Mercy

“I hate it here,” Peter groaned to the same overcast, angry city sky, rife with pollution and grime that he had looked at for the past month, “God has abandoned this timeline I swear.” 

He sighed when the sky gave no helpful response, only spitting at him lightly, a warning for the weather to come. Peter’s heart sank at the thought – it was hard enough to keep warm on the streets on a regular day, so the rain would only make it that much harder. He could already imagine the shivers wracking his body, cold sinking its claws into his skin, turning his blood to ice. Of course, he had survived much worse weather back in the day - he was around eleven if he remembered correctly – when his handler had left him out in the snow as a punishment for asking her name. The memory was still fresh in his mind, the way she had spat at him and shoved him out the door like a dog.  

It was unpleasant to say the least.  

Shaking himself out of the memory, Peter stretched out his limbs from where they had been settled on the filthy ground, joints popping with each movement. He was aware that he himself was also a complete mess, but it didn’t stop him from wrinkling his nose as he stood up from his corner, scanning the alley he had claimed within his first week with distaste.  

There were a few pros about his current home in the shadowed backstreet, mostly that it was right beside a sandwich shop (Delmar’s, he had remembered reading on the sign outside) and the heat from the kitchen was sometimes enough to stave off the blue in his fingers. Although, to be fair, the lane was a dump: the trash cans always smelled like fish, and he often saw certain figures in the night creep down it, weapons glinting in their hands more often than not, only for them to think there was nothing of worth down the alley and turn back around. Those were the good nights. 

Sometimes, they would catch him shifting under the carboard box he had propped against the wall as some kind of protection from the rain and advance, sadistic grins painting their features. Sometimes they would ask for money which they apparently thought he had, and other times they would beat the shit out of him, leaving his ribs dotted with slowly fading blue and purple marks.  

On a good day, Peter probably could've taken them, used his training for self-defence for once, but to be honest, he wasn’t sure he had the energy anymore, weakened by hunger and fatigue. So instead he just laid there, allowed them to have their fun, and then hauled dirty oxygen into his lungs afterwards, praying that the rest of the night would treat him well. 

It usually didn’t.  

Although, Peter figured he didn’t have it that bad: he wasn’t dead yet and that was a major achievement in his eyes, but the way his vision blurred every time he stood up, and the way the nights kept getting longer and longer, and the way it was getting harder to open his eyes as each day passed was a slight concern. 

Mostly, he shrugged it off with an indignant huff, and today was yet another one of those days when he stumbled to the dumpster by the backdoor of the sandwich shop and hoisted it open with another groan, begging his shaking muscles to last just one more day.  

Fortunately for Peter, there were a few full sandwiches amongst the trash, and he almost cried out with joy at the sight. Dusting one of them off lightly, he took a bite and cringed. It was gross, sure, but it was food – something that was a pretty rare find for him, and he had full intentions of taking advantage of what he did get. 

“Y’know, that’s probably diseased or something.” 

The sudden, gruff voice behind him startled Peter so much he dropped the sandwich with a yelp, immediately whirling around with his fists raised in what even he could admit was a sloppy defensive stance. 

The owner of the voice however, made no move to attack, and despite the threatening black mask that covered his eyes, he was leaning causally against the brick, seemingly as relaxed as a kitten in the sun. Peter shifted uncomfortably as he scanned the stranger, came to the conclusion that he was – possibly – in little danger, and dropped his pathetic excuse of a defence. 

“So?” Peter replied, clearing his throat awkwardly when his voice cracked, “What’s it to you?” 

The black-clad figure tilted his head, as if he were listening for something, before shrugging slightly, “It’s none of my business I suppose, I was just passing through and figured you could use a hand.” 

Narrowing his eyes in suspicion, Peter shrunk back, before shaking himself – he was supposed to be a feared HYDRA assassin, and yet here he was, shrinking back from a strange man in an alleyway like a stray dog.  

“No hands needed here, I’m getting by just fine,” Peter assured, already desperate for the guy to be on his way, “And anyway, what’s with the get-up? You going to some kind of Halloween party? In January?” 

He literally wanted to punch himself in the face: why was he asking questions? The sooner he was alone the better – he could already feel the pressure building behind his eyes from all of the social interaction. A migraine for sure.  

“I help people,” the man replied with a low chuckle, pushing himself off the wall and closer to Peter - lifting his hands up in surrender when the boy took a retaliating step back - before he continued, “This is kind of my job.” 

Peter huffed, “Some job you’ve got – you look like a criminal.” 

“I am. Kind of.” 

Pausing, Peter took another look at him, scanning his eyes up and down his form: he was well-built, with hands that hung loosely in fists at his sides, ready to swing at a moment's notice. He couldn’t see the guy’s eyes, but he seemed to be assessing every movement made in the alley, from the way the trash shifted in the breeze, to Peter clenching his jaw in anxiety. He didn’t seem like the type of guy to hurt a homeless kid in an alleyway with the only exit blocked, but trust had been beaten out of Peter at a young age – he wasn’t about to make a stupid mistake now.  

“Huh...” the boy nodded in false appreciation, already taking some steadying breaths, calming himself, slowing his heartbeat in preparation for the adrenaline he knew he would inevitably receive, “That’s so interesting, I'm just gonna go now-” 

He lunged forward with previously unmatched speed and precision, like that of a predator, aiming for the gap between where the man was stood and the wall he had previously been leaning on, towards the street beyond. What Peter didn’t expect, however, was the firm grip that circled his wrist, halting him in his movement.  

“What are you doing?” the stranger asked lowly, the gravel in this voice bordering on painful, “I just wanted to talk.” 

“I’m done talking.” 

Before the last word even fell from his lips, Peter was already swinging a fist upwards, towards the guy’s jaw, in hopes that he could stun the man and free himself from the bruising grip on his bony wrist.  

The fist never connected with bone, instead continuing through the air and past the man’s face. Overbalanced, Peter swung forward with the momentum, and used it to grab the guy’s arm and twist. Hard. 

With a short shout, Peter was released, but he wasn’t done quite yet. He lunged forward again, once again gripping a tight hand around his attacker’s arm, using the advantage to push the surprisingly pliant body into the bricks. He felt no resistance, so his small sense of pride at the victory was quickly diminished, but he still leaned in close to the stranger’s ear, feeling him stiffen under his hold. 

“Leave me alone,” Peter hissed, attempting to sound at least a little bit menacing, but it came out a little too desperate, “Go back to whatever drug ring or hole under a bridge you crawled out of and stay the fuck away from my alley.” 

His threat was greeted with silence, until he noticed the slight shake in the man’s body from where he had his arm pinned against his back. Was he crying? No surely not: a guy like this, obviously a vigilante of some sort (Peter had heard amongst the regulars at Delmar’s that there were quite a few), wouldn’t cry at the empty threat of a scrawny child who he had found scrounging for food in a dumpster. No, it wasn’t crying. 

“Are you fucking laughing at me?” 

The guy let out a full chuckle at Peter’s outrage, and genuinely braced himself against the wall as he was released from the teenager’s hold, laughter wracking his body. 

“I’m so sorry,” he said, now gasping for breath between each snicker, “I just – I'm sorry kid – I just can't take you seriously is all.” 

Peter scowled as he wrapped his arms around his stomach – not only was the stranger’s laughter seriously beating down his confidence, but his lack of food, which was entirely the man’s fault, was starting to gnaw at his stomach. 

Noticing his sudden withdrawal, the vigilante sobered, wiping the grin from features, “You good kid?” 

“I’m not a kid,” he mumbled, “And yeah, I’m fine, you can go now - you’ve had your fun.” 

He seemed to waver for a moment, tilting his head in thought, “Would you like some food? A blanket?” he paused again, considering, “A place to stay?” 

Peter glanced up in surprise: why was the guy suddenly being so nice? 

“No... it’s fine, I’ll be fine.” 

He winced at how his voice shook, entirely unconvincing, so desperate to accept and allow himself something nice, even if it was just for one night. 

“I insist. Think of it as an apology for laughing at you.” 

Peter couldn’t see the top part of his face, but he imagined the man was raising his eyebrows at him, daring him to give in. 

There were two possible outcomes here: either the guy was a complete psychopath and was going to murder him in his sleep, or he would get a good night's rest and return to the streets tomorrow well rested and with a full stomach. 

Peter liked those odds. 

“Okay.” 

“Okay?” 

“Okay.” 

“Oh, cool, I didn’t expect you to actually say yes,” the guy chucked before reaching out a hand hesitantly - a peace offering - and leaning in to whisper conspiratorially, a grin plastered on his face, "Don't tell anyone, but I’m Matt.” 

“Nice to meet you.” Peter replied, taking the offered hand but not giving his name. He wasn’t there yet. 

“No name? That’s fine, I guess I’ll call you kid then.” 

Peter could only glare, “I’m not a kid.” 

“Sure, kid.”