Chapter Text
Gang activity had never really been in Peter’s wheelhouse. Sure, he’d taken down low-level supervillains, fought a purple alien, and met versions of himself from different universes, but that was all different. Those were superhero things, and gangs and mafias were taken down by vigilantes, not superheroes.
But Peter wasn’t sure what he was classified as anymore. Tony had unofficially made him an official Avenger but then Tony had died, so he wasn’t sure if that still counted. Then Nick Fury had asked for Peter’s help but Peter had proceeded to just make the whole situation worse by gifting Beck priceless Stark tech.
There was also the fact that since everyone had forgotten him, Peter technically didn’t exist anymore which made it hard for anyone at SHIELD to get in touch with him.
But Peter didn’t feel the need for a label. He was just… your friendly, neighborhood Spider-Man. If he saw that someone needed help, he helped them. It was that simple.
(There was also the fact that Peter didn’t feel like he could call himself a hero anymore since he kept screwing everything up, but he tried not to think about that.)
Peter had generally always managed to avoid the darker, angstier side of vigilantism that people like Daredevil usually dealt with, but for some reason this time was different.
Someone needed help, so Peter would help them. It was that simple.
(There weren’t any underlying motives, Peter kept assuring himself. His recent recklessness wasn’t because of his sharp, overwhelming grief for May. It wasn’t because when he left that coffee shop two weeks ago calling ‘see you around’ to MJ, he knew he wouldn’t be seeing her ever again. It wasn’t because Peter had lost the only best friend he’d ever had. It wasn’t because seeing May’s grave next to Ben’s made old grief resurface.)
Peter had been making his usual rounds of Queens, petting dogs, giving directions to lost old ladies, and stopping the occasional mugging when he heard a high-pitched scream a few blocks down accompanied by his spidey sense whispering of danger.
“Welp, that’s my cue,” Peter said to the man whose dog he was petting and launched himself up with his web shooters. He flew through the air and landed lithely on a rooftop, peering over the edge to see a man dressed in dark clothing holding a long, silver knife tight in his grip. He was pursuing a young woman, who was trying to back away, holding what looked like a small can of pepper spray.
Peter jumped off the roof and landed with a thud in the alleyway below. The sound caused the two to startle, the woman letting out a small gasp of surprise and the man turning on his heels to face Peter.
“Hey, man,” Peter said, leaning against the wall behind him casually. The man threw a sloppy and reflexive punch which Peter easily dodged and followed with a fist to the man’s jaw. The man grunted and spit out the blood from his mouth, his eyes glinting dangerously as he regained his composure.
The man raised his knife and slashed it in a downward motion, aiming for Peter’s chest, who grabbed the man’s wrist before the blade could reach its target and wrestled the knife out of the man’s grasp. It clattered to the ground, the sound of metal on concrete echoing against the brick walls.
“Woah. Let’s not get stabby,” Peter said in a mocking voice before punching him in the gut. The man doubled over and before he could even finish straightening up his face was met with an excessive amount of pepper spray.
“Gah!” The man cried out, bringing his hands to his face, trying to rub it off. He fell to his knees and continued crying out from the burning pain in his eyes.
Peter looked up to see the woman holding her pepper spray bottle so tight in her hand that her knuckles were starting to turn white; she looked shocked and she was panting hard. She seemed to be in her twenties and had long, blonde hair.
“Nice one,” Peter complimented before webbing the man securely. “Direct hit.”
“Yeah, well, I’ve had practice,” The woman said.
“That’s New York City crime for ya. Are you okay?”
“Yeah, yeah. I’m—I’m fine.”
“Good,” Peter said, before dragging the man (who was still groaning) over to sit against the wall and writing a note to leave next to him for the police. Peter then called 911, leaving an anonymous tip about a man with a knife who had tried to assault a woman.
The woman, in question, was still standing in the alley, watching Peter, which he found strange but his Spidey-sense didn’t sense anything dangerous about her so he let her be.
“Well, take care,” Peter told her, saluting before starting to climb the alley wall behind him with his sticky spider grip.
“Spider-Man! Wait!” She called after him.
Peter stopped where he was a dozen feet up the wall and turned back to look at her.
“You sure you're okay?” He asked.
“Yeah. I just, I’m not supposed to be over here, but… I heard about something.”
“What kind of something? Because the way you say that makes me think it’s the bad kind,” Peter said.
“They took hostages. At least three, probably more.”
“...Who did?” Peter asked.
“I’m not sure. But you have to stop them. I don’t know who else to tell,” The woman said.
“Maybe try the police?” Peter supplied innocently.
“I can’t. This is something…bigger than the police.”
“What do you mean?” Peter asked, his eyebrows furrowing in thought. The more the woman said, the louder and louder his spidey sense buzzed in the back of his mind.
“There’s something not right about any of this. I can feel it.”
Peter, although knowing almost nothing about the situation, privately agreed.
“About any of what?” He asked.
“It's a long story. But you have to help, please. I would, but pepper spray can only do so much.”
“Alright,” he said. “Do you know where they took the hostages?”
“I don’t know for sure, but I heard someone mention a spot just south of the Lincoln Tunnel in Hell’s Kitchen. I followed one of the guys who was talking about it and, well,” the woman gestured to the man secured in webs a few yards away.
“Hell’s kitchen? Shouldn’t that devil guy be handling that?”
The woman looked up at him in confusion.
“Haven’t you heard? Daredevil’s been missing for two months.”
Peter stared at her, dumbfounded, but the sound of sirens coming their way startled him. Peter dropped back down to the alley floor next to the woman.
“What’s your name?” He asked her.
“Karen,” She responded, taken aback.
“Hi, Karen. Nice to meet you, I’m Spider-Man,” Peter said in a rush, wanting to get out of there before the cops arrived. “Can I see your phone for a second?”
Karen pulled her cell phone out of her purse, unlocked it, and handed it to Peter, slightly confused. Peter went to contacts and saved his phone number under ‘Spider-Man’.
“Call me if anything happens. Or if you find out anything new, whichever comes first. Although let's pray neither of us has to see each other ever again,” Peter told her, handing Karen back her phone.
“Thank you, Spider-Man,” Karen said.
“Just doing my job,” Peter said with a smile. “Take care, Karen. And I mean it. Having to pepper spray sketchy guys in alleyways should be a last resort.”
Karen laughed a bit at that before waving goodbye, to which Peter responded with a salute before once again sticking himself to the brick wall and climbing up, lightning-fast. From the rooftops, Peter watched Karen to make sure she made it back safely onto the densely populated sidewalks, and once she had, he started web-slinging to Manhattan.
Which is what brought him to his predicament: the fact that this darker, grittier vigilante stuff was a bit out of his wheelhouse. But people needed help, so he wasn’t going to say no. He couldn’t. He had done that once and paid the price for it by watching his uncle bleed out on the sidewalk.
Roughly 20 minutes later, Peter had reached the Lincoln Tunnel and proceeded to scout out the areas around it because ‘just’ and ‘south’ and ‘they’ and ‘hostages’ weren’t very specific instructions. He had almost nothing to go on except intuition, but luckily for him, he had the spidey sense on his side.
Peter eventually came to a stop on a rooftop where he had a good view of his surroundings which also happened to be where his spidey sense warned him of ‘danger danger danger’ the most.
Crouching down, Peter focused in on the noise of the city around him, letting his enhanced senses do their job.
Peter heard a little girl crying as her mother told her it was time for bed. He smelled old, rotting, half-eaten hotdogs someone had dropped by the road. He saw the six, shiny silver buttons on an old man’s coat. But most importantly, he heard bits and pieces of a whispered, panicked conversation to his left.
“Not that way, this way—”
“But they said—”
“Bingo,” Peter whispered to himself and crept closer to where he heard the voices coming from, glad that night had fallen to help conceal him.
He peered over the lip of the building and soon spotted his targets; one man and one woman having a hushed conversation as they stood next to the wall of the building Peter was on. After a few more seconds of heated debating, they glanced around them to make sure no one had heard before starting to walk forward almost fast enough to be considered a light jog (not to be confused with speed walking).
Peter followed them from the shadows as they turned left, right, left, and left again. He watched them open what should have been a locked door. He listened to their footsteps climbing up flights of steel stairs.
Peter took a moment to listen for signs of life and concluded that the building was abandoned apart from the two in the stairwell and a group of people on the roof. Peter climbed up the building with his spider grip and stopped just before reaching the top.
“—not yet. We’ll wait,” Peter heard a deep, gruff voice say in a hushed voice. This guy seemed to be the one in charge.
The door on the roof that accessed the stairwell then opened and the two people that Peter had followed there walked out and toward the small mass of people in the middle of the rooftop.
“Do you have what I asked for?” The man in charge asked, skipping the introductions.
The woman glanced over at the man and the two seemingly had a silent conversation before the woman answered.
“Well, there’s a few complications—” the woman stopped mid-sentence and seemed to reconsider something. “...But yes. Mostly. It’s—”
“Good. I'll let you have the four my men brought in if you get it to me by Friday.”
“...Four?”
“Yes, four. Real difficult, from the sound of it. Never heard so much struggling. And crying,” He said with a hint of humor in his voice, which made Peter a bit sick to his stomach.
Four people, or so it sounded. Four people were taken by force. So Peter had found what Karen was warning him about; hostages.
“I thought you said you were bein’ careful.”
“I am. My guys cover their tracks.”
“But if someone heard, it’s all over. You get that, right? It would be all over for us. And for you, too,” the woman said, an edge of fear and anger now in her voice.
“You doubting me?”
The woman let out a heavy sigh.
“No. We’ll be there. You said Friday?”
“Just after sunset. You should know where to find me.”
“We—ok. Yeah. Just stay quiet. I’m not doin’ this anymore if you screw it up again.”
“It’s too late to back out now, and you know it.”
Peter was too impatient to wait any longer; using his upper body strength, he launched himself onto the roof and stood there casually, waiting for someone to notice him. When no one did, he cleared his throat loudly.
“Hey, guys. How come I wasn’t invited to the party?” Peter asked, tilting his head in mock disappointment.
“Wha—” The man in charge said before cutting himself off, taking a small, black gun from his coat pocket and aiming at Peter, pulling the trigger a dozen consecutive times. The rest of the sketchy gang people(™) followed suit.
The loud shots rang in the air as Peter easily dodged all of them; flipping and spinning and only showing off his ballet moves just a tad.
“That’s not very nice,” Peter said, shooting a web at the man’s gun and yanking it out of his hand. It clattered to the ground and slid across the roof to Peter, who kicked it out of the way.
“But seriously, I’m a lot of fun at parties, you’re missing out,” Peter said, which apparently nobody found amusing. “Wanna see a party trick?”
Peter closed the distance between him and the Sketchy Gang People™, high-kicking the one nearest to him. She tried to dodge and scurry backward but she wasn’t quick enough, and Peter’s foot managed to strike her across the face, hard.
The others, now seeing what they were up against, started trying to retreat; running for the stairwell while keeping guard with their guns.
“And here’s another one,” Peter said, launching himself into the air, landing perfectly right in front of the door that would allow them to enter the building. He leaned against it casually. The sketchy gang people skidded to a sudden stop.
“Yeesh, tough crowd.”
Peter grabbed the arm of one of the men, twisting him around so that Peter had him trapped in his grip. Peter pushed him to the ground and secured him with webs. The man grunted in protest from behind the webs covering his mouth, which Peter ignored.
Peter fell into a rhythm of dodging, punching, kicking, and webbing. It became a blur of one person after the next, one hit after another, the rush of adrenaline smothering the pain of the blows Peter received. It was all a flash of bullets and fists and knives and red, hot blood that spilled from skin and noses and mouths.
It went quickly; they weren’t very experienced fighters. Peter turned on his heels to grab the barrel of the gun the very last person standing held in his hand. It was the scary dude, the one with the deep, gruff voice who had been giving orders. Peter shoved the gun to aim upwards as the man pulled the trigger, the force of it shaking Peter.
Peter wrestled it out of the man’s hand with ease but in doing so didn’t have time to dodge the long, sharp knife the man was holding in his other hand. Peter could only heed the warning from his spidey sense and stand there as he felt the blade pierce him.
Peter gasped and stumbled backward, wishing he could bleach from his brain what the knife ripping through his flesh sounded like. Peter fell to his knees and the man smiled sinisterly, tucking his knife back into where it had been concealed in his coat.
“Keep your little insect nose out of my business,” the man spat. “Or you’ll get a lot worse than a knife to the stomach.”
The man gave Peter one last glare before turning and walking away, heading towards the door to the stairwell.
“Spiders are arachnids,” Peter bit back at him weakly. He tried to stand up but his legs made it about two steps before buckling under him as the adrenaline drained from his body. He could now feel every bruise, bump, scratch, and giant stab wound on him (luckily he only had one of those). Peter cursed the stupidity of his previous self for getting about three hours of sleep and skipping dinner because that certainly wasn’t helping.
The man was almost to the door when someone landed on the edge of the roof with a thud. He wore a red, skin-tight, protective suit and a mask that was adorned with two small horns on the top.
“Daredevil,” Peter whispered to himself in shock.
It was almost humorous how quickly Daredevil overpowered the man. He was next to him in an instant. Daredevil grabbed the man’s wrist when he tried to stab him and punched him in the gut, not giving him any time to recover before punching him again in the face hard enough that Peter could hear bones snap and cartilage crunch.
The man cried out, falling to his knees as his hands instinctively came up to protect his nose, which was now streaming blood. Daredevil not-so-nicely grabbed the collar of the man’s coat and hauled him up, punching him again and again with strong, quick fists. The man grunted after each hit and flailed out, trying to fight back. Blood coated the knuckles of Daredevil’s suit and the man, panting heavily, stopped trying to fight back. Daredevil then grabbed the man by the throat, shaking him slightly.
“What’s your name?” He asked in his deep, intimidating voice. The man didn’t reply and instead snarled at Daredevil, fury in his eyes.
“What’s your name?” Daredevil asked again, tightening his grip around the man’s throat, who let out a weak cough in protest.
“Su—Sutherland,” the man said, his voice strained from the hand around his neck. “David Sutherland.”
“Where are they?”
“I don’t—know what you’re—talking about,” the man managed to get out in between pants. Daredevil tightened his hold even more.
“Don’t lie to me.”
“I’m telling the truth.”
“I said don’t lie.”
“I don’t know where they are, I swear. I don’t know!”
Peter grimaced and looked away as he heard the creaking of bones threatening to snap. Sutherland cried out in pain and Daredevil persisted.
“I told you, I don’t know what you’re talking about!” Sutherland yelled in between gasps.
Daredevil paused for a moment as if listening to a sound that was too far away to hear clearly. His head turned slightly to the side as if he were looking at something, but Peter had a strange feeling that he wasn’t looking at anything.
“This is your last chance,” Daredevil said, returning his focus to Sutherland.
“I’m not telling you anything,” Sutherland snarled.
“Suit yourself.”
Daredevil let go of Sutherland, who fell to the ground with an oomph. Daredevil kicked him sharply in the head to knock him unconscious.
Seeing that the action was over, Peter turned his attention back to his injuries. He gazed down at the long, concerningly deep stab wound in his abdomen. Peter shakily pressed a hand to his side and groaned from the sharp, stinging pain, and tried not to throw up at the sight of bright, red blood all over his spandex-clad hand. The tickle on the back of his neck made Peter’s head shoot up, and his eyes landed on Daredevil, who was still standing by Sutherland. Daredevil was staring right at Peter with a strange expression on his face.
“Hi,” Peter called out to him, his voice slightly slurred. “I’m Spider-Man.”
“You should stay away from Hell’s Kitchen,” Daredevil stated as he walked over to Peter. “This is my territory.”
“We have ‘territories’ now? Sorry. I didn't realize this was middle school lunch,” Peter bit back, his sarcasm slipping out as he tried not to cry from the pain. Peter’s enhanced hearing began to pick up the sound of sirens coming near.
Daredevil grabbed Peter’s upper arm and hauled him away from the crime scene, half carrying and half dragging him down four flights of stairs before setting him down roughly against the brick wall of an empty, dark alleyway. Peter let out an oomph as he landed on his but and slumped against the wall, groaning.
“Hi. I’m Spider-Man,” Peter said, introducing himself again
“Hello, Spider-Man,” Daredevil said, tilting his head slightly with a smirk. “You’ve got two cracked ribs and what I believe is a hairline fracture in your wrist, but I’m not completely sure.”
“Um, no I don’t?” Peter said, trying to sit fully up, failing as a wave of dizziness hit him. The blood loss was starting to make his thoughts go fuzzy, which probably wasn’t a good sign.
“I thought you were missing,” Peter told him.
“Not anymore,” Daredevil replied simply.
Daredevil knelt down next to Peter and reached over to touch his injured side, which was actively bleeding out onto the concrete ground.
“Hey!” Peter yelped, trying to squirm away as the vigilante gently examined Peter’s stab wound with his fingertips, but Daredevil put a firm hand on Peter’s shoulder and held him steady. Peter was too tired, dizzy, and, well, really badly injured, to protest.
“Hmm. That doesn’t feel good,” Daredevil murmured to himself.
“I’ll be fine,” Peter gasped, wincing.
“I think you’ll find extreme blood loss will leave you just a tad less than fine.”
“I heal fast,” Peter said stubbornly, giving Daredevil his best pouty face before realizing he was still wearing his Spider-Man mask.
Daredevil pressed his gloved hands to Peter’s side, applying pressure to help limit the bleeding.
“Can we wrap this up? It’s a school night,” Peter whined, and for some reason, Daredevil looked a bit concerned by that statement (it was impressive how expressive he was with just his mouth).
“How old are you, Spider-Man?”
“I’m not telling,” Peter said, making a face.
“Is that so?”
“Uh, yeah. Stranger danger.”
“Right,” Daredevil said, looking pretty fed up with this conversation.
“Actually I changed my mind, I’ll tell you. I’m 25.”
“Try again.”
Was Peter that bad at lying or was his small, scrawny form and high-pitched voice just a dead giveaway that he was seventeen?
“Fine. You got me, I’m actually 24.”
Daredevil said nothing at that and instead stared at Peter in silence for a beat before leaning over to pick him up bridal style. Daredevil stood, careful not to jostle the tiny, bloody, spandex-wearing teenager as he started walking. Peter was not happy with this as he made clear by lamely kicking his legs (which felt strangely heavy and weak). After giving up on struggling in Daredevil’s tight grip, Peter went limp and sighed.
“I’mma sleep now,” he informed Daredevil.
“You do that,” Daredevil said, but Peter didn’t hear it because he had already blacked out.