Chapter Text
“Peter…?”
His heart nearly jolts as he comes face to face with Ben.
Ben had been the one following him. He must have started after him again when the rain started, the storm having muffled his footsteps. And Peter led him right to the one place he didn’t want him.
“Peter, what are you doing here?” Ben speaks softly to him like he’s a wounded stray dog.
“Awaiting orders,” he addresses Majer, unsure of what to do now.
“What?” Ben pauses, brows furrowing. “Look kid, it’s not too late to move on from this shady business,” Ben pleads, moving closer. “Whatever gang trouble you’re part of, we can get you the help you need.”
“Whichever you see best.” Majer says in response to Peter, ignoring Ben. She pulls out something small and red from her pocket. A notepad, likely to report Peter’s mistake.
Peter blinks. He must have misheard that. Majer– simply HYDRA does not give choices. Choices lead to disorganisation, and disorganisation leads to failure.
This has to be some trick. Majer is testing him. Majer is testing him, and she’s going to expose every human weakness HYDRA has yet to train out of him.
“Order unclear,” he says, a waver of fear in his voice.
Fear?
The Winter Spider does not show fear. The Winter Spider is not capable of fear or cowardice. Not anymore, not since Majer and HYDRA drove the weakness out of him. Any risks to his psychological and physical performance have been trained out of his body years ago.
Majer frowns, crossing her arms. Has she noticed the uncertainty? Is she disappointed? “I said, do what you see fit. This isn’t my area of expertise.”
She’s right, and it suddenly reminds Peter that she’s not even supposed to be here. Where’s Agent Philips? Why would HYDRA send a scientist on a field mission?
“Either get him on our side or shoot him,” Majer adds, apparently deciding to help narrow down his choices.
“Woah, woah, woah!” Ben starts backing up, hands flying up next to his head. “We don’t have to get violent,” he says, panic clear.
Peter draws the gun from his pocket and points it at Ben, considering what to do. On one hand, if he doesn’t shoot, he could put the whole mission at risk if Ben decides to tell someone. On the other hand, if he shoots, the gunshot will alert nearby civilians or police and bring attention to him anyway.
This is Ben, the man who’s shown him endless generosity and made him hot chocolate barely a few hours ago.
“With great power comes great responsibility,” Ben pleads. “I don’t know where you got that gun, Peter, but you don’t have to use it.”
Peter doesn’t need to ruin the mission over him.
“Son, c'mon, do the right thing–”
Peter shoots him.
The walls of the alleyway are lit with a flash of light, a loud bang noise jumping through the air and rattling Peter’s skull. The smell of gunpowder is equally as striking, curling through the air before being swept away by the rain.
Ben gasps, his mouth agape in shock, opening and closing over empty words as a red stain seeps across his white shirt from his heart.
His frantic eyes lock with Peter’s, holding his gaze for a stretched second before his knees buckle and he crumples forward onto the floor with a thud. The rain seems to slow in motion. Ben’s fingers twitch once, before the rhythm of three fast beating hearts is thinned down to two and the world speeds up again.
Majer writes something down on the notepad.
Peter moves immediately, straining his sore ears. “A man two houses down from the left heard the gunshot and called the police. A young woman on the street ahead of us is doing the same. Multiple other people nearby are alert but not yet contacting officials.”
“Right.” Majer raises an eyebrow. “I assume you can figure out how to stage this on your own?”
“Yes.” Peter cocks his head, listening to the street again. “Police will be here in approximately five minutes, likely more.”
“Great. Then I’ll be going now, before I get blamed for this mess,” she scoffs.
Peter winces, looking at the floor. “Apologies.”
The behind of Ben's head stares back at him.
“Agent Morozov will discuss this with you at the debrief of the mission,” Majer says sharply. “For now, don’t cause more trouble.”
“Understood.”
Majer checks her watch, and gathers herself up to leave.
Peter’s neck pricks, a similar feeling to the one when Ben had been following him. “Rapidly approaching man from rooftops. Armed, likely threat,” he warns.
“Shit,” Majer hisses, tone filled with stress. Peter’s surprised at her sudden change in demeanour. But then, Morozov’s always been the more stoic one. “How long we got?”
“Approximately one minute from our location,” he calculates.
“One death can be framed as an accident, but two?” Majer swirls around. “I’m out.”
Peter holds his tongue, watching as she rushes to leave.
He has a lot to do. Not bothering to watch Majer’s scurrying exit, Peter grasps at the edge of a drainage grate, hauling the lid up onto the pavement. He needs to hide the bag. There’s no way he can bring it back today, if his appearance around Ben’s death isn’t suspicious enough, the bag will definitely raise some alarm bells in the police’s heads.
The rain muffled the sound of the gunshot, but Peter knows he doesn’t have long until whoever it is on the rooftops arrives, or the police finally show up.
Stretching his hearing around, he quickly shoves the bag into the storm drain, praying that HYDRA at least put waterproof covers on the folders as he watches the flood of dark water sweep over it. At least it’s hidden.
The person on the rooftop is barely ten seconds away now. Peter hisses under his breath, rushing to put the grate back over the drain. The metal makes a pathetic scraping screech as it’s dragged into place.
Peter stumbles back, pushing his drenched hair out of his face as he falls onto his knees next to Ben’s body.
His gun is lying on the floor a few feet from him, but he figures he can use it to put the blame on someone else. The rain will wash away fingerprints, and he doesn’t have time to hide it anyway.
Done with setting up the scene, Peter cocks his head listening for the person. They’re only a few seconds away now, so he’d better get on with the act.
“Ben!” He forces his voice hoarse to sound like he’s been shouting for a while. “Uncle Ben!” A sob climbs its way out of his throat, and tears join the rain on his soaked face.
Acting grief like this has never been Peter’s strong suit, but for some reason, Peter finds the fake reaction easier to conjure up than usual. He concludes it has something to do with the lasting unease of seeing Majer again.
A thud from behind interrupts his sobs, just as Peter had calculated.
“What happened here?” A man’s deep voice cuts through the rumbles of thunder.
“Uncle-” Peter seemingly chokes on his words “Uncle Ben.” he sobs.
“You do this?” The man asks with a rough tone, the sound of him taking a step forward ringing in Peter’s ears. It’s a fair assumption, but he needs to disprove it before the man can dwell on the theory more.
Peter slowly shakes his head, sobbing again and raising his shaking red hands off of Ben’s body. “I didn’t– I– It wasn’t me.”
There’s a moment of cold stillness, before the man inhales sharply. He must know he’s lying, Peter realizes. But the man doesn’t acknowledge it.
The man makes his way in front of Peter, and he can finally see who he’s talking to. He’s dressed in an odd red fabric –armoured clothing, probably–, and wears a helmet with two cat ears? Distantly, the sight of the vigilante is familiar to him, but he can’t quite remember his name.
Red cat guy crouches down across from Peter, and places his thumb against Ben’s throat, probably trying to find a pulse. It’s then that Peter realizes that the ears on his helmet are horns.
“Nothing,” Red horn guy says gruffly. “But the police are on their way. Maybe they can revive him.”
The chance of Ben surviving is zero, and they both know it.
“Who are you?” He says shakily.
“Daredevil.”
Peter almost jolts his head up in realisation. Of course, the local vigilante of Hell’s Kitchen. He’s heard about him before, in his training with HYDRA but he’d never really studied him as extensively as he did Iron Man and the rest of the Avengers. He never thought he’d actually come across him.
“Can you tell me what happened?” Daredevil asks hesitantly, seemingly not good at dealing with kids.
“I saw–” Peter breaks up his sentence with another sob. Is he laying it on too thick? Daredevil clearly doesn’t believe him anyway. “–Ben tried to stop a guy- a- a mugger.”
“And he shot him.” Daredevil states.
Peter chokes on air again, clutching tighter at Ben’s stained shirt, while nodding shakily.
Daredevil has another odd moment of staying still as he seemingly focuses on something.
“You’re a good actor,” he says simply. “Look, I don’t know why you shot your uncle, but there’s something urgent I’m trying to deal with. I need you to tell me if–” he tilts his head toward the sound of nearing sirens, and shakes his head in apparent frustration. “Never mind. You aren’t what I’m looking for anyway.” Daredevil steps back. “Police and paramedics are here.”
Peter watches as the red vigilante doesn't even give a nod goodbye before he disappears, swallowed by the rain and shadows.
He’s left to cradle Ben for no longer than a minute before the cooling body is shoved into an ambulance, and Peter next to him.
The police don’t suspect him. By law, they’re supposed to, but Peter knows how to play this game well.
“It was so terrifying” he sniffles once he’s taken to the police station for a recount of what happened, teary eyed. “I didn’t realise–” Peter shakes his head, visibly on the verge of crying. “Is Uncle Ben gonna be ok?”
The two police sitting in front of him turn to each other with wide eyes before quickly turning back to him with sympathetic looks.
“We haven’t heard back from the hospital yet…” one starts exactly as the other says:
“The hospital said that uh…”
They both exchange the wide eyed expression again.
Peter resists the urge to snort. Ben’s body is probably in the morgue by now. The police station got the call that he was officially deceased an hour ago, and these stumbling officials have been trying to find a way to softly break the news to him.
The policeman on the right sighs, finally deciding to tell him. “I’m sorry Peter, but Ben is no longer with us.”
“Oh,” Peter says dumbly. He needs to seem like he’s in shock, in denial.
“Do you have anyone you can call? Your aunt?” The police on the left asks kindly.
Peter nods stiffly. “Y-yeah. Yeah, Aunt May.”
“Got her number?”
He nods again, fumbling for his phone and pulling up May’s contact. Acting so frightened and crying this much can be tiring, and he should probably rest before going back to get the files.
May picks up the phone after a few seconds.
“Hey Peter, I’m just on my way home!” she says cheerfully. “I’ll see you soon!”
She doesn’t know yet.
“Can you pick me up?”
Four days after Ben’s murder, May finally shifts her attention off of Peter to arrange funeral plans. She hasn't been taking the news well, and Peter’s ended up being her way to ignore her grief. Being the centre of attention has never been a comfortable thing for Peter, and because May wants him around constantly, he’s had difficulty sneaking off on his own.
Finally, he can retrieve the folders from their spot in the gutters. If they haven’t been soaked into pieces of mush, that is. Currently it’s the only thing in urgent need of completion, and Peter’s glad May’s letting him off school for now or else he’d probably find it way harder to go out undetected.
He decides to walk to the abandoned meetup spot this time, to make sure no one follows him again. Slipping his hood over his head, he sets off around mid morning, aiming to arrive by noon. Part of him is concerned about stumbling across Daredevil again, but from what he’s heard, Daredevil only works at night. Which is why Peter’s going now, while it’s still day time.
Navigating the city is difficult enough while travelling on the subway, but walking is a whole new level. Peter walks for about two hours before he finally admits he is utterly lost in Hell’s Kitchen.
Eventually he finds himself sitting on the steps of a random church. The irony isn’t lost on him. An assassin with more kills under his belt than his own age, showing up at a church to take a break? Peter isn’t religious, HYDRA never taught him to be, but if he did believe in the afterlife, he knows he’d probably end up in hell.
Speaking of hell. A church? In a place called Hell’s Kitchen?
America is ridiculous.
Peter sighs, taking out his phone for a GPS. Failure sits heavy in his chest, but he buries it by busying himself searching up the street.
No wifi. Huh.
He’s not sure why it isn’t working. It worked perfectly fine yesterday, and the day before that, and the day before that day. His phone just wants to throw a tantrum inconveniently right this moment.
He scowls at the old, cracked phone and stands up. The church provides free wifi, he just needs to get closer to the source.
The door creaks slightly as Peter slips inside, phone in hand. The church is more beautiful than he would have thought was possible in a city like this. Coloured light streams in from large stained windows and settles over the wooden pews, which a few people are coming and going from. A statue of some religious figure– Mary?- stands to the side of the elevated stage.
It’s a poetic sight, but Peter’s more interested in the free wifi.
“Finally,” he mutters. He knows speaking out loud like this is unnecessary, but he can’t help wanting to express his frustration somehow. He’ll have to ask HYDRA to retrain it out of his habits later.
He’s clicking on the maps app when a hand is placed on his shoulder.
“Excuse me,” the man says quietly. Something about his voice is familiar. “Can you help me to one of the pews?”
Peter twists around. The man is young, probably in his early thirties or late twenties, and has a frumpled look that somehow looks neatly professional. He loosely holds a cane, which explains his need for a guide.
“Sure,” he agrees. No need to cause a commotion.
“Thank you,” the blind man says smoothly, placing a hand on his shoulder to let Peter guide him. “What’s your name?”
“Peter.”
“Matt,” he responds, his mouth curving into a pursed but genuine expression.
“Nice to meet you,” Peter half lies as he guides him through the gaps in the pews and stands by one of them in the middle of the church. “There’s a bench to your left.”
“Why don’t you sit with me?” Matt offers, moving into the row. “I wouldn’t mind some company.”
Peter debates the random invitation for a second, then sits down. Matt is familiar for some reason. He might have made an appearance on a previous mission, perhaps one of the many civilians Peter often has to blend in with. Whatever it is, he needs to make sure it isn’t going to uproot his false identity.
“Do I know you from somewhere?” The question is vague enough to be dismissed as curiosity.
“Ah, I’m a lawyer. My firm took down Wilson Fisk.”
Wilson Fisk, Wilson Fisk, Wilson Fisk… Peter tries to place the name. “The philanthropist who secretly worked with the Russian mafia?”
“That’s the one,” Matt smiles wryly.
Peter has come across the Russian mafia a few times. Sometimes as enemies, sometimes as allies. In the past four years, he’s hardly heard anything about another mission including them. This explains it.
“Must’ve been difficult,” he edges on, slightly curious.
“Yeah…” the blind man chuckles, a hint of sorrow flowering in his voice. “You have no idea.”
There's a gap of awkwardness, and Peter speaks up again, sensing that the conversation is dying.“He blew up all the Russian mafia’s safehouses in New York, right?” He knows that Fisk unknowingly blew up at least one of HYDRA’s minor facilities, assuming the people there were under the command of the Ranskahov brothers, but he doesn’t quite know the extent of the damage.
“Most of them, yeah. But these things– they pop up quicker than they can be shut down,” Matt sighs. “There’s probably already a new wing of the Russian mafia settling in the city.”
There is.
“At least I try my best at defending innocents,” Matt adds dryly. “Even if the criminals I take to court get out the next day.”
“Hah! Yeah…” Peter forces a laugh out, trailing off.
He’s not sure what he’s searching for. There’s something he needs to know, but it’s not a question HYDRA demanded him to find an answer to. He just needs to know, even if he doesn’t have a reason to.
“How do you know you’ve done the right thing?” The odd question falls from his tongue, strange and unfamiliar.
Matt just sighs, passing his cane from one hand to the other as he tilts his head in thought.
“You don’t.”
“Oh.”
The pair fall into silence for a moment before Matt speaks up again. “What brings that question on?”
“It’s… I uh. My uncle died a few days ago and I don’t know if he would…” Peter hesitates, unsure where he’s going with this. “...Yeah, I don’t know. Sorry.”
“No, no, I get it.” Matt smiles. “I never had extended family like that, but I lost my dad when I was young. I get it.”
“I’m sorry.” That’s what he’s meant to say, right?
“No need to feel bad. It was a long time ago.” Matt shrugs. “I’m sure Ben was an amazing uncle.” he says kindly. “I get loss, feel free to come over to the church and see if I’m around if you ever need to talk.”
“Oh. Thanks.” Peter plans to never come back here. His question was stupid, and made no sense. He’s already made a fool of himself today, and he has no desire to do this again.
“No problem,” he dismisses.
Well, I.” Peter pauses. “I should get going.”
Matt nods his head. “Alright. Thanks for the help here,” he says smoothly, offering him a smile.
Peter flashes him a tight smile in return before realising Matt can’t see it, then stands from his seat, moving between the rows to the middle of the space. He’s stalking down the steps of the church before he even processes he’s stepped out the door.
It’s not until after his departure that Peter realizes he never told Matt Ben’s name.
The shining sun in the sky feels oddly out of place considering the thunder that had rumbled the clouds barely a few days ago. Peter personally would like it to be raining again, at least it’d be mood appropriate while visiting a site where someone died.
He reaches the alleyway later than he thought he would. Speaking with Matt must have taken longer than he’d realised in the moment. It’s not like he’s in a rush though, so he can take his time. His only worry is that May notices he’s gone, but she likely won’t unless he doesn’t return before dark.
Peter glances around, glad to see that nobody is around to witness a random teen dig around the storm drain. That wouldn’t be fun to explain at all.
The metal grate grumbles as he pushes it off the drain, popping off easily. He shoves his arm into the dark pit and starts feeling around for the folder, grimacing at the grime already collecting underneath his nails. Fortunately, it isn’t long until his fingers brush against something plastic. There.
The folder clasped tightly in his hand, he pulls it out to examine the damage. The edges are slightly dampened, but the paper inside is encased by sheets of plastic, so the water didn’t affect it too much. With a quick check inside the folder everything thankfully seems readable. HYDRA must have taken the risk of rain into consideration.
Relieved, he carelessly sets the grate over the hole again. Now all he has to do is bring them back somewhere safe to read his next orders.
He stands up, ready to go, when out of the corner of his eye, he spots a little red notepad, sheltered under a scrap of fabric from the rain. His breath catches when he realises what it is.
It’s Majer’s notes on his mistakes this mission. In her rush, she must have dropped it. If Majer doesn’t get it back, HYDRA won't have documentation on what he's done wrong. It needs to get back to them so they can assess his misfunction and train him accordingly.
Which will mean hours and hours of pain and exhaustion.
But… if Peter purposely doesn’t pick it up to return it, who’s there to tell?
By the time he gets back to the flat, it’s dark outside.
“Peter!” May gasps as he opens the door. “Where the hell were you?! I was just about to call the police!”
She’s angry, but also scared. It’s understandable, especially so shortly after what happened to Ben, but Peter would rather she be less emotionally invested in his wellbeing.
“I’m sorry May,” he mumbles, trying to push past down the hallway to disappear into his room. “I’ll come home earlier next time.”
“Not so fast,” May scolds. “Why were you out so late?”
Put on the spot, Peter tries to find an excuse, but falls flat, mouth opening and closing with no sound.
May just stares at him, arms crossed, unimpressed.
“I… went to uhh…” What type of spy can’t lie? “I went to the spot Ben died,” he blurts.
He immediately cringes, ready for angry and furious words to erupt from his aunt.
But May’s face softens sadly, and she steps forward to wrap him in a tight hug. “I’m not mad at you,” she mutters warmly, “but you need to ask before doing something like that.”
“Sorry,” he says again, but quieter. Probably because he’s being squeezed.
She just hugs him tighter, and tucks his head into her shoulder.
After what Peter guesses is a full minute, May pats his back and says “I’ll make dinner,” before untangling her arms and stepping back. “Never scare me like that again.”
He nods, sighing in relief as she accepts his apology and moves over to the kitchen. While she’s busy with that, he can finally open up the next set of orders.
Quickly entering his room, he opens the still damp folder over his floor and starts to read.
After a moment, Peter frowns. That can’t be right. On the folder in front of him, the person he’s meant to report back to is written as Agent Majer. But in the old one…
He quickly reaches under his mattress for the first folder that informs him of the overall mission.
… In this one, his superior is Agent Philips. The agent who’d driven him here and who’s supposed to be acting as his social worker.
Perplexed at HYDRA’s mess up, Peter flips back to the newer folder to see if there’s anything mentioned about the change.
And sure enough, right on the next line: “Agent Philips has been removed from this mission to work on other projects and will no longer be acting as your superior.”
Strange. Shouldn’t the Winter Spider be the first priority? The mission he’s on could possibly result in HYDRA taking SHIELD and the Avengers down, so what on earth could be more important?
It’s not his place to ask questions though, so he brushes the concern off his mind and continues reading. It’s a familiar pattern, scanning familiar HYDRA stamped paper for his orders, and it brings him comfort.
What doesn’t bring him comfort is reading that he has to actively try to flag Tony Stark’s attention.
In all his years of belonging to HYDRA, he’s always been told to stick to the shadows and be nothing more than an afterthought in people’s minds. Never is he to make a spectacle, make a memorable impression, or stay in the spotlight more than necessary.
So what’s with the sudden change–
He’s asking too many questions again. What HYDRA says, goes. The Winter Spider has only the illusion of opinion and curiosity, nothing more. His purpose is to serve without question. Morozov, Majer, and HYDRA as a whole have taught him that.
Tucking his head down and steeling a neutral expression over his face, Peter continues reading his commands.
If he could have real feelings, the next words would send him into an anxious spiral. But he doesn’t, so instead he ignores the gnawing ball of something forbidden in his stomach and turns the paper to read the last page, which will ideally tell him how exactly HYDRA wants him to befriend Stark.
It’s not double sided. The folder ends there.
He lets out a strange, strangled noise. Surely this is some sort of mistake, there’s no way HYDRA expects him to know what to do! The information in this folder is just repeating what the first one said but in bigger words! Why–
Third time today. HYDRA is not to be questioned. He’s suddenly started acting out, and it needs to be trained out.
He exhales.
He needs to focus and follow his orders as best as he can. Becoming a presence in Stark’s life won’t be easy, especially since he rarely involves himself with people who aren’t billionaires or superheroes, so Peter needs to get into action before it’s too late.
Hmm. He's not a billionaire, but being a superhero? While he’ll never truly be one, he can certainly hold the act of a kind person…
Peter’s going to need scissors. And fabric. And a lot of glue.
“Tony, there’s–”
“It makes no sense,” Tony muses, completely ignoring Pepper. “What is old recycled SHIELD gear doing on the streets?”
“Tony–” Pepper tries again but is swiftly interrupted once more.
“Unless,” he holds the separated barrel of the pistol up to his eye, the clear engravings of ‘S.I’ shining under the lab light, “Hmm. Well, at least it can’t be HYDRA this time.”
“Tony.” Pepper snaps, finally catching his attention.
“What?” Tony snips, dropping the barrel back down on the table where it bounces off the rest of the dissected pistol and rolls off onto the floor. “Who’s suing us this time?”
“Fury wants me to tell you they found a notepad at the same site the gun was.”
“So? Why should I care about a bit of paper scraps?” he mutters, distracted again and already back at picking at the metal parts.
“Because it’s a HYDRA mission report.”
Tony groans.