Chapter Text
“That, really hurts.” Antiseptic sweeps across the cut, cotton doused in povidone-iodine doing wonders to keep the wound and its surrounding skin from getting any worse. How Matt has hospital grade equipment is beyond him—he either has friends in the right places or a criminal record beyond their shared record. Peter assumes a friend. Maybe the pretty girl he’s seen with Cage, she’s been mentioned on more than one occasion. Claire? Claire, yeah.
“I’m sure you’ve had worse.”
Alright, well, that’s true. “Doesn’t mean it’s painless.” Peter rolls his shoulder, opening his eyes to peer at the damage at the top of his arm.
There’s a knowing hum that follows, the sound of Matt’s leather suit filling the room as he rises from his seat, putting the remnants of the first aid kit up onto the tabletop. Peter’s happy to realise that he has no need for sutures, that would be even worse. The metaphorical cherry on top. Doesn’t matter how many stitches he gets; the feeling remains unpleasant. He does a full roll of his shoulder once more before letting it rest, leaning back into the corduroy armchair and letting out a content sigh as his body takes over the rest of the work.
The Devil isn’t chatty tonight, huh. Or so he thinks. It’s a challenge.
He’d insisted on dealing with Peter’s injury before his own despite knowing he’s the one with a nifty healing factor. No amount of arguing was going to change that, tonight. So, he keeps to himself as Matt tends to his own wounds, watching through lidded eyes as he begins by replacing the latex gloves covering his hands.
“Your new samurai friend should audition for a Power Rangers movie,” Peter says, letting his head fall against the back of the chair’s cushion. It’s a soothing pressure against his neck, pressing precisely against the little bundle of muscles that wind up tense after a well-fought battle. “I really think he’d get the part. Wouldn’t even need a stunt double. Could be famous for doing his own tricks.”
Matt laughs through gritted teeth as he pulls a curved needle through the slash on his thigh. Peter can hear the tilt of his head in the Devil’s mask as he prepares to speak—a common indication, he’s been around long enough to catch onto these things.
“Just missing the obscene number of explosions. You know, the one’s that cool guys don’t look back on.”
“Yeah, but he’d totally look back.” Peter corrects as Matt covers the cut with gauze. Voice filled with a stern confidence.
“You think?”
“Definitely. He spends his weekends fighting men in skin-tight costumes. Super uncool.” He’s happy to hear that elicit a laugh from Matt.
Exhaustion starts to seep in the longer he stays sat, eyes flickering closed in the quiet that follows.
Rain patters against the ornate windows, refracting the colourful beads of light about the room. Peter would admire it if his eyes were open, make some kind of comment about how the painted-concrete walls resemble stained glass—fitting for present company. But instead, he stays as he is, listening to both the steady downpour and the shifting of floorboards as Daredevil carries himself to the bathroom.
He can hear a cabinet open, a pill bottle rattle and the faucet run for no more than a few seconds.
He half considers asking for painkillers himself with the way his ribs throb. But man, he’s comfortable where he’s sat. Whatever Nelson and Murdock get from their settlements was enough to get a comfy ass armchair. Peter would consider taking one if Matt would let him, hell knows it’s nicer than what’s at his place. He’s almost criminally unattached to his furniture.
He cuts off the thought as Matt leaves the bathroom. He’d think it were someone else if not for the off-beat sound of steps, a new limp, courtesy of their samurai buddy.
A damp washcloth is dropped over his face, cold in comparison to the warmth of Matt’s apartment. It’s always warm here, he thinks. It’s nice, reminds him of May’s. No matter their circumstance, that blessing of a woman always found a way to keep the heating on. She made a point to save money throughout the year to do so. And if there were certain things they went without because of it, she never once complained.
“Mean, double-dee. Really mean.” Peter mumbles as it hits his face, voice muffled by the fabric. He reaches a hand up (the one attached to his uninjured arm) and pulls it away from his face. The mask follows.
“You’ll survive, Pete. Clean your face.”
He does. Pulling the warm washcloth across his skin in circular motions. It comes back dirtied. A mixture of dirt, blood and grit. Peter grimaces, realising that if that was from his face, then the mask won’t be much better. Through the wash it would go. He doesn’t even entertain the amount of stitching it’s due. Couldn’t crooks go back to using their fists? Or anything weaponry that keeps the latex from splitting at the earliest opportunity.
Good thing he knows how to repair his shit. Taking the suit to a seamstress would be the fastest way to get the word around. Can’t exactly say he’s Spider-Man’s dry cleaner.
Well, he could. It’d be amusing if it weren’t so risky.
Whilst Peter’s lost in thought, Matt begins pulling at numerous straps. Belts and buckles of the suit. Starting from the bottom and working his way up. Peter shifts his shoulder again, trying to ignore the itching feeling creeping beneath his skin as it meshes itself back together. Awful.
“Peter, Bug, stop rolling your shoulder.” He can hear the minute tear of skin each time he does, reopening the healing wound with each movement. It’s hardly a problem for Peter, it’ll still scab over and be nothing more than a memory in a few days. His partner mutters a quiet apology, agreeing to keep from doing so. The washcloth is thrown in his direction—caught without the bat of an eyelid. Matt turns his attention to Peter.
Now, he can’t make out his expression. But if he had to bet, there would be an amused grin tugging at his lips.
Matt tosses it back with a content breath. He uses both feet to kick off his combat boots, followed promptly by the devil’s mask. One abandoned by the coffee table and the other on the floor beside it. He brings a hand up to scratch the bridge of his nose, bringing his brows together a few times to ease out the ident lines where it’s been snug against his skin. He trails a hand along the worn leather of the couch, taking the space directly opposite Peter and sinking into it with a relieved sigh. He mirrors the previous actions of his counterpart and rests his head against the back of the cushion.
The silence lasts a whole five minutes, just long enough for the pain relief to kick in. Soothing the bruises blossoming beneath his skin, and the rising headache behind his eyes.
“Can I stay?” Peter asks.
“I was under the assumption you were going to anyway.” Matt doesn’t raise his head to answer.
“I’ll bleed on your sheets. Get ‘em all gross.”
“I have more than one set of sheets, Pete.” His point still stands. “Can wrap you up with gauze if you’re worried.” It’s a good idea, it would keep him from soaking the linen crimson. Not that his injury was bleeding badly now anyway, it's weeping instead. Barely beading at the surface. Besides, it’s not the first time he’s bled on Matt’s sheets. Though, not under the same circumstances. It's not something that bothers Matt, he’s ruined enough bedsheets to last a lifetime. Thankful once more for the present-day uses of the internet. If he had to keep walking into the same home-store every other week, he’s sure it’d look questionable. And quite frankly it’s not a conversation he’d be eager to have, any excuses that come to mind are just... foul, admittedly.
Matt reaches a hand up and runs two fingers beneath the neckline of his suit. At the back, he lifts his head forward before pushing down the start of a zip. Meanwhile, the downpour outside only worsens.
They should really head to bed.
Peter has the same thought. Matt can hear him raise from the corduroy chair, the floorboards creak with the shift in weight. “Up, Hornhead. Bedtime.” The words are accompanied by a ‘thwip’ of webbing, hitting the suit’s breastplate and giving a tug. He’s guided upward with the pull, a symphony of agreement pouring from his mouth as he paces forward. The web slinger is already halfway to the bedroom by the time he’s taken a few steps. Shrugging the red and blue off his shoulders.
Matt continues to pull at the zipper at his back. Following Peter’s actions. Both suits discarded to the bedroom floor, Matt switches off his alarm and climbs into bed where Peters settled. He shuffles forward until his chest is pressed firm against Peter’s back, pressing a fond kiss to the space between Peter’s shoulder blades before resting his head down on the pillow.
“You know, I wasn’t joking about that power rangers audition, he really should go for it.” Peter whispers.
“Goodnight, Bug.” Matt whispers back, a smile on his lips.