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I hate the cold.
Peter swings through the city, shivering as he does.
If there was one thing that he missed about the Stark suit, it was the heating– the suit that he painstakingly put together in the aftermath of his life being destroyed being many things but nicely insulated not being one of them.
There were a lot of benefits to his new suit, stitched together with his own two hands– memories and lessons from a woman who would forever be the compass that Peter modeled his life after. It was his , free from any overarching expectations or any attachment to a life that isn’t his anymore– free from the constant reminders of all that he’s lost and he’ll never have again.
The cold though, thin as this suit material was, was something that he couldn’t get away from.
The only way to be rid of how cold it is was through constant movement, Peter sending out another web to propel him forward.
He needed to get out of this weather, the whispers that he’d heard of a snow storm and the less than ideal heating situation he has back at his apartment being all the motivator he needs to keep moving.
Peter’s mind goes back to last winter after they’d all come back– May’s insistence that he wear a coat even over the suit that he struggled to put on even then coming back to him.
“I have super healing, May,” he’d said with a laugh as he helped her move the couch around. “I don’t think I can even get colds anymore.”
“Let’s not test that,” she’d said with a frown, rummaging around one of their many boxes to look for a parka that had been oversized for him even when they’d bought it a few years ago. “Bundle up.”
He’d laughed at the time, rolling his eyes and joking with her like he always did. It’s a memory that he would give almost anything to go back to now– a twist in his gut at the reminder of how simple his life had been then even if he never would have thought that at the time.
Maybe that’s what kept him distracted as he swung forward, hearing the sound of a scuffle that grabs his attention.
The instinct to get out of this weather is pushed aside for the instinct to help – doing an about face turn and heading towards the sound of some people fighting.
“You said you’d have the money.”
“I say a lot of things, Joey,” someone replies, sounding scared as Peter gets closer. “Come on, man. You know better than to believe me.”
“Boss ain’t gonna like that,” the first guy says, Peter seeing the flash of a knife that he immediately swings forward to grab– webbing it out of the hand and swinging in the opposite direction.
“Whoa there, what boss you working for that gives you something like this?” Peter asks, sticking to the wall above the two. “Your boss cheap or something?”
“What?” The voice of the first guy says, hands still ensnared about the collar of the second. They’re hidden in a back alley– why is it always a back alley? – Peter brandishing the cheaply made weapon in his hand.
“This is old school, my man. Haven’t seen one of these in a while,” Peter says as he whistles, examining the knife before lifting his other hand from the wall– sending a web towards the guy currently intimidating the other. It lands on his shoulder then swings him back to the opposite side of the wall, Peter easily unsticking and landing beside the second guy who looks at him in shock.
“Your boss into antiques or something?”
“You’re gonna pay for that Spider-Man!” The first guy yells before Peter sends another web over his mouth, twisting around the knife with his free hand.
“Yeah, yeah, that’s what they all say,” Peter quips.
Maybe it’s because he was lost in a memory of May, maybe it’s because he’s distracted by the intricate design on the knife, or maybe it’s because it’s so damn cold that Peter’s not really seeing straight– his senses screaming at him a beat too late as he feels hot-white pain in his side before shifting out of the way, immediately sending a web to the second guy who–
“Did you just fucking stab me? After I saved you?” Peter asks as he winces, putting a hand to his side. He’s glad his instincts, while a little too fucking slow, still managed to web the second guy’s hand to the wall– seeing the sneer on his face.
“I ain’t no friend of Spider-Man,” he jeers, Peter rolling his eyes under his mask before throwing the knife out of his hand and out of the way– sending a web out to the second guy’s other hand.
“Yeah, whatever,” he says with a grimace, limping as he glances around the alleyway. “Anything else I need to watch out for?”
It’s then, and only then, that he realizes that they’re not alone in the alleyway– hearing the scuffle of those coming forward.
“Great. Just great, you know,” Peter says as his eyes start to adjust to the darkness and he sees a group of minions as he would best call them. “Here I thought I’d be able to call it an early night, get in before the storm gets bad.”
He sees the weapons in their hands now, sighing at how fucking cartoony it all felt as he shoots a web to the knife wound in his side.
“Alright then,” he says, trying to stand up a little straighter. “Let’s get this over with.”
It’s not one of Peter’s better fights, if he’s honest with himself.
Call it the weather, the ever present reminder of May and what he’s lost or maybe just the stab wound in his side but Peter’s messier than he normally is– sloppy. He doesn’t pull as many of his punches and he doesn’t always miss them, his senses throwing themselves out of sync in a way that reminds him of those first few months after the Blip.
He muddles through, the best he can– chest heaving from the effort as he looks around the alley. Everyone’s still alive, breathing at least as he pulls his aching body away from the last person he’d webbed down, wincing at the pain in his side as he limps away.
“The fuck kind of… shit is this,” he says as he sends a web up, swinging himself out of the alley and straight into the promised blizzard.
“Shit,” he says under his breath, the storm coming down hard and heavy as he tries to swing forward through it. He’s lived through his number of snowstorms but this is something else entirely, a mixture of things clouding his mind just as the snow clouds his visions as he swings.
He narrowly avoids hitting a water tower, only to nick his foot right on the edge of a billboard– the sharp shift in momentum causing him to go tumbling down as he sends out a few webs to try and break his fall.
Peter falls face down into the pavement of a building, the shock of it more disorienting than the pain of it as he winces.
“Fuck ,” he says, feeling the snow that’s already accumulated atop the rooftop start to seep through his suit– wet and uncomfortably so as he hisses.
Not water , he thinks to himself– dizzy and blinking a few times underneath his mask as he looks down to his side.
The web that he’d sent to keep the knife wound to his side is gone now, a fuzzy memory of getting slashed right at that same point by some brutish looking guy coming back to memory as he shifts.
He’s able to make it up to all fours, taking a beat to catch his breath before attempting to force himself up. There’s a moment there that he wonders just how worth it is, a fleeting, shameful thought that wears him down as another wind gust from the storm crowds around him.
There’s no one waiting for him at his tiny little apartment, no one expecting him or looking for him. Peter knows that it’s still worth it, knows that this isn’t the way it should end for him– knows that May Parker died for more than for him to give up on a cold and lonely rooftop.
He knows all these things and yet Peter feels so tired , weighed down by more than just the cold as he slowly moves so that he’s flat on his back– staring up at the sky.
The blizzard is going at full force now, Peter barely being able to see his own hand out in front of him as he stares– the cold and the wet seeping through his suit just as the blood from his knife wound does.
He should move, should keep going, fight his way back home.
I don’t have a home anymore , he thinks to himself– woozy as his vision starts to darken.
He should move.
He should get up.
Peter’s eyes flutter under his mask.
Maybe in a few minutes.
It’s not like anyone was waiting for him anyway.
Peter comes to with a start, heart seizing in his chest as his eyes snap open.
He’s not on the rooftop anymore but he’s not at home– looking up and seeing a dark ceiling, barely lit except for the moonlight.
“Good. You’re not dead,” a familiar voice says– something that just makes Peter’s heart rate continue to race.
He knows that voice, vague memories that remind him of a time and a life that wasn’t his anymore.
Peter takes a deep breath, working to calm himself as he sits up. He winces as he does, feeling a tenderness on his side.
“I wouldn’t move too much,” the voice says, Peter’s gaze shifting from his side towards the other side of the room– blinking a few times to try and focus in on who it is, only to frown when he sees who steps into the moonlight.
Daredevil.
Peter stares, frowning as he looks at him up and down.
That voice– it was familiar, a memory rooting around in the back of his mind that tells him that he knows him even if Peter knows he doesn’t. He’s never met Daredevil on patrol despite the stories he’s heard– the few blocks that Daredevil handled being the few blocks Peter left mostly alone.
Tonight being an exception, though not of his own choice.
“I was going to give you stitches,” Daredevil says, Peter’s eyes widening when the memory finally clicks . “But you seemed to heal just fine without them.”
“Yeah,” Peter says, bringing a hand up to his face and finding that his mask was still on– feeling a little ridiculous for wondering as much since the person in front of him was–
There’s no way , he thinks– shaking that away as he works to sit up.
“Didn’t take you for someone to get involved with the Maggia,” Daredevil says– the memory of who that voice belongs to conflicting with the reality of who is standing in front of him.
It’s not possible. This can’t be possible, Peter thinks as he gingerly shifts his position so that his feet are planted on the floor, wincing slightly as the wound in his side twinges from the movement.
“I wasn’t planning on it,” Peter says, glancing out the window and seeing the previous blizzard long having passed now for a steady snowfall. “Got in a little over my head.”
Daredevil– Matt, this is Matt Murdock, Peter thinks to himself even if it feels impossible– laughs under his breath, Peter’s gaze shifting back to him as he takes him in.
He’s heard about Daredevil, off and on– seen the aftermath of what he’s done throughout Hell’s Kitchen. What Peter doesn’t understand is how Daredevil could possibly be the same man who helped clear his name a few months ago.
Maybe time to recheck my biases , Peter thinks to himself– still feeling bewildered from the cold or maybe from the man standing in front of him.
“Spider-Man’s self aware. Never would’ve guessed it,” he says, the smile just confirming for Peter something that he knows to be true no matter how much he wants to dismiss it. “You have a habit of getting yourself into trouble you can’t get out of.”
It’s not said as a question but Peter takes it as such, shrugging only to cringe when he remembers that Daredevil– Matt – won’t be able to see it.
“I don’t look for it. Trouble just seems to find me,” he says, glancing around the room that they’re in.
It’s an apartment, dark and yet remarkably clean– frowning as he wonders just how Matt was able to get him off of that rooftop and here. He wasn’t really light , even if meals had been kind of touch and go lately.
“Next time trouble finds you,” Matt says, Peter glancing back over to him, “maybe try and get out from under the weather?”
It’s Peter’s turn to laugh, smirking as he goes to stand. “I’ll keep that in mind for next time.”
He slowly moves, testing out how he feels. There’s a pain in his side still, but he’s eager to get out– eager to get away from Matt solely because the knowledge that this is a person he knows from his old life is a little too much for him to handle right now.
Not when it’s yet another reminder of all that he’s lost, thinking of the way May had looked when she mentioned a lawyer friend of hers.
“Thanks,” Peter says as rights himself, seeing Matt press his lips together. “Dying of a frostbite is a hell of a way to go.”
“Storm’s not quite passed,” Matt says as Peter makes his way to the window, though he does nothing to stop him from leaving.
“Good enough,” Peter says, eager to get out and get back to his apartment– get away from another living reminder of a life that wasn’t his anymore. “See you around, red.”
Matt laughs, or something similar as Peter opens the window– sending out a web and swinging off into the night before he can say anything more.
Peter swings, the pain in his side feeling like it’s set aflame but it compares little to the feeling in the middle of his chest– desperate to get away from it and the ghost of the woman who made him feel this way.
Peter sighs as he gets out of the shower, the lukewarm shower that he took doing very little to help calm the unsettled feeling in his chest.
He dries himself off, wet hair that’s grown a little too long now sticking to the nape of his neck as he rummages around for some clean clothes– grabbing the first pair of sweatpants that he could find. He roots around for a sweater, the heat kicking on with a rattle and a wheeze that tells Peter that it’ll crap out in the middle of the night.
His hand freezes when he sees the one in his hand, the words Midtown emblazoned over the front causing his breath to hitch.
Was there ever going to be a moment in his life where his past didn’t come back to haunt him? Would there ever be a moment where he wasn’t reminded of all the things he couldn’t have anymore or the home he’d never have?
It was almost too much to bear, almost before he grits his teeth– closing his eyes and taking in a deep breath.
He exhales slowly, grounding himself not in the ghosts of his past but in the present as he slips the sweater over his head– shaking some of the water off of his hair as he does.
That’s all it was, ghosts and remnants of his past– the irony that this was the second time that Matt Murdock had saved him hitting him like the brick that had flown through his window all those months ago.
He wonders now, as he shuffles over to his bed– the night finally beginning to weigh on him– if May knew that Matt was Daredevil. There was a part of him that thought she didn’t, even if there was nothing there that could convince him of that. It wasn’t as if he had pressed when May mentioned that she knew of a lawyer that could help, a handwave of knowing him from FEAST being all the explanation Peter needed at the time.
Maybe she knew , he thinks to himself as he gingerly slides underneath his covers– the thin layer of the blanket not comparing to the weight of exhaustion that envelops him as his head hits the pillow.
He’d never have the chance to find out now, just as Peter thinks that he wouldn’t find out from Matt himself as he looks out to the windows of his apartment– the snow still steadily falling outside.
There was so much he’d never get to ask her now– so much that he would never know, as much as he desperately wanted to.
He feels it, tight and contained in his chest before he slowly exhales and lets it go– a melancholy that drapes over him just as easily as the exhaustion does.
I miss you, he thinks as his eyes begin to close– bringing the blanket around him tighter.
He missed her so much some days that it hurts, missed her so much that it felt like he couldn’t breathe. Yet the coincidence of Matt Murdock– of Daredevil– finding him tonight feels like she was looking out for him, a feeling that Peter can’t explain and yet finds some odd comfort in.
Peter didn’t know if he believed in an afterlife or in the ones that he loved watching out for him, not when he’s lost so much and so many people.
Not when the reason half of them are dead is because of him.
He tries to hold onto that comfort anyway, holding on to that memory and to that feeling as exhaustion slowly drags him under– one voice in the back of his mind whispering to him as he drifts to sleep.
It’s just me and you.