Dark Matter

He hears them on the rooftops, keeping pace with him. He can’t see them--he’ll give them credit enough for that--and they are moving as quietly as one can when leaping across rooftops, but he can hear them. They follow him to the bus stop, hiding in the shadows while he sits alone beneath a flickering street light. He’s surprised when they don’t show themselves; if they were going to attack him, the bus stop is the perfect spot for it. His night vision is ruined by the light, and they have an advantage in height and numbers. And training, he adds after a moment. Peter is clever. He’s quick. He’s agile. But he functions more on instinct than trained skill when it comes to situations like this, and his instincts are always to go high and swing away as quickly as possible. That’s not an option at the moment.

They don’t attack or even drop down from the rooftops. Instead, they stick to the shadows, their breath nearly silent in the autumn wind. He whistles lowly, some song he remembers from an old Captain America cartoon he used to watch with his Uncle Ben, and plots out his next move. He doesn’t want to head to the firehouse with people hot on his trail, but he can’t spend all night wandering the alleyways of Gotham city either. That’s a good way to get yourself shot. He needs to hide or lose his stalkers quick.

He needs help.

That thought, that word seems to trigger something. His vision goes fuzzy, and he falls into a weird trance, aware of what’s happening, but at a distance. Something gold and orange flashes at the edge of his vision, across the street. A man in a trenchcoat with a dark patch across his eye briefly steps out of the shadows. He pins Peter with a stare, then curtly motions for him to follow.

Peter frowns at him, confused, but something inside him tells him to do just that. So he does. He checks the street for oncoming traffic, then crosses it at a brisk jog. The man slips into the shadows, but Peter can just see the faint golden outline of his form in the darkness. He follows him down two or three different alleys, across another four more streets, and then down into a subway station, always with one or two buildings between himself and his followers. By the time he reaches the station, they're three blocks behind and struggling to catch up.

The station is abandoned; it smells mildewy and still, and Peter can’t hear anyone nearby. He can hear heartbeats in the dark; small ones, running quicker than a human's steady thump-thump. Rats. The man with the eyepatch leads him silently through abandoned and damp tunnels until they reach an active station. It takes Peter a moment to recognize it, but he lets out a breath he didn't know he was holding when he does. He uses this station to go to school every day. It's only eight blocks from the fire house. Once he recognizes where he is, the man disappears, and his trance ends, snapping him back to reality, feeling strangely exhausted and weak. He pauses for a moment to consider what just happened, and decides he’s far too tired to deal with it.

He steps onto the next train and heads home.

* * *

“He caught onto us at the bus stop,” Tim says. “I’m not sure how, but he did. God, he’s quick.”

“He must have eyes on the back of his skull. He figured us out within minutes of us finding him. I saw one of his ghosts started leading him away from us,” Duke replies, rubbing the back of his neck.

“So he has ghost powers?” Tim asks.

“Something like that. He’s definitely meta. I guess it's a good thing his ghosts are the friendly variety."

Tim hums, thinking and idly rubbing his side. His ribs are bruised, and they’re healing slowly, much to his frustration. It’s not enough to put him off patrol. Not yet. “That could explain why he’s on the streets and so far from home.”

“He wouldn’t be the first meta to get kicked out of home for being different,” Duke agrees. He clicks on his com. “Oracle, we lost him near Crime Alley, on 57th and Vine. Do you know any place around here he might have gone to?”

“All of my maps of the Alley are years out of date. The place is practically a no man’s land these days,” Oracle says unhappily. “It’s possible he ducked into one of the tunnels or abandoned subway stations in that part of town, which means he’s invisible. Sorry, guys.”

“Damn, imagine walking through this kind of place just to get to school everyday,” Duke says, making a face at the half rotted buildings, distant gunshots, and rusted, abandoned cars resting on cinder blocks along the street. The Narrows has a pretty rough reputation itself, but he'd sooner walk down the most dangerous alley in the Narrows blindfolded and drunk than walk a Crime Alley street sober.

There’s an air of malice and despair in Crime Alley that makes him edgy and nervous, and he can see why most of the others steer well clear of the place. The only exception is Jason, and even his patrols through the neighborhoods in the Alley are brief and violent affairs. Most of the skyscrapers inside the district are dark, towering hulks that overlook decades out of date apartments and tenements with crumbling facades. The people are usually Blackgate fugitives, crooked cops, or victims of both. The latter always makes Duke uneasy to think about.

“I found him in a much worse neighborhood when we first met. He took a beating for me and saved my life,” Tim says. He shakes his head, and lets out a tired sigh. “We need to get him to the manor.”

“At the very least, we need to get him more food, or clothes. He’s obviously homeless,” Duke says, dropping down on the roof ledge with a sigh. "No wonder Nightwing's been so worried about the guy."

"He found him on a roof in the Alley, standing on the ledge. Nightwing's still worried about him," Tim says. "He's afraid Peter will hurt himself."

"I didn't get that feeling from him," Duke says, a little disturbed at the thought. "He's worn down and exhausted, but he's not self destructive. Just tired."

"I'm tempted to agree, but people can surprise you. I think we need to keep a closer eye on him," Tim says.

Duke hums his agreement. He's quiet for a moment and then asks, “Why don’t we go into Crime Alley anymore anyway?”

“We’re too busy. Between the Scarecrow’s attacks, the weird stuff going on at the docks, and the recent crime wave in general....We’re spread too thin,” Tim replies, sitting down beside his brother. “I mean, we’ve always had trouble keeping the peace in Crime Alley, but we literally can’t spare anyone for it. And Batman doesn’t want anyone going in there alone. He’s pretty paranoid about it.”

“Oh. Yeah, I guess he would be,” Duke says, idly kicking a heel against the rough brick of the wall. “He already lost one family to the Alley. It makes sense that he doesn’t want to lose more.”

“The Alley wouldn’t survive it if he did,” Tim says, rubbing his side again. “God, I barely survived the lecture I got after the other night. I haven’t seen him that upset in years. Jason and Dick teamed up on me for it, too.”

“Even Damian seemed upset,” Duke adds. Tim scoffs in disbelief, and Duke decides to change the topic. “So, the Alley is off limits for all of us until B-man has a chance to organize a clean up.”

“And with the Joker, Bane, and Clayface out on the streets again, we’re busier than ever, so that isn’t likely to happen for awhile yet,” Oracle says. “Crime Alley is still the same level of terrible it’s always been, maybe a little worse. We just can’t devote a whole operation on it when we’ve got so much going on. Speaking of which, guys, break time’s over: Batman needs you back at the Narrows.”

“Duty calls,” Tim says, standing up slowly. “Let’s go.”

* * *

Peter climbs in through the window of the fire house and drops his backpack. He walks over to his bed and collapses across it, yanking one of the threadbare blankets over himself just as he falls asleep.

Peter snaps awake, sitting at a circular table that seems to be set inside a plane. Clouds pass by the large windows that stretch across the front of the plane. People in slick, black uniforms with the SHIELD logo stitched across the left breast work at dozens of stations that look vaguely out of date by today’s standards, and there’s a quiet murmur of conversation: clipped, steady, professional.

The man with the eye patch walks through a pair of sliding glass doors alongside a woman in one of the sleek uniforms. They stop at the conference table Peter’s sitting at, and he suddenly feels very young and very out of place.

The man with the eye patch regards him silently for a moment. “You don’t recognize me, do you.”

“Uh, no,” Peter says slowly. “Sorry. Should I?”

“Probably not. I’m Nick Fury. This is Agent Maria Hill. We run SHIELD,” Fury says.

Ah. That’s why they’re so intimidating. Peter doesn’t know much about SHIELD--most people don’t, actually--minus seeing a few headlines about Captain America dismantling it because it had been infiltrated by HYDRA. Or something to that effect; he doesn’t remember much about that incident. He was too young to pay attention to it, frankly. He has a feeling that saying so would not endear him to the two people in front of him.

"Where are we?" Peter asks

"The helicarrier. The first one," Fury says. "Where it all began. The Avengers formed here shortly before the Battle of New York. I figured you’d appreciate the setting, since we’re about to have a ‘come to Jesus’ meeting ourselves.”

“Uh. We are?”

"We are," Fury confirms. "Didn't Stark bother teaching you how to be stealthy? How to shake off someone tracking you in a city?"

Peter pauses. "Sir, don't take this the wrong way, but when has Tony ever been stealthy in his life?"

Fury snorts. "Point taken. In that case, Agent Hill and I will start the process of filling in the gaps of your knowledge. With a bit of help."

“Help?” Peter asks.

“King T’challa and Bucky Barnes offered to help drive a few of the lessons home. Eat a big meal tomorrow after work, Mr. Parker, we’re going to be busy for the next few nights.”

Peter’s Saturday goes by in a flash; after waking up from truly exhausting dreams, he splurges on a big breakfast at a 24 hour diner a few blocks away from his home and spends the few hours before his shift wandering around thrift stores and second hand shops for anything he could use. He doesn’t find much, but he does find the book he needs for school, as well as a dog-eared copy of Watership Down. He hasn’t read this since he was a kid; it had been one of Uncle Ben’s favorites, and he remembers enjoying it. If nothing else, it’s something to read on the subway.

He ends up going to work a few minutes early, ahead of another rain storm rolling into the city from the ocean, slipping inside the restaurant just before a rumble of thunder rolls across the sky and the first heavy drops of rain fall from the sky. Peter gets to work; time passes quickly, and he barely notices it. It isn’t until Sophia lets out a frustrated growl and stomps back into the kitchen that he looks up from the dishes.

She stops in the kitchen, standing out of Omar’s way while he chops vegetables and pinches the bridge of her nose before letting out a deep sigh and heading for the dishpit.

"Peter, can you wait tables?" she asks

"Sure? I've never done it before--" Peter stammers out.

"That's fine, trust me," she replies. "If I have to deal with one more customer today, I will lose it."

“Are they really difficult or...”

“No, actually, everyone’s been nice, even the drunk guys, it’s just that if I keep using the customer voice, I might go insane. It happens in the service industry,” she says, grabbing a clean apron and tossing it his way. “Here. Just cover for me for the last hour of your shift, okay? Keep all the tips, even. I just need a mental break.”

He catches the apron and quickly shrugs it on, grabbing a pen and notepad from a sealed bin on the counter. “Yeah, uh, sure.”

“You’re a lifesaver, Peter,” Sophia says.

Peter shrugs and steps into the restaurant proper. It’s a small place, with a max occupancy of thirty, and those thirty people had better be very good friends if they all intended to eat at once in the restaurant. Fortunately, there’s only a few people here right now. An elderly couple flirting with one another while murmuring to each other and giggling in Farsi. A man in a brown coat hunched over his food and swaying in place in the telltale way all drunks do. And a young Asian teenager in the corner, her back to the wall, watching the restaurant. She sits utterly still, and there’s a vague air of threat around her, though Peter can’t quite pinpoint why he thinks that.

And then it hits him.

She reminds him of the Black Widow. Natasha, on the one occasion they met, was just as still, just as disciplined, as this girl. Gotham must be worse off than he realizes if this girl is any indication of the sorts of teens that come out of the Bowery and Crime Alley.

He makes a note to be more polite than usual towards her and instead cleans tables, sweeps the floor, and buses the few tables Sophia left behind after hitting her limit with customers. It’s nicer to work up front, where the air isn’t constantly humid. He grabs a clean rag and starts to clean a few of the tables. He settles into the rhythm of work, getting the ticket and payment for the old couple and cleaning their table. It’s the same kind of boring, just in a different setting.

Thirty minutes into his new role, the man in the browncoat starts to stare at him. Peter ignores him until he pushes out his chair and block’s Peter’s path back into the kitchen, stopping him cold. The drunk man squints at him, tense and suspicious. The stench of stale whiskey rolls off of him in waves, strong enough to make Peter’s eyes water. Peter's already made the decision to call a cab for the guy when the man snaps his hand out and grabs Peter's arm, gripping it tightly.

"You. You don't belong here," the drunk man slurs. His voice is thick with whiskey and a British accent. Not the standard BBC accent; the more down to earth, gravelly one. Peter had met a man from Liverpool once, and this guy’s accent matches it completely.

"I work here," Peter replies, even and patient. He’s had plenty of experience talking down erratic drunk men before while on patrol. He sees the teenager in the back corner--Sophia said her name was Cass--go tense as they focus on Peter and the man, and Peter makes an effort to reign in his frustration. He doesn't want to make a scene. “So yes, I do.”

The man's squint turns into a frown as he looks past and around Peter, as if he's seeing people who aren't there.

What the hell kind of whiskey did this idiot drink, Peter wonders.

"Those souls don't belong to you," the man says, his confusion turning his tone belligerent. "How'd you get 'em?"

"Two for one sale at the thrift store," Peter remarks dryly, pulling his arm free with a smooth twist. He grips the man’s coat, hauls him up from his chair and firmly guides him to the door. "You're drunk, pal, and you’re causing a scene. Go sit outside while I call you a cab."

“Wait, hang on a minute--” the man mutters.

“Ah. Constantine. I wondered if he would show,” Strange says.

“Who is he?” Sam asks.

“A sorcerer. Of a sort,” Strange replies. “If you’ll excuse me, I’m going to go talk to him.”

“Will he help us?” Wanda asks.

“Not yet,” Strange replies.

Peter suddenly shivers, and he feels a strange emptiness inside of himself that hadn’t been there before. He pauses at the door, frowning, then shakes his head and shuts the door just as the man in the brown coat shouts at something. Probably just the wind.

“There’s always gotta be one weirdo,” he huffs to himself.

He catches sight of the remaining customer--the stone faced teenage girl, and straightens up, clearing his throat. He's intimidated by her more than he usually is around beautiful girls. There's a weight to her gaze and a confidence in the way she moves that makes him feel awkward. Which adds to the Black Widow impression. Peter had felt like a bumbling idiot the few times he and Natasha had been in the same room together.

“Sorry about that," he says. "I'll bring your receipt."

She tilts her head, then nods. Her eyes follow him as he walks towards the register behind the counter. It takes him a moment to puzzle out how to use the old machine--it functions on some kind of truly ancient OS that would send Ned into hysterics over how unsecure it is--so he doesn’t notice the teenager get up until the door is already swinging shut behind her.

He stares after her, holding her ticket in hand, and lets out a frustrated sigh. He walks over to her table, mentally cursing. A dine and dash. Just what he needs on his first shift in the front of house--

There are four twenties tucked away beneath a plate of unfinished food. That’s five times as much as a full course meal at the restaurant and more money than he’s held in his hand since he started working here. He hesitates for a moment, then takes the cash and goes to clear the ticket.

He has enough now that he might even swing an extra meal at the diner tomorrow. That thought puts a bit more spring to his step when he starts to close down the restaurant.

* * *

School is school, and most of it bleeds together. The single bright spot are his friends. Tim and Duke wait for him near the entrance most days, nursing cups of coffee. One day, during a particularly blustery autumn rain, a girl with blonde hair jogs up alongside him and pops open an umbrella above them both. Her sudden appearance startles him out of his thoughts, causing him to jump.

She laughs. “Sorry, sorry. I should have said something. I sneak by default these days.”

Her laugh is infectious, and he grins in response, a little taken in by her already. “It’s, uh, it’s fine. I just didn’t expect you to pop up like that.”

She smiles at him, warm and mischievous. “You'll get used to it. I’m Stephanie. We’ve got a few classes together.”

Peter frowns at her, and then brightens. “Oh. You’re in the Wayne club too?”

She grins again, firmly taking him by the arm and guiding him over to Duke and Tim. “The one and only. Come on, let's brighten their lives up with our presence.”

Stephanie Brown is a force to be reckoned with, Peter discovers. He’s never met someone so sure of themselves before, and it’s a bit awe inspiring. She teases him, Tim, and Duke with equal measure, seeming to have adopted Peter within minutes of meeting him. He has one more friend to keep close. And he could always use more of those.

* * *

BATCHAT

Tim (02:43am): do the ghosts watch him in the bathroom

Tim (02:52am): duke, this is important. Are they in the bathroom with us when we’re at school

Steph (02:57am): actually, I wanna know this, too

Duke (03:01am): no, they don’t go into the bathroom

Duke (03:02am): if u wake me up for this nonsense again I will commit violence

* * *

Class becomes something he looks forward to. The few classes he has alone aren’t nearly as draining when he knows that Steph, Duke, or Tim will be in the next one. Like work, the days blend together, his friendship grows closer with the three of them, and nothing stands out. At least, not until two weeks after he joins the Wayne club. Things change during gym class one day.

“Boxing,” the coach says at the start of class, grinning. “Find some training partners, glove up, get your helmets on and get ready to be partnered up for a spar. We might not get through everyone today, fair warning.”

Is this what rich kids do at their fancy prep schools? Peter can’t even remember the last time Coach Wilson managed to get people to run races against one another at Midtown. There’s no way in hell he’d be able to convince anyone to actually box each other. Even the jocks at Midtown are sufficiently nerdy enough to want to avoid recreational brain damage.

“Is this, like, legal?” Peter mutters to Duke.

Duke shrugs, clearly just as baffled. “Dude, I have no idea.”

“Boxing is a gentlemanly sport,” Tim remarks. He pauses, drains half of his coffee in one gulp, and then continues. “Supposedly.”

"Is it?" Duke asks incredulously.

“Well, anything is a gentlemanly sport if it’s done by people with sufficient net worth, I guess,” Tim remarks dryly. Duke scoffs at that.

Peter rolls his eyes, stretching his arms. They’ve gotten thinner, but the muscle is still there. He’s not opposed to the idea of a boxing session, but he’d rather train on his own. He could use the practice.

“Reilly! You and Freeman are first!” the coach calls out, marking something off his clipboard.

The two students fistbump each other, then hop into the ring. It looks more like two friends rough housing than an actual boxing match. They keep aggressively complimenting each other with each hit. Every other hit is met with an enthusiastic nice one, bro! and dude, you’re really good at this! MJ would probably make a snarky comment about himbos right about now if she was here. The thought of it makes Peter smile.

“Parker, Bright, you’re next!” the coach yells out after shooing off Reilly and Freeman.

And then his smile disappears.

What. Peter stares at the coach. Edison Bright outweighs him by thirty pounds at least. That doesn’t even take into account that the guy is four inches taller and with corresponding reach. Yeah, it’s not really an issue for Peter--he could quite literally fling the guy through a wall--but what the shit, coach.

“Uh, what? We’re not in the same weight class--”

“Just go easy on each other,” the coach says, distracted. “This is just practice.”

Bright focuses on Peter and grins. He is most certainly not going to go easy on Peter. Peter sighs. God, he does not need this right now.

“Peter, trade partners with me,” Duke says quietly. “You can spar with Tim and I’ll handle Ed. It’ll be a more even match that way.”

“Yeah, I can’t box my way out of a paper bag,” Tim says, shrugging. He’s also clearly lying through his teeth; Tim has some kind of training, judging by how easily and confidently he moves. Despite matching him in size, Peter has no doubt that Tim could handle a lunk like Edison Bright with one hand tied behind his back. Probably with both hands tied behind his back. Even with his ribs taped. “I can show you a few moves.”

“I already know how to box,” Peter says, distracted. He weighs his options. He could switch off with Duke and let him fight in Peter’s stead; it’d be an even match, Peter would escape with mild jeering and a ruined reputation (which is nonexistent to begin with so whatever), and he could move on with his life.

But judging by the way Edison Bright sneers at him when the coach isn’t looking, he’ll make sure to fight Peter no matter what. In the ring or outside of it. And there’s no guarantee he’ll take no for an answer a second time.

So, option one: let Duke fight Edison. Peter’s reputation is ruined and he becomes an even larger target for bullying than he already is, since his cowardice will justify everyone’s low opinion of him.

Or option two: step into the ring, take a few hits to the face, tap out, and maintain the status quo.

Yeah, it isn’t much of a choice. High school sucks. He sighs, grabs a mouthguard, a helmet, and a pair of gloves.

“Peter, you can’t be serious,” Tim hisses. “He’s twice your size! And you’re--no offense--you’re a twig.”

“Well aware of that, thanks,” Peter replies dryly. “Help me with the gloves, all right?”

“Peter,” Duke says.

“He’s not going to drop this, guys,” Peter cuts in. “He’s going to hound me until he gets his stupid fight, no matter what. It’s best if he gets it over with in front of a teacher who’s legally obligated to keep him from killing me.”

“He’s not going to hold back. And the coach is his dad’s cousin. He won’t stop Edison,” Duke warns.

“I know how to take a punch. Harder punches than anything he can throw my way.” Thanos threw a moon at him, for example. Unless Edison Bright suddenly gains that type of strength, he’s not in any real danger.

“We’re talking about a severe concussion at the very least. Missing teeth at worst.”

“Not a stranger to those either,” Peter replies. He’s discovered that his teeth do grow back after a particularly disastrous swing back when he was new to being Spider-Man. It just takes forever and itches like hell. Missing teeth and concussions are nothing to him these days. He ignores the deepening frown on Duke’s face and lets Tim lace up his gloves for him. “Just help me put my nose back in place if he dislocates it.”

Tim and Duke are silent by the time he finishes. Peter doesn’t catch the pained, worried, and frankly disturbed, expressions on their faces as he pushes the ropes up and ducks into the ring. Edison is already in the ring, shirt off, clenching his fists to show off his muscles which were, admittedly, pretty impressive for a sixteen year old. Given that Peter survived a hand to hand fight with Captain America, the Winter Soldier, and the Falcon within five minutes of each other, he’s not all that impressed. Granted, none of those three were trying to actually hurt him--the Winter Soldier especially after Peter caught his fist--but they almost certainly hit harder than Edison Bright of Gotham Prep.

Peter ignores Edison, loosening up for the fight. Honestly, this might be good practice. He hasn’t fought since Titan. And boxing is sort of fun, in a way. He learned the basics from Tony, Happy, and Rhodey one day at the Compound. Rhodey had taken point on that lesson, wearing a set of armor meant to match Peter's enhanced strength. He can practically see and hear Rhodey in his mind, bouncing back and forth on the toes of his suit beside him.

“Boxing 101, kid: if the other guy is bigger, you gotta be quicker.”

Right, well. Edison is certainly bigger. Peter doesn’t think he’s trained, but he could be. The first knock out punch he sees, he’ll take and call it even. Edison gets his win, Peter loses, and he can focus on more important things. Like lunch.

“All right, boys, touch gloves,” the coach says.

Peter raises his gloves and touches them against Edison’s. The other boy sneers and pushes his gloves against Peter’s, shoving him back a step. Peter catches his balance and barely resists the urge to roll his eyes. In the corner of his eye, he sees Duke and Tim pull themselves up onto the ring, gripping the ropes and watching Peter and Edison very closely. Given the way they’re standing and how tightly Duke is gripping the ropes, he half expects them to jump into the ring themselves.

The bell sounds off, and the two boys circle one another on the mat. Peter isn’t eager to catch a punch with his face; he moves just out of Edison’s reach more often than not. He could dodge every last one, but that would look suspicious as all hell. He just wants to make sure Edison earns his TKO. So far, he hasn’t bothered throwing a decent punch. Edison’s form is sloppy and arrogant at best.

“Looks like you’ve managed to find yourself some friends, weirdo,” Edison mutters, just quiet enough that only Peter can hear him. He jabs high, quick and sure, and Peter’s instincts to duck kick in before he remembers he’s trying to lose this fight.

Peter frowns at him, putting a bit more distance between them. Edison’s words throw Peter off for a couple of reasons: the first is that his voice is so full of sneering anger it surprises Peter, and the second is that Edison isn’t wearing a mouth guard. He’s so sure he’ll win this, so sure he’ll beat Peter into a pulp, that he’s not wearing the required protection. That’s not good. Even a normal punch from Peter might seriously hurt the guy.

Edison closes the gap, throwing a couple of jabs at Peter. They’re so obvious that Peter refuses to be hit by them. He might be trying to lose, but he does have standards for the kinds of beatings he’s willing to take. Come on.

“How long before their little club drops you?” Edison mutters. “I looked at your records. You don’t have parents, or a family, just some guy named Tony Stark who hasn’t bothered to show up for parent-teacher conferences. Hell, does anyone care about you or are you just that fucking worthless?”

He throws three more jabs in quick succession at Peter. They’re a little cleaner now, but Peter dodges them all the same. His temper is rising, he realizes, and that hasn’t happened in years. He puts more space between themselves, frustrated. Why is this getting to him? He’s heard worse before.

The bell rings, signaling the end of the first round. Peter backs away again, wary of turning his back on his opponent. The guy seems like he’d take a cheap shot. Edison smirks at him.

“I saw you had an aunt on your paperwork. Looks like she died. Probably just to get away from a worthless fuck like you,” he says turning to suanter over to his corner.

And that one little comment is what pushes Peter over the edge. He clenches his fists inside the gloves, can hear and feel the leather creak. His entire posture turns stiff and angry, and Edison grins at him, glad to strike a metaphorical blow against Peter. Tim catches the look on Peter’s face and grips his shoulder.

“He’s just trying to rile you up so he can get an easy hit in,” Tim says. “Don’t let him get to you.”

“I know,” Peter says. And it’s working.

“Peter--” Tim starts.

The bell rings. Peter moves away from Tim and meets Edison in the middle of the ring. He doesn’t offer to bump gloves this time. He just starts to move. Peter pulls his punches. He’s not trying to break any ribs.

But he also doesn’t give Edison a chance to do anything but block and dodge. He moves, just as Rhodey taught him, and can still hear Rhodey matching his movements with small encouragement and comments in the back of his mind. Peter chases Edison around the mat, forcing the larger boy on the defensive. Three minutes pass, and by the end of it, he barely has the energy to put his gloves up to block Peter’s punches. Thirty seconds after that, Edison is swaying on his feet, beaten without landing or taking a single punch. He still tries, weakly bouncing a punch right off of Peter’s shoulder.

Peter rolls his eyes, steps back and taps the rope with his glove. "I quit. He wins."

The coach stares at him. "What?"

"I'm throwing in the towel. He wins," Peter repeats, walking over so Tim can help him with his gloves. "Good fight, or whatever. I'm done."

"Uh, match set goes to Bright," the coach says, giving Peter a disbelieving look.

"Nicely done, Peter," Tim says quietly.

“He won’t mess with you after that,” Duke adds.

Other voices, ones at the edge of his awareness seem to echo that sentiment.

"Should've popped him in the jaw at least once," Bucky says.

"Yeah, definitely," Quill mutters. “Fucking twerp.”

"That would have given him more reason to antagonize Peter," T'challa says. "Peter handled it perfectly."

That gets murmurs of agreement from Sam, Wanda, and the others. T'challa speaks rarely, but when he does, the others listen. Even Fury and Loki. Peter half listens to them, rubbing the back of his neck. He doesn’t feel altogether happy about how things played out. He let his temper flare, and he never lets that happen. Not around people he could hurt so easily. He’s never been that furious with Flash, and Flash has been a dick to him for years. Granted, Flash isn’t always a jerk, and they even have their friendly moments, but...

The coach walks over to Peter, grinning.

“You know, we could use you on the boxing team,” the coach starts.

“No,” Peter replies, pushing past him and heading for the showers. His wrist hurts, and he’s suddenly very tired.