darkest before the dawn

August 4th, 2016

2:48 PM

Once upon a time, there lived a boy.

This boy learned to love words, loved to say them endlessly while the world beat on around him, bloody and violent. Because his words weren’t violent; they were beautiful and provided him company in the form of black-lettered paper. 

Then he met a girl, a girl with kindness in her heart and stars in her eyes, and they became closer than anyone the boy had ever had. With her, he met her family, a group of people that accepted him and cared for him, something the boy had never really felt before. Even though he shared not a single drop of blood with any of them, they became close to him and him to them. 

He only ever shared his words with the girl, though.

He said them into a pillow, one night, after telling her parents something he knew he shouldn’t have told them but had been assured that it was okay and he would be okay.

He said them when the girl broke her arm, keeping her calm as her brother ran to get help.

He said them as he met his remaining family for the first time, holding on tightly to the girl’s father and wishing that he hadn’t said a word.

He said them when the girl’s brother had fought with his sister, never taking any sides and remaining a middle ground for both of them.

He shared them with the girl because she understood, understood his need to memorize the words, twisting them around his tongue until he knew what to say.

The boy eventually grew fond of his new family, an aunt and an uncle. 

The boy finally was happy in his life, with a family that was made of blood and bonds and a person that knew him better than himself.

Then one day, the boy woke up in a room full of cold machines and stinging chemicals with the sounds of carousel music in his ears, to learn that he had lost almost everyone he cared about.

The words could only do so much to comfort him.

The boy grew a shell around himself, refusing to let himself get hurt again. He’d mourned, cried tears of salt and grief for the people under the ground, having lost the first few people who’d ever loved him. 

He didn’t want to cry again.

The boy learned that the girl’s father lived and he wondered if he would ever see him.

Then he died, died seeking revenge,  and the boy learned that it was best to move on.

The boy refused to let anyone in, refused to let anyone get close. He shared the words with no one, whispering instead of speaking, reading by flashlight instead of sun. He let the words swallow him whole, away from the world that seemed to hate him so much.

Sometimes he saw them out of the corner of his eye, but he never told because at least he could see them again.

The boy learned the father was alive again, and he refused to listen to the world for weeks, more caught up in the way his muscles destroyed themselves and regrew, the way his bones stretched and solidified, the way he could hear and smell and taste things all at once, everything overlapping. 

He learned how to be strong, to prevent someone like him from existing, to protect at least one person.

The boy learned his lesson, that nothing lasts forever, even if it was made to last long after bones had turned to dust and memories were distant fleeting thoughts.

He learned not to trust and to keep his words locked away with his heart.

Hidden away, where no one could ever see them again.

❁

Peter doesn’t think about Mr. Castle as he swings and jumps along rooftops. 

He won’t call him Frank, won’t acknowledge until it goes away

He doesn’t.

Doesn’t think about bullet wounds or best friends or carousels or photographs or dinosaurs or black-and-white books with funny illustrations or nights spent curled up in blankets listening to snores or late-night talks in whispered words that were interrupted by a gruff voice telling them to go to bed. 

He doesn’t think about it.

He doesn’t hear carousel music in his ears and he doesn’t feel phantom pain in his stomach or shoulder or legs or his hip.

He’s fine.

Just a little shot and bruised, but he’s fine. The healing factor is already taking care of it. Since his other injuries had received proper care or as proper as they were going to get, it could take care of other things. They’ll be round and pink by the end of the day.

Mr. Castle didn’t mean to shoot him, he didn’t know who he was

Peter takes everything, anything that could distract him and shoves it in a corner of his mind, locking it to be taken out on a later date. He can’t afford to lose focus, Jigsaw is attacking the 15th Precinct and that’s where Ben used to work, where he used to take Peter after school, where Peter met Mahoney, where Peter had watched his uncle work and thought that he wouldn’t leave him-

Focus, Peter. Breathe.

He has to stop for a second, lift up his mask from the bottom and spit a mixture of blood and saliva on the rooftop, knees shaking.

Too much. It’s too much.

Peter takes a deep breath. He can’t say a poem. There’s no time.

Compartmentalize.  

Separate from emotion.

And begin again.

Peter feels sorry for leaving Mr. Cage behind with Mr. Castle and the scary nurse and the man who somehow acted like a puppy. Ms. Temple had been really nice to him, patching him up and not asking about his chest. She did ask him about the leg, to which Peter had no answer. The puppy man, who said his name was Danny, asked him how old he was, to which Peter refused to answer.

Nuh-uh.

Ms. Temple would have just murdered him.

Also Mr. Castle was in the other room, so he didn’t want to say anything.

But he’s the only one who can move fast enough to the station, and he needs to get there now, before he hurts someone else.

Distantly, in the back of his mind, Peter wonders who Jigsaw is coming after. But he thinks that he’s got a lead, with that Hoyle guy. Figure out what that guy’s been involved with and go from there.

Is Mr. Castle going to work with him and Jessica and Mr. Cage? 

Peter’s got a theory that Jigsaw has two targets; the big ones, like Metro Gen and Shocker, that were used for attention, and the smaller ones, like Leo and Zach and now Hoyle, who were specifically targeted. The smaller ones mean more to him, so that’s why Peter’s getting on his nerves.

Peter hopes that Jigsaw still thinks that Leo and Zach are dead. He won’t say anything about them, not unless he can be sure that they won’t be targeted.

How can he tell Mr. Castle that he’s Spider-Man?

He leaps across Manhattan, relying on his strength and agility, flipping through neighborhoods and buildings. His web shooters are still jammed and his leg and stomach burn with pain, but Peter pushes forward, the skyline a blur around him.

He can smell Hell’s Kitchen as he crosses in, smoke and metal and chaos. 

He can’t tell him

Ba-Ba-Bum Ba-Bum Ba-Ba-Bum

He’s there.

Peter crashes through the window of the 15th precinct, having got past anyone outside the station. As the glass crashes to the floor behind him, he lands on a desk, hands braced against the desk with his feet just behind him. There’s a few shouts, but Peter ignores them in favor of scanning his surroundings. 

And what do you know?

Because of course Jigsaw would go after one of the few cops that Peter actually likes and knew before he became Spider-Man.

Jigsaw’s got a hold of Mahoney, the man bleeding as Jigsaw wraps a hand around his throat and begins to squeeze-

And Peter sees red.

Because Mahoney isn’t like Leo or Zach or Hoyle or the people at the hospital. Peter knows Mahoney, knows him enough to trust him, knows that he’s a good person, knows him enough to care just a little bit about him because Mahoney was Ben’s friend and he’s not gonna let someone else die.

He lived for a reason.

Peter throws himself off the desk, ignoring the shouts of several police officers pointing guns at Jigsaw. He’s off the desk before the rest of the glass hits, shattering into thousands of tiny glittering pieces. Peter slams into Jigsaw, that red-and-black oily suit so strange against his hoodie and leggings.

Jigsaw drops Mahoney, the detective dropping to the floor and wheezing as he tries to refill his lungs. Peter doesn’t wait for Jigsaw to recover, dropping back on his hands in a backwards motion and pushing forward with his legs, slamming his ratty sneakers into Jigsaw’s chest. Jigsaw slams into the wall behind him and Peter lands on his feet, hands clenched into fists. 

“Hey dipshit,” Peter taunts, anger twisting his voice in a way that it usually never did. Maynard drops into his view, grabbing Mahoney and dragging him away. “What, you didn’t like your shower?”

Jigsaw’s claws dig into file cabinets, creaking steel bending under ebony black talons. “You? Again? Can’t you go die in a gutter somewhere?”

“You smell like a gutter,” Peter mutters and Jigsaw roars, pushing himself off the wall and advancing toward Peter, talons outstretched.

Peter grins bitterly under his mask.

It’s better than dwelling on what might’ve been. 

It’s brutal. It’s bloody. It causes probably hundreds in property damage. 

Peter doesn’t have his web shooters, his main weapons. Jigsaw does, and he uses them without regard to the innocents in the building. Peter’s forced to use desks and chairs as weapons, throwing them at Jigsaw to distract, then sneaking in and getting a few punches in as people rush toward the exits.

Bullets. Absolutely useless when you need them.

Jigsaw is absolutely ruthless, not like he was in the church. He’s angry now, most likely because Hoyle was someone he really wanted to kill.

Peter ducks as claws swipe above his head. “Aww, you mad ‘cause you didn’t get to kill a guy?”

Jigsaw dodges the file cabinet Peter throws at him. “You think you’re such a hero. Saving people with powers you barely understand.”

Peter moves out of the way, sticking to the wall as that webbing hits barely two inches from his hand. “I think I understand them enough to kick your ass to the moon.”

“Why are you so annoying?” Jigsaw demands, snarling as Peter paces above him. “This is none of your business.”

“You murdered eighteen people and tried to kill another one at the church,” Peter remarks dryly, “Kinda makes it my business.”

Then he flips down and kicks Jigsaw in the face, using almost the same exact move on the creature as he did as Mr. Castle the Punisher.

Jigsaw’s head makes a cracking sound as it connects with a brick wall. Peter lands on his feet on a three-legged desk, inhumanly bending his bones as he crouches down. The desk is broken, files scattered everywhere and the former occupant nowhere to be found. In fact, the precinct is almost empty, but Peter can hear elevated breathing and swearing from different parts of the station.

He hopes Mahoney and Maynard got out.

Peter cracks his neck. “Also, your outfit and hygiene are very much a criminal offense, so I feel like it’s my job to bring you in. Everytime I get near you, my eyes start to water-”

That was a bad idea.

Jigsaw’s claw snaps out, almost-elongating?- and grabbing Peter’s ankle, yanking him off the desk and holding him upside down, bringing Peter close to him. He stands to his full height, Peter helpless and dangling by his ankle.

Jigsaw is tall. Inhumanly tall.

Jigsaw raises Peter, and he swears that there’s amusement and rage and malice flickering behind those soulless black eyes. 

“Pesky bug.”

And Peter goes flying back, straight into a glass window for the second(?) time this week. 

At least he’s still in the precinct.

Peter groans, glass all around him. Ouch.

He looks up to find a few faces staring at him, three familiar and one new. Mahoney, Maynard, Barrett, and this blonde guy in a suit with lawyery vibes.

He waves a hand. “Hi, Turk.”

Turk raises a glass shard between them, back against the interrogation room wall. “Get away from me, you demon.”

“Rude,” Peter sits up, brushing the glass from his back. “Y’know, I preferred it when people thought I was a cryptid.”

That had been so fucking awesome. 

He wants a Buzzfeed Unsolved, is it too much to ask?

Maynard looks between them, caught between snapping at them to shut up and just generally confused. Mahoney is unconscious on her lap. “You two know each other?”

“No-”

“Sure do, Detective. Went to go see him and met Mr. Frankenstein over there for the first time.”

“Shut up,” Barett hisses at him, “Shut up. Do you want it to hear us?”

Peter blinks at him. “It can sense us with other senses. It’s currently,” Peter tilts his head, “Getting shot at upstairs.”

“Great.”

Maynard adjusts her grip on Mahoney. “He needs medical attention.”

“All right,” Peter peeps out the window, looking for anything out of the ordinary. “I’ll go distract the human incarnation of Freddy Krueger while you guys go.”

The blonde lawyer speaks up. He’s staring at Peter with a healthy dose of apprehension and an unhealthy dose of curiosity. “I didn’t know vigilantes talked so much.”

Peter shrugs, raising his shoulders carelessly. “Well, currently, I’m wanted for first-degree murder, so technically, I’m not a vigilante.”

“Not stoppin’ you now,” Barrett mutters under his breath and Peter hears.

“I’m sorry, do you want to go fight him?” Peter gets to his feet, heading toward the door. “I can distract him while you people get out. There’s another exit, straight to your left.”

He pauses by the door, opening it. “I can give you five, maybe eight minutes.”

Then Peter grabs an airhorn and blows it, holding it straight to the ceiling. The sound is deafening and he can sense Mahoney jolt in his sleep. 

The footsteps and heartbeat upstairs falter, for a minute.

“Hey fuckaroo! Get your ugly ass down here!”

He can hear Barrett swear and the blonde lawyer snort as they slip past him, holding Mahoney between the two of them. Maynard goes last, suspiciously glaring at Peter as she goes.

He gives her a thumbs up.

And then he’s being attacked again, getting slammed into walls and the like. 

Wow, he does not like that airhorn.

Jigsaw is pissed and he’s on the offensive now, Peter barely able to dodge his attacks, much less actually attack him. The creature’s silent too, snarling and making those inhuman noises, but never actually talking.

Peter really wishes he had his webs.

“Out of pure curiosity,” Peter begins, leaping over a cubicle, “Does the tongue actually fit in your mouth or is it purely for aesth-oh, shit.”

Jigsaw manages to web the front of his suit, dragging Peter closer to him, closer to the scent of rotting flesh and burning acid, blood still on those razor teeth.

He lifts Peter up by his hoodie, feet dangling from the ground and Peter’s wondering how strong this thing is. “I really didn’t want to kill you. Despite what it may have looked like, I had my reasons for doing what I did.”

Pete can’t speak, the claws around his throat, threatening to take out his oxygen. He can’t move, can’t do anything but flail helplessly.

“I warned you; I told you to stay out of it. But you keep getting in my way, over and over again.” Jigsaw shakes his head, bringing one of those talons to touch Peter’s face. “And that, well. That’s not something I can afford to deal with.”

His hands grip the sides of Peter’s head, pressure beginning to form on either side.

“For what it’s worth, I am sorry for this. You were a decent fighter.”

Then it feels like pain erupting inside his head, his skull creaking with the strength Jigsaw is putting on it. Peter’s screaming, screaming like he’s eleven again and he’s alone in a hospital, screaming like he’s twelve with powers that contort and twist his body, screaming like he’s nine and he doesn’t want to be left alone, doesn’t want to stay. And he can hear it, bones creaking in places where they shouldn’t be making noise. His hands are digging into those talons, just trying to pry at least one of those claws off the side of his head so that the pain would at least lessen some.

He can’t die, not yet, not after Mr. Castle came back

Peter’s eyes roll to the back of his head, and his grip slackens, just a little bit. Jigsaw increases the pressure, the pain more agonizing than the bullet wounds in his body. Throughout the haze of it all, Peter hopes that Jessica will take care of Max. Max didn’t deserve that.

Then Peter drops to the ground, his senses returning to him as he clasps his own hands to the sides of his head, curling up in pain on the ground. Blearily, through half-shut eyes, he can see a figure with dark hair and a leather jacket punching Jigsaw, knocking him back several times as the figure relentlessly attacks him. 

Whoever they are, they smell like booze.

The figure ducks the claws and talons, relying on brute force and throwing things. Like Peter did, but better. 

Peter closes his eyes, unable to do anything but shrink in on himself.

Then Jigsaw snarls something and escapes, the figure running after him, cursing when they realize that Jigsaw is long gone. 

Peter opens his eyes to see Jessica Jones staring at him with a mixture of concern and exasperation. She’s got a bruise on her cheek and a scrape on her forehead. “I’ve got your dog and backpack. Let’s go kid.”

Peter tries to sit up, only to groan and thump to the ground. “OW. Crap-apples.”

“Pretty sure that’s not a good word,” Jessica remarks, leaning down and tugging Peter up by the arm. She lets him lean on her and they make their way upstairs, toward the roof where Jessica says that it’s easier for them to leave. “So, you have fun with creepy or what?”

“I got shot by the Punisher,” Peter rasps, not sure why he’s telling Jessica this. Maybe it’s because she’s the only person that he trusts right now, the one person that sought him out and needed his help. She’s gonna find out eventually.

Jessica freezes, her grip on Peter tightening. They’re on the roof, Max and Peter’s backpack supposedly a few blocks away. “What?”

“He tracked me down after the church fight,” Peter taps his ear, the side of his head still sensitive and sore. “Tried to kill me before Mr. Cage showed up. Shot me twice. I think he’s working with us now, though. He didn’t try to kill me when I woke up.”

Hopefully he doesn’t try to again

“I thought that dipshit didn’t go after kids,” Jessica sort of hissed and snarled through her teeth, “Hold on tight to me.”

Peter does as she says unconsciously, brain not catching up with her demand until it was too late. “Well, he didn’t know-wait, why?”

Jessica jumps, and Peter instinctively lets out a meep, eyes wide as Jessica flies over a street and a rooftop, landing rough and unsteadily on the next one. They’re past the forming police blockade, Peter realizes. They won’t be stopped. 

Jessica returns to letting Peter lean on her, still trudging her way to Max, who Peter can hear getting closer. “Bet he felt real bad after you took your mask off.”

Peter goes cold. “I didn’t take my mask off. Jess-I can’t.”

Jess looks at him, eyes narrowing. “Why?”

“I don’t-” Peter takes a deep breath, remembering late nights sitting up in an empty kitchen, listening to a man explain how to get away with lying, “Jess, I don’t want him knowing who I am.”

“We’re not going to let him kill you.”

“Still,” Peter shakes out his hand, listening to the sound of Hell’s Kitchen, something he hadn’t listened to for a long time. “I just-I just would feel better if he didn’t, okay?”

The trick to lying is to not lie at all.

Jessica sighs and pinches the bridge of her nose. “Fine. I’m not gonna like working with him, though.” 

“Neither did Mr. Cage or Ms. Temple,” Peter mutters under his breath, all too aware of a bullet wound and a broken rib. “Also, got some new info.”

Jessica looks sharply over at him. “What?”

“Jigsaw, that’s what I’m callin’ him, is tryin’ to lure someone out. Dunno who. Um, the guy’s name at the church was Hoyle. Also, Jigsaw does not like water. Or loud noises. And, yeah, that’s it.”

“You named him Jigsaw.” Jessica says flatly, “After a movie that featured a man who committed murder by proxy and tortured innocents.”

“No, I named him after a jigsaw puzzle, ‘cause he’s got these stitches all over him…..” Peter trails off, thinking. “But yours is way cooler.”

Jessica rolls her eyes. She kind of reminds Peter of a big sister, like she’s the oldest one so she’s obviously the smartest. “So, ‘Jigsaw’ is gone, for now. We need to figure out a way to track him.”

“We need to figure out a way to take him down,” Peter remarks, limping across the roof. “I’ll come back tomorrow? Your place?”

Jessica looks hesitant, looking over Peter’s injuries. Peter scowls. “You said you didn’t care.”

Jessica scowls back, all traces of concern gone. “Fogwells. Eight O’clock evening. Bring your mask. Asshole’s probably going to be there.”

“I’ll bring the snacks.”

Jessica shoves him across the roof.

❁

Peter’s walking Max home, in his hoodie and jeans, hood pulled up over his head and backpack swinging on his shoulders. Max pulls at his leash, straining forward as Peter tugs him back. Peter’s eyes are on his phone, single-handedly texting Leo as he and Max walk in their neighborhood.

You’re safe right

Yeah we're good

Mr. Aaron didn’t let Zach know about it so he’s ok

Ok

R u ok

Im fine

Just a little hurt

Aaron’s reading this over my shoulder and he says that's bullshit

They talk for a bit more, then Leo says her goodbyes and Peter switches to texting Ned, asking him for any information on a guy named Hoyle at St. John's Evangelical Church. Ned responds almost immediately.

Yes sir

Ready to do my part for team spidey

But r u ok

Yeah

Got a dog

Ned’s response was almost instantaneous.

A PUPPY!??!

SEND ME PICS!!

Peter obliges, giggling to himself as his phone floods with messages about how cute Max is. He crouches down to Max, showing him the phone screen. “See? Everyone loves you.”

Hopefully, May does too.

Peter’s focused on Max, almost ignorant of the other passerby and the sun glaring down, that he barely perceives a familiar heartbeat with familiar gait, walking just a little bit behind him. 

Stalking.

It’s him.

Peter straightens up, tugging on Max’s leash. “C’mon, boy.”

The heartbeat jumps in surprise.

Max and Peter set off, and the footsteps behind them follow. Peter’s heart is in his throat, he wants to turn around and confront him, but he can’t. So he just counts cracks on the sidewalk and listens to Max’s panting.

Max gets all the treats today. He deserves it.

The footsteps are maybe 20 feet away, keeping their distance, but not fading away either. This wasn’t an accident, this was intentional. He purposely sought Peter out.

Does he know about Spider-Man? Is that why he’s here?

The footsteps get closer, only maybe 15 feet away. Peter knows that if he didn’t have powers, he wouldn’t be able to sense him. He wouldn’t be able to know he was being stalked. Max is starting to get twitchy too, constantly tugging at his leash and trying to lead Peter back another way.

It’s fine, he’s fine.

Peter ducks his head, hand reaching for his necklace as he spouts off Lord Byron, one of the poems he memorized when he had nothing to do at school, whispering the words as he walks down a lonely Queens street, the person following him staying out of view.

“There be none of Beauty's daughters

With a magic like thee;

And like music on the waters

Is thy sweet voice to me:

When, as if its sound were causing

The charmed ocean's pausing,

The waves lie still and gleaming,

And the lull'd winds seem dreaming:

And the midnight moon is weaving

Her bright chain o'er the deep;

Whose breast is gently heaving,

As an infant's asleep:

So the spirit bows before thee,

To listen and adore thee;

With a full but soft emotion,

Like the swell of Summer's ocean.”

The footsteps falter. 

Then they turn back.

The heartbeat doesn’t fade out of earshot, though. It stays close, but the footsteps aren’t heard again as Peter walks into his apartment, locking the doors and waiting for his aunt to wake up. Max jumps on his bed and Peter pours out a bowl of dog food for him, setting it near the window. 

He’s shaking, trembling as tears threaten to escape his eyes. Some of the dog food hits the ground and Max whines a little, nosing at it with his head and Peter finally loses it, the flood of emotions he’s been holding back the entire time finally breaking that dam.

He collapses to the floor, sobs convulsing through his body, as salt tears stream down his face. The necklace that swings around his neck feels choking, suffocating, but he won’t dare let it leave his person. Lisa gave it to him and it’s one of the few things he has left to remember them by. So he accepts the pain, accepts that he’s living and they’re not, that the only way he’ll see them is through his goddamn hallucinations because he’s not okay, he’s never been okay, and the only time he thought he might have a small chance, it was ripped away from him like a band-aid, exposing him to the world.

Max climbs into his lap, and Peter cries into his fur, hugging on tight to the dog. His sobs are silent, as they often were. He learned to cry silently, when he was younger. It was better that way.

It’s not fair.

Ben called it Parker Luck. 

May called it a curse.

Mr. Castle called it a bunch of horseshit.

Parker’s Luck is the curse that seemed to follow people with Parker blood. Richard had lost his job. Ben had lost his life. His grandfather had been murdered. His Great-Aunt had gone missing. It even affected people who married into it. May losing nearly everything. His grandmother burned alive in her home. Mary leaving, never to be seen again.

And now, Peter thought bitterly, that sound of a heartbeat still in his ears, it seems like it’s struck again.

Why did he come back now?

Why didn’t he come back sooner?

I thought he died.

Again.

The Punisher is back in New York.