Walk around the block
Peter stared vacantly at his ceiling.
2 months
It's been 2 whole months since the vulture incident and not a single call. Not a check-up. Hell, not even a text back regarding his endless reports and status updates. Peter gets it though, in a weird way, he turned down a once in a lifetime chance of becoming an avenger in exchange for "looking out for the little guy". It's not exactly a logical deal to make, especially in the eyes of one of the greatest inventors in the world. It wasn't really an option, to begin with, it's the choice he had to take, it's everything he stands for. It's what Uncle Ben stood for.
Still, that didn't mean that the radio silence didn't hurt him. Particularly after promises of actual missions and "communication".
Peter wonders how long Tony even considered those notions before throwing them out of his high and mighty window up there in his tower. Likely not that long, looking back on all the trouble he's caused and mistakes he's made in front of Mr Stark.
Mr Stark probably has more important things to do than taking care of some kid he picked up anyways. He was a busy man with one of the biggest companies in the world to supervise and a billion other priorities which usually involve saving the earth (and none of them currently involved Peter). The reasons for this were as blatant as day.
I wanted you to be better
The thought of the memory promptly stirred Peter from his half-asleep stupor and caught his breath, momentarily flooding his senses with blinding fire and pain. As quickly as the recollection came, it left, leaving him wide awake on his mattress. Peter sighed, briefly shutting his eyes for just a second more of rest and then got out of bed. It didn't seem like he was going to be sleeping tonight either, and there was no point in trying to force himself to relax. It generally resulted in him laying there, restlessly wasting away when he could be out there helping someone. This was how things went most nights since the incident.
He allowed his thoughts to take hold of him as he manoeuvred his way around his room getting changed into the suit. Not his suit. Mr Stark's suit; a point that has been made excruciatingly clear.
Every movement was routine, precise and practised even in the dark. Although his mind liked to think he would get a full 6 hours of rest every night, his body knew better and remembered everything, sometimes even the things he wanted to forget (the mechanical claws stabbing into his back and the wind piercing his eyes, the collision into the ground and his sixth sense screaming danger).
The apartment was cold but it always was when Aunt May wasn't home, which was becoming more and more often. Even more so now as the chill from the open window seeped into his bones.
Peter thinks back to loving text messages reminding him to finish his homework before spiderman-ing and heart-felt apologies written in cursive left on the kitchen counter. Terribly made breakfasts there ready for him when he wakes up but no one to share it with. An image of May hunched over bills with a hand over her mouth, trying to smother her sobs in the middle of the night.
The mantel clock from three flats across (the one that belonged to the lovely older couple that liked to check in with his aunt whenever they crossed paths), told Peter that it was just past midnight. He could go on patrol and back before his aunt got back home from her shift at 5, easy.
-------
Ok, maybe not so easy.
But hey! Who the hell would have expected there to be a sudden drug dealing influx tonight? Peter might be able to sense danger but he was no clairvoyant. If he was maybe he could outrun his Parker luck. But no, tonight seemed to be the night where everyone wanted a little bit of illegal something. Peter guessed that it was later than the time he would usually go out, he should have expected a difference in the amount of crime he would have to fight.
He'd been out for 3 hours now and the majority of it was spent breaking up back-alley deals and the occasional drunken brawl. It was patrols like these that Peter had learned to glaze over in his reports to Happy. The guy was stressed out enough. He didn't need to hear anything that would just hassle him more, so Peter had picked up his own way of reading in between the lines. He could never lie to Happy, it would break a part of Peter to do that, but he wasn't going to go out of his way to make the irritable man more upset (especially if there was a chance that his messages were relayed to Mr Stark). This was assuming that anyone even listened to those voicemails, the act of getting his phone out and dialling Happy's number seemed more tiring and futile with each round of empty rings he heard.
Despite his downcast thoughts, the breeze hitting his face as he swung away from another disbanded drug deal refreshed him. With a final swing, he perched himself atop the corner of some sort of take out place. Peter took a deep breath in and looked around. Out of everything that he's seen there was nothing quite like the New York skyline. Breathing in and out he could feel his muscles uncoil and relax. He watched the endless streets through bleary eyes, the lights and odd car moulding together to create an ensemble of colourful rays. It was instances like these that he really treasured.
The few moments of peace didn't last as a strangled sound escaped from the alleyway to his left on the other side of the building.
So much for catching a break.
Peter expertly crawled across the roof, laying low. He could hear a struggle but couldn't see it clearly as the shadows worked in the other party's favour. As he inched closer to the edge his eyes adjusted and he could see a discarded duffel bag with its contents strewn along the ground. Most of it seemed harmless, notepads, some clothes, blankets. This was until Peter caught sight of some little pouches with white powder pouring out of them, all somewhat poorly hidden in the folds of an old t-shirt.
More drugs, typical
Another choke brought his attention back to the two people he wasn't able to see before. One of the two men was pinned to the alley wall with a gun to his head, looking scared for his life. He definitely looked worse for wear with grimy oversized clothes and outgrown, greasy blonde hair falling into his eyes.
On the other hand, it was impossible to see the face of the man holding the gun. He was wearing a full red and black bodysuit and mask which obscured all noticeable features. He had a larger stature, not one that was all bulk, more the kind that looms over you when they stand up straight. The only thing Peter got a real clear view of was the twin blades strapped to the larger man's back. It didn't look like this guy was the usual 'stick-em-up' criminal. He meant business (and not the decent living kind).
"What the fuck do you want man. I told you already, I don't know what you're talking about." the man held against the wall whimpered.
"Oh I think you do sweet cheeks. See, my hound dog nose can sniff bullshit from up to 3 miles away. So you standing here in front of me, very clearly spittin bouts of it, is throwing me off my groove". The dark figure whispered the last part as he leaned over the man, pushing the gun further into the side of his head. "I need you to kindly stop fucking me sideways Michael, and give the inspector here a few clues. Preferably little facts about who you do the groundwork for, Mama's cashing in her free hint."
Shit. So there was someone that was responsible for the sudden pharmaceutical boom. If he remained there taking cover in the umbra, he might have heard some useful information that could have helped him put a name to this newly discovered person of influence...
But this was already out of hand. Peter was getting the premonition that if he didn't intervene soon 'Michael' wouldn't be leaving this situation unscathed (or alive for that matter). It seemed like something more was going on here, but he could figure that out later. Right now there was a situation where someone could lose their life, and he'd have to deal with that first.
With his mind made up, Peter flipped down from his spot in the shadows, simultaneously whipping the gun out of the man's hands with his webs, throwing it to the side with a clang straight into a dumpster.
"Sorry to crash the party guys. Might just be me, but I normally prefer my guests alive"
The following silence in the alleyway was almost painful, the dead eyes of the strangers suit lifelessly boring into him when he turned his head in shock. The hush that fell over the alley continued until the strangers mask shifted, the ghost of a grin just about distinguishable beneath its material.
"Yeeeaahh, afraid that's just you, Mr too-tight-spandex. Now if you couldn't see you're barging in on an intensely intimate reunion."
Michael (he hoped that was actually his name) was now only being pinned with one hand. The costumed stranger's attention was focused on Peter, his other hand still being held in front of his face aimlessly wagging side to side in a sad attempt to scold Peter.
"You should know better than to barge in when mommy and daddy are having their secret alleyway fun time fights, Buba"
"What the hell are you talking about? I- oh." Peter blushed behind his mask as he caught what the man was hinting at, and his confidence faltered. "Is this-is this some sort of... fantasy.......pleasure...thing?" Peter's cheeks darkened to the point where someone could easily misconceive it as a running fever. Thank god no one could see behind his mask.
"OOOOOooooo, is honey bunny shy? It's all in goodwill over here bashful" the older male remarked, amusement dripping from his tone. "Now scurry along now, before mama and papa realise yo-"
During this conversation, the dealer seemed to decide to use Peter's distraction, as something desperate flashed behind his eyes and he took the opportunity to bite the other man's hand. Hard.
Cheap move, maybe, but it got him out of the larger man's death grip.
"MOTHERFU-" He might have gotten the chance to finish the word if it wasn't interrupted by a swift kick to the balls. A clear shot from where 'Michael' was standing practically underneath the suited man, previously trapped beneath his imposing build. The stranger let out an insanely high pitched squeal and fell to the concrete with his hands flying to the space between his knees.
Peter winced at the force, shaking off the reserved demeanour he hadn't meant to show. Shy stutters and timidness were traits of Peter Parker, which meant they had to be kept away from his Spiderman school of thought. If he radiated anything other than confidence and conviction, the streets would eat him alive (and wouldn't J. Jonah Jameson love that).
He was relieved for a moment, before recalling the guy that almost got his brains smeared across the wall was a drug dealer, and that said dealer was also trying to make a run for it right now.
"Hey! Why are you leaving so soon, they haven't even brought out the cake yet." Peter shot a web to the entryway of the alley in an attempt to block him off, but the dealer lowered his heels while running and skid beneath the web.
Peter briskly detached the web from his wrist and started to run after the man. Planning to leave the incapacitated individual where he was, he quickly webbed their legs to the floor. He would have had a fighting chance of catching the guy if a hand didn't reach out a second later and snatch his ankle, causing him to topple to the dirty ground.
"What the-". He tilted his head behind him and saw he was lying flat in front of the stranger in a suit not too different from his own.
"Hold it, kid" he growled. The man looked up at him. In an instant, his body froze as goosebumps plagued his neck and his senses screamed RUN.
What the hell could this guy do to warrant this kind of reaction from his spidey sense?
He picked himself up by his elbows and tried to struggle out of the clutch, kicking and leaning back to grab the hand on his foot. During this time the stranger reached down with his other hand and tore off the material on his pants that was connecting his legs to Peter's webbing without breaking a sweat, revealing blistered and rutted skin.
Jesus, this guy was strong. A handy observation, and when paired with his sixth sense going nuts it perfectly summarized the fact that Peter was screwed if he didn't get out of there NOW.
Peter twisted his whole body sideways and contorted himself so both of his hands could wrap around his assailant's wrists. Whatever guilt he might have felt was nowhere to be seen as he clasped the man's arm, replaced with sudden waves of panic that were clawing at his chest, desperate to get out. Maybe it was the fatigue finally catching up on him or maybe it was the idea of being helpless against someone with the obvious upper hand, it didn't matter then because all he knew was that he couldn't move. He couldn't move and he couldn't breathe. He was stuck again, just like the warehouse. His heart was beating too fast and the gravel beneath him felt too much like sand, and the cold pressed against his body was too hot and he was alone in the rubble hecouldn'tbreathenoonewascomingan-
SNAP
...
what?
The air started slowly filtering its way back into Peter's lungs and the blur across his eyes began to fade. His ribs ached as his lungs pushed harshly against them. He began gasping, taking in as much oxygen as he could. He didn't even realize he'd stopped breathing properly. He felt his back press against something uneven and rough. As his other senses came back to him the familiar scents of exhaust smoke and faint sewage filled his nose. But there was something else overriding those odours. The smell of iron was so strong he could taste it, and the connotations the smell held made his mouth go dry.
When the black that guarded the edges of his field of vision began to recede he saw the suited stranger in front of him. He was holding Peter with one hand and cradling the other to his chest. The way his head was moving suggested he was trying to say something to Peter, but he couldn't make out what. His brain felt fuzzy and only managed to comprehend what was happening a few seconds too late, like a broken DVD where the frames were out of place with the audio.
A police car passed by the street next to them but the sirens and flashing lights were enough to set Peter's mind back slightly, the numbness and confusion dawning on him.
He looked over at the man's wrist blankly trying to take everything in and saw the bone was bent in an unnatural way. From the looks of it, he was still trying to talk to Peter as well. The dots didn't connect until he glanced at his own hands and saw them coated in a deep shade of red, nothing like the bright hue of his suit.
Peter's stomach wrenched and his lungs seized. He would've begun to retch right then and there if he had the strength in his body. All the fight in him died at the thought of moving so soon.
What the fuck just did he do?
A gloved hand started to gently hit his face.
"Kid.....Hey.... Kid, look at me. Are you.... me now?"
"What?" Peter mumbled. His head was spinning and it was making him feel nauseated.
"I said, Are. You. With. Me. Now? Jeez Louise, I've been here shakin you like a Liechtenstein themed maraca for the past 10 minutes. Thought you'd never come to, itsy bitsy" the man sighed, letting himself fall backwards from the crouch he was formerly in onto his backside.
"I- Can- can you repeat that?" Peter sputtered, he still felt lost and all the words sounded like they were being spoken to him while he was underwater. His breaths started getting shorter again as his eyes lowered to the man's forelimb resting against his stomach.
"Whoa whoa whoa, what's set you off for round two?" The stranger's creased brow was visible through the weirdly emotive mask, perfectly imitating a visage of concern. His eyes followed Peter's until he was looking down at his own twisted arm.
"Shit..." he muttered under his breath. It was apparently not said quiet enough as Peter heard and took it as a sign of alarm. His breaths got quicker still until he was on the verge of hyperventilating.
"Hey, don't look at my arm. Look at me. That wasn't your fault, it happens all the time for me. Don't sweat it. Now copy me, inhale for 5... hold... exhale for 5"
Peter tried to follow him but he was no longer fully processing the instructions.
"I-I- I didn't mean to, I just panicked, I thought-thou-" Peter gasped viciously for air between each syllable and began to sob towards the end, not managing to finish vocalising his thought as he broke down with fast-paced breath and tears streaming through his mask.
"Hey, cool it Stevie Kenarban. You don't have to talk if you're having trouble, okay?" the stranger's voice softened and his brow creased even further (if that was possible). He looked almost animated. "Just try to follow my breathing pattern".
The attempt to calm him failed as Peter's eyes began drooping, the machine lenses on his mask relaying the gesture. His breathing worsened before smoothing out, and all Peter could see was the darkness expanding across his vision.
"No, nononononono. Don't fall asleep in the mucky dark alleyway. That's begging for something bad to happen. Come on! I've got things to do, I don't have time to Jack Sparrow your Elizabeth Swann, no matter how many times I've played that fantasy out in my head" The man spewed all of this out in nearly one breath while tapping Peter's cheek and forcefully shaking him. The boy didn't wake up.
"Fuck."