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There's a line out there, somewhere, probably in a Heather's musical, about hoping that you're a good person.
Peter would like to think that he, Peter Parker, is a good person.
He'd like to.
Key word.
Like to.
It's kind of hard to feel that way when his recreational activity is lying to almost everyone he knows.
No, Uncle Ben, he hasn't seen anything suspicious lately, no, certainly not his teacher that's an enhanced vigilante, no, no, he's just a normal blind lawyer.
No, Aunt May, he's not having screaming nightmares of coffins sliding into the ground and everybody he loves getting their heads caved in with car doors.
No, guys, he's going to go help out the law firm that represented them in court, they really needed a hand, he's not learning the careful amount of precision used to make a man go down still breathing.
What are you talking about?
He's perfectly fine, and normal, and everything's okay.
And even if he wasn't, if it wasn't, he's getting better.
Peter doesn't practice doing stitches in his free time, doesn't Google medical procedures and write them down in a locked book, doesn't do fighting forms in the open space of the living room when no one's there, doesn't wrap his knuckles in tape to keep them from splitting.
He doesn't.
Promise.
And the thing is, Peter never used to be a convincing liar.
But he's learning.
He's getting good.
And that kind of stings.
It burns all up his throat when he lies straight to May's face and she takes it without pause, doesn't even make her ‘ I know you're lying but I'm giving you the benefit of the doubt’ face.
The proof, the evidence, that his lies sound like the truth, are concrete in their falsehood, sits wrong in his stomach.
But it's what he asked for.
And he has to live with that.
Has to live with everything that he can't tell May and Ben, the forms he does and the cartwheels he can do, the bloody knuckles and the proud smiles, the Chinese food and the vanilla ice cream.
The breathing exercises and mediation.
The doors waiting open for him if he ever needs it.
The very real Devil standing at his shoulder.
He can't tell May and Ben.
He can't tell them any of it.
And not Ned and Michelle, either.
He has Matt and Karen and Foggy, but they're only three people in an entire network of lies that he's been spinning for months now.
This careful web he's weaved.
And if Peter takes one false step, one wrong turn, one simple slip up, he'll stumble right on the wire and send the whole damn thing tumbling down.
Plain for all the world to see.
Not just his secrets laid bare either, no, Matt's secrets too.
Matt's senses and his suit and his age old war he refuses to fight in.
Peter can't let that happen.
He's barely twelve, but that doesn't matter.
He's got secrets to keep that aren't his to tell, and he'll be damned before he spills them to the world.
But just because he can't tell people his secrets, can't show them what he can do, that doesn't mean he can't use every inch of it he's got.
He doesn't need to lie to punch someone in the face.
He doesn't need to misdirect to kick someone away.
He doesn't need to twist the truth to keep someone else safe.
So he does odd jobs, and collects money for the firm.
He finishes his homework and helps people get their groceries, or walk their dogs, or clean their homes.
He stalks brighter alleyways, the ones that run surface deep, and tests what he's learned.
Peter crosses the bridges on day passes, does jobs two train rides away from Queens, and sticks around longer than he needs to, pulling kids out of alleyways and punching bullies until they run.
Peter's not stupid.
He can't go after the people he wants to, the people that really need help, but the least he can do is fight for the beaten down kids that can't fight for themselves.
Be it in Queens or Midtown or Brooklyn.
Peter doesn't care.
Someone has to do it, and if that ends up being him?
Then so be it.
He just… usually doesn't get help.
Not when he's neck deep in an alley punching a guy two times bigger than him, a highschooler, while standing in front of a kid that can't possibly be older than him, a bloody nose and bloodier knuckles to show for his efforts.
People just keep walking, or pretend they don't hear anything.
They don't pause and then stalk forward, fists low, hips heavy, in a way that screams danger.
It's how the Devil moves when hunting his prey.
It's how Peter's learning to move to make people afraid of a little kid.
But the person does it anyway, latches onto the hoods of the highschoolers in front of Peter with both fists, and physically wrenches them away and out of the alley.
Yells, "Pick on someone your own size!" with a thick Brooklyn accent that seems to surprise him, like he wasn't expecting the words that crawled out of his own throat.
He breathes hard for a moment, breath stuttering in and out like he doesn't quite know how to make his lungs work right, like he's shocked, like he's… like he's trying to replace the image he's seeing with the one that's really there.
Like how Peter tries to blink away bright red gore on every dark, black SUV he finds.
Like how he tries to wash away Matt's blood on his hands even though it's long gone.
Like how he tries to breathe through the visions of May and Ben in the ground.
"Thank you," Peter whispers, hoping he's quiet enough not to startle and pushing away intrusive thoughts as violently he can. "For helping us."
And as he leans down to help the kid up, the man turns his head to look at him.
And Peter chokes on air.
Because the man looks like Matt.
Not on the surface, not in the ‘they look the same’ way, but in the ‘they have the same look in their eyes’ way.
Dark hair and dark eyes and dark stubble, the ‘ I'm running from something’ wildness, plain to see if you know to look for it.
The fragments of careful emotional control that's just broken, even for a second.
The widening of eyes saying ‘ you weren't supposed to see that’.
Peter pretends he didn't, and the guy slowly relaxes as the kid, Ganke, mumbles out a thank you to both of them before running out of the alley.
The guy watches the kid go and it almost looks wistful.
Like he's thinking of better times.
Unfortunately, Peter kind of understands.
He pushes that thought away too.
"Hey," he says, and waves a little to get the guy's attention. He focuses on him almost immediately. "I know I, like, already said thank you, but can I get you a sandwich or something? As a thanks? I need to have lunch anyway, and company's always nice."
The man's eyebrows furrow down and he tilts his head in an almost mechanical way that Peter understands before he even opens his mouth.
"Why?" He asks, and it sounds scratchy and hoarse with disuse.
Like he isn't used to speaking.
Something kind of horrible bubbles in his chest.
Peter wants to feed and shelter this grown ass man immediately.
Instead, he shrugs. "Why not? You helped me, now this is me helping you."
Mystery guy tilts his head again, hands hanging by his sides, and Peter finally notices how he lists ever so slightly to the left.
He has a black glove on that hand and the sleeve reaches to his knuckles.
The right side is bare.
Peter wonders why.
The guy takes a while to speak, jaw flexing even as his mouth stays shut, like he's testing the words before he says them.
No more bold proclamations to the world at large.
"You don't know me." He finally says, each word carefully spoken and enunciated, Brooklyn accent long gone.
"And you don't know me, but you still helped." Peter points out.
The guy nods slowly, as though conceding the point.
He rolls his shoulders, the left one especially hard, before saying, "I could be dangerous," and Peter swears he hears something with the rotation of the man's arm.
"I could be dangerous," he counters, something like pride rushing through him when the man nods instead of laughing. "And if you were gonna hurt me, you would've by now."
The man tilts his head in question as though asking ‘ How do you know?’ .
"I've got good instincts for people," Peter says, "and you seem like a good person. You didn't keep walking like everyone else."
It feels a bit like heartbreak when the man's eyes go wide with something that might be surprise, might be shock, and might be disbelief.
"Let me buy you a sandwich," Peter repeats, "I'll just keep bothering you until you say yes. Okay?"
He gets stared at a little bit longer until the man's head dips in concession.
"Yes!" Peter fist bumps the air and finally drags the bandana down from the lower half of his face, wiping at the blood before stuffing the fabric into his pocket. "You got any foods you can't or won't eat? I know a good place nearby, and all their stuff's kosher."
Something lights up in the guy's face. "The one that opened in twenty-two? It's still there?" He asks after only a minute of thought.
Peter nods and rocks on the balls of his feet. "Mhmm. It's still kickin' strong. 'bout as good as Delmar's, back in Queens. It stayed in the family and everything. They've got pictures of people that've eaten there on their all the way back to before World War Two."
The man looks away and then minutely startles at the sidewalk and street.
"I've been herding you out for the past few minutes," Peter explains and holds out his elbow as a practiced afterthought. He's kind of surprised when the man hesitantly takes it. "Lurking in alleyways is really not the smartest move when you're technically doing illegal things."
The man snorts, gazing around with open eyes and a closed face, allowing himself to be pulled and guided.
"You wanna trade names? It doesn't have to be your real one, either. The one you use?" Peter coughs and looks away, thinks of bullet wounds and billy clubs. "Lots a folks don't."
He gets stared at for a bit, and then a curtain of hair blocks his view as the man looks away.
The man hems and haws while Peter chatters to fill the silence, like he's swishing the words around, tasting them and finding all options too bitter or sweet before moving to the next.
"Captain called me Bucky," the man finally says. "It sounds… nice."
Peter tilts his head. "Captain?"
The man – Bucky's face goes a little tight, edging further into a lockdown he didn't know was possible.
"Knew him, a long time ago," Bucky admits, "not sure if I know him anymore."
Oh.
"Oh," he repeats out loud, "I get that. I'm Peter, by the way."
Bucky squints at him as though to say ‘ You do?’ but doesn't actually speak.
Which is fine by Peter.
He can read people well enough.
He doesn't need words to hold a conversation.
"I used to have this friend," he starts, and pushes down the bitter sting. "Best friend, really. And then my parents died, and I moved in with my aunt and uncle, and I lived farther away. We stopped talking. It was really as easy as that. And once we stopped talking to each other, we started talking to other people, and we changed."
‘He changed’, he doesn't say, doesn't think, doesn't whisper to the bruises, ‘ and I stayed the same. He got cruel and I got angry.’
Bucky somehow hears it anyway, and squeezes his arm with a butterfly amount of pressure.
Like he's afraid Peter will break.
Normally he'd be offended, but Bucky looks like the kind of guy that's afraid of breaking everything.
Like he's afraid of tainting it or something.
Matt gets like that too.
And then Peter's pushing open the door Kaplan's and he doesn't have time to think about anything except for how hungry he is.
Bucky follows closely behind him, hand slipping from Peter's elbow and to his pocket, expression almost nearing open as he drinks it all in.
He decides to leave Bucky to whatever experience he's having and walks over to the counter to order their lunch.
"Hi, Mr. Kaplan," Peter greets, and gets a nod from Mrs. Kaplan instead. "Can I get two of my regulars? Actually, can I get three?"
She pauses from writing down his order and looks up at him, and then past him to Bucky, who's staring at the photo wall in what might be the painful kind of nostalgia.
What is this feeling in his chest?
Is it… deep and burning fury at whoever hurt this poor nice man?
… Nah.
… Okay, maybe a little.
She raises an eyebrow in a silent question.
Peter smiles and says, "He helped me save a kid from some highschoolers. I'm paying him in food."
Mrs. Kaplan's face softens and she smiles at him. "Three for the price of two. One free sandwich for the heroes, yeah?"
Peter beams as a bright, warm something bubbles in his chest.
Foggy would probably call it pride and gratitude, but Matt, if Peter really pressed him, would maybe call it yellow and spun glass.
Maybe caramel and latticed honey combs.
He has weird descriptors like that.
Peter kind of loves them.
He pushes his cash and change across the counter and grabs the wrapped sandwiches, one, two, three.
"Thanks!"
Mr. Kaplan snorts. "You're welcome. Go eat."
And when Peter turns, Bucky is still staring at the wall.
He eases over and twists around so that he's right in front of him.
Bucky sees him but doesn't move.
His throat bobs like he's swallowing down acid and grief.
Peter follows his line of sight to a really, really old photograph, black and white, with five people it.
Two women, a little girl, and two guys.
The women are laughing, the little girl looking towards the camera, and the two guys are smiling at each other and eating their sandwiches.
The guy with light hair is really small, about the size of Peter if he had to guess, but he's got a stubborn set to his jaw, his eyes are bright, and the gray smear on his knuckles might be scabs and torn skin.
The guy with dark hair is clean shaven, neat, but the edges of his rolled up sleeves look spotty, like they're stained or greased, and his smile is open and unchecked.
He looks like Bucky without the weight of something horrible balanced unevenly upon his shoulders.
And– right on the edge of the paper, in neat white writing, it says, ‘ Sara Rogers, Laura Barnes, Rachel Barnes, Steve Rogers, and James Barnes, '34 Apr 22’.
Steve Rogers sticks out first, because everybody knows Captain America, especially with his coming out of the ice, but then Peter's eyes linger on the words James Barnes, and the guy with neat hair and grease stains, and the tall mystery of Bucky right next to him, and something horrible starts to fall into place.
James "Bucky" Barnes, MIA, presumed KIA.
Steve Rogers, preserved in ice.
The Winter Soldier on the news.
Bucky right next to him, arm covered, expression painfully lost and features hidden.
‘Oh’, Peter thinks, ‘ I just bought sandwiches for a prisoner of war.’
And then Peter thinks ‘ Oh, I just made friends with BUCKY BARNES.’
And then Peter thinks ‘ Oh, I just met another enhanced person what the HECK .’
And then, finally, Peter thinks ‘ Oh, he's running from HYDRA, how can I help?’
He does not voice any of these things.
Instead, he just blocks the view of the wall and pulls off the picture from it's nest of black and white and sepia, before grabbing Bucky's hand, his metal hand, and putting the picture in it.
Bucky numbly slides it into the pocket over his heart and stares at him, uncomprehending.
Peter holds out two sandwiches.
And he smiles.
"We're friends right?" He picks at the wrapper in his left hand with his thumb. "Friends help friends. If your arm ever breaks, or if you need somewhere to lay low, I can help. I can fix your arm, and find places for you to stay. Ones that don't have other people, so you don't have to worry about someone getting hurt."
Bucky–
He doesn't smile.
He doesn't.
But the crows feet by his eyes get deeper and his eyes get brighter, and he ducks his head into the collar of his jacket.
He takes the sandwiches.
And they eat.
———
Halfway across the world, with the entire planet watching, a city rises through the sky like Skyloft.
Except, it's not a game.
It's reality.
It's terrifying, terrifying reality.
Rising and rising and rising, people and buildings and earth, all of it crumbling and falling and plummeting right back down to where it came from.
People are dying and no one can stop it.
You can't save everybody.
And the horrifying things, they aren't just far away.
They're in New York too.
A man that walks the streets and can force you, can force anybody to do anything just because he said so, just because he wants you to.
He had Peter buy a train ticket, smiled at it, and walked away.
He hadn't even realised what had happened until the man in the purple suit was gone.
It felt like being a prisoner in his own body, except he was happy to be there.
Like an invasion of everything good and holy in the world, for all that Peter didn't believe in a god.
And all of the terrible, horrible things, they just keep happening, one after the other.
Like the whole universe is tearing reality apart, one piece at a time, just because it can, just to see what would happen.
And it all started with the Invasion of New York.
New York, New York, New York.
Everything always comes back to New York.
Stark Industries and Captain America and Bucky Barnes and Matt Murdock and Wilson Fisk.
Everything always comes back to New York.
Always.
Without fail.
Why does anyone still live there?
Peter thinks that maybe it's because they're all crazy.
Maybe it's because they're all too attached to this city that keeps trying to kill them.
New York is in their blood, in their bones, in the air they breathe, and they can't find it in themselves to leave.
People are drawn to New York, to the lights and the city, like desperate moths to the distant moon, and once they find themselves there, they can't bring themselves to go.
Even as the horrible things keep walking the streets, keep gracing the news, keep tearing up the world, people keep coming to New York and the globe keeps on spinning.
Even when it feels like the world's been pulled to a standstill, should be pulled to a standstill, it keeps on spinning anyway.
People die and people live and people do what people do best.
They adapt.
They overcome.
They survive.
And it's really all they can do.
It's all he can do.
All he can do is buy his train tickets and help people with their groceries and do his homework.
All he can do is fill his money jar and ice his bruises and try to sleep at night.
All he can do is adapt and overcome and survive.
It's all anybody can do.
He'll adapt to long work hours, overcome the wrongness he sees in the mirror, survive past the broken, bloody noses.
But the thing is, Peter wants to do more.
He wants to do more than just survive.
He wants to excel.
He wants to help.
He wants to make the world a better place.
He wants more cops to care like Uncle Ben, he wants more lawyers to do the right thing like Foggy, he wants more people to get up and do something like Matt.
He wants more people to care and he wants more people to be good.
But that isn't how the world works, and Peter can't change the world simply by wanting.
He has to get up and do it himself.
If people won't care, then he'll do it for them.
If people won't be good, then he'll do it for them.
If people won't be kind, then he'll do it for them.
The world keeps on spinning, lovely and cruel.
Even as people die, even as the hole opens above New York, even as cities rise into the sky, life keeps on going.
Because life isn't fair.
And it certainly isn't kind.
So Peter will be better than that.
He has to be better than that.
He'll be fair, and he'll be kind.
He'll run himself to the ground and bleed himself dry, whatever it takes.
Whatever it takes to show humanity that life is worth living, regardless of cities in the sky and brainwashers in the streets.
Peter will show the world that life isn't fair and it isn't kind and that's why you have to be.
Because if you aren't, nothing will.
The world will be cruel.
It will be unforgiving.
Which is why you have to stand up and make it better.
You have to take it in your hands and spit on all the naysayers, on all the bullies and liars and the cheaters, and show them that there's still goodness in the world that's worth protecting.
You have to be better.
Peter has to be better.
And he will be.
Even if it breaks his bones and bruises his flesh, even if it makes his blood rise to the surface in purples and greens, even if he has to bleed and crack and tear himself apart.
Peter will be better.
And he'll show the whole damn world that it's got something worth saving.
———
Matt's hates listening to Peter's lungs.
They're horrible.
The worst.
Absolutely disgusting.
"I know right?" Peter grouses when he says as much. "How do you think I feel? They're my lungs."
Foggy sips the tea that he hates, but insists he needs for the stress, and watches them practice.
Matt thinks he has the case papers sitting in his lap and across the bench, but he can't tell.
"You should invest in robot lungs," Foggy suggests helpfully.
"I should," Peter decides with a huff, "c'mon Technological Singularity, get it together."
"Robot bodies!" Foggy declares. "Solution to most medical problems! Computer brain! So many benefits!"
"Yeah!"
"Push ups, Peter," Matt reminds, but does it while smiling.
Kid's almost obnoxious optimism is contagious like that.
He's so cheery except for when he's so not.
In true, two-faced sonuvabitch Murdock fashion.
Or at least, that's what Foggy said when he mentioned it.
Peter grumbles but struggles through his next set anyway, lungs heaving.
It's like listening to someone drown, but there's no water in his lungs. Just constriction, then seizing, then breathing. In, seize, out. 1, 2, 3.
Inhale, 1.
Seize, 2.
Exhale, 3.
Breath in, have the bag stop itself from filling, breath out.
Like broken ribs but each bone is still in place and the only thing stopping his lungs from filling all the way is themselves.
Matt wonders how they're going to get around it.
They can expand his stamina sure, but stamina means jack shit when you push your limits and can't breathe.
It's already better than it was, but, again, there's only so much they can do to push Peter's limits.
It could be worse.
It could definitely, definitely be worse.
But there's still only so much they can do.
Breathing exercises for asthma, high-in-iron foods for the anima, contacts for the near sightedness.
Problem, solution, problem, solution.
There's just only so many solutions and an ever increasing amount of problems.
Peter finishes his set with an angry bluster and kicks himself into a handstand, arms shaking under his weight.
His lungs heave, but Peter pushes through into a bridge and then into a standing position.
Foggy laughs from the side lines.
"Do a flip!" He calls, and Peter clumsily does one, laughing all the way.
And that, that's something Peter's naturally good at, gifted at.
Matt didn't have to put there, didn't have to mold an affinity for it like he did the kicks and punches.
The gymnastics of how he learned to fight, it's ready and waiting in Peter's bones.
The flipping and spinning and twisting.
His goddamn lungs don't agree, but Peter's made for the air, made for moving and jumping and leaping.
Matt can feel it.
He doesn't need to be able to see to tell that Peter's beaming despite the creak in his chest every time.
When Peter did the splits for the first time, they got okay-ish quality Chinese food and Matt bought him some plants for his room.
They made a day of it and it might've been the happiest Matt's ever seen him.
Lemongrass and cane sugar and overwhelming yellow with every word Peter had said, every excited gesture, every unnecessary cartwheel he'd done down the less busy sidewalks.
Peter's made for leaping and fighting.
His brain knows that.
It's his body that doesn't agree.
And Matt can't push him as hard as he wants to because of it.
If he does, Peter might just break.
And he would never forgive himself for that.
"Peter," Matt calls and holds out tape expectantly, "wrapping. Take a break, then I want you to do your forms. We can do acrobatics after, okay?"
Peter turns to face him and his heart beats loud in Matt's ears, a shudder and a jump, excitement making a staccato beat pound through his blood stream.
When he wraps Matt's hands, it's with an intense focus, bordering on obsessive perfection.
"It's practice, Peter," he reminds. "It doesn't have to be perfect."
Peter huffs in response. "Practice makes perfect."
And Foggy laughs from the other side of the room, the sound bouncing and painting the room in fire.
"He's got you there, Matty." Foggy hums, and he can hear the happiness, the bubbles and honey combs in his voice, and he ducks his head as he tries not to smile.
He'd missed them.
Them, as in Foggy and Matt, and not just Nelson and Murdock.
Peter makes a terrible knowing noise, and Matt knows he catches the smile.
"Stop that," he says, but he's still smiling , and Peter knows it.
He just makes a cooing noise and pats Matt's face in the most patronizing invasion of personal space possible.
"You liiiiike him," he sings, far too quiet for anybody without enhanced hearing to catch.
Matt catches it.
Obviously.
"Of course I do," he defends, not as quiet but still keeping the sound close to his chest. "He's my best friend."
There's a long silence.
Peter's pouting.
He has to be.
He sighs, and it sounds far too world weary for someone who's never left New York. "Nooo, I mean you like- like him. You loooove him." Peter croons, and he sounds absolutely beside himself with Matt's response.
"He's my best friend," he stubbornly defends against the pounding of his heart, "of course I do."
"Maaaaatt," Peter groans, "Matty-Matt-Matt you're so dumb."
No, he's smart.
They're just now finally starting to fix their bridges and he'll be damned if he fucks them up with some stupid feelings.
But of course, he isn't going to explain all of that.
Peter has yet to understand what it means to have your entire life upended, showcasing the lies you've told since childhood, and having one of your few meaningful relationships torn to itty bitty pieces like fax paper by another one of your few meaningful relationships within the time span of a single afternoon
Yet.
That's the key word there.
Yet.
Matt is… not looking forward to that inevitable time in Peter's life.
Mostly because it's partially his fault.
Which is.
Yeah.
Yikes.
"Go do your forms, hell spawn." He orders, but ruffles Peter's hair just in case to show that he isn't mad.
Peter makes the effort to hold hands over his head in what might be a heart before bouncing over to the other side of the ring and picking at Foggy's clothes.
"You should do them with me," he suggests, like he does every time. "Please, Foggy? It'll be fun."
And Foggy will heave out a long suffering sigh– yep, there it is– but get up anyway to stretch and prepare to follow Peter's movements.
And Peter, he'll do his forms even better than the last time he ran them, practice makes perfect.
But every couple of minutes, for all his confidence, he'll glance over his shoulder at Matt for approval, to make sure he's doing it right.
To make sure that Matt hasn't decided to quit on him or something, even though he promised that he never would.
He gets worried about that a lot.
Peter is terrified of crossing boundaries or annoying him, because that's just the kind of anxious person he is.
Matt, true to form, has his own special brand of mentor-mentee anxiety, in that he needs Peter to know that he's doing well and that he's fine.
If Peter doesn't know that he's doing well, that doesn't enforce his good behavior and the fact that he's doing things right.
He has to enforce the good behavior otherwise Peter won't know.
That's how training works.
You train and you practice, and if you do a good job, you eat, get praised, get rewarded.
Peter's never done anything less than his best, but he's fragile in a way that Matt never was.
Bad lungs and bad joints and bad eyes that don't have other senses to pick up the slack.
He can't push him past his limits because his limits are his breaking points.
Peter is little and small, but also ridiculously, familiarly stubborn, a spit fire with a heart too big for the rest of his body and an anger simmering in his skin.
Strong morals and strong ethics and a strong urge to fix the whole damn world when he isn't the one who broke it.
Matt hits the punching bag with maybe more force than necessary.
He can't shelter Peter forever.
Eventually, running around and doing the things Matt does, it's going to get him hurt, really, actually hurt, more than just broken noses and dislocated fingers.
It's going to be stab wounds and bullet holes and collapsed lungs, third degree burns and deafening concussions and crowbar shaped bruises across his spine.
But he can't stop Peter from doing it, can't stop him from wanting to help, from standing up for the little guy.
All Matt can do is help him the best he can, show him how to dodge and breathe and live past the hurt.
Matt can't stop Peter.
He can't even stop himself.
———
"Father," Matt starts, and then immediately stops to lick his lips and still his heart.
The lights buzz above him and the walls creak as they settle and there's a thousand different smells and sounds and tastes in the air, but it all feels very, very far away.
The cross on the wall feels like his own personal executioner, bearing down upon his shoulders with judging eyes and holy stone.
Father Lantom gestures his cup in a ‘ continue’ gesture, probably accompanied by a raised eyebrow.
It feels very, very normal.
"Yes?"
His hands tighten around his cane, and he bows his head. "Am I doing the right thing?" He asks as quietly as he can into the Church air, but it still feels as though the words ring and echo like the clock tower bells, tolling over and over across the city.
"With what?" Father Lantom probes.
Outside, music blasts from a car, the occupants laughing and singing along.
"… I met a boy during a case, and he figured out who I was." Matt pauses. "Who I am, I mean. You know. He figured it out, and asked me to teach him how to fight. To defend himself and his friends." Matt breathes in, and it shakes. "I said yes."
Father Lantom stops swishing his coffee.
"Ah," he whispers, and it echoes in the silence, impossibly loud, just like the bells.
A bakery several blocks over props open it's door and the smell of bread and chocolate and strawberries filters out into the air.
"It feels like the cycle of abuse." Matt continues. "It feels like I'm turning into Stick."
"Stick?" He says.
Matt dips his head to rest on his cane. He can't see them, but he's sure Father Lantom's eyes have found his own. "The man who trained me."
"Do you treat him, the boy, like this Stick treated you?" Father Lantom asks.
Even though it's a question, a harmless question, it stings like an accusation, burns like a court sentence, a hot iron pressed into his spine and all the scars hidden in the grooves.
Matt's head snaps up. "No, no. Never. Never." He gasps, all of the air rushing from his lungs. "Peter's… he's small. Fragile. Good. And I can see that and I don't want him to throw that away. He's a good kid, a smart kid, but it feels like… with every punch he throws, he gets more like me.
"He's a natural at it, too. He's really, really good. But it's like… it's like every second we spend together and I show him how to defend himself, the Devil in his chest gets stronger." His knuckles tighten and he's sure they're white.
Peter can't end up like him.
He can't.
"He goes out and looks for fights now, after he finishes jobs for people when he's done with school. He's got this bandana, and it's soaked with blood, I can smell it." And he can. He really, really can, and it smells like Peter's blood so strongly he wants to gag, even after it's washed. "He goes looking for fights and pulls people out, takes beatings and gives them, and it feels too damn similar for my sanity."
There's a dog out back, no collar, desperately sniffing for food and infection rolling off its shoulder.
Father Lantom doesn't even tell him to watch his language.
He's listening wholeheartedly.
"I don't want him to end up like me, Father. Which is why I ask: am I doing the right thing?"
Father Lantom eyes him for a while(he thinks), sips his coffee, and stares at the table.
"We should love all God's creatures," he starts, "or something and such, whether they're worthy of it or not. But this boy wanted to know how to hurt, albeit in the name of defending others. And he asked you to do it, to teach him.
"So, you should ask him if he believes you're doing the right thing. Not me."
"I'm not sure that's the answer I wanted, Father." Matt whispers to the leather of his cane and the hardwood floor.
Father Lantom has the audacity to snort and finish his coffee. "But it was the answer you needed, Matthew."
———
‘Multitasking’, Peter thinks, ‘ is an underrated skill.’
For example, he can in fact run from pursuers while fighting off an asthma attack and through a twisted ankle.
And, don't forget, while dragging someone with him, oh ho, next level shit right there.
Who knew?
Give this bitch a medal except, in this situation, he's this bitch, and would really just rather get out of the situation with his running partner safe and the both of them lacking a stab wound.
Because, uh.
The dude bro's?
Definitely stabby.
Possibly gun-y.
The girl next to him, she can only be older than him by maybe a year, at a stretch two, but she's pale and shaking all the same in her boots and fake varsity jacket.
She doesn't say a word and plows on, holding onto his hand in a white knuckled grip that kind of hurts.
He can't bring himself to care.
If she needs to cut crescents into his hands to keep going, then by God Peter's getting crescents in his hands.
And really, honestly, he hadn't been looking for trouble for once.
He'd just wanted to take pictures.
That was all he wanted.
But no.
Some assholes gotta fucking assult a gal just trying to go about her day, no means no , and Peter? Like hell he wasn't going to do something about it.
So he threw his stuff into his bag, tied his bandana, and darted forward, throwing gathered sand in an arc before grabbing the girl's hand and pulling her forward.
He buys them a whole thirty seconds head start from Central Park.
A whole thirty seconds to tear through the leaves and civilians, over benches and cutting straight across the green.
They don't have time for paths.
The girl has scratches on her face and blood on her knees, on her hands. Her jeans are ripped and her shoes are scuffed and the palms of her hands are torn raw.
For all that she looks terrified, she also looks horribly, horribly angry.
It's kind of admirable, really.
In movies and shows, people always get scared.
They never get angry.
Points to this gal and her well deserved, righteous fury.
Then the men shout and start to follow.
They keep on running.
Across the beaten dirt path and then the asphalt to the sidewalk, weaving upstream through the crowd, past newspaper dispensers and taxi cabs, straight into the heart of Midtown.
There's shouts as they shove back the crowd, knocking into people as they run.
It slows them down and causes congestion in the crowd, which really isn't viable long term.
Before long, they'll get caught, and it'll all be over.
So Peter turns down an alley and let's go, just long enough to make his way up to the fire escape before kicking down the ladder and helping the girl up.
They get to the roof, and they keep on running.
His lungs burn.
His ankle throbs, his throat feels cold, and every breath is a wheeze.
But he can't stop.
The adrenaline, the fear, it burns through his veins like quicksilver and it feels good.
They leap.
They land.
They run.
On and on and on, until Peter sees the crowd blooming outside of a bar and makes the executive decision to drop and hide.
One of the men chasing them yells.
He'd honestly expected them to stop, but instead, they'd split, one on the roof and one on the ground.
Smart criminals are always the worst.
They hit the ground at a stumble, and Peter has to grind his teeth together to keep down a shout of pain, a white hot jolt arcing through his ankle.
His chest rattles and feels cold.
Antarctica crawls up his throat and out his mouth.
But he can't stop.
So they push onwards, twisting through and around the crowd.
Some of the kinder patrons move to cover them.
The other don't do anything at all except shuffle out of the way.
Peter supposes that everyone knows what kids running for their lives looks like.
They keep bobbing and weaving through the crowd, and Peter isn't aware that they've crossed into Hell's Kitchen until he sees the gleaming red sign of Josie's blocks away.
But there's too much open space between here and there, and Peter won't be able to go on much longer.
He needs a break.
He needs his inhaler.
He needs help.
And then a cap's shoved onto his head and a jacket thrown over the girl's shoulders, and there's someone right behind them, picking up the rear and herding them away from the crowd.
"Pull off the bandana." Orders a voice. "You, change your hair. Walk, don't run, gait smooth. Pretend you haven't just been running. You're relaxed. No one's looking for you. Get to the street corner, and enter the building. It should still be safe."
Peter does as he's told and the girl loops her hair into a bun wordlessly.
He risks a glance.
A stern face looks back down upon him.
Close cut hair, dark eyes, severe jaw and the smallest nick in his eyebrow.
Something that might be alarm crosses his face when Peter breathes and rattles, before smoothing over.
"Asthma?" He asks and his voice is gruff with a drawl that almost sounds practiced, and Peter nods through the blizzard burning in his chest.
The girl looks over to him the moment he starts coughing, hoarse and loud, and her eyes widen.
Foggy, Karen, and May had the same rough opinion that he sounded like he was hacking up a lung.
Matt said it was a sound akin to an engine that wouldn't start, and upon further inspection, sounded like choking on air.
"Inhaler?" The man questions.
He shakes his head in a nod and paws at his bag.
Talking would be suicide.
The moment he opens his mouth to speak or inhale, it'll all be over.
The weight on his back shifts as the girl riffles through his backpack, and then his inhaler is being pushed into his hand, bright red with the wrong name highlighted in neon yellow right under the prescription and number.
He holds it like a lifeline and they turn the light stained corner.
The girl pushes the building door open and gestures for him to move.
The man glances at the street behind them one last time before ushering them through the door and shutting it with a quiet click.
It's dark, and dusty, and there's shapes cut into the floor from the dust motes, squares and circles and foot prints.
He wonders if the van parked on the curb outside is where the shape-making things went.
Then he decides he doesn't care and falls into the largest, dust-free circle, knees buckling and falling out from under him.
He exhales through his nose, through the sharp winter biting down his esophagus and into his chest, and inhales the Albuterol.
Holding his breath for ten seconds feels like the hardest thing he's ever done in his life.
The girl slumps down across from him and the men leans against the wall opposite the way they came in, eyes trained on the door.
Peter exhales and repeats.
It still doesn't feel like enough but it's all he has.
Peter exhales and doesn't cough up his lungs.
It's enough.
It's what he's got right now, and it's enough.
He swings off his backpack and digs through for an ace bandage.
The man catches the motion but doesn't say anything until Peter tugs out the rolled cloth and pushes up his pant leg.
Then he hisses and goes, "You were running on a bum ankle?"
He shrugs and when he speaks, it feels like someone took sandpaper to his throat. "Didn't have any other options. Had to get her outta there."
"Jesus," the guy swears, "you sound like shit. Fuck, do I have any water left?" And he abandons door watching to riffle through two milk crates Peter hadn't seen when he first walked in, hidden in shadow.
"You military?" He asks when the man tosses him a water and he almost fumbles the catch.
The guy raises an eyebrow that he barely sees in the dim light. "I am. How'd you guess?"
The way he says it though, it's not like he's actually asking for an answer.
Peter gives him one anyway.
"Hair cut," he starts, and cracks the bottle cap off. "Boots you got, stance, your trigger finger twitches, the way you watch the door and keep your back facing away from the open. JB acts the same, and he was in the army."
The man stares at him, and it feels calculating.
Appraising.
Evaluating.
"Marine," he finally says, and slowly crouches down to hand the girl a water bottle.
She takes it with shaking and angry hands.
She still hasn't spoken.
He can see the look in her eyes, behind the fear and anger, and it makes something in his chest feel twisted and sick.
He knows that look.
He knows that look because he's seen it on Matt's face and his own.
"Something like that almost happened to me," Peter croaks, and the girl looks at him sharply. "He didn't get anywhere, because I broke his nose and elbowed him hard enough to crack some ribs, but it was still really scary. It's still really scary."
Military's expression is that of a carefully controlled kind of rage.
Another look he's seen on Matt's face.
"What happened to him?" The girl whispers, and it's the first time she's spoken the entire time they've been together.
Peter rests his cheek on his knees and smiles with all his teeth.
"Daredevil got him two days later and threw him to the police, where he then confessed, and is now facing life in prison." He chirps, and the satisfaction in his chest feels mean.
All he can think is good.
"The cops and the Devil can't get everyone, but they compensate for each other in some areas enough to pick up the slack." He shrugs. "For everything else, it's kind of a situation where you gotta save yourself."
"Pieces of shit like that don't deserve prison," Military growls.
The girl nods viciously.
Peter shuffles his grip around his knees and shrugs again.
"Maybe not. That's not up to me to decide, though. People like that don't really change, and like, statistically? It's unlikely they'll survive prison at all, but, you know, that's the consequences of their actions and stuff."
Military stares at him, and it's just like the first time.
Appraising and evaluating.
Then they all go still as shadows walk past the covered windows.
Military sighs once the shadows have been gone for at least five minutes, and drags a hand down his face.
Then he gets up, pulls the girl up, and holds out a hand for Peter.
"You good, kid?"
"I'm okay," he replies, and takes the hand offered.
"Good enough." Military says, and cracks his knuckles. "Let's get you two kids home."
And it sounds…
Nostalgic.
The painful kind of nostalgic.
Like Bucky and his photos and Matt and his dad's boxing stuff and Ben and his grandfather's camera.
Like longing for something that you've lost.
Peter wonders, in the smallest part of his mind, what happened to Military's kids.
In an even smaller part, he wonders if that's why he carries a gun.
He doesn't ask, though.
He has more tact than that.
Instead, he rocks on the balls of his feet and tries to further warm the Siberian winter rattling in his chest.
Military catches them a cab and rides with them to both of their stops, tossing the girl some definitely illegal brass knuckles as she trudges towards a high rise.
When they get to Peter's apartment, he pauses before getting out, and hugs him.
Military goes stiff under his touch, but hesitantly reaches back for at least five seconds, which Peter decides to count as a win.
He smells like gun oil.
Peter slips out of the cab, but before Military can shut the door, he grabs it.
"Thanks, for all your help." He says, and tugs off the cap he'd forgotten he was wearing.
When he holds it out, Military stops him.
"Keep it, kid." He orders, and his eyes look like bad memories and that bitter nostalgia.
Peter pulls it back close to his chest.
"Thanks, Mr…"
Military eyes him for a second before sighing.
It sounds kind of like May's fond indulgence.
"Castle," he says.
And Peter smiles.
"Thanks, Mr. Castle."
———
Peter's first instinct, apparently, when grabbed from behind is to throw back his elbow and snarl like a beast.
Flash narrowly misses a broken nose and scrambles back, eyes wide, jab cut short.
Ned hadn't known Peter's face could do that.
Could look so vicious and angry.
And the thing about it that really makes it scary, it isn't the teeth and venom and rage, it's the fact that he knows how to make that face at all.
The fact that it's his new instinctual reaction.
Because Ned knows for sure it hasn't always been that.
Peter, he's the kind of guy that cringes away but bears it.
He doesn't immediately rise to his own defense.
He takes it so someone else doesn't have to.
Michelle, for all that she hasn't been acquaintances with them for long – because she refuses to call them friends – seems to realize that to.
Peter's snarl almost immediately drops as soon as he catches eyes with who touched him. He goes lax and his arms drop, one hand coming up to push his glasses back from where they'd slid down.
Like a guard dog in movies that snarls and snaps until the human guard pets it on the head and it goes all puppy and docile.
Like Toothless from How to Train Your Dragon.
It almost gives Ned whiplash.
"Flash," Peter says, completely normal like he hadn't just put the fear of God in several people, "please don't touch me. Thanks. What do you want?"
Flash stares at him with those wide, wide eyes and doesn't say anything for a long moment.
It kind of occured to Ned that Flash has known Peter for longer than them, even if he didn't really deserve the privilege of it.
What's it like to have someone you grew up with bare their teeth at you like you're the enemy?
Then–
"Uh, Mrs. Thacker wants to– wants to talk to you."
Peter tilts his head, that new way he's been doing for reasons unknown, and hums. "Oh. Okay. Thanks, Flash."
And he pats him on the shoulder as he passes.
Flash mumbles out a dazed 'you're welcome' before leaving.
And then there were two.
Well, two of them anyway.
Hallways are never empty man.
"So," Michelle starts, "the fuck is up with your boy?"
"I hope you realise how weird it sounds when you swear. We're like… babies, Michelle. And he's your boy too now."
"We're twelve. I'm gonna swear. Regardless, our boy. The fuck?"
Ned shrugs. "I dunno. He's been acting weird since that court case, but he's not like, hurting anyone. Actively. On purpose."
"Sure he is," Michelle wrinkles her nose skeptically, voice slow, "but if not, defendant, why are his knuckles bloodied to shit?"
What?
"What?"
"His knuckles," Michelle repeats slowly as they sink back towards the relative safety of the wall, "they're always scabbing, loser. They're scarring, he's fucked them up so often. You get bloody knuckles by beating the shit outta people. Use your brain, Leeds."
Use his brain?
Okay, okay, use his brain.
Bloody knuckles.
Bloody knuckles and white tape in Peter's bag.
Bloody knuckles and white tape and a piece of scrap leather in Peter's room filled with rows of stitches.
Bloody knuckles and white tape and stitched leather and a first aid kit tucked into Peter's backpack.
Bloody knuckles and white tape and leather stitches and a first aid kit and oh shit Peter's getting into fights.
Michelle pats his back. "There it is."
"Oh my god but Peter has asthma."
"Isn't stopping him, apparently."
"May and Ben probably don't know."
"Very likely. His uncle's a cop right? They probably don't know."
"What if he gets hurt??"
"Consider this: he probably already has, and doesn't care."
"He's been practicing stitches, Michelle, stitches. Do you think he got stabbed?!"
"Probably just getting ahead of the game. I don't think he's been stabbed."
Then, the worst realization of all hits him.
"Peter been lying to us for months and I didn't notice."
Michelle's mouth turns into a flattened, uncomfortable line. "Don't feel too bad, Leeds. I only had suspicions until just now, and you're not the kind of guy to suspect his best friend of anything. Or something like that. And besides, Parker's the dumb heroic type. He probably just didn't want us getting involved in whatever shit he's involved in."
"We're friends though!" Ned hisses. "Friends are supposed to get involved in your stuff! They don't lie to each other, convincingly, for months!"
Michelle carefully grabs his elbow, and drags his arm down.
"Have you considered," she says, voice low and steady, "that maybe he has a good reason? You remember when Fisk got arrested? And he cried for five minutes?"
Ned nods slowly. "Yeah. Yeah, I remember. It was really weird. He wasn't at school the next day. May said he was sick."
"Good boy. You remember how he went to two funerals in two weeks? Right after school, not a word to anybody?"
"Mhmm." Ned feels increasingly small with every word Michelle says. "Ben didn't know where he was the first time, and neither did May until he showed up back at their apartment in a suit. I didn't even know he had a suit."
"And, you remembered how he was napping on the couch while we did homework, and he woke up screaming without a sound?"
Michelle's gaze bores into him with the weight of a thousand suns.
Ned remembers.
He remembers because he was terrified.
And Peter had brushed them off, had said something about his parents' plane crash, and Ned had believed him even though Peter barely remembered his mom and dad.
He had May and Ben, he'd always said.
They were enough.
Ned feels unsteady where he stands, and nods.
Michelle's grip on his arms tightened.
"Something's bit Parker, metaphorical or otherwise, and he's learned something that's freaked him the fuck out. Something that's made him afraid, that's given him nightmares and funerals and bloody knuckles." The weight in her eyes is heavy, and the proximity makes Ned wheeze for air. "Maybe we should consider, even if we think it's dumb, that Peter's keeping secrets for a good reason."
"What do you think he's so afraid of?" Ned asks quietly.
Michelle looks grim. "I think he's afraid of more bodies in the ground. Maybe those funerals, maybe that's what happens to people that get involved."
Ned feels kind of sick.
"Oh," is all he manages to say.
She just nods.
"That's all the emotions I think I can stomach today, so let's just… I dunno, be there for him or something. He'll tell us when he's ready or on complete accident anyway."
"You think so?"
"A good liar, he is. A sneaky bastard, he is not."
"Was that Star Wars, Michelle?"
"Not everything is Star Wars, Leeds."
"Stars Wars?" Peter chirps, and Ned almost screams because he had not heard or seen him.
He mugs at Michelle. A sneaky bastard, he is not????
"I was saying not everything is Star Wars, Parker." She explains, hands tight around her messenger bag strap.
Peter nods solemnly. "You're right. Not everything is Star Wars. Everything is Star gate."
G a s p.
Peter, you traitor.
"Incorrect." Michelle intones.
"Peter, I can't believe you've betrayed me like this!" Ned gasps.
He is completely unrepentant, and Ned tries to push scabbed knuckles and lying mouths out of his head.
It works about 60% less than he'd been hoping it would.
"I've been watching them with Foggy and they're so good." Peter gushes, hands flying, and all Ned can think is ‘ Who's Foggy?’. "Captain Carter is so smart and Doctor Jackson has worse luck than I do and he's so tragic. Teal'c, he's like, so pretty, his eye shadow is on point and O'Neill, he's played by the same guy as MacGyver and he's a tough Air Force guy without being a jerk."
"You have an unreasonable amount of feelings about this," Michelle says.
"They reuse their science, guys. They don't forget about it, they reuse it." He stresses. "Star Wars is a cinematic masterpiece with cultural influence, but Stargate is the kind of stuff that forms your life. It has ten seasons. Ten. That's how good it was."
"Ten?"
"And a companion series!" Peter squawks. "That they filmed at the same time they were making SG1!"
Ned concedes.
That's kind of impressive.
And then Ned has to ruin it because he has to.
"Hey, you know you can, like… come to us if you ever need anything, right?"
And Peter looks back at him and–
Ned hates it.
Because Peter looks soft and grateful, but now that he's looking for it, he can see how torn his hands are, how he's keeping his right side from being exposed, how he holds himself like he's ready to defend.
Ned can see how Peter looks at him, at Michelle, and can watch the play by play of Peter's eyes going that's so sweet to I'm never going to tell you.
Peter smiles, and ducks his head.
"I know," he says, warm and bright, "I will."
But now Ned knows that for what it is.
It's not reassuring.
It's not a promise.
It's a lie.