darkest before the dawn

August 3rd, 2016

8:43 PM

Peter wakes up surrounded by blankets and pillows, a pile of softness surrounding his body. He blinks blearily, opening his eyes and immediately squinting them in the soreness that’s aching through his body. 

Shit.

Where is he?

His body’s bandaged, wrapped head to toe in white gauze and covered with antibiotic ointment. Peter can smell it, wrinkling his nose. It smells like hospitals and he hates hospitals. They smell like injuries and hopelessness, and it’s horrible. Peter can feel his bones ache in protest as he tries to sit up, moving off the bed. 

“I wouldn’t do that if I were you.”

Peter snaps his head toward the voice and immediately hisses in pain, lying back down on the bed. His vision is blurry, but he can make out a figure getting up off a chair and moving toward the bed.

“I told you.” The voice is amused and it sounds familiar, kind of gravelly and sharp. Peter’s not quite sure where he’s heard, but he knows that he’s heard it. Like deja vu.

Peter opens his mouth to talk, but all that that comes out is a croak. His tongue is dry and his lips are chapped and it feels like a desert.

“Hold on,” the figure reaches over and grabs something Peter thinks is a glass. They help Peter sit up, a hand against their back and bring the cold glass to his lips. “Here.”

It could be poison, but Peter could care less as he drinks the water, the cold liquid soothing his throat and making him more alert and awake. The figure takes away the glass and Peter makes a noise of protest. “I don’t want you to puke, you’re pretty dehydrated.”

Peter licks at his lips. His vision’s coming back, but it’s still pretty blurry. “Where am I?”

“St Agnes,” The figure responds, getting up and placing the glass on the wooden nightstand, “It’s an orphanage.”

How ironic.

Peter clenches his eyes shut, trying to focus. When he opens them, he can see the room he’s in, his vision back to where it’s supposed to be. With the powers. ‘Cause if he didn’t have the powers, he’d still be as blind as a bat.

It’s a small, shabby room. White walls with a brown wooden door, closed and marked with dents and scratches. Floor is wooden, just as dented and creaky as the door and the bed is metal, the mattress slightly uncomfortable. The blankets are scratchy and itchy, but the pillows are soft. A cross is above the headboard and it’s slightly unnerving.

The voice clears itself and Peter turns to face the person at his side, still pretty confused.

It’s a man, with brown-red hair and white skin. He’s got some stubble, with some faint scars on his face and nose that looks like it’s been broken a few times. He’s got on a gray t-shirt, with black sweats. There’s scars running up and down his arms, just faint lines that Peter can just make out. Knuckles are bruised and bloody, arms crossed over his chest.

He’s got his head tilted to the side, his face not directly facing Peter. It takes Peter a moment to figure out why before his neurons are firing and his brain actually is working.

Peter you dumb moron.

He’s blind.

“I’m Matt,” the guy offers, his eyes in Peter’s direction but not focusing. 

“Peter.” Peter says back, not quite sure why. Maybe it’s because even though he's beat to shit and in desperate need of medical attention, they had enough sense not to take him to a hospital. A hospital where they’ll discover his mutation and have him on record. Where he could be taken away and locked up in a prison under the sea.

“I know,” Peter’s heart spikes, and the gu-Matt continues, “Those two kids told me.”

The kids.

Leo and Zach.

“Are they okay?” Peter blurts out, hands tightening around those itchy, starchy blankets. His heart is pounding. Safe, I was supposed to keep them safe- “I blacked out-They’re supposed to be safe-It’s coming after them-”

“They’re fine,” Matt cuts in, a more serious expression on his face. “The sisters gave them new clothes and they’ve gotten the gasoline off. A little bruised and scared, but they’re fine. Your dog’s been helping calm them down.”

Peter sinks back down on the pillows, relief echoing through his aching bones. He realizes belatedly that his sports bra he was wearing had been replaced with mounds of bandages around his chest, covering the numerous cuts on his back.

They must’ve taken the glass out.

“You, on the other hand,” Matt trails off, his head still tilted in the direction of Peter. “Burns all over your body, broken ribs, a jammed ankle, a concussion, smoke inhalation, glass embedded in your body, which by the way, was healed over so we had to cut open your skin to get it out. And on top of all of that, there’s your leg,”

Peter squints. It hurts. Everything hurts. “What about my leg?”

“Look at it.”

Peter does. And he swears.

His jeans and shirt are missing, replaced by a pair of men’s boxers and large black t-shirt that allows his numerous injuries to breathe without irritating his skin. The three gashes have been stitched up again, this time a little bit neater. It’s been cleaned, but all Peter can focus on is the deep veins of red and blue twining around his thigh, spreading throughout his leg, the roots at the center a deep, rich black.

It looks like a painting, vines of royal-blood-blue violets twining out from tapestries of scarlet-silk-peonies, blooming out from a backdrop of inky-glass-black, painting his leg in deep and vibrant colors. 

“That-that’s not supposed to be like that,” Peter stares, unable to look away. There had been stuff on that creature. 

What was that thing?

Matt snorts. “I gathered.”

“Is-is it going to kill me?”

Matt hesitates, scrunching up his nose and-Sniffing? What the fuck?  “Probably not. It smells funny, but it’s also not actively destroying your nervous system. So there’s a 87% chance it won’t kill you.”

“Yay,” Peter stares at it, then wraps it up back in bandages. That’s bad. Very bad. He looks up at Matt, squinting his eyes. “You can smell it?”

Matt freezes, like he forgot that he wasn’t supposed to say that. His shoulders tense. “No.”

Peter sniffs his leg. “It doesn’t smell like it’s going to kill me. Smells like…..” Peter tilts his head, trying to place the scent. “Smells like ozone. And science.”

“You can smell science?”

“Well, apparently, you can smell it too, so…”

Matt groans and Peter suddenly remembers that he’s in a strange location with a stranger, severely injured and the people he’s supposed to be protecting are conspicuously missing. He draws back, suddenly suspicious. “Who-who are you?”

“Matt.”

Peter scowls. “Not that. Who are you, really?”

Matt’s got this wry smile, peeking out of the corner of his mouth. “I’m just helping with the orphanage.”

Peter’s scowl deepens. 

Whoever this guy is, he could smell Peter’s injury. That’s something Peter couldn’t do until he got his powers. Couldn’t do anything with his nearsighted eyes and asthmatic lungs and his constant colds and scrawny limbs that held no power.

Whoever this guy is, he has powers.

“But the question that really should be answered,” Matt continues, his voice getting sharper and his body tensing like he’s preparing for a fight, “is who are you?”

Oh, no. You’re crazy if you think that I’m just going to answer all of your questions after you knowingly took in a bleeding thirteen-year-old and two crying kids covered with gasoline.

“Where’re my friends?” Peter demands, his split knuckles aching as he balls his fists up. “Why did you take us in?”

“Why were you injured?” Matt counters, his fists clenching as well. “What attacked you? Why do you have powers?”

Peter glares at him, Matt staring back with sightless blue eyes. They’re at a standoff, the air tense as a stretched rubber band between them. Peter can hear Matt’s heartbeat thrumming, adrenaline rushing through his veins. There’s the smell of old blood and bandages in the room, that strange ozone and chemical scent mixed in. Sounds of children talking and footsteps on the floor are heard, but the small white room with a cross on the wall is dead silent, the two people inside with more secrets to hide than a russian spy at a deadlock, each waiting for the other to back down.

The door opens and footsteps walk in, then stop abruptly. “Matthew, quit interrogating the child. Child, quit passively-aggressively starting fights. There’s only one of you who should be acting like a child, and said child doesn’t get a pass because I just had to dig glass out of their back.”

Matt and Peter break off the staring contest and the tension is broken. Matt sighs. “Sister,-”

The nun, who’s got shoulder-length gold-brown hair and probably in her mid-forties, scowls at him and Matt shuts up. It’s pretty remarkable, considering Matt is fucking blind and shouldn’t be able to sense that. 

Powers. That man has to have powers.

The sister then whirls on Peter, a tempest of pure fury and exasperation. “And you.”

Peter’s only heard that tone of voice from one person and that person was honestly one the few people he’s actually listened to during his childhood. Instinctively, he flattens himself down on the bed, shoulders raised to his ears.

The nun glares at him. Hard. With the force of eight thousand bricks. “What in the world gave you those injuries? 

Peter soundlessly shrugs. It’s not like they’re going to believe him. What’s he suppose to tell them, a cannibalistic thing with poison in its claws attacked me two nights ago, but my injuries mostly came from yesterday, where I was framed for mass murder, and today I went to go look for the thing and found a very adorable puppy and two kids the thing was trying to kill by burning them alive, so I rescued them and then I started to have hallucinations of my dead best friend and her mom, so I passed out and you people took me in.

The nun somehow manages to gather all of that from his expression. Her lips tighten. “I see.”

Matt throws up his hands, and paces to the corner of the room, sitting on a wooden chair and scowling. “Great. Does anyone else want to let me in on what the fuck is going on?”

The nun snaps up so quickly the other two flinch back. “Matthew!”

This is awkward. So very awkward. He wishes he was still unconscious. Back into his dreamless slumber, where he wasn’t being interrogated by a blind man who definitely had powers and scolded by a nun who obviously knew the man and wasn’t all that surprised with the interrogation. Who didn’t seem to be bothered by Peter’s injuries and had taken him in. Who seemed familiar with his way of avoiding answers, reading his face like it was an open book. Who seemed like she had dealt with this before.

Peter ventures out with a question, testing out the waters of his strange situation. “Um, Ma’am? Can you please tell me where I am? Also, who are you people?”

The nun scoffs in Matt’s direction, crossing over to the bed. “You didn’t tell him anything? No wonder he wasn’t talking to you.”

“He nearly dropped dead on the doorstep, Sister,” Matt drones, face completely dead-pan. “Forgive me if I wanted to know why.”

The nun rolls her eyes, and inspects Peter’s injuries, lifting up his shirt to look at his back. “I’m Sister Maggie, I’m a nun at St. Agnes. It’s an orphanage, as Matthew might have told you, so you’re in one of the many empty rooms we have. Your friends,” she says as she places a cold finger on his arms, inspecting his burns, “are also in a empty room, along with your dog. They are both completely fine, but they have refused to tell me who their parents are and will not speak about what happened until you are awake.”

Oh, that’s nice of them. Kind of need to know who they are, but that’s nice.

Peter jerks his head at Matt, who’s brooding in the corner. “Who’s he?”

Sister Maggie smiles wryly, and it kind of looks like Matt’s. “He’s like you.”

Matt jolts like someone shocked him, tensing in his seat. “ Sister.”

“Oh please, Matthew,” Sister Maggie barks, “He came here with glass in his back and giant claw marks in his leg with two crying children that refused to leave his side. If that doesn’t scream I’m doing something both equally heroic and stupid, then I don’t know what does.”

Matt rakes a hand through his hair. “We don’t know what we’re dealing with-”

“It was this creature.”

Matt and Sister Maggie pause and turn to face Peter, who’s gripping the blankets, looking between their faces. “I saw it two nights ago, when I was stopping an arms dealer. It bit off the arms dealer’s head and got away. Then it attacked Metro Gen an’ it killed people, so I tried to stop it, but it got away. That’s how I got the injuries.”

Peter breathes. 

Flashingredlightsandbodiesonthefloorandscarletdrippingfromthewalls

“So I went lookin’ for it today, ‘cause it needs to be stopped and I found Lisa and Zach, an’ they were ‘bout to be killed, so I had’ta save ‘em. It set a trap, an’ I fell for it, and then it lit the warehouse on fire. We got out, but then I passed out in the alley, an’,” Peter shrugs, tiny and being swallowed by the massive black t-shirt, “You guys found me.”

There’s silence.

Matt screws up his face, scrunching his nose. “And you needed to do this why?”

Please don’t turn me in.

Peter raises his hands and tries to make his voice light, like cotton candy or wispy clouds or blank-white feathers. “I’m Spider-Man?”

Pleasedon’tturnmeinPleasedon’tturnmeinI’msuchanidiot

Sister Maggie turns to Matt, her eyebrow raised. He nods, answering her silent question. “He’s telling the truth.”

Powers. He has to have powers. There’s no other fucking answer. 

“How old are you?” Matt suddenly asks, eyes intent in Peter’s direction. They’re just over his shoulder, barely six inches away from their target, like a knife barely missing its target. His eyes are blue, and focused. As deadly as a laser.

Peter kicks the bed with his foot, swinging it back and forth. “Eighteen.”

Sister Maggie snorts, crossing her arms. “Eighteen. What’s next, you got a job workin’ for Tony Stark? Quit the bullcrap.”

Mother of god.

A nun just swore at me.

Am I going to die now? Am I cursed by God? Can nuns even curse?

Peter taps his hands on the bandages around his thigh. He avoids the penetrating blue eyes of the blind man and the scowl of the nun. “I’ll be thirteen in a week.”

Matt swears. Loudly. Angrily. Mostly at Peter.  Peter’s pretty sure it’s in Irish. He’s heard it before, when he used to live in Hell’s Kitchen. Picked up a few curse words. It’s a mix though. Just a couple good zingers mixed in with English.

Peter lived in a building full of people who didn’t just speak english. Picked up a few words here and there. But he mostly just uses it for cursing, ‘cause it’s more fun. Also, he can understand most of what people are saying in other languages, and can curse in a lot of them. So he’s wincing as Matt swears at him, the world, and himself, for some reason. 

Sister Maggie purses her lips, but before she can say anything, Leo and Zach burst into the door. They’re wearing clean clothes and their eyes widen with relief when they spot Peter sitting up in bed. 

Max lags behind them and Matt immediately cuts off his torrent of irish to tilt his head suspiciously in the dog’s direction. As he does, Sister Maggie gives Peter a look that says they’re not done talking about this and turns to Leo and Zach. “I thought I told you to stay.”

Leo clutches her brother’s hand. “We heard voices.”

Peter jerks his head toward Matt. “You heard Mr. Judgemental over there.”

Matt bares his teeth at Peter. 

Who is this guy? Like, seriously. He seems like a feral demon. A very sad and depressed demon, who’s got some hearing loss, as shown when he cups his ears, looking very confused.

Maybe he’s a criminal in hiding? One with a good heart? Who knows.

“We gotta go,” Zach’s voice is shaky, “It’s not safe here. It could find us.”

“I know.” Peter slides off the bed, Max coming up and rubbing his head against his knees. He looks at Zach and Leo. “Just let me put pants on. And find my bag.”

Leo’s “I have it.” is drowned out by Matt’s, “You are fucking twelve.” and Sister Maggie’s, “Where in the world are you going to go?”

Peter finds his pants. He can no longer wear them. They have so many holes. The leg is missing, kind of. He still puts them on. “First off, Mr. Matt. I am twelve. However, I have also been framed for murder. So. Kinda need to take care of that.”

Leo and Zach are staring at him. “You’ve been framed for murder?”

Peter shrugs.

Matt gets up off the chair and rakes a hand through his brown-red hair. “Don’t you have anyone who can help you? Any allies? Any backup?”

“I have Ned. He’s thirteen.”

“Shit,” Matt swears softly, pacing back and forth. He pauses. “Okay, here’s what you’re going to do. You’re going to get these kids back to their parents-” 

He’s immediately cut off by Leo and Zach’s protests. “We can’t, we can’t! He knows where we live and he said that if we survived he would kill mom and dad. We can’t go back, we gotta hide. If we hide, he can’t find us.” Leo’s pleading, Zach on the verge of tears again.

Peter’s heart sinks. 

They’re right. If it learns that they’re alive, it will just kill them. They’re targets, not random victims. It’s not Metro Gen or the carousel, it specifically went after them. They need to get somewhere safe, somewhere out of Manhattan, where they can stay while Peter can go and take this thing down.

They can’t stay here. It’s too close.

Matt seems to realize this too. His mouth tightens and his shoulders go ram-rod straight, fists clenching at his side. He knows, and it makes Peter wonder exactly how he knows. Why he’s so comfortable talking about injuries. Why his biggest concern with Peter wasn’t the fact that he was a vigilante; it had to do with his age. Peter wonders and wonders, but ultimately comes up with nothing. 

He’s a mystery wrapped in bruised knuckles and sightless eyes.

Matt breathes in, then sighs. “You two need to get somewhere safe.”

“I think I know a place,” Peter says distantly, grabbing his bag from Leo. Leo and Zach look so relieved, shoulders slumping.

Matt rubs at his eyes. “Right. Well, after that, go to Alias Investigations. There’s a lady there, she can help you.”

Peter raises an eyebrow and his wave of disbelief must be tangible to Matt, because he sighs again. “Tell her you’re Spider-Man. If she doesn’t believe you, then you’re screwed. The best I can do is to tell you to go to her. I would help you but-”

Matt breaks off, twisting his hands angrily, with a hint of helplessness. 

“I can’t.”

What did he say? Mystery. That man is hiding something.

Sister Maggie is not amused by any of this. But she seems to understand that the trio needs to go. “Where are you three going?”

Max trots to Zach’s side, barking happily.

Leo and Zach are staring at Peter with a look of hope.

Matt’s crossing his arms.

Peter takes a deep breath.

“You guys ever been to Brooklyn?”

❁

Aaron Davis was not happy that Peter asked him to watch Leo and Zach.

Something about, I helped you once. It was one time and I regretted it instantly.

But, with a little pleading and the payment of $500 dollars, {Paid for by the Daily Bugle, who enjoyed Peter’s selfies}, Aaron relented and allowed Leo and Zach to stay in his apartment. At least until it was caught.

“Why they here? What happened?”

“They’re being hunted. It thinks that they’re dead, but,” Peter gives him a half-hearted shrug. “Just in case.”

Aaron stared at him for a moment. Then he turned to Zach. “Hey, you like Looney Tunes?”

Zach, who was crouching by Max, looked up. He hasn't said much, and Peter feels awful leaving them here. Zach nods.

Aaron gestures to his apartment. “It’s on. Go knock yourself out.”

Zach, after looking to his sister for permission, gives Max a big hug and walks into the apartment, footsteps timid and nervous.

Aaron faces Peter. “You owe me.”

Peter nods.

“After all this shit is done, when your name’s been cleared, I want you to meet my nephew. He thinks you’re cool and crap. It’ll make his day.”

That he can do.

Aaron waves a hand and walks into his apartment, muttering something under his breath. Leaving Peter alone with Leo.

Leo looks up at Peter. There’s a scrape on her cheek. She’s got her hair braided back. “Thank you.”

This is awkward. Very awkward. 

How do you interact with people nicely again?

Peter clears his throat, leaning back on the heels of his shoes. “You’re welcome. S’really just doin’ my job.”

There’s a bit of silence.

“Um, you gonna be okay here?”

Leo shrugs. She’s scared, but she’s trying to be strong. “This is where it’s safest. Can’t go home. Can’t go to the police. Can’t stay in Manhattan. Can’t stay with you.”

“To be fair, nowhere is safe with me,” Peter jokes a bit, shoving his hands into the pockets of Ben’s hoodie. “I literally fought a man in a rhino suit. Nowhere is out of bounds.”

Leo shuffles her feet. “Yeah, I just….I don’t know. I trust you. You got us out of there, even though you could’ve gone after him. You protected us and,” Leo looks up at him from under her lashes, “I’m kinda scared.”

“I know.” Peter’s quiet. He gets it. 

The first time he ever went out in the suit, after he came back and laid in his bed, he couldn't get to sleep. He’d stared at the ceiling, glowstars faintly lighting up his bedroom, mind full of pin-stabbing anxiety that someone had followed him, that the men with guns were going to bust in his room and murder May right in front of his eyes. His nightmares had been absolutely terrible, full of carousel music and blood dripping on the floor and gunshots deafening his ears. Old scars felt like white-hot fire and sleep was a distant memory.

But he went out the next night. Went out and dealt with the nightmares because it was the only thing he could do.

So yeah, he gets it.

“I had this friend,” he begins, twisting his fingers together, “She, uh, she was my best friend. I grew up in this really crappy part of Hell’s Kitchen, with my equally crappy dad, who was a fucking dickhead. Real nice guy. When we first met, she dragged back to her house and she made me stay the night.” Peter huffs at the memory, a small smile on his face. “We did that for months, me sleeping on the floor when I had’ta get outta that house.”

Leo tilts her head, shifting from foot to foot.

“Eventually, I got outta there and I went to go live with my aunt and uncle.” Peter takes a deep breath, scratching Max’s head as he whines. “That first night I was there, I was fucking terrified. I was so afraid that my dad was going to find me, kept havin’ nightmares. I went back to my friend’s that night. My friend’s dad, he, uh, basically dragged me back home. Told me that this wasn’t going to change, that sooner or later I was going to face it. Said I could keep running, or fight.”

Peter coughs, bruises on his face aching. “So I got over it. Went back home, learned who my aunt and uncle were, and I tried to stop running from my problems. Tried to fight ‘em, instead. My friend’s mom, uh, she was not happy with that.”

Leo laughs softly. “Yeah, my mom doesn’t like it when me and Zach get into fights. Says we should be the bigger person.”

“Ma’am, I am five feet, barely. I am tiny and full of rage, and I will never be the bigger person.”

This sends Leo into a fit of giggles, hand over her mouth as she laughs. “I’m taller than you.”

“Everyone's taller than me,” Peter points out, then hesitates. He takes the backpack off his shoulders and digs through the bag.

They need it. I have powers. They don’t.

He pulls out the shocker. And gives it to Leo.

“Remember what I said about fighting? This is for you.” Leo takes the shocker gingerly, holding it close to her chest as she stares at Peter, who zips his bag up and slings it over his shoulder. “You’re not going after it, that’s my job. But just in case. This’ll protect you.”

Leo examines the shocker, then she looks up at Peter. “What you said-about fighting. Isn’t what we’re doing running?”

He leans back, considering her words. “Yeah. A little.”

Leo slumps, a weapon of destruction in her hands.

Peter continues. “But there wasn’t a threat of me dying when I ran; there is for you.” Max slams into his legs, and he gives him a head-rub. He looks up from under his cloud of red-brown hair. “So this isn’t running. It’s more of a tactical retreat.”

Leo smiles, a soft, hopeful thing. “I hope so.”

She looks into the apartment, where the sounds of Zach and Aaron arguing over who’s the best Looney Tune character can be heard. Flickering fluorescent lights wash her face out, highlighting the small bruises on her face. “Do you think we’ll be safe here?”

“It shouldn’t know about Aaron. But,” Peter digs a pen out of his bag and writes his cellphone number down on Leo’s arm. “Just in case. Call me.”

“Okay,” Leo tucks her arms closer to her chest. “I’d give you a hug, but…”

“My ribs are no good for hugging,” Peter laughs softly and Leo smiles.

 She steps closer to him and pecks a kiss on his cheek, right on his purple-violet bruise. She takes a step back, blushing slightly. “Thank you. Really.”

Peter clears his throat. “Yeah. Uh. Yeah.”

Whatthefuckwhatthefuckwhatthefuck-

Leo moves to go into Aaron’s apartment, then pauses. “Hey, Peter?”

Peter stops from where he’s directing Max to the stairs. “Yeah?”

“That thing,” Leo’s fingers dig into the wall. “It was human. It was a guy.”

Fuck. Fuck. Fuckity-fuck.

“When he cam-took us,” Leo stumbles over her words, “We were away from our parents; they never saw us get kidnapped. He had a face, with scars all over it. Brown hair and he was white.”

What was he? Some kind of alien? A mutant? Demon sacrifice?

“Just thought it might help,” Leo says uncertainly, holding the shocker close to her chest. “Thanks for the weapon.”

“Don’t break it,” Peter jokes, tugging Max along by the scruff. “I’ll see you, Leo. I promise this will be over soon.”

Leo smiles, like a rainy cloud, just about to storm. “Good luck, Peter.”

The door to Aaron’s apartment clicks shut and Peter turns to jog down the apartment building stairs, his injuries slightly better than they were before. Turns out having glass impaled in your back is a bad thing.

Leo and Zach should stay safe. As long as they’re careful, the thing shouldn’t be able to find them. Whoever he is. And that opens a whole other can of worms.

He stops by a 24-hour convenience store to pick up some dog food, a collar, and a dog dish for Max. He’s not just going to dump him out on the street. He’ll figure something out. Max appears around the corner holding a squeaky toy in the shape of Iron-Man. His huge, brown, puppy dog eyes beg him to buy the toy.

He buys the toy.

He clips the leash to the collar, both a neon green, and starts to walk home. He’s not too far from his apartment and he can’t take Max in the subway. There’s no bag for him that’s big enough. 

It’s late. Peter already texted May that he’s going to be out past six, but she texted back to tell him that she had to pull an emergency shift at the hospital, due to Metro Gen shutting down and patients being moved around. So she won’t be home. 

As he walks into Queens, his mind drifts to Sister Maggie, and even more so, Matt. Matt, who was blind, but seemed more aware of his surroundings than anyone Peter had ever met. Matt, who had bruises on his knuckles and stillness to the way he moved, but claimed he was just there to help the church. Matt, who had not cared about the vigilante aspect of Peter’s life, but rather the fact Peter was twelve and had no backup. Matt, who gave Peter instructions on what to do and seemed absolutely enraged at the fact that he could not help him.

Peter mused on his thoughts all the way to his apartment, lost half-way in his thoughts. 

In fact he’s so caught up in his thoughts, that it’s a real surprise to see Jessica Jones sitting in his apartment, holding up his Spider-Man suit. 

As in, the Jessica Jones.

As in, the Jessica Jones, who took down a mind-controlling psychopath. 

As in, the Jessica Jones, who became New York’s second vigilante.

As in, the Jessica Jones, who could lift up cars and throw people ten feet away.

As in, the Jessica Jones, who claimed she had invisible laser eyes, but could fly if she wanted to.

As in, Jessica Jones, super-powered PI and strongest woman in New York.

Sitting on his bed, Spider-Man suit between her fingers, as she cocks her head at Peter with her gray-green eyes demanding an explanation. Dark boots are crossed at the ankle, leather jacket sitting on her shoulders. She smells like whiskey and vanilla, and her nails are blunt and torn.

Very scary.

Only the nurses at Metro Gen could have been scarier than this. 

He’s sitting on the windowsill, the bed being taken over by the giant puppy and the scary investigator. Peter’s bandages itch, feeling like small bugs crawling around on his flesh, and he can’t stop staring at the woman on his bed.

Jessica Jones clears her throat. “So. You’re probably wondering why I’m here.”

Peter nods minutely. 

Shethinkshediditshe’scometotakehimaway.

Jessic-Ms. Jones? Ms. Jessica? Jones? Jess?-kicks her feet against the side of the bed. “I’m here about Metro Gen.”

Okay, just gonna backflip-

“I know you didn’t do it!” Jessica holds up her hand, spotting Peter moving slightly out of the window. Peter stops trying to escape and she breathes a sigh of relief. “I know you didn’t do it. I was there, that night at the docks. I saw you, and that thing.”

She was there? She was the one who shot that thing? 

She’s not lying.

Why is Hell’s Kitchen chock-full of vigilantes?

Peter blinks. “Wait, how do you know where I live?”

Jessica gestures at the tech on the table. “Tracked the weapon you took. Led me straight here.”

motherfucker.

“And before you ask,” Jessica continues, leaning back on the pillow that is the sleeping dog. “No, I don’t think that anyone else can track you here. I stole the laptop, so…”

“Okay.” Peter fidgets with his sleeves. The hoodie is full of holes. “What do you want from me?”

Jessica examines the suit in her hands, her gaze flickering over to Peter. “How old are you?”

What is it with people and wanting to know how old he is? He didn’t realize there was a minimum age for being a vigilante. He answers truthfully, as this a person who will definitely see right through all of his bullshit. “Thirteen, soon. Like, my birthday’s on the tenth.”

Jessica stares at him, long enough that he feels like he needs to fidget. She then leans back and sighs. “Shit.”

Peter winces. “You gonna tell me to stop?”

Jessica’s staring at his ceiling, at those peel ‘n paste glowstars. “I’m not your parent. It’s not my job. If you wanna leap around New York in a gymnastics outfit, so be it. Besides, kinda need your help.”

Peter sits up straight. His necklace swings out of his neck of the hoodie, and he can see Jessica’s eyes narrow in on it. “With the creature?”

“No, with alien abductions,” Jessica rolls her eyes. “Yeah, with the creature. You’re the only who’s fought the damn thing, so obviously I’m gonna need your...input.”

“I don’t need your help.” The words slip from Peter before he can stop them, a defensive measure still in place after all these years.

Jessica barks a laugh. “Yeah, sure you don’t. Those bandages just appeared out of nowhere, right?”

Peter scowls

“Look, if we want to take this thing down, then we need to work together.” Jessica cringes in disgust and shudders. “Ugh. That’s horrible. I never want to say that again.”

There’s a part of Peter that doesn’t want to accept what she’s offering. It wants to do this by itself, like he’s always done.

But that way is twice as dangerous and could take longer. 

Zach and Leo need to go home

.

Peter unconsciously brings his hand up to his cheek, right over the bruise. “Fine.”

Jessica smirks at him, but it’s not full of malice. It’s more of a Yeah, I know how you feel.  

She studies the photographs on the wall, strung up by fairy lights. She taps one of them, the one of Ben and May from when they went to Coney Island two years ago. “Who are they?”

“Aunt and Uncle.” Pete starts collecting books from off the floor and begins to put them back on the shelves. He pauses. “My name’s Peter Parker.”

Jessica pops off the bed, a little unsteadily. “Well, Peter. It looks like you and I are going to have to track down this thing together.”

Peter takes a deep breath.

“How can I trust you?”

Jessica regards him, with a little bit of amusement. “Kid. If I was really after you, I wouldn’t bother with theatrics. Your ass would be on the ground quicker than you can say nerd.”

Thank you. No, really. Thank you so very much.

She walks over to the window, carefully avoiding the books still on the floor. “My office. Tomorrow at ten. If I don’t answer, keep knocking.”

Peter squints. “Where is your apartment?”

“Shit…,” Jessica curses, then hands him a card. It’s light purple, with bold black words reading Alias Investigations. It’s got a phone and address. “Pretty simple. If I don’t answer, just assume I’m asleep.”

She pauses, then glares at him. “And you’d better be there. No vanishing acts.”

So this is who Matt meant.

Wonder how he knows her.

“Yes, Ms. Jones.”

Jessica pinches her nose and exits out the window. “Jess. Just Jess.”

Fine. But only because you asked so nicely.

“Okay Jess.”

Jess smirks again. “See you kid.”

And then she’s gone. 

Peter sighs. Peels his jeans off his legs and takes off his shoes. 

He grabs a copy of Ariel by Sylvia Plath and curls into bed, Max’s soft snores a bearable background noise.

Today was weird.