who doesn't know Matt's secrets.
Matt's face opens up, bewildered. Karen shrugs, though only they know that Matt can read the gesture. He schools his face into surprised instead, turns back to Peter, and says, "that's mighty generous of you, Peter. They must pay you a lot at your new job."
"I found it!" Peter blurts out, and then reels himself back. Matt lifts an eyebrow. "I mean, I picked it up as someone was throwing it away. The TV, I mean. They, uh, they thought it was broken because the LED screen wouldn't work and they were past warranty."
Matt quirks his lips up.
"Really. And they just let you take it?"
"I must have looked desperate enough when I asked," Peter shrugs, his voice more even now, but the self-deprecating tone is not lost on Matt. Also, despite the erratic information coming off of Peter's vitals, they're still predictable enough that Matt can still tell if he's lying. He's not, which means Peter did indeed hustle some unsuspecting family out of a flat screen.
"And he fixed it," Karen supplies. "He's quite the handyman, isn't he, Matt?"
"Yeah," Matt says, admittedly impressed. He still doesn't know Peter well enough to know how he's so good at electronics.
"It just needed a bit of rewiring. I think their kid accidentally got it wet or something," Peter says, ducking his head, brushing non-existent dust off his hands.
"It's great!" Karen pipes in, already turning it on with the remote and exploring its features. "We could monitor current events around New York better this way."
While Karen's distracted, Matt's already gesturing for Peter to follow him, beckoning at his general direction. He knows that Peter will follow him back to the reception if he walks out. He also knows that Karen's being obtuse to their exchange on purpose, lretending she doesn't notice them walking out, but for what reason, he doesn't know yet.
Sure enough, Peter follows him back out, and Matt turns his head slightly so that his one ear is facing Peter, to make it seem like he's perceiving him through sound, though really Matt can see the whole room, can make out Peter's whole imprint in the sea of fire.
Out here, and at closer proximity, Peter's everything is amplified. It's that soap again, making Peter smell all too familiar, like he'd been passing by Marmie's bodega a few blocks away for years, like he belongs in Hell's Kitchen. It's a scent coupled with what smells like diluted cologne. Fruity, not floral, which makes Matt inhale involuntarily. He can't stand floral scents. Peter smells citrusy, like one of the fruit stands over by the farmer's bazaar near Matt's place. And there's Peter himself, a scent that Matt does not want to focus on. Not because it's unpleasant or repulsive. Far from it.
He turns to Peter and sighs.
"Why give it to us? You could have kept it for yourself." Matt crosses his arms over his chest.
Peter gesticulates, then forces his hands back to his sides because he realized Matt couldn't see them. "Oh, man, is it too much? It's just, I don't watch TV, much."
"Neither do I," he grins wryly.
Underneath it all, there's also some peculiar smells. Mechanical, hidden in both of Peter's sleeves, with something cloying inside them, like motor oil, and something synthetic, lab-smelling. It could be a watch. But on both wrists?
And something rubbery all over him, too, like balloons. It was also like this last time.
Peter snorts, catching the joke. "Well ... you can still listen to the news, right? It'll be more useful here. I'm never home anyway."
Never home. It's only mentioned as an afterthought, but Matt tucks that tiny bit of information for the future.
Also, if Matt really trains his senses, he can detect hints of something sharp and metallic in the air, masked by the familiar scent of antiseptic. Died blood. Peter's been injured recently.
It's alarming. Peter's masked it well, but nothing escapes Matt's notice. It's a gash, running from his left side, top of the waist, down his thigh.
It should be a great cause for concern, but Peter doesn't seem to be bothered by it at all. He's either so good at acting like the injury doesn't exist, or that he's so used to it that it hardly affects the way he functions.
It's all too suspicious, and intruiging, but somehow Matt isn't on his guard as much. Which is bad. He should be on his guard. Peter's injured, but he isn't seeking help. He's even smiling. Peter's deceiving him in ways other than his words.
"Maybe. But that still doesn't answer why this office."
Peter shrugs. "I don't know. It's the first place that came to mind," Peter responds, quiet, but there's a hint of warmth in his cheeks.
"Well, Karen is quite the catch. Or so I've been told."
Peter boggles at him.
"It's not like that!"
Again, more blushing. Matt's teasing at this point, but only because a part of him doesn't want to acknowledge the actual reality.
The stares. The way Peter's heartbeat goes to the stratosphere. The thrum in the air and the spike in temperature when Matt walks into a room.
He's not an idiot. He can piece together what's happening.
It's just ... it's complicated, as stupid and cliché as that sounds. His life is complicated. And Peter ...
Foggy's words from a few days ago echo in his ears.
Matt, you should see him. He looks very handsome today.
I think it just occured to him that Peter's smoking hot.
In fairness to Peter, everything he's said since Matt arrived was true. The TV and everything. Either that, or he's an incredibly good liar, and that, if anything, should be another cause for concern.
It's disquieting, but it's simultaneously making Matt more and more curious about Peter.
Maybe he stole the TV, maybe he got it the way he said he did.
The uncertainty ... it's fascinating. Worth investigating.
"Then I should thank you somehow."
He decides to actively look into it further in his everysay persona instead of the Devil. People open up to the lawyer more then the fist-swinging vigilante. It's not nornally how he would operate, the last time he recalls doing this was when he went to Vanessa's art gallery. But something inside him, his gut feeling, is telling him that Peter's being sincere this whole time.
"I'd invite you to a round of drinks, but I'm not sure you're old enough."
Peter sputters, and Matt grins.
Oh, but Peter does rise to the bait so easily.
"I'm old enough! I'm twenty-one!"
Matt shifts. There it is.
His first lie.
Matt can't call him out on it though, because he shouldn't have any way to know, in Peter's eyes.
Matt nods instead, joins in on the charade.
"All right, all right. When do you get off work?"
"Work ... ends at six." Peter takes his phone out his pocket.
Matt smiles. "Great. After dinner. Eight p.m. Josie's. You know where that is?"
"Do I know where that is? I'm rolling my eyes right now."
"I can totally tell."
Peter grins at him openly, unaware that Matt can see that too, and then glances at his phone.
"Work starts at ten, actually. Crap. I am gonna get so yelled at." Peter quickly ducks back into the meeting room. "Karen, I gotta jet."
Karen couldn't even reply because Peter already had one foot out the office like last time.
"Don't go running the eletricity bill with that. I know Wendy Williams can be quite gripping!"
"Like I'd willingly watch thay load of garbage!" she replies, in that way that means she totally watches trash TV.
Peter looks at him one last time, eye bright. "I gotta go. See you later?"
Matt smiles. "See you later."
And just like that Peter's gone.
Is he using drinks as an excuse to find out more about this mysterious young man? Yes.
Is it dubious to offer drinks to someone who is quite possibly under the age of twenty-one? Oh, yes.
Is he indulging himself a little bit? Maybe.