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Peter knew something was off the second Matt went quiet.
Which, okay, wasn’t unusual. Matt Murdock did “quiet” the way other people did breathing—but this was the bad kind of quiet. The kind that felt like a door slamming shut in a room you didn’t even realize you were standing in.
“I’m just saying,” Peter tried again, hovering halfway between sitting and pacing in Matt’s living room, “he didn’t, like, do anything. To me. He actually—well—he kinda helped? Sort of? I think?”
Across from him, Matt sat perfectly still, fingers loosely laced over his knee. His head tilted just slightly toward Peter, like he was listening to something far away and very specific.
“Peter,” Matt said, voice low and even, “You’re rambling. Who did you meet?”
Peter hesitated. “Uh. You know, he’s this big guy. Tactical gear. Skull on his chest. Guns—like, a lot of guns, which, I know, red flag, but—”
“The Punisher,” Matt cut in.
And there it was again—that quiet, only sharper now. Like glass.
“Yeah! That’s—wait, you do know him or something?” Peter brightened, because hey, common ground, that’s good, right? “Okay, great, so maybe you can explain, because he was kinda—”
“Stay away from him.”
The words hit like a brick.
Peter blinked. “Oh. Okay. Um. That was—fast.”
Matt leaned forward slightly, hands tightening together. “I’m not joking, Peter. You do not seek him out. You do not work with him. If you see him, you leave.”
“Okay, but—why though?” Peter asked, hands coming up in helpless little gestures. “Because he didn’t seem—look, I know he’s intense, and the guns thing is—again—not my favorite—but he didn’t try to hurt me. He actually told me to get off the street before things got ‘messy,’ which, yeah, ominous, but kind of considerate?”
Matt’s jaw tightened. “Frank Castle doesn’t do ‘considerate.’ He does lethal.”
“Oh, is that his name? Like, behind-the-mask name? Are we just outing all the vigilantes in New York now? I mean, not OUTING outing, but, like, revealing?” Peter rambled. “And, yeah, well, a lot of people we know could be described as ‘lethal,’” he added before he could stop himself. “No offense.”
Matt didn’t even flinch. “I mean it. He kills people, Peter. Not in the heat of the moment. Not as a last resort. It’s what he does.”
Peter opened his mouth, closed it again. “…Okay, but—”
“He won’t hesitate to kill someone standing in his way,” Matt interrupts quietly. “What happens when that’s you?”
Before Peter could respond, the door slammed open hard enough to rattle the windows.
“—and I’m just saying, if we’re ranking emotionally repressed vigilantes with questionable coping mechanisms, I am at least top three—”
Wade Wilson stopped mid-stride, head snapping toward Peter like a bloodhound catching a scent. “…Why does the room smell like poor life choices and military-grade trauma?”
Peter perked up despite himself. “Oh, hey, Wade—perfect timing—”
“No,” Matt said immediately.
“Yes,” Wade said at the exact same time, already crossing the room. “Kid, what did you do?”
“I didn’t do anything!” Peter protested. “I just met someone—”
“OH! New love interest? Need Papa Wade to give you the birds and the bees talk? Because when a bird really really loves a bee—”
Peter started to flail. “No, not like that! A person in a fight.”
Wade tilted his head, considering. “Like… so we need to call the cops?”
Peter shook his head. “No, like, vigilante. Like… the Punisher?”
There was a beat.
Wade froze.
Slowly—very slowly—he turned his head toward Matt.
“Tell me he’s kidding.”
Matt didn’t say anything.
“Tell me,” Wade repeated, voice dropping an octave, “that the friendly neighborhood spider-child did not just casually drop the name of New York’s angriest one-man war crime like we’re talking about a barista who spelled his name wrong.”
Peter frowned. “He didn’t even ask for my name.”
“Exactly!” Wade threw his hands up. “Red flag! Serial killer behavior! No small talk, no customer service smile, just straight to the ominous brooding and probably a body count that requires its own spreadsheet—”
“Wade,” Matt cut in sharply.
Wade ignored him. He crouched in front of Peter, hands landing on Peter’s shoulders with surprising gentleness.
“Okay. Okay. I need you to walk me through this,” Wade said, tone suddenly focused, almost—alarmingly—serious. “Did he point a gun at you, Petey? Was there ominous monologuing?”
“…No?”
“Did he threaten you? Any slow-motion trench coat billowing? I need a full cinematic breakdown.”
“…Not directly?”
Wade’s eyes narrowed behind the mask. “Indirectly.”
“He said, and I quote, ‘you don’t belong in this kind of fight, kid,’ which—rude, first of all—but also he, like, shoved me out of the way before something exploded? So I feel like that cancels out?”
Wade went very still.
“Oh,” he said softly. “Oh, I hate that.”
Peter blinked. “You hate… him saving me?”
“I hate,” Wade said, rising to his full height, “that he’s doing the whole ‘gruff reluctant protector’ thing. That’s my brand.”
Matt pinched the bridge of his nose. “This is not about branding.”
“It is absolutely about branding,” Wade snapped. “I have spent years cultivating a very specific chaotic-mentor-who-may-or-may-not-be-a-bad-influence aesthetic, and I will not have some skull-wearing knockoff muscling in on my emotionally vulnerable teenager—”
“I am not—!” Peter started.
“—especially not one who thinks guns are a personality,” Wade continued, pacing now. “No. Nope. Unacceptable. I’m gonna kill him.”
Peter choked. “WHAT—no—see, this is why I didn’t lead with telling you—”
“I’m kidding,” Wade said, waving a hand. Then, after a beat: “Mostly.”
“Wade,” Matt said, voice sharp as a blade, “stand down.”
Wade turned on him. “You want me to stand down? He found the Punisher.”
“I’m aware.”
“And your response is what, exactly? Strongly worded disapproval?”
“My response,” Matt said evenly, “is making sure Peter understands exactly who he’s dealing with.”
“Great,” Wade shot back. “My response is preemptive problem solving.”
“You are not killing Frank Castle.”
“Not with that attitude, I’m not,” Wade muttered.
Peter looked between them, completely lost. “Okay, can someone please explain why this is suddenly a whole thing? Because from where I’m standing, he was—” he hesitated, searching for the right word, “—not nice, exactly, but… not not nice? He didn’t yell at me. He didn’t shoot me. He even—okay, this is weird—he kind of reminded me of—”
“Don’t you dare say me,” Wade warned.
“…I mean—not exactly. But… maybe a little?” Peter finished anyway.
Wade recoiled like he’d been personally offended by reality. “Wow. Betrayal. I feel betrayed.”
“I mean it!” Peter insisted. “The whole ‘you shouldn’t be here’ thing? The ‘this is too dangerous for you’? That’s literally you every time I try to help.”
“That is completely different,” Wade said. “When I say it, it’s charming.”
Matt let out a slow breath. “Peter. Frank doesn’t hesitate. Once he decides someone deserves to die, that’s it. No trial. No second chances.”
Peter shifted, uncomfortable. “Yeah, but—”
Matt’s expression hardened. “He doesn’t get to be the one who decides that.”
Wade froze mid-gesture. “…Oh my God.”
“What now?” Matt asked.
“I’m about to agree with you,” Wade said, horrified. “Do you know what that means?”
“That you’re capable of reason?”
“No, it means I’m one bad decision away from giving legal advice and saying things like ‘be careful’ unironically. I refuse. I reject this character development.”
Wade glanced between them, then nudged Peter lightly. “Hey. Kid.”
Peter looked up.
Wade’s voice dropped, quieter now, the edge still there but softened. “All that aside, you don’t want to get used to people like that making sense, okay?”
“That’s how you end up like Deadpool,” Matt said, deadpan.
“Wow, okay, I can feel the love here. Ouch,” Wade replied. “I mean, not completely inaccurate. At least my personality includes copious amounts of unicorn porn and katanas, not just guns and brooding.”
Peter swallowed. “Yeah. Okay.”
“Good,” Wade said, clapping his hands once, energy snapping back like a rubber band. “Great talk, everyone. We’ve covered trauma, ethics, and my professional jealousy. I’m still gonna keep an eye on Skull Boy.”
“You are not engaging him,” Matt said.
“I’m gonna engage him respectfully,” Wade replied.
“That’s not reassuring.”
“It shouldn’t be.”
Peter sighed, rubbing his face. “I asked one question.”
“And you got three very strong opinions,” Wade said cheerfully.
Matt tilted his head toward Peter again. “Promise me you’ll stay away from him.”
Peter hesitated.
Wade pointed at him. “That was not a promise, young padawan.”
Peter didn’t even make it halfway down the block after he left Matt’s apartment before his suit chimed.
“Incoming call: Stark.”
He winced. “Oh, that’s not ominous at all.”
The mask peeled back as he answered. “Hey, Mr. Sta—”
“What part of ‘don’t die horribly on my watch’ was unclear?” Tony’s voice snapped in his ear, sharp and too calm. “Walk me through why my system just flagged you sharing a zip code with the Punisher.”
Peter’s brain stuttered. “I—uh—hi?”
“Don’t ‘hi’ me, kid. Where are you and how many holes do you currently have?”
“I’m fine,” Peter said quickly. “Zero extra holes. All original, factory settings—”
“Fantastic, love the biology report,” Tony cut in. “Now, try this again without the stand‑up routine. What happened?”
“I didn’t do anything! I just—” Peter said, already wincing. “He was already there, I didn’t go looking for him or anything—”
There was a pause.
“…How was he ‘already there?’ And be very careful what you say, I have the footage. Castle tripped three separate facial-recognition sweeps and a ballistic-pattern alert, so don’t bother pretending this is a misunderstanding. I just need you to confirm it because my brain is currently trying to reject reality.”
“Like—in a fight. Not, like, in the fight, just—around it? Nearby? Fighting adjacent? I was kind of—side quest—”
“Peter.”
He swallowed. “…I met the Punisher.”
The line went quiet again—long enough that Peter checked to make sure the call hadn’t dropped. “I met the Punisher,” Peter repeated, smaller this time. “Like, capital P.”
“PETER!” Tony exploded so loudly that Peter jerked the phone away from his ear.
“WHAT?”
“…Are you injured?” Tony demanded, sharper now. “Because I’m not seeing any trauma alerts, but I’d like verbal confirmation before I start assuming my sensors are lying to me.”
“I’m fine,” Peter said quickly. “No injuries, no bodily harm, no dismemberment—”
There was a sharp exhale on the other end.
“Good,” Tony said. “We’re starting from ‘not dismembered,’ my favorite baseline. Now explain why you were in the same operational radius as the Punisher in the first place.” He paused. “And don’t skip the part where you tell me whether he pointed a gun at you.”
Peter huffed a weak laugh. “Why is that everyone’s question?”
“Because that’s his modus operandi, kiddo. He shoots then he —” Tony trails off. “Everyone?”
Peter froze. “…Yeah?”
“Who is ‘everyone,’” Tony said, tone going dangerously precise in a way that meant he was absolutely pacing.
“Well, I mean, I asked—”
“You asked,” Tony repeated. “That’s a fun verb. Love that journey for us.”
“…for advice,” Peter finished, like that would somehow make it better.
Tony did not sound impressed.
“…Who did you ask?” he said finally.
Peter shifted his weight, staring very hard at a very interesting patch of wall. “Okay, in my defense—”
“Peter.”
“…Matt.”
There was a beat.
“Daredevil Matt,” Tony said. “Red devil, horns, Catholic guilt, that Matt.”
“Yeah?”
Tony exhaled through his nose. “Alright. Not my first draft pick, but at least we’re in the ‘has a moral framework’ section of the store. Fine.”
Peter nodded, even though Tony couldn’t see it. “Right! Yeah. That’s what I thought.”
“And what did he say?”
“Um. That I should stay away from him.”
“Good,” Tony said immediately. “Love that for you. Excellent advice. Ten out of ten, no notes.”
Peter hesitated. “Yeah, but—” and trailed off.
“I’m not loving the ‘but’ there.” Tony said, and Peter could hear the eyebrow.
Peter winced. “…but then it got… louder.”
Tony went very still on the other end of the phone. “Kid, stop dancing around it and just spit it out.”
“…Matt wasn’t the only person there anymore.”
Silence. “…Spit. It. Out.”
“…Wade showed up.” Peter winced.
“…Of course he did,” Tony muttered. “Castle pings every law-enforcement database on the planet. Murdoch avoids cameras like it’s a competitive sport, so getting facial recognition on him is basically impossible. And Wilson—” he paused, audibly annoyed, “—breaks pattern recognition. He crashes the predictive engine.”
Another pause. Longer this time. “…I’m going to need you to walk me through that again,” Tony said slowly.
Peter squeezed his eyes shut like that would help. “I went to Matt for advice,” he said quickly. “Which is responsible. That’s responsible. And then Wade walked in. I didn’t seek him out, he just—appeared. Like a raccoon in a dumpster. Or, like, three raccoons in a trench coat—”
“…You had a controlled environment,” Tony said finally. “You had adult supervision. You had—structure.”
“I mean—”
“And then,” Tony continued, voice rising just a fraction, “the human equivalent of a live grenade with a podcast entered the situation.”
Peter winced. “That’s a little harsh—”
“No, I’m sorry, is that inaccurate?” Tony cut in. “Should I be using his formal title? ‘Terrible Influence, First Class’? ‘Commander Bad Idea’? I can workshop it.”
“He actually made some good points,” Peter said, before his self-preservation instincts could tackle the words.
Tony went very still. “…I need you to hear yourself right now.”
Peter pressed his lips together. “Yeah, that sounded better in my head.”
“You met a man whose primary hobby is extrajudicial murder,” Tony said, and Peter could hear him counting off on his fingers, “consulted a vigilante with a martyr complex—”
“Hey, Matt’s not that bad—”
“—and then took supplemental advice from a deeply unstable mercenary who thinks impulse control is a suggestion and not, you know, a law of the universe—”
“He said not to trust him!” Peter protested. “Both of them did!”
Tony stopped. “…They what?”
“Matt said to stay away from him,” Peter said. “And Wade said—” he hesitated, then admitted, “—that I shouldn’t get used to people like that making sense.”
There was a pause.
When Tony spoke again, his voice was quieter. “Wow,” he said. “I did not expect that.”
Peter blinked. “Wait, what?”
“Wade, talking sense, especially considering his whole world view is ‘chimichangas’ and ‘instability,’” Tony said. “I just hate that he said it before I did. Now I owe him, like, one tiny microscopic point in the ‘didn’t ruin everything’ column, and I’m not ready for that.”
Peter huffed a small laugh despite himself.
Another pause.
Then, more firmly: “Peter.”
“Yeah?”
“You don’t work with the Punisher,” Tony said. “You don’t look for him, you don’t take cues from him, and you definitely do not do the ‘maybe he has a point’ spiral. That’s not your thing.”
Peter shifted. “But what if—”
“I don’t care if he was nice to you,” Tony cut in, sharper now. “That’s not the bar. You don’t get points for not hurting the kid in the room.”
Peter swallowed. “I just—he didn’t seem—”
“I know,” Tony said, and there was something frustratingly gentle under the words. “That’s the problem.”
A beat.
“Guys like that don’t have bad days, kid. They have targets.”
Peter went quiet.
“And one day,” Tony added, more quietly, “you’re going to be standing between him and one. Because that’s what you do. It’s literally in your brand.”
The silence on the other end of the line became uncomfortable.
“...Okay,” Peter said finally.
Tony didn’t sound convinced. “That didn’t sound like an agreeing with me ‘okay.’”
“It’s an ‘I hear you,’” Peter said. “Like, loud and clear, ringing in my ears, permanent tinnitus—”
“I’m gonna need it to be an ‘I’m not going to do the thing,’ Peter.” Tony replied.
Peter hesitated. “…I mean—yeah. I’ll try to avoid him. I wasn’t planning to, like, hang out with him or anything.”
Tony made a sound that was halfway between a sigh, a groan, and a quiet crash of something expensive being set down too hard.
“I need to start installing better judgment in these suits,” he muttered.
“That seems invasive,” Peter said. “Like, ethically. Probably.”
“So is getting shot,” Tony shot back. “One of those things is easier to fix than the other, and it’s not your moral compass.”
“…Okay, that’s fair.”
“Good. Put ‘fair’ in the win column. And, hey, do me a favor?”
“Yeah?”
“If you see Mr. Skull-and-Guns again? You call me before the standard is ‘didn’t shoot the literal child.”
Peter managed a small smile. “Yeah. Okay. I can do that.”
“I’m holding you to that, Underoos.”
The line went quiet again, but this time it felt a little less like systems failing and a little more like someone standing guard on the other end.