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Queens stretches out in front of Peter, a sprawling urban landscape reaching all the way to the horizon. Tiny specks of light flicker about, living room lighting, and flashing nightclub effects that block out any possibility of seeing the stars. But Peter doesn’t need to see the stars, he just needs to see his home. It’s under his protection, this whole borough, and everyone in it. They sleep safely at night because Peter Parker is watching over them. Spider-Man is watching.
Nobody ever needs to know who he is, they’ll never know his face but they’ll know who Spider-Man is and they’ll be grateful to have him protecting them. Because that’s what he does, be it Peter Parker or Spider-Man himself, he protects everyone.
His thoughts are broken by Karen’s robotic voice in his ear, she’s programmed to monitor police radio chatter, CCTV, and phone calls to emergency services so he’s always the first to know when someone needs help. There’s a woman five blocks South who was just backed into an alleyway by a hooded man, Karen tells him. Nothing good ever comes from hooded men in alleyways. This is Queens.
It’s only five blocks, Peter can get there in time. He stands up, turning his back on the view he’s become so accustomed to, and dashes across to the other side of his favourite rooftop. Peter leaps right off of it, no fear at all as he plummets downwards, shooting out a web to catch himself at the last minute and he swings. Left hand, right hand, Peter swings through the empty street. It’s three in the morning, people really should be in their beds and not cornering innocent women in alleyways, but when has that ever stopped anyone?
Peter makes it to the alley in record time, nerves already buzzing and muscles ready for a fight. It’s not that he wants to do it, or even really enjoys it, but when someone is threatening one of his people, he’ll fight. And he’ll win.
The sight he’s met with is exactly what he expected: the woman Karen had mentioned has her back against the brick wall behind her, caged in with one hand by her head, and the other holding a knife to her throat. She’s crying as she pleads with him, begging for her life. Her handbag has been discarded a few feet away, contents spilled all over the floor.
‘Hey, man, isn’t it past your bedtime? I really think you should get home, your mom’s gotta be worried,’ he calls out. The man freezes and Peter smirks under his mask. It’s funny when they get angry.
‘I could say the same about you, pip squeak. Isn’t it time for your bedtime story?’ he retorts, but Peter gets the reaction he wants as he steps away from the woman who sags in relief but continues shaking from head to toe. Normally this is when they make a break for it, but this lady just sinks to the floor, hands pressed into her stomach.
‘You’re funny, I like you,’ Peter says congenially, though it’s a blank-faced lie. He hates this man, Peter thinks he’s a dick who should really mind his own damn business. But these situations are always a game and you can’t win a game if you don’t play. ‘Now, why don’t you hand me that knife?’
The attacker takes another step towards Peter and now the light that filters through from the alleyway behind them lights his face just enough for Peter to get a decent look. It’s not a man at all, he actually looks quite young. In fact, Peter would bet his last buck that this guy is still in school. Still, he was going to hurt one of Peter’s people and he won’t let that slide.
This boy is covered from head to toe, he’s gone as far as wearing gloves in the middle of June just to protect his identity. Still didn’t think to wear a mask. Not that any of that will matter, Peter’s going to have this man webbed up and in the police station very soon.
‘I’ll hand you my knife,’ the boy sneers, holding it up in a way that makes Peter think he will not, in fact, hand over the knife. ‘In your stomach,’
Just like that, the boy is flying at Peter who dodges his first strike just in time. Fighting is like clockwork now for Peter, each movement fluid and performed without much thought. For a boy who grew up known as the clumsy one, Peter never misses. It’s an easy strike to break the boy’s nose, he doesn’t have a very good defence, and that sends him stumbling backward, cursing loudly.
The lady is still slumped on the floor, clearly shell-shocked, and Peter does his best to keep the fight away from her. His opponent doesn’t take the hint from the broken nose and is on his way back for more, grinning widely and beckoning Peter forward. He doesn’t rise to the bait. If this guy wants a fight, he’ll have to come and get it.
He runs at Peter again, head bent low as if to tackle him to the ground, but Peter is quicker, jumping to the side and running up the brick wall a few feet in front of the woman. His hand glides up the wall for balance, but this one brick has a particularly sharp edge and his forefinger catches on it. There’s the telltale sound of fabric tearing and a flash of pain in his finger tells him he’s broken his glove again. Tony’s going to kill him.
There isn’t time to dwell on his own impending doom, however, as he gracefully flips over in the air and lands on the other side of the boy. Taken by surprise, he stares dumbly at the wall where Peter had been and it’s all too easy to grab the boy's wrist in one hand and his knuckles in the other. Just like Tony taught him, he pushes on the boy’s knuckles, pulls back, and strips the knife out of his hand.
‘Gotcha!’ Peter grins as his attacker spins around, face contorted with rage, and then, still clutching the knife, Peter flings his hand out, clocking the man square in the jaw once, twice, then three times. Most people would back off after that, but this guy doesn’t give up and he’s smarter than Peter has given him credit for so far.
Peter hasn’t let go of his wrist yet, so when the boy yanks it backward, Peter lurches forward and straight onto the boy’s knee. The knife clatters to the floor as Peter hits the deck, knees slamming into the floor as he gasps for air.
That’s a laugh behind him, followed by receding footsteps and Peter knows his attacker has run off. He can’t even find it in him to turn around, to even try and catch him. Peter is gagging against his mask, but he doesn’t dare take it off with the woman sitting only a few feet away.
When he finally manages to compose himself enough to rise to his feet, Peter makes his way over to the woman. There’s an awful guilt lapping at his insides, a small voice in his head telling him he failed. He let the guy get away. This woman deserves justice. He top is ripped around the shoulder, like he’d been trying to pull it down, thin cuts litter her neck where the knife’s edge had pressed against her skin.
‘You’re okay now, ma’am, you’re safe,’ Peter tells her as he approaches, hands held out placatingly just in case. She doesn’t respond. ‘I’m sorry he got away, I’m gonna find him, I promise. We’ve just gotta get you to a hospital first, the police are on their way,’
Still no response.
‘Ma’am?’ Peter frowns. Is she really so pissed off he didn’t catch her attacker that she won’t even talk to him? ‘Ma’am, are you alright?’
She’s too far in the alley for there to be any light reaching them, it’s too fark to make much of anything out.
‘Karen, turn on night vision,’ Peter requests. He immediately wishes he’d kept his mouth shut. There’s just so much blood.
It’s drenched her shirt, gushing over her hands where they had been holding the wound on her stomach. It’s a hell of a wound, too. He didn’t just stab her, no he must have twisted the knife, yanked it out of her stomach and torn it open. Peter’s never seen anything like it.
He’s seen dead people before, sure, but this is… this is horrific. It’s not a clean gunshot wound or someone killed by poisoning or a heart attack. No, this was a brutal murder, this boy wanted the poor woman dead and he saw to that… Peter failed.
The walls of the alleyway are closing in, squeezing the air out of Peter’s lungs and he tries to lean on the wall that’s slowly inching closer to him but nearly falls over. There’s nothing there. Police sirens wail in the distance, Karen is telling him something that he can’t hear. He needs to leave. Peter needs to get out of here, needs to run, to hide, to, to… What does he do?
There isn’t anything Peter can do here, this woman is beyond help and her attacker is long gone. So he does the one thing he never thought he’d do. Peter runs.
He turns tails and sprints out of the alley, doing his best to keep down whatever it is that threatens to come up from his stomach. If he can just run far enough, it’ll be okay. It’ll all be fine.
***
Peter doesn’t know how he ends up in school the next day. It’s all a blur. Did he go home before coming here? Did he text Mr Stark like he always does to tell him he got home safe? He remembers switching Karen off when she wouldn’t stop talking. He must have messaged Tony or he’d have found him by now. Tony always finds him.
Peter must have gone home, though, because he’s wearing fresh clothes and can taste cereal still in his mouth so he’s clearly had breakfast. It’s first period and Mr Harrington is yapping at the front of the room, but all Peter can see is a woman slumped underneath the whiteboard. The whiteboard is red, blood sliding down it and dripping into the poor woman’s hair. It’s gathering in her stomach where her hands are clamped down on the skin. She’s staring right at him.
Bright blue eyes staring directly into Peter’s soul and he can’t bear it. She knows. She knows what Peter did, knows that he failed, and that he’s the reason she’s dead. How did he not notice? Was he so wrapped up in the fight, so willing to beat some other kid up for once that he didn’t take the time to think?
There’s no time for Peter to stumble his way to a conclusion, though, because there’s a knock at the door and it swings open before Mr Harrington can even call the visitor in. It’s Principal Morita and Peter has never seen him look so grave.
‘Apologies for the interruption, Mr Harrington. Peter, can you please come with me?’ he requests with no preamble. Peter can feel the man’s eyes boring into the side of his skull, in fact, the whole class is staring at him now, but all he can see is the woman bleeding out at the front of the room. Can nobody else see her?
There’s an elbow in his side, Ned is nudging him harshly, muttering his name and Peter has to shake himself back to reality. Right, Principal Morita… why does the Principal want him?
‘Mr Parker? Now, please,’ Morita insists. He’s normally such a gentle man, Peter doesn’t think he’s ever heard him sound so severe.
Ned has to all but shove Peter out of his seat to get him upright and even then he struggles to remember how to walk across the room. Everyone is staring at him, their eyes following his every movement and Peter has never been so grateful for Flash to be off sick.
The Principal doesn’t utter a word as Peter is led away from his Chemistry class, down hallway after hallway and as he rounds every corner, that woman is there. She keeps moving, sitting just a few feet away, gushing blood all over the hallways. Peter should really let the headteacher know, but… the words just don’t seem to come.
As if they’ve teleported all the way across the school, Peter finds himself stepping into the Principal’s office and he promptly freezes in the doorway. Two police officers stand inside, bullet-proof vests and all. They look menacing, staring down at him like he’s done something wrong. He has done something wrong. Peter failed.
‘Peter Parker, my name is Officer Gonzalez, this is Officer Mason from the NYPD. We have a warrant for your arrest under suspicion of the murder of Anya Linklay. You have the right to remain silent, you have the right to an attorney. If you cannot afford one, then one will be appointed to you. Do you understand your rights as I have read them to you?’ the male officer asks, stepping forward. He’s much taller than Peter, not that he’d ever dream of fighting a police officer. A pair of handcuffs glint on his belt.
‘Sir, there’s a dead body—’
‘Son, you have the right to remain silent. Do you understand?’ the man cuts him off harshly and Peter clamps his mouth shut.
He doesn’t know what’s happening. He doesn’t understand. Who did he murder? Peter knows exactly who he murdered. She’s still slumped against Principal Morita’s desk, slowly turning the carpet a dark shade of crimson.
‘Yes, sir,’
The cuffs are put around his wrists, too tight for his liking and he winces at the sharp pressure. There’s a hand on each of his shoulders, both of the officers are holding onto him. Principal Morita hasn’t said a word, Peter doesn’t think he’s actually looked at him. He can’t be sure, though, all he can do is stare at the woman on the floor.
Even as he’s guided from the office by rough hands, pushed through the hallways and out the main entrance, his eyes always find hers. Bright blue eyes, so dull and devoid of any life, it’s all Peter can see. One hand moves to his head, he’s being pushed down and now he’s in the back of a car. His hands are still bound behind his back so one of the officers, the female one, pulls his seat belt across his body for him. Peter feels sick. The woman is sitting next to him, her blood is dripping onto the seats, nearly reaching him. It’s going to get him. Her blood is inching nearer and nearer to him. Somebody help. Please, help.
Nobody helps. The car starts up, Peter can feel the vibrations of the engine rattling the car, can see it jostling the dead body beside him. Did he kill her? Is that why they’re arresting him? He remembers the fight, remembers ripping the knife out of the other boy’s hand, but did he kill her? Was it he who stabbed her in the stomach, tore the knife out, and ripped her open? Would he do that?
They’re pulling him back out of the car again, they must be at the police station. That happened fast. The hands are back around his arms, pulling him this way and that as they march him up to the station doors. Blood pools at the entrance. The woman is in the lobby now.
Voices echo around him, faces swim back and forth in front of Peter’s eyes, though he can’t see any of them. His fingers are pressed, one at a time, on a machine that keeps beeping at him. He’s turned this way and that, there’s a flashing light and then the slam of a door.
It’s silent in here, save for the incessant humming of the harsh electric lights overhead. Peter wants to claw his eyes out, but his hands are still cuffed tightly behind his back. There’s another man in the room with him, a burly, angry-looking man with a dead look in his eye. Peter doesn’t like this man.
‘Mr Parker, after five attempts to contact either of your guardians in the last hour, the NYPD has been unsuccessful in alerting them of your arrest. As such, no responsible adult is available to accompany you through these processing procedures. However, due to the severity of the allegations levied against you, a strip search must be immediately performed, do you understand?’ he drones, words falling from his lips like lines from a script.
Peter feels sick. A strip search? He doesn’t even remember doing anything wrong. Taking his shirt off in the school changing rooms is excruciating enough and now this man wants to… to… Peter doesn’t even know what this man is on about.
‘Yes, sir,’ he whispers. It’s the right thing to say, he can tell from the look on this man’s face. Peter tells himself to breathe, to just breathe and keep breathing because he’s pretty sure that’s about all he can manage right now.
He’s shaking from head to foot, becoming more and more certain that he’s going to fall to the ground. It’s all he wants, really. To fall to the floor and curl up in a ball, wait for Tony to come and fix it. Tony always answers the phone for him, how come he isn’t picking up now?
‘Very well. Turn around and I will uncuff you one hand at a time so we can begin,’
***
Tony Stark has never been known for his patience, though what people don’t realise is that for a man in his line of work, he has an awful lot of it. Being the genius owner of a multi-billion dollar tech company, he’s become incredibly accustomed to the shocking incompetence of the average human. None of his previous experience could prepare him for the conversation he has at the front desk of the Forest Hills police precinct on an average Tuesday.
Having already been pulled out of an incredibly important meeting three hours early by the non-stop ringing of his phone from an unidentified caller, Tony is already running low on patience. And now this moronic receptionist is trying to tell him that Peter, his Peter, has committed a homicide.
‘I am telling you right now, lady, Peter Parker is physically incapable of murder, you have got the wrong guy, sweetheart. Now bring me my kid!’ Tony demands, leaning on the desk and staring the woman down imperiously.
‘Verbal abuse towards the staff is not tolerated here, Mr Stark. Peter Parker is being held on suspicion of murder, I will have the arresting officers come out to speak with you momentarily,’ the receptionist retorts just as stubbornly. Tony bites his tongue to refrain from saying what he’d really like to tell her. Getting himself thrown out isn’t going to help Peter right now. What is going to help is a damn good lawyer. Or any lawyer, really, because anybody would take one look at the kid and know that he is not capable of murder.
So Tony says nothing and turns away, instead sitting down in the waiting area and doing his level best not to simply go looking himself. If Peter really is being accused of murder, Tony has to play by the rules for him. No doubt this will have something to do with Spider-Man, he was going to have Happy bring the kid over after school anyway. May said he was acting weird when he got in last night, not only that but he deactivated Karen early this morning and Tony can’t think of a single good explanation why.
He goes through the motions, follows the officers into an interrogation room and listens to them, demands to speak with the detective to hear what evidence they have against Peter. There’s a knife, apparently, that was found at the scene with his fingerprints on, but what they don’t realise is that the fingerprints they found are Spider-Man’s. The CCTV footage shows a grainy picture of a man entering the alley which they are claiming is Peter, but what they don’t know is that Peter is the masked vigilante who enters the alleyway five minutes later. Peter was trying to save the woman and now he’s being arrested for her murder.
It’s a fine mess if Tony’s ever seen one, but luckily for the kid Tony’s gotten pretty good and finding his way out of a mess. The next step, of course, is to see Peter and make sure that he’s okay, tell him not to tell the detectives anyway until he’s met with a lawyer.
‘I’d like to see him now, please,’ Tony says firmly as the detective appears to be wrapping things up.
‘Sir, he’s been accused of—’
‘—murder, I’m fully aware. I’m also aware that does not strip him of his rights, nor does it take away from the fact that he is a minor and I am his legal guardian. Now bring me to my kid,’ Tony insists, once more using his carefully perfected glare.
The officers in front of him share looks with each other and then rise to their feet, muttering an agreement to Tony’s demands. So he waits patiently, drumming his fingers on the cool metal table in front of him. He should have seen something like this coming, should have known that this could go wrong. He should have done something to stop it from ever happening, made Peter’s suit stronger so the seams wouldn’t split so easily. It had been stupid of Tony to look past this possibility.
Peter looks like shit when he walks in. The kid always looks like shit, he’s an overachieving, sleep-deprived teenager with a metabolism that works so fast he can’t possibly keep up with it. But still, the kid looks like he’s knocking on death’s door. Tony is out of his seat in seconds, lurching across the room to pull the boy towards him, wrapping him in his arms as if that could make all of this better. Peter doesn’t hug back. Peter always hugs him back, in fact, he’s normally the one demanding hugs. But his hands are cuffed behind his back and all he can do is lean his head against Tony’s chest and whisper his name helplessly.
‘I’m here, bud, it’s gonna be okay,’ Tony promises, squeezing the boy tight as if that can make up for Peter’s inability to hug him back. ‘Are you alright? Did they hurt you?’
The only response Tony gets is a choked sob, muffled into his carefully pressed silk shirt. It’s a sound that has broken Tony’s heart many times before and every time he hears it, he prays it's the last. Peter is clearly doing his best to take deep breaths, hiccuping with each inhale and Tony brings one of his hands up to cup the back of his head, fingers pressed into his curls. Behind the boy’s back, Peter’s hands are shaking, trembling against the metal cuffs. Tony knows him well enough to know that he could easily break out of them, but that isn't like Peter. He’s far too gentle.
Far too gentle to be in a place like this.
‘I’m going to fix this, Peter. I swear to you, I will,’ Tony vows into the top of Peter’s head. He nods, endlessly trusting in the words of his mentor. Tony won’t let him down.
‘I’m sorry, Mr Stark, I didn’t—’
‘Shh, don’t say anything, buddy. You’re just gonna hang tight for me while I fix this, okay?’ Tony cuts him off tactfully, rubbing his hand up and down Peter’s back as he does so. ‘Let me fix it,’
And fix it, Tony will. Whatever it takes, Tony will fix this.