Archive of Our Own ^beta

“Oh, God,” the robber spat, glaring at his web-bound hands. “When they said that you used webs, I didn’t think they meant literally. Are you actually a fuckin’ spider?”

Peter shrugged, more focused on detaching his webs from the gun he’d yanked out of the man’s hands. “Devil’s in the details,” he chirped. 

“No, they say that the Devil’s in Hell’s Kitchen,” the robber returned. 

“Who’s ‘they’ and why do they have so much to say?” Peter grumbled, before he brightened. “Hey! That rhymed. I’m a poet and I didn’t even realize.”

“The phrase is, ‘I’m a poet and I didn’t even know it,’ dumbass.”

Criminals weren’t usually this talkative; Peter was glad to have someone indulge him. Even so, he found himself wondering what was taking the cops so long. “Oh? I don’t get it. Could you explain that a little bit more?”

The rather unjustly bold man snorted, and twisted his hands in a subconscious attempt to free them (which wasn’t going to happen any time soon). “Seriously? Poet and know it rhyme. It goes along with the joke, since poems are supposed to rhyme, so if you’re a poet, you would rhyme. Duh.”

“That’s so interesting. I still don’t really understand, though, so could you—”

“How could you not understand? Poems rhyme, so poets have to rhyme, and realize doesn’t—” The robber must’ve noticed the imaginary notepad that Peter was pretending to write on as he enthusiastically nodded along. This seemed to be the moment that he picked up on Peter’s sarcasm. “Fuckin’ shit, man, you’re really a waste of space, aren’t you?”

“Ouch,” Peter murmured, but kept his fake notebook out as he leaned closer to the webbed-up man. It would be smart to take advantage of the robber’s talkative attitude, after all. “You said that they say that there’s a devil in Hell’s Kitchen. What do you mean?”

The man threw his head back and laughed, but he hit his head on the wall behind him and winced. Regardless, he answered, “Now you really are a dumbass. Can’t believe you’ve never heard of the guy. It’s not a devil, it’s the Devil. Daredevil.”

“Hey, I don’t spend a lot of time in Hell’s Kitchen, man.” In fact, Peter didn’t think that he’d ever been in Hell’s Kitchen. Nevertheless, the name Daredevil rang faint bells of recognition in his mind. He recalled seeing the word written out in graffiti, usually attached with a vague warning. Peter had always figured it was a pop culture reference he didn’t understand, which honestly should’ve told him something—the range of references he didn’t understand was limited. 

“Probably for the best,” the man remarked, unaware of Peter’s musings. “They say that the Devil is real territorial.”

“Back at it again with ‘they,’ huh,” Peter sighed, pocketing his fake notebook. It was a good bit, he decided, but the police sirens entering his field of hearing told him it was time to wrap things up. “Diddly darn, the criminal underworld of super-duper dangerous and easily-caught robbers have all sorts of sources.” 

“Y’know what, you little shit—”

Peter webbed his mouth shut, ignoring the man’s muffled curses, and turned to the employee sitting quietly behind his desk. “I was getting tired of him, weren’t you?”

The young worker nodded mutely. Peter couldn’t tell if the guy’s silence had to do with the shock of nearly being robbed or the shock of seeing Spider-Man at the 24/7 bank at one in the morning on a Thursday night. 

Peter shrugged and turned on his heels to walk out of the building. He was watching on a nearby roof as a police car finally rounded the corner to investigate the robbery. Satisfied, he latched onto another building with his webs and continued on his patrol route. 

(The next day at school, Peter took some time to check for Daredevil-related news. It turned out that the guy had a red suit with literal horns. The get-up, paired with numerous reports of maiming, definitely called for the whole Devil of Hell’s Kitchen nickname. Peter was an odd mix between justifiably terrified and immensely curious.)

-

About two months later, Peter was leaning towards being more terrified than curious. But, when faced with a kevlar-clad man directing a very threatening stick at your head, it was hard to be anything more than terrified. 

In all fairness, it wasn’t as though Peter had purposefully waltzed right on into Hell’s Kitchen. No, it just so happened that the men—two ne’er-do-wells that probably wouldn’t have gotten away with their disastrous property damage even if Peter hadn’t stepped in—he’d been chasing had coincidentally driven into the neighborhood. Peter had caught the guys after no more than five minutes in Hell’s Kitchen, but not before his Spidey Sense slammed into him, warning him that he had company. His hearing picked up on the soft footsteps that trailed after him as he chased the men, that paused as Peter webbed them up for the police to find, that resumed motion as Peter tried to get to the edges of the neighborhood as quickly as he could. 

He couldn’t shake his tail, being not at all familiar with the area, so he eventually decided that it would be best to figure out what the guy wanted, rather than have a mysterious creep follow him back to his home in Queens. 

And that was how Peter ended up on the roof of an unidentifiable building, masked-face-to-masked-face with Daredevil. He briefly wondered if he was soon to become one of the man’s countless victims. 

“Look, uh, I didn’t mean to come here, I was just about to leave, so please don’t…” Peter tried to explain, but he trailed off in confusion as Daredevil lowered his club. Peter’s Sense lessened slightly, but not enough to stop Peter from being wary. 

“You’re a kid,” the man said simply, his voice gruff and more than slightly incredulous. 

No one had ever worked out Peter’s identity so quickly. What the fuck. 

“A presumptuous accusation you’ve got there,” he tried, though he realized that the attempt was likely futile as Daredevil’s visible frown deepened. If Peter could see the upper half of the man’s face, he was sure that he’d be the recipient of a glare to rival MJ’s.

“Your voice modulator could be improved,” Daredevil continued, as though Peter had said nothing. “I can differentiate between your real voice and the lowered one. You also reek of a boy in puberty.”

Hey, now. Peter used deodorant at least twice a day. He knew patrol made him a bit sweaty, and he didn’t want to inflict his B.O. on anyone he encountered, even if most of them were criminals. 

“Get some new deodorant.” Daredevil stepped closer. Peter stood his ground—this man wasn’t about to hurt him. “What’s a kid doing swinging around in some spandex on a school night?”

“I’m just trying to help people. Like you,” Peter added, squinting his eyes at the man. After all, he’d read about more than just the guy’s violence. “New York won’t die just ‘cause there’s another vigilante helping out. Again, I’m sorry about coming into Hell’s Kitchen, it was an accident, so I’ll just—”

“Kids shouldn’t be in this line of work,” Daredevil interrupted. 

Peter let out a groan that probably didn’t sound remotely mature. “I know that, but most kids don’t have weird spider powers. The weird spider powers kinda warrant a bit of crime-stopping.”

A lot of kids also didn’t have the same amount of trauma Peter had racked up in his 15 years of life, but that was besides the point. 

Daredevil opened his mouth, clearly wanting to say something, but Peter’s bravado was dimming quickly. He didn’t want to make the man any more upset than he already was. Peter jumped off the building before another word left the vigilante’s mouth. He heard the man sigh as Peter swung away, audibly giving up. 

At least Peter knew he wouldn't be in physical danger if he entered Hell’s Kitchen again—Daredevil made it clear that he didn’t think a child should get hurt. However, Peter wasn't safe from the lecture on safety he’d surely receive if he returned. Peter resigned to stay away from the neighborhood, so long as another criminal didn’t force the chase past the Kitchen’s borders.

-

The next time Peter encountered Daredevil, he hadn’t even crossed into Hell’s Kitchen. He was just one block over, though, and that must’ve been enough to call for another visit from the Devil. 

At first, Peter didn’t recognize the new presence as Daredevil. All he could comprehend was the very, very loud thump of a person landing on the roof Peter was occupying. The person’s sudden appearance blended into the rest of the sounds flooding Peter’s mind. The sound was unable to distract him from the amount of things he felt touching his body, but it at least did mix well with the taste of blood in Peter’s mouth. 

Peter’s gloved hands (oh, God, his hands, his hands had cloth on them, shit, he could feel everything) reached to chafe across his neck. The scratching averted his attention for barely a second before he was panicking for a completely different reason. 

Somehow, through the overtaxed sludge of his brain, he remembered that he’d taken off his mask when he’d felt the sensory overload starting. Meaning, he was without a mask. Meaning, whoever had just landed on the roof could see his unmasked face. 

Shit, shit, shit, shit, shit—

Too much sound. Too much touch. And New York smelled like shit. 

“Spider-Man.”

And he didn’t have a mask. Fuck, he didn’t have a mask. His identity was revealed. May and MJ were in danger, and Ned could be tracked to Colorado, so he was in danger, too. Everyone was in danger, his identity was revealed. 

“Spider-Man.”

He couldn’t breathe. He couldn’t breathe, and oh, God, his hands were gloved. He couldn’t breathe, the roof felt dirty, he’d ditched his mask, he couldn’t breathe—

“Spider-Man, you’re safe. Narrow down your hearing, focus on my breaths. You’re safe, but you need to breathe.”

He knew that. Peter knew that. Panic was clutching his lungs, and he couldn’t breathe, but he knew he needed to. But how could he be expected to do that when he could hear, feel, smell, and taste everything. Even with his tightly-shut eyes, the brightness of billboards and street lamps stung through his eyelids. He was barely able to concentrate on the man’s voice, one that had switched from horribly gruff to incredibly soft. 

Damnit. His hands. His hands were covered. Peter removed his hands from his neck to instead rub them together anxiously. He couldn’t remove any more of his suit, so fraying the fabric was the next best option. 

“Okay,” the man continued, taking Peter’s gasping silence in stride. “Try to focus on my voice. Remember, you’re safe. I know everything is chaotic right now, but I’m the only one here. It’s okay. Focus on my voice.”

The man’s voice collided with the voices of every resident of every building in the whole block, probably even further. But the man repeated his words. And he repeated them again. And again, and again, and again. 

And by what must’ve been the twentieth repetition, Peter found himself zoning in on the guy’s voice, the range of his hearing receding. Only then could Peter follow the man’s original instruction and focus on his breaths. After some insurmountable amount of time, Peter felt a bit less choked and a bit more calm. So he opened his eyes.

His eyes immediately landed on Daredevil. 

“Fuck.”

“Fuck, indeed,” Daredevil emphatically agreed. The man was crouched down to Peter’s level, since Peter had been holding his knees to his chest and rocking himself. “Do I need to remind you again that you’re safe, or…?”

“Am I really?” Peter questioned, snatching his mask from the ground. “‘Cause it kinda looks like I just revealed my identity to the ever-feared Devil of Hell’s Kitchen. I’m not sure that constitutes safety.” 

The man hummed, and settled into his position more. “That you did, kid, that you did. But it’s not like I’m about to spread the word. I know how much danger that would put you in.”

“Well what are you gonna do, then?”

“Well, first, I’ll assume the position of a responsible adult and make sure you’re okay. You okay?”

Peter wiped his hands across his face, and kept them there to hide his expression. Despite feeling a little like throwing up, he answered, “Yeah.”

“Liar,” Daredevil immediately countered. “Don’t try to lie to me. It won’t work.”

Of course the mysterious vigilante with horns on his head would be a human lie detector. Who was Peter to think any differently?

“I’m tired,” he admitted. “And maybe a bit sick.”

Daredevil nodded, accepting his truthful answer. “That makes sense. That’s usually how I feel.” Peter looked up at him in question, and he continued, “I have strong senses, too. Plenty of experience with sensory overloads.”

That explained how Daredevil had figured out Peter’s age almost immediately. It also explained why Daredevil had left the confines of Hell’s Kitchen when he’d heard Peter having a bit of a meltdown. Though, if the guy could hear that, then he was either already pretty close to Peter, or his hearing was a bit better than Peter’s. He guessed that it was more likely the latter. 

“So what now?” Peter asked, scanning what little of Daredevil’s face was visible. There wasn’t a frown on his lips, for once. 

“If you’re going to keep up this vigilante gig, you at least need some supervision. Someone to make sure you don’t die.”

“And would that be you?”

“I don’t think you have many options. The only team-up you’ve ever done was back in June with the whole Avengers catfight business, so it seems like I’m the only other vigilante you know.” At Peter’s silence, Daredevil shrugged. “I did my research.”

“Then you should know I’ve already been doing this for, like, seven months. Why do I need your supervision?”

“And I’ve been fighting for decades,” Daredevil returned. “Maybe you don’t need to be directly supervised, but I did just drag you out of a sensory overload. You can obviously learn more about controlling your senses, and I’d venture a guess that your fighting skills aren’t necessarily the best.” 

Peter skipped over the straightforward observations, and focused on Daredevil’s implied meaning. “Are you saying you want to…what, be my mentor?”

The guy actually winced, like he was in physical pain, and Peter couldn't hide his snort. “Not a mentor. I’m just offering to teach you a few things.”

“Teach me. Like a teacher. Giving lessons to someone who isn’t masterful in the subject. Some may even call it mentoring.”  

“Kid, do you want to learn how to control your powers or not?” Daredevil said, rising from the ground. 

Peter popped up as well, ignoring his slight lightheadedness. “Okay, okay, no mentoring. Just some vigilantes hanging out, with one being significantly younger than the other, and the elder teaching the youngling how to master his newfound abilities, all the while ignoring the fading of his gruff exterior as he grows closer to the young vigilante. Definitely not mentoring in any sense of the word.”

“Lord, give me strength,” Daredevil muttered. “Alright, kid. We’ll meet at the warehouse three blocks down from here, this Saturday. 11 p.m.”

The man left before Peter could vocalize his agreement. Regardless, he murmured, “Aye, aye, Cap’n.” 

Peter heard Daredevil chuckle quietly as he jumped from building to building, and Peter headed home with excitement bubbling in his stomach. 

-

Come Saturday, 11 p.m., Peter was in Hell’s Kitchen—on purpose. That was new. 

Daredevil hadn’t told Peter the exact location of the warehouse, but the streets were fairly quiet. When he arrived three blocks down from the building they’d been at the other night, Peter listened for any indication of Daredevil’s presence. After a few seconds, he could hear the sound of a punching bag rattling on its chain, accompanied by the sound of fists pounding against leather. If that didn't scream vigilante training, Peter didn’t know what did. 

The door was unlocked, and Peter entered the building. Taking in his surroundings, it appeared as though the warehouse had been repurposed to act as a private gym. Mismatched gym equipment littered the otherwise empty space. The punching bag’s bully was a man in a tank top and sweats, his brunette hair not yet damp with sweat.  

No Daredevil in sight. Peter must’ve assumed the location incorrectly, and he tried to quietly back away before the man could spot him. The second Peter reversed his steps, though, the man stopped punching. 

“Spider-Man,” he called, not yet turning back. “You’re not about to ditch, are you?”

Peter froze, his eyes widening. “Daredevil?” 

“Who’d you think it was?” the man replied, and he made to turn around. Peter threw a hand over his eyes (he closed them too, just for safe measures). He was just barely able to avoid seeing the vigilante’s face. 

“Woah!” Peter exclaimed, throwing his other hand out towards Daredevil. “I think you’re missing something there. As in, your mask.”

“Kid,” Daredevil sighed, and Peter heard him come closer. “You can take away your hand. And open your eyes. You went maskless in my presence, so I’m doing the same.”

“I don’t think that’s how the whole secret identity thing works,” Peter pointed out, not yet letting himself see the man’s face.

“Spider-Man, if we’re going to be doing this, we’re gonna need to know some things about each other. Look at my face.”

Peter hesitantly removed his hand and let his eyes open. He took in Daredevil’s face. The brown of his hair matched the stubble Peter’d been able to see even with the mask on. His lips weren’t downturned, instead quirking up in a slight smirk. His face was slightly pale, but not dangerously so. The eyebags, though, were probably something to be concerned about. The eyes above those bags were the last thing Peter noticed, and when he saw them, he didn’t know how they hadn’t caught his attention first. 

“I don’t mean to, like, be rude, but are you—”

“Blind?” Daredevil filled in, the smirk steadfast in its place. “Incredibly so, yes.”

At the confirmation, Peter’s mind flooded with thoughts, most of them questions. He chose to voice only one of them at first, rather than starting a full-out interrogation: “So you didn’t actually see my face.”

“I never said I did.”

“You—” Peter thought back for a second, and he realized that Daredevil was right. “Are you a lawyer, by any chance?”

Peter had meant it as a joke, simply a note on how the man was intensely aware of every remark he’d ever made, but Daredevil’s eyebrows simply rose. 

“Christ, okay.” Peter took off his own mask, moving on. “But if you never saw my face, why am I allowed to see yours?”

“It’s about the principle of it,” Daredevil explained, and he began walking back to the punching bag. Peter followed. “You trusted me to not tell the locals that Spider-Man was a kid, and, in my world, that’s grounds to reveal my face. A secret identity is no small thing, as you know, so the fact that I found you maskless was a breach of privacy, even if I don’t exactly know what you look like.”

Peter was quiet for a moment, considering Daredevil’s points. “I can, at the very least, respect that. Thanks for, uh, letting me see.”

Peter didn’t want to admit it, but he already preferred seeing the man’s face to looking at his mask. The mask had hid most of his face, obviously, and Peter was put oddly at ease by the rest of Daredevil’s face. His eyes were focused on Peter’s shoulder, just missing his face. Eye contact didn’t have to be a strain on Peter, mainly because the man couldn’t tell that Peter was looking directly at him. And, despite the fact that Daredevil’s resting frowny face had returned, his eyes indicated that he wasn’t truly upset—something Peter wouldn’t have known if the mask was still on. 

Daredevil hummed in response, and steadied himself behind the punching bag. “Now that we’ve got that out of the way, let’s actually start. Punch the bag.”

Peter’s hands formed a proper fist, and he wound up to hit the bag. Just as he did so, Daredevil interrupted his action with an exclamation that slightly resembled a humanlike bark. 

“I thought you wanted me to punch it,” Peter dryly commented. 

“I wanted to see if you would know what to do first.” Daredevil walked over to a duffle bag against the wall, pulled something out of it, and launched it at Peter. He caught the object with ease, only now realizing that it was a roll of hand tape. “We need to wrap your hands.”

So Daredevil taught Peter how to wrap his hands. He explained how it helped support and protect his hands and wrists. Peter argued that he had enhanced healing—any damage caused by a harsh punch would be healed within half an hour. 

“You can’t rely on your healing,” Daredevil refuted, finishing his wrap job. Peter flexed his hands, unused to the feeling. “You shouldn’t be hurting yourself during training. I'm supposed to be teaching you how to not hurt yourself.”

Peter couldn’t argue there, so he let Daredevil press his weight against the bag again, where he once more instructed Peter to punch the sack. He did, putting minimal force into the blow, and watched as Daredevil put more weight into his stance to stop from falling over. 

“What’d you do, lightly pat it?” Daredevil questioned. “My friend told me about you. There’s footage of you catching a bus going 50 miles per hour. I want you to punch. The. Bag.”

So Peter punched the bag. Daredevil all but flew across the room, but he landed in a harsh roll that stunted the fall. A small rip had formed in the bag, and sand started to spill. 

“Shit, shit, I’m sorry, shit,” Peter rushed out, hurrying over to the vigilante, even as he began to right himself.  “Are you okay?”

“Fine,” the man replied, and he returned to his duffle, pulling out a roll of duct tape. He quickly patched the small hole in the bag before too much sand could get out. “Now. Was that as hard as you could punch?”

“Um. No.”

“Kid, we’re not gonna get anywhere if you keep holding back. Once you actually punch the bag, we can pull your strength back, and figure out how to find a good balance. I’ll get out of the way, so you don’t have any reservations about hurting me. Punch the fucking bag, kid.”

So Peter punched the fucking bag. 

This time, it was the bag itself that flew across the room, ripped from its chain. Sand rapidly poured out of the reopened, and much, much bigger hole. It went farther than Daredevil had, slamming into the wall that was across the room. After it slumped pitifully to the ground, Peter’s eyes widened as he took in the cracks in the wall that had formed on impact. Chips of brick fell to the ground, cascading over the bag. 

The warehouse was quiet for a solid few seconds, before Daredevil said, “Did I just hear you crack the wall?”

Peter had already forgotten that the other vigilante was blind, and he confirmed what the man had heard, tacking on an apology. 

Peter only let himself be concerned about the collapse of the building for a millisecond before he was reminded that his Sense hadn’t alerted him of any danger. He took a deep breath, and let himself be grounded in the present moment, not in some other decrepit warehouse in Queens. 

“Calm down, kid,” Daredevil said mildly, sensing Peter’s internal panic. “This? This is more like it.”

“Er, thanks?” Peter hesitantly replied. 

“You’re welcome. Now, grab the broom in that corner, and sweep up the sand.”

-

It was the next Saturday when Peter broached the question of Daredevil’s powers. 

The interest had been dogging at the back of his mind, constantly wondering how Daredevil could move around—how he could parkour and fight—without any visible aids. Peter understood that blind people could get around in a space they were familiar with, but he’d never encountered a blind person in a very public space without a cane in hand or a person guiding them. Sometimes they even had a guide dog. Daredevil had none of those things, and Peter couldn’t stop himself from being curious, now that he was over his justifiably terrified phase. 

“I told you, I have enhanced senses,” Daredevil answered, rifling through his duffle. “Way better than yours.”

“Okay, yeah,” Peter accepted. “But how does that…Can you echolocate, or something?”

Daredevil rose from his bag, a light smirk on his face and some kind of black fabric in hand. “You’re closer than you might think.”

“So how do you do it?”

The man tossed the fabric to Peter. “Years of training. We’re going to be working on that today—expanding your senses. Put that on.”

“Is this a blindfold?” Peter asked, even as he unfolded it and wrapped it around his eyes. 

“Seems you’ve worked that out,” Daredevil mused, and Peter heard the man come closer to him. “Is it tight enough? Can you see anything?”

Peter roughly shook his head, satisfied when it still felt secure on his head. However, he could still see the lights of the warehouse shining through the fabric, as it probably wasn’t the best material to use as an enhanced person’s blindfold. He told Daredevil as much, and the man went to shut off the lights. (Could he hear where the light switch was? Had he just memorized its location? Peter didn’t know.)

“Okay. List the things you can hear,” Daredevil instructed. 

“There’s a lot,” Peter warned, but Daredevil remained silent. Peter began to list his surroundings. “Your breaths, and the sound of the lights in here still turning off. There’s some bugs in here, I can hear them moving. There’s a person driving around the corner, and uh…two more cars on the next street over.”

“What else?”

“This street doesn’t have many people, but there’s a couple having an argument about a street down.”

“Which building?”

Peter’s eyebrows furrowed, the movement restricted by the blindfold. “I don’t…um. They're in the fourth building down. There's, there's two more people on the floor below them, I think.”

“Good. What are they talking about?”

Peter strained slightly, extending his hearing a bit more. As he did so, the lights in the warehouse got louder, the rustling of the bugs was more evident, and the cars seemed to shout their presence. He could also hear what the two men were talking about. 

“Rats. They hear them in the walls, and they're talking about calling pest control in the morning.”

Daredevil hummed in confirmation. “Can you hear the rats?”

Peter huffed, and shook his head. “Not right now. If I try to expand my senses any more, the sounds in here are gonna be too overwhelming.”

“And therein lies the problem,” Daredevil decided. “Take off the blindfold, we’ll give your ears a break.”

Peter had to blink roughly as his eyes quickly readjusted to the newfound light. The warehouse was still dark, sure, but his powers allowed for something akin to night vision. The light from street lamps streamed through the limited windows, and that was enough to surprise Peter. 

“You're holding your senses back, just like your strength,” Daredevil noted. “I'm assuming you had quite a few of those overloads when you first got your powers.”

Peter shrugged. “It was like life was a constant overload. It didn’t stop until I figured out how to keep my hearing at a level that didn't damage me. It took weeks to get used to it, and as soon as I could block out unnecessary sounds, I didn't wanna risk another overload.”

“But you still have overloads.”

“I can't keep control of it all the time.”

“Me neither,” the older vigilante admitted, nodding. “But the overloads happen less than they used to. After years of getting used to my senses, I was able to safely reach out with my hearing without being slaughtered by sound. It took a lot of practice, but that's why you're with me now. You need to be able to properly use your powers.”

Peter sighed, letting a gloved hand run through his hair. “You're right. Just sounds...fucking awful, I guess.”

“At times, yeah. But so is most of the whole vigilante gig.” At Peter's nod, Daredevil instructed, “Put the blindfold back on, kid. Find my heartbeat.”

Peter frowned in concentration, and buried himself in the sound of Daredevil's breaths. It was like he was trailing the air into the man's body, his ears just barely keeping up. Through the madness that was a human body, Peter found the motor keeping the whole thing running. He centered in on the sound, tapping out the beat against his thigh with one of his fingers. 

When Daredevil spoke, the sound of his voice had to battle to be heard over his heartbeat. “Good. Now, can you hear the rats?”

-

The 11 o’clock meetings on Saturday became a routine. December and January rushed by, with Peter coming to understand his powers in a way he’d never thought he could. Heartbeats came easily, and Peter hardly had to stretch his hearing to listen for the rats that never quite got removed from that building. Through teaching Peter proper fighting techniques, Daredevil also reminded Peter how dangerous it could be to rely on his webs. The man was working to get Peter used to exercising his strength, helping him find the right amount of force to use when fighting.

Just as Peter had predicted, the sessions led to a vigilante mentorship. Daredevil hadn’t mentioned it, but Peter knew they both noticed the gradual change. Saturday sessions led to occasional team ups on patrol. Occasional team ups led to late-night conversations whilst sitting on a roof, awaiting a cry for help. Late-night conversations led to discussions about their personal lives. 

“It’s important for vigilantes to be connected, kid,” Daredevil explained, as though Peter didn’t absolutely know that the things they were talking about didn’t coincide with your standard secret identity. “If we’re to trust each other in fights, then we need to trust each other as people.”

Discussions about their personal lives led to legitimate identity reveals. 

Matt Murdock co-owned a law firm with his best friend. He never turned on the lights in his apartment, so his electric bill was exceptionally low. He was a Catholic, and attended Mass every Sunday. He would only go clothes shopping with his friends to make sure his outfits looked at least somewhat coherent. He usually wore red-tinted glasses to shield his eyes, and he carried a cane that morphed into a billy club. Matt Murdock was also Daredevil. 

Peter Parker went to a STEM-based school on scholarship, and he was the top of his class. He could speak four languages fluently, and he was picking up Russian. He loved to draw and paint, though he couldn’t often find time for those hobbies. He liked to wear corny science pun shirts, which had started out as a gag gift from Ned, but had quickly become unironic. Peter Parker was also Spider-Man.

Legitimate identity reveals led to time spent together outside of the masks.

Peter met Foggy and Karen one day when Matt decided to show Peter his office. (Matt had mentioned something about educating Peter on what an adult life outside of vigilante work looked like. Peter had promised that no matter what the law firm held, he’d never stop making fun of Matt’s profession.)

“Matt…” Foggy started, eyeing Peter and Matt suspiciously as they walked into the office. “Did you kidnap a child?”

“My bets are on the kid being his secret child that he just found out about,” said the woman in the corner, who had her feet resting on her desk with her phone in her hands.

“This is Peter,” Matt sighed, ignoring Peter’s stifled laughs, just as Peter ignored the slightest spike of Matt’s heart rate. “I didn't kidnap him, and he is not my secret child.”

Matt didn’t offer any further explanation. Foggy and Karen, apparently used to Matt’s bullshit, accepted his lack of elaboration and welcomed Peter. Matt took Peter into his own office, showing off the few law books in braille he’d saved up for. He had several copies of documents also written in braille. Matt told Peter right then that he’d teach Peter braille. Again, his explanation was limited: if Peter were to spend any more time in Matt’s firm, he’d have to learn braille. That was that.

Matt “met” MJ when she video called Peter during one of the totally-not-a-mentorship sessions. A call from MJ close to midnight wasn’t too odd, but Peter still had to pause the session to answer her call. 

She wanted to rant to him about a book she’d just finished. Peter was in love, that much was clear. 

While she was talking, Matt began beating up the punching bag. He had to be aware that the phone’s microphone would pick up the sound, and he was practically announcing his presence to MJ, waiting for Peter to introduce them. 

“Are you at the gym?” MJ asked, her rant stuttering to a halt. “What are you doing at the gym at midnight? Am I suddenly dating a gym rat?”

Peter laughed, and beckoned Matt over to meet MJ. “I’m not a gym rat, don’t worry. This is Matt. He’s teaching me how to fight.” At MJ’s raised brow, he added, “He knows, don’t worry.”

“Okay, cool. Now, are you telling me that Spider-Man doesn’t know how to fight?”

“He can fight,” Matt corrected. “Now. I taught him how to fight.”

“There were a few good YouTube videos before I met you, by the way,” Peter mumbled to the man. “I can always replace you.”

Matt said nothing, only giving a light punch to Peter’s arm. 

“Thanks for stopping his dumbass from dying, Matt,” MJ offered, regarding the man with an unusually approving look. Matt nodded, and took that as his leave. He began punching the poor bag again, pretending as though MJ and Peter had a bit of privacy. “Should I be concerned about you going to a random gym at midnight with a 40-year-old man?” 

“Nah,” Peter answered, glancing at Matt with a smile. “He’s good.”

-

The totally-not-a-mentorship sessions became a necessary stability in Peter’s life. Judging by the previously-rare smile that was beginning to grace Matt’s face more often, the man thought the same. Peter never missed a session.

Until he did. 

It was mid-February. The 14th. Peter should've known that Matt would come to find him, what with Peter never missing a session and all. Though he'd come to the rooftops of Queens for some solitude, Peter didn't try to run when he heard Daredevil approach his hideout on top of a 24/7 bank. (The bank wasn't often busy, despite its appealing hours.)

“Maybe leave a note next time, hm?” Matt suggested, taking a seat next to Peter. His voice was carefully casual, clearly aware of the strangeness of the situation.

“Would you have been able to find it if I hadn't told you where it was first?” Peter quietly asked, injecting a bit of humor in his voice. Matt could definitely pick up on the falseness, but he didn't mention it.

“If it was at the gym, sure. Could've read it, too.” 

“I know,” Peter acknowledged. They sat in silence for a few minutes while Daredevil waited Peter out. The wind was harsh in his ears, but he'd rather be outside than in. Still, he was thankful for the heaters in his suit, even though he knew they could've been improved. 

Matt kept minutely tilting his head towards Peter, silently asking him to talk about whatever was bothering him. It took a few more minutes of quiet before Peter could whisper just two words. 

“MJ's dead.”

Peter listened as the breath caught in Matt’s throat. Sometimes Peter wondered if Matt ever regretted teaching Peter how to pick up on physical tells to catch their emotions. Matt couldn’t hide much from Peter anymore, not really. 

Seeing as Peter had just spoken those two words aloud for the first time since it happened, Peter couldn’t hide anything either. Then again, he never could, could he?

“I…I’m sorry.” Matt blew out a harsh breath. “I’m so sorry for your loss, Peter. She deserved a long life.”

“Yeah. She did.”

“Is there anything I can do?”

Peter shrugged. The situation couldn’t really be helped, he thought, at least not now, not by Matt. Peter could’ve prevented the death, that would’ve been a help. He could’ve sensed the shooter driving up before it was too late, for one. He could’ve swung her to the hospital, surely. At the time, he’d thought that MJ was losing too much blood to survive a trip through the air. Now, though, he could only think about the chance of her still breathing if he’d taken the risk.

Despite Peter’s lack of a legitimate answer, Matt stayed with him. They sat in silence, letting the wind whistle past their ears, letting the cold seep into their bones, letting the moment hang before the wind swept it away. 

At some point, Peter started to cry. Matt, after receiving a shuddering nod from Peter, pulled him into a side hug. It was the first of its kind. There was hardly any body warmth to share between them, but Matt’s grip was firm and grounding. Peter tried not to let himself crumple into the man’s hold as his grief rolled through him.

“It’ll be okay, kid,” Matt soothed, his low murmur barely audible over Peter’s choked sobs. “It’s gonna be alright.”

Peter didn’t know if he should believe him, but he really wanted to.

-

Peter and Matt started to team up more on patrol. Peter never asked him to, but Matt sometimes even ended up in Queens on the nights that Peter was particularly busy. Peter was grateful for it, though, and he wasn't about to stop the man. His current life didn’t cause any aching for solitude, after all. 

Peter was an experienced griever, but losing MJ was rough. Of course. Loss never got easier, no matter how experienced you were. Matt helped, though, in any way he could. Peter was well aware that the man’s skills didn’t lie in any emotional capacity, but he tried his best, and the effort was certainly appreciated. 

With May frequently working long shifts with odd hours, Peter was often on his lonesome. Matt noticed, so he allowed Peter to come by his office more often, and Peter took the time to study braille. It was a way to keep busy, besides patrol and school. He needed to keep busy, otherwise he’d be alone with his thoughts. 

Peter was getting better, though. He went to school, he did homework, he learned braille, he patrolled, he had his Saturday sessions. He kept busy. That was what mattered. 

Being alone with his thoughts was nothing compared to being absolutely alone, as he realized on one gorgeous Wednesday in May. 

(MJ died in February. Ben had gone in March, his parents in April. It was entirely fitting that May died in May. Peter’s loved ones had laid claim to the spring months, one after the other.)

Understanding that you were well and truly the last one left was a hard discernment to come across. His mind grappled with the idea as he swung away from the scene of the car crash. He’d seen May in the mess, her body almost artfully draping out of the taxi’s door. When he couldn’t hear the heartbeat to match the body, and when he knew that the paramedics were nowhere near the crash, he realized that there was nothing that could be done. As Spider-Man, he coaxed a few stray civilians away from the crash, waiting until the police rushed around the corner before he left the scene. As Peter Parker, he wasn’t able to say goodbye. 

Peter had never been to the warehouse on any day other than Saturday. But, on this gorgeous Wednesday in May, that’s where his body had decided to go. It was nearing 11 o’clock—May had been coming home from one of her odd hour shifts. Peter didn’t bother turning on the lights in the empty warehouse.

Mourning in the dark felt right. Well, nothing felt right at the moment, but mourning in a well-lit shelter felt even less right. 

Matt found him, of course. Something in Peter had known he would. 

The man settled down next to Peter on the dirty and somewhat sand-dusted warehouse floor. He was dressed as Daredevil, but when he took off his mask, Peter just saw Matt. 

“I’m the last one left, Matt,” Peter whispered, his voice thick and his breaths shaky. “Why did it have to be me? Why am I the only one left?”

Matt couldn’t give Peter the answers he so desperately wanted. Instead, he offered, “I don't know. It’s not fair.”

Peter wanted to throw up. So he did. He’d just pushed himself up and staggered over to the trash can before he did so. Then he decided that he’d rather stay by the trash can, should anything else threaten his stomach.

Matt was by his side before Peter could tumble to the ground again. He pulled one of Peter’s arms around his shoulders, supporting Peter almost entirely, and said, “We’re leaving.”

Matt was already pulling Peter out of the warehouse before Peter had the wherewithal to ask, “Why?”

“Because you can't be holed up in that dank warehouse right now, and my apartment is only a block away. You need somewhere to stay, kid, at least for tonight.” The man said it so simply, as though welcoming a grieving orphan into his home was the most obvious thing in the world.

“Okay.”

Peter’s mind sort of skipped over the walk to Matt’s apartment. He also missed the trek up the stairs, and he barely registered that the lights in the apartment were off. He failed to notice that Matt had seated him on the couch, though he could feel the heavy, heavy blanket that was laid on him. 

A cup of tea was gently placed into his hands. Peter could not recognize what it was. 

“Chamomile,” Matt explained. “Might help you calm down a little.”

“I thought I was calm.” In fact, Peter was so calm that he could barely sense anything outside of his immediate surroundings.

“Your heart rate is going wild.” Matt set himself down onto the couch next to Peter. “And you’re still crying.” 

Peter pulled one of his gloved hands away from the mug and lifted it to his face, only for the fabric to come back wet. “Oh."

His hand fell back down to his lap, where his other was holding the mug.

The tea used to be hot, Peter thought idly, looking down at it. The tea was now cold. Peter didn't like cold tea. 

“Have been for a while, I’m guessing.”

"Hm?" Peter murmured.

"You asked if you were dissociating. I think you have been for a while."

"Oh."

He was tired. He blinked, and found his hands empty. Matt was now holding the mug with a frown. Cold tea soaked through Peter's suit. Peter didn't like cold tea. 

Eventually, Matt had to ground Peter. Eventually, Peter had a panic attack, one that Matt eventually coaxed him out of. Eventually, Matt had to go to reheat the tea, and Peter had to go with him because he didn’t want to be alone anymore. Eventually, Matt led Peter to his bedroom, where he guided Peter into the silk sheets and stationed himself in the chair facing the bed. Eventually, Peter slumped against the pillows as sleep claimed his exhausted mind.

Eventually, Peter woke up, and he found himself wishing he didn’t. 

Matt was awake already, still stationed in the chair he’d spent the night in. Peter wondered if he’d even slept at all. The man waited until Peter was sitting up against the pillows to say something.

“How are you feeling, kid?”

What a question. He was still tired, but the tiredness exceeded any physical definition. Mainly, his mind was still wrapping itself around the idea of being completely orphaned. There had always been nagging thoughts residing in the back of his mind, debating how long it would take for his uncle to die, and after that, his aunt. Now, only one thought had a voice, reminding him, I was right. 

He didn’t have it in him to explain that to Matt, though. In fact, it looked like it would be one of those days where Peter would struggle to speak at all. Thankfully, his current mood was one Matt had witnessed several times, and Peter was glad to know that the man could hear his shaking head. 

“Okay,” Matt replied, rolling with Peter’s apparent silence. “You need some food in you. Think you could stomach some toast?”

Peter thought about it, then shrugged. 

“Toast it is.”

Peter trailed after him into the kitchen, and took a seat at the table laden with papers. After an absentminded glance, he saw that they were just some articles that Matt had printed out; he must’ve been researching for a case. 

Matt shoved aside some of the papers to lay a plate of toast in front of him. A glass of water plopped down next to the plate. Matt had less toast than Peter, but Peter was just glad that the man had joined him for breakfast. He was also nursing a cup of coffee. 

Later, when breakfast was finished, Peter would plug his phone in to find several missed calls from an unknown number. When he returned the calls, he would find out that the police were looking for a Peter Parker, and requested his presence back at his apartment as soon as possible. He’d let Matt know that he would have to go, typing his words into his phone and letting the phone read them aloud when he couldn't say them himself. Matt would give Peter a pair of sweatpants and a sweatshirt to wear over his suit. Peter would thank him for letting him stay the night, and Matt would assure him that he could come over any time. After Peter made the journey back to his apartment, the police waiting there would tell him that his aunt had died the night before. The social worker would introduce herself as Miss DuBose, give well-rehearsed condolences, and instruct him to gather his necessary belongings. She would also give him a garbage bag to do so.

Peter didn’t take much. Clothes and toiletries, his school stuff, a few tools, extra web cartridges, and some sentimental items. He didn’t dare enter May’s room, though he knew that when the will was read, he’d be left most of her belongings, with the condition that if Peter was a minor when May died, the apartment was to be sold. They’d gone over May’s will just a year ago, and Peter now took comfort in knowing what came next. 

The police had given Peter a box of the jewelry May had on when she died. Peter reverently took out the necklace that his aunt always wore, the one that held her and Ben’s wedding rings. He took them off, and added them to the chain that he kept his parents’ rings on.

Peter followed his social worker out of his apartment, and she explained that he would be placed into the next readily available foster home. She’d already begun sorting through his paperwork, and he’d be in the system come dinnertime. She said that a small and inexpensive funeral home would help him plan May’s funeral. The cost would be covered by the small sum of money May had saved in her emergency fund. 

Peter took in all the information, nodding when he was supposed to and accepting unwanted shoulder pats.

He was an experienced griever, after all. 

-

Peter and Matt stopped having sessions on Saturdays. 

Saturdays were the days that his foster father, Richard, stayed up the latest, and Peter wasn’t able to escape the house by 11 o’clock. 

Instead, Peter began to visit Matt on Sundays, after Matt returned from Mass. Peter had convinced Richard that he was attending a church youth group gathering every Sunday, which was why Richard was oddly amenable to Peter’s secret plans. 

Richard was strict. He checked Peter’s phone, he limited Peter’s meals. He gave him an excess of chores, and didn’t let him leave the house for anything other than school and his “youth group.” Peter wasn’t allowed to call or text Ned, seeing as Richard deleted the number from Peter’s phone. Talking out of turn was forbidden, though sometimes Richard contradicted that rule and became upset when Peter didn’t greet him in the mornings or say goodnight before he went to bed. 

Peter had a younger foster brother, Richard’s actual child. He was seven. He had to obey the same rules as Peter, but at least Richard never laid a hand on him. The brunt of the physical abuse went to Peter, and Peter couldn’t help but feel relieved that the young Andrew wasn’t getting hurt. 

Patrols became his safe haven, though the time he could get out was slightly limited. Spider-Man and Daredevil had even more team ups, with Peter spending as much time in Hell’s Kitchen as Matt spent in Queens. 

Matt was worried, Peter knew, but aside from occasional questions, Matt didn’t pry much. 

Peter didn’t end up telling the man that he ran from his foster home, or that Peter had graduated from school early in preparation for his escape, or that Peter was now homeless. He’d tell him later, probably. 

(He didn’t end up telling him later, either.)

-

Months passed, and Peter was once again getting better. Kind of. 

He’d sorted through his grief, though he didn’t think he’d ever be rid of the guilt he faced for not saving MJ, or, well, being alive when May wasn’t.

(Peter had found out pretty early on into his homeless stint that he couldn’t die, at least not by any means that he could think of. Peter didn’t attempt anymore, so he figured that constituted “getting better.”)

Really, though. Peter was coping, surviving. Matt helped. Peter thought they were well past the realm of mentorship, but he didn’t say it. He didn’t think he had to, what with their patrols resembling something of a familiar team rather than Matt heading every major operation they went into, and Peter going along because, hey, Matt knew best. 

So, yeah, Matt helped. 

What didn’t help, though, were the Avengers.

He had to tell Matt. 

“DD!” Peter called, swinging over to Hell’s Kitchen from his interrupted patrol in Queens. “Where the hell are you, DD?”

“Working,” the man replied, voice distant. Regardless, since he knew that Peter was looking for him, he continued talking to let Peter follow his voice. “Just some mangy guy and his entourage of karate enthusiasts trying to get revenge for some shit.”

A gunshot rang out. 

“Oh, yeah,” Matt continued, his voice much louder as Peter neared his location. “The other guys have guns.”

“The age-old animosity between karate enthusiasts and gun fanatics,” Peter mused, just as he let himself thump to the ground right beside Matt, immediately hopping into the battle. “Boy, do I have news for you.”

“And I’m assuming it can’t wait?” Matt grabbed a man’s leg mid-kick and used the momentum of the fighter to fling him into a nearby wall. The guy slumped, unresponsive but still breathing. 

Peter, meanwhile, was settling up with the gun fanatics. “Nope. Plus, I’m assuming the amount of pissed-off-to-all-hell energy my news will bring you will wrap up this fight quickly.” 

Matt sighed, but didn’t deny Peter’s news. 

“Right!” Peter grabbed one of the men’s guns out of his hands and knocked him off his feet with the butt of the gun. Peter webbed him in place as he explained, “Well, I was just on patrol, minding my own business, right? And Iron Man comes up to me, all suited up and such. My Sense was going off, which was weird, ‘cause I thought we were on okay terms since I helped him out in Germany.”   

“Which wasn’t an amazing idea, I’ll remind you again.” Another one of Matt’s guys was down for the count. Peter could say the same about his opponents. 

“And I’ll remind you, it wasn’t my idea. Anyway, he was all fake politeness and such, and then he told me, ‘Well, if you could just come with me, that’d be great, because SHIELD just wants to talk to you a little.’”

“Oh, those bastards.”

“Right? So I was like, ‘Hell, no.’ We all know how SHIELD feels about vigilantes, let alone mutants. Talk to you a little, my ass. I’d be a fucking science experiment.”

“Shit, man, that sucks,” one of the gun fanatics interjected. Peter webbed his gun out of his hands and stuck him to the ground without a second thought. 

“I know, right? And, so, I heard a few more people just hanging around, and I realized that if I didn’t go in with Mr. Stark, there’d be a fight. So I webbed the guy up, suit and all, and swung away. The Black Widow followed me on motorcycle, so I sent a web bomb her way, and now I’m here.”

Matt launched his billy club at his last adversary so hard that Peter heard one of the guy’s bones crack. “The damn Avengers are after you?” he growled, knocking the man out before his howl of pain got too loud. 

“If they keep trying to bring me in, then yeah, I think so,” Peter hummed, webbing up his final man as well. On his side, all of the men were webbed to the ground or some adjacent walls, conscious. Matt’s opponents were all unconscious and their limbs were in some questionable positions. 

“I’m going to kill them,” Matt decided.

“DD, you don’t kill,” Peter reminded. 

“I’m going to maim them very intensely.”

“Would you like to be the one who deals with those dumbass alien attacks?” Peter pointed out. “We need to keep the Avengers happy and healthy enough to beat up those space twigs. I’m sure they’ll run out of steam eventually.”

“And you just want me to stand by and watch them try to kidnap you?” 

Ah, there it was, the protective side of Matt. It always reminded Peter that he wasn’t absolutely alone, that he still had the man who had turned him into the vigilante that he was today. But when Matt got a bit protective, he usually forgot that they were in public, and he’d hint at Peter’s identity, or how personally connected they were. 

Peter eyed the still-conscious men webbed to the ground, and cleared his throat. “C’mon, DD. Let’s head down the street.” 

Matt must’ve realized the private nature of their conversation, and willingly followed Peter to the warehouse. Without their weekly sessions, the warehouse wasn’t often used. It was still a good place to work out in their freetime, though, and it was certainly handy for protected discussions. 

Once inside, they both pulled off their masks, and Matt moved to the punching bag to release some of his recently acquired anger. 

“If they knew they were after a child, do you think they would still be doing this?” Matt huffed out. 

“Of course not, Matt,” Peter replied, gently pulling Matt away from the bag. The man sighed as Peter moved to get the wrapping tape that resided in the warehouse, but allowed Peter to remove his gloves and wrap his hands. “They’re heroes, after all. SHIELD just gave them their orders, and they’re following them.”

“What, are they incapable of thinking for themselves?” 

“And figure what out? They’re not gonna find out I’m a minor anytime soon, I’ll be even more careful about my identity. I can ditch my phone, ‘cause Mr. Stark is gonna wanna track that.”

“I meant, if they think for themselves, maybe they could notice that you’re doing nothing wrong.” Matt got back up and started beating away at the punching bag after Peter finished the wrap job. “Why should they bring you into SHIELD if all you’re doing is protecting the city?”

“Well, all I can do is evade them and try to convince them otherwise. And not hurt them in the process.”

“And probably get hurt yourself.” Matt delivered an especially hard punch to the bag, and he had to get out of the way as it swung in his direction.

“It’s part of the gig,” Peter dismissed. “As long as I don’t get captured, I’ll be fine.”

“Sure,” Matt muttered. “Fine. Your definition of fine is being able to walk with a knife in your side.”

“Like you’re any better.”

-

When Peter finally ended up getting captured, it wasn’t by the Avengers. It was HYDRA. 

They ambushed him on patrol. 

A tranquilizer whizzed by him as he narrowly dodged it. A single dart wouldn’t have an effect on him, and he tried looking for the source of the attack. Then he avoided another one, from the opposite direction. 

Tranq dart after tranq dart was sent his way, and he could only dodge so many of them before the several that had hit him took effect. He started to slow down, and he could hardly even tell which direction the majority of tranquilizers were coming from. Slowing down meant dodging the darts became even harder. 

Then there were heavily-armoured men on the roof with him, and with only a hit to the head, Peter was down for the count. 

It was embarrassing, really. 

He woke up in a jet. He woke up several times, in fact, but each time, his kidnappers gave him another huge dose of tranquilizer. 

When he woke up once more, he was in a cold room, chained to the wall and stripped of his suit and mask. Instead, he had a gray T-shirt on, with matching gray shorts. 

“Fucking Christ,” he groaned, his head pounding with a headache. Regardless, he listened to his surroundings, trying to sort out what was going on. The room was soundproofed, but not well enough that Peter couldn’t hear the footsteps approaching his door. 

He tried his chains. They didn’t budge.

“Vibranium,” said the man who had just entered the room. “Did you think escape was going to be that easy?”

“Are you saying that there’s a chance of escape?” Peter asked. He was surprised to hear how hoarse his voice was. 

The man laughed, and cracked his knuckles seemingly subconsciously. “No, of course not. You’ll be here for as long as we need you. I’m your doctor, Dr. Beiermann. You may call me sir.”

Dr. Beiermann was a thin, ghostly white man with dark hair. He looked evil, and the white lab coat he had on certainly didn't help. He had a light German accent, which Peter could’ve guessed from his name. And, as Peter was quickly told, he’d be spending a lot of time with the man. Great. 

A lot of time ended up being four weeks, not that Peter was able to keep track of the time. He spent his days and nights getting steadily more afraid of the door to his cell opening. Each time it opened, in walked Dr. Beiermann, shadowed by at least two guards. Though, by the fifth time they walked in, the guards were hardly necessary. They were feeding him too little, letting him sleep only when he was forced unconscious, and taking too much blood too often for him to put up much of a fight. 

They spoke solely in German. After spending hours upon hours on an examination table under the watchful eye of abnormally chatty scientists, Peter picked up the language. Ironically, being consistently shouted at and ordered around in German helped his learning. 

They called him Spinne. Spider. They didn’t see him as human, that much was clear. Sometimes he had to mumble little reminders to himself in the solitude of his cell, telling himself over and over again, “I am Peter Parker. I am human. I’m more than a test subject.” He didn’t know if it really helped or not.

They tested his strength, also known as forcing him to hold an incrementally larger amount of weight for an insurmountable amount of time. They tested his stamina, also known as commanding him to run on a high-speed treadmill for hours at a time. They tested his healing, also known as strapping him to the examination table and making increasingly deep cuts along his body.

They kept his cell cold. Peter couldn't keep himself warm, huddled up in his T-shirt and shorts on the bare ground. He shivered and shivered, until his body went still and everything felt numb. That was when guards would come to get him. The rest of the facility was heated, so he was pretty sure that hypothermia was avoided during the times where he was strapped to the table or exercising. But then they would throw him right back into his cold cell, and he'd start shivering all over again.

They branded him. PROPERTY OF HYDRA was burned into his upper back. Peter didn’t think that was even a test, just a show of authority, as if they owned him. 

They strapped him to a chair. They electrocuted him, burning pure power into his brain. It lasted only seconds (minutes, hours, days, weeks, months), and before he knew it, they threw him back into his cell. 

They slipped a bit of food and water in there, too. That meant that they’d be coming to take more blood from him as soon as he digested it. His body wouldn’t produce enough blood for them to take if they didn’t offer him nutrients. 

His skin was burnt, his nose was bleeding, his muscles were still trembling. He had bit his tongue. The taste of blood mixed with his bread, and he found himself missing the usual blandness.

Peter ate slowly, and coerced his mind back to reality, rather than letting it focus on the absolute horror it just went through. According to the trial of James Buchanan Barnes that occurred soon after the Avengers reassembled, the man had been mind-controlled by HYDRA’s use of an electric chair. 

Peter was at a HYDRA facility. He was also just in an electric chair.

Shit. 

He sipped at his water, willing himself not to throw up. 

What happened next was an adrenaline-fueled blur. A single guard came to collect Peter, reasonably expecting that Peter wouldn’t struggle. But oh, struggle he did. The guard was knocked out in seconds, not having enough time to even reach for his baton. 

Peter stared at the body on the ground, and realized that he had to escape, here and now. 

There was constant surveillance on his room, and he could hear more guards already thundering towards him from the other side of the facility. Peter grabbed the downed guard’s baton, and ran. 

He encountered two more guards in his journey to steal his suit and web shooters back. They were soon unconscious as well. Peter had never been more grateful for the totally-not-a-mentorship sessions.

He’d seen his suit in one of the guard’s barracks, because of course that was where it had to be. The guards who laid claim to that room were already in the hall, weapons drawn. Peter jumped to the ceiling and dodged anything they swung in his direction. He was in and out of the barracks within seconds, suit and shooters in hand. Without looking back, he quickly put on his web shooters and launched a web bomb at the guards following him. 

He managed to avoid all guards in his search for the facility’s exit, up until the moment that he actually found it. There were three guards at the ready, stun guns held out in front of them. Peter’s instincts took control, and when he came back to himself, two of the three guards were unconscious, and one was webbed up. 

He jumped over the unconscious men and burst through the door. Daylight flooded his vision. He’d thought it’d been nighttime. 

After an absurd amount of time spent in artificial lighting, the bright sunlight almost made him keel over. Key word being almost, since adrenaline was still pulsing through his veins.

So he ran. More guards came out of the building and pulled their guns on him. Dozens of shots were fired, only one hit him. His shoulder burned, but he kept running.

He ran for a long time, really, until he couldn’t hear any more frantic guards, until he couldn’t hear the cars that were sent after him. He ran until he found a road. An actual road, one that was well-paved and one that had an actual car barreling down the lane. 

Now, he knew the dangers of hitchhiking, especially hitchhiking so close to a HYDRA base. But his adrenaline was running low, and his shoulder was starting to hurt a little bit more, and his muscles were starting to spasm again, and his balance was a little off-center, and his body was begging for some rest. So he raised his hand high, waving in large sweeping motions to get the attention of the driver. Thankfully, the car began to slow, coming to a stop right beside Peter. 

Peter bundled up his suit even more, and approached the car. The lack of noise from his Sense was such a relief that Peter could have cried. 

The car’s window rolled down, and a woman’s head peeked out. “Uh…you alright there?”

“Hi. Um. I really could use a ride,” Peter said. He couldn’t help how shaky his voice was. 

“You look awful, kid,” she noticed, and Peter flinched at ‘kid.’ He wasn’t used to anyone other than Matt calling him that. Was he even a kid anymore? 

“Look, ma’am, I was kidnapped,” he explained, and her eyes widened. “I don’t know where I am, and I don’t know how long I’ve been gone, and there are people after me. Would you happen to be going to New York City?”

The woman shook her head, her eyes still wide. “No, but it’s not too far from here. Get in.”

Peter ran around the car without another word, hopping into the passenger seat. Despite his adrenaline dying down, he was still thrumming with anxiety (probably having something to do with being traumatized on a whole other level) and he couldn’t stop shaking. 

“You’re in New Jersey. Near Wrightstown, to be exact,” she explained, also seeming a bit nervous as she pressed on the gas.

“Yeah. I don’t know where that is.” Peter reached a hand to touch his bullet wound, only to find that it was still bleeding. 

“Is that blood?” she asked, barely keeping her eyes on the road at this point. 

“Yeah, sorry, I’m trying not to get it on your seat.” He winced when he turned around to see that he had, in fact, gotten blood on the leather. He used his bundled up suit to act as a barrier between his shoulder and the seat.

“Christ, okay, sure.” She reached behind her seat to fumble for something, and she came back holding a towel. “Use this instead. Uh, what happened?” 

“Thanks,” he said as he accepted the towel. “Got shot.”

The woman swerved slightly, her grip tightening on the wheel. “You were shot? Screw New York City, we need to get you to a hospital!”

“No!” Peter rushed out before he could stop himself. “Please, I’m okay. I’ve had worse.”

“That doesn’t help!”

“Please, ma’am. I really want to get back home. I…want to see my family.” Hah. Family. What else could he have said, though? Please, ma’am, I’d like to see my mentor who refuses to be labeled as a mentor. That wouldn’t work, now would it?

She was quiet as she considered his argument. He was still shaking. 

“I’ve been gone for quite a while, ma’am. Please just take me home,” he implored. 

Chewing on her lip, the woman’s eyebrows furrowed deeply before she sighed. “Okay. Just don’t go passing out on me, kid.”

Honestly. Peter didn’t like the ‘kid.’

“Thank you, ma’am.” Peter heaved in a deep breath, trying to calm down. It didn’t work. He couldn’t stop shaking.  He wiped the blood trail away from his nose, just to occupy his hands.

He could feel the woman next to him practically vibrating with poorly-hidden worry and curiosity. He just hoped that she didn’t bombard him with questions he couldn’t answer. 

She didn’t. The drive was filled with her rambling about her own life, rather than asking potentially triggering questions about his. Her name was Margaret, and she’d been driving to Rhode Island to visit her daughter and new granddaughter. She had actually been planning to drive completely around New York City so as to avoid the traffic. Peter tried to apologize profusely, but she shot him a look that reminded him so much of May that he had to look out the window and blink away tears. Margaret said that picking up a kidnapped child and taking him home was a perfectly reasonable excuse for being a bit late to her daughter’s house. 

They made it to New York City within an hour, though Peter knew that the trip would’ve taken longer had Margaret not been speeding the entire time. 

“You can just drop me off in Hell’s Kitchen,” he said as they crossed the Hudson River. 

“Isn’t that right up ahead?” she wondered, squinting at the GPS on her phone.

He hummed his affirmation, and as soon as they got on 10th Avenue, he asked her to drop him off.

“Will you promise to get medical attention?” Margaret questioned, glancing at the bloody towel.

“Yes, ma’am.”

“Alrighty, then. I’ll just stop for a sec here, and you can stop, drop, and roll.” 

“I can’t thank you enough, ma’am,” he reiterated for what must’ve been the fifth time that drive. “I hope you have a great visit with your family.”

“I’m glad I could help, kid. You, uh, you can keep the towel. Stay safe.”

She hit the brakes, and the car behind them honked as Peter quickly hopped out of the car. He gave a small wave goodbye to her, which she returned before he got onto the sidewalk. 

“Please be okay,” he heard her mumble to herself as she drove away. 

Peter blew out a breath, still shaking, and began the five-block trek to Matt’s apartment. The man would be off work by this point, but not yet ready to moonlight as Daredevil.

He reached the apartment with only a few stray stares at his mangy gray T-shirt and shorts. He reckoned that the blood on his shoulder looked a tad concerning, too. He ditched the blood-soaked towel in a dumpster close to Matt’s place, and entered the complex with what dwindling strength he had. 

He listened for Matt in the building, and when he found him, he couldn’t help but frown at the man’s quickening breaths. Peter trudged up the stairs, and it took him all too long to get to Matt’s floor. 

“Matt,” he muttered. “C’mon, man, help me out a little here.”

At his words, the door to Matt’s apartment flung open, and a wide-eyed Matt rushed into the hallway. Peter cracked a smile and gave the man a peace sign. 

“Peter?” Matt all but whispered, and in four long strides, he was standing right in front of Peter. 

“Who’d you think it was?” Peter replied.

“I thought you were dead,” the man continued, his eyes tearing up. Peter had never seen Matt cry, and he wondered if today was the day. “It’s been 31 days, kid.”

Peter barked out a hysterical laugh. “I’ve been gone a month?” He shook his head, tearing up a bit himself. “Goddamn. It’s been a long time. Matt, do ya think I could have a hug?”

“Shit, kid,” was all that Matt gave in response before he swept Peter into a hug, his hands carefully avoiding Peter’s bullet wound. Peter felt so small in Matt’s hold, but he’d known that he’d become quite frail at HYDRA. “I thought I heard you, earlier. I just didn’t want to get my hopes up.”

“I was wondering why it sounded like you were freaking out.”

Though Peter had been the one to ask for the hug, he couldn’t help but feel slightly uncomfortable. It had been so long since he’d had any positive touch, let alone a hug. And yet, Matt, the man whose only touches were affectionate shoulder pats and awkward side hugs, was the one to give it to him. Peter relaxed, and stopped shaking.

“I thought I was hearing a ghost,” Matt murmured. “What happened to you?”

“Uh.” Peter hesitated, before he broke off the hug. Matt looked a bit lost. “We should probably go inside for this part.”

Peter followed Matt into his apartment, where he noticed it was a tad messier than the last time he’d seen it. It was extremely unlike the man, who usually kept everything in its proper place so as to use the correct mugs, or to not mix up his socks. Peter also took in Matt’s appearance, and catalogued the greasy hair, the unshaven face, and the gaunt eyebags. This was a man in mourning.

“You need food,” Matt mumbled, hustling to grab something out of his fridge. “And clothes. Grab something to wear out of my closet.”

Peter set his bunched up suit on the paper-covered table, and went into Matt’s bedroom. He stripped himself of his prisoner garb, and reached for another pair of sweatpants and sweatshirt that he’d inevitably steal. He also nabbed a pair of underwear from Matt’s drawer—he was sure the man wouldn’t mind. 

He neglected to put on the sweatshirt, since he was hoping that Matt would extract the bullet that Peter couldn’t reach. Thankfully, when he emerged from the bedroom, he saw that Matt had set out his medical supplies next to the box of pizza on the couch.

“Sit down, eat, and let me fix your shoulder,” Matt instructed. “And tell me what happened.”

So Peter explained. He told him about the ambush and about Dr. Beiermann. He told him how they’d spoken solely in German, how they’d called him Spinne, how they’d tested his abilities, how they'd kept his cell cold, how they’d strapped him to a chair and sent electricity coursing through his body.

“What’s this?” Matt asked once he’d steadily removed the bullet from Peter’s shoulder. His hand had brushed over the brand on Peter’s opposite shoulder, and Peter flinched minutely. 

“They branded me,” Peter recounted. “It says, uh, PROPERTY OF HYDRA.”

Matt began to trace over the letters of the brand, and Peter let him. It was only when he felt water drip onto his bare back that he twisted to face Matt in confusion. He was shocked to find the tears in Matt’s eyes had finally spilled over as the man tracked the final letter with his finger. 

“Fuck, fuck, sorry,” Matt blurted, ripping his hand away from the brand so as to rub furiously at his eyes. “Fuck, I didn’t mean to—”

“Matt, it’s okay.” 

“No, no it’s not. Here you are, trying to—trying to tell me about what the absolute bastards did to you, and I can’t even fucking pull myself together.”

“Hey, hey,” Peter soothed as he pushed himself up more, and pulled Matt’s hands away from their grip in his hair to instead rest on Peter’s heart. “You’re okay, Matt. I’m okay, too. I’m here, it’s okay.”

Tears continued to pour down Matt’s face as he whispered once more, “I thought you were dead.”

“I’m okay,” Peter repeated, and his own voice was sounding a bit wet. “We’re okay.”

Matt let Peter pull him into a makeshift hug, their position not really allowing for a secure hold. Matt’s sobs were quiet, as though the man had gotten used to restricting them. Peter, of course, didn't comment on it; he was just glad Matt was letting Peter comfort him. 

Matt pulled away little more than a minute later, drying his eyes. “Damn. I’m sorry. I should be the one making sure you’re alright, not the other way around.”

“It’s okay, Matt,” Peter chimed. “You went through the grieving process, only to find out that there was nothing to grieve. It’s alright to let yourself be glad I’m here, y’know. And I think it’s a given that I’m not really okay, so there doesn’t have to be any further discussion on that.”

Matt hummed, his brow furrowed. “I think there should be plenty more discussion on that. I also think you should eat a bit more.”

“What, you get to dodge the comfort and I can’t?”

“I’m not the one who spent four weeks with HYDRA.” Peter winced, his body tensing, and Matt turned sheepish. “Sorry.”

“Nah,” Peter dismissed, reminding himself that he’d just escaped—he didn’t have to deal with the relentless abuse anymore. “You have a point. But I’m not sure if I should eat any more, actually.”

“Aren’t you hungry?”

“Oh, immensely. Fucking starving,” Peter clarified. “But I haven’t eaten a normal amount of food for a long time, and I’ve read somewhere that if I eat too much right away, I’ll just throw it right back up.”

“Ah. I can understand that.” Matt tilted his head, and Peter knew that if the man could see, he’d be looking Peter up and down. “So what do you need? Where do we go from here?”

The we in that question really had Peter’s heart rate spiking, and he tried to cool it down quickly. “I could go for a shower?”

“Of course,” Matt quickly replied, getting up off the couch. He had clearly been looking for something he could help with. “Did they…let you bathe at all?”

“Sometimes they cleaned some wounds with alcohol wipes, but that was rare, honestly. They wanted to see how my healing dealt infections. No showers, though.”

“I shouldn’t have asked,” Matt mumbled, his heartbeat going wild. 

It wasn’t like Peter showered often even out of captivity. The only showers he got were when he was able to get into the gym a few blocks away from his old apartment—they offered one shower a week to the homeless, no membership required. 

A month, though. That was a long time to go without feeling clean. 

Even after his shower, he didn’t feel clean. 

He mildly wondered if he ever would.

-

After recounting his entire captivity in one night, it took Peter another month or two to even mention HYDRA again. The first time he tried, attempting to crack a joke about his absence, his mind left his body and Matt had to ground him from the impending dissociation. Then next time he tried, he stumbled upon a panic attack. 

Peter didn’t try anymore. He had to let himself adjust to his trauma, sorting out his real memories from the altered nightmares and ignoring the voice in his head that sometimes called him Spinne. 

He didn’t like German. Obviously. However, Peter did like knowing languages, so he kept up with it, learning more conversational phrases to balance the harsh words of his handlers. 

Sometimes he would have dizziness spells, and he didn't know whether to blame it on his never-ending malnutrition, or his bout with electrocution. When he awoke from nightmares with his muscles trembling and his electrical burn scars itching and his hand reaching up to wipe away blood that wasn't there from his nose, though, he was tempted to blame it on the latter.

His body never completely gained back the weight it’d lost. His number of meals just barely increased, though he did have access to a bit more water. The rate of his healing remained partially slowed. It had taken the shoulder bullet wound nearly a whole day to scab over, and that became the standard speed.

The few bits of normalcy in his life were his Sundays spent with Matt and his patrols. That was how Peter got by for months on end, surviving. He sat in the streets, just another homeless kid. He swung around in Queens and Manhattan, just another vigilante. He evaded the Avengers, just another adversary. 

He evaded the Avengers, at least until he was captured again. 

And he hadn’t even left Matt a note. 

-

It was mid-December, a Sunday. Peter was walking to Matt’s.

He’d been with the Avengers for nearly a month now. 

The capture had quickly turned into a moment of “Oh, shit, we just kidnapped a minor. And look at him, he’s got trauma!” As a result, Peter became an Avenger within days. He lived full-time at the Avengers Tower. He had a boyfriend, against all odds, and Harley made life that much more worth living. The team had treated Peter as one of their own, as soon as they sorted out that Peter was free to leave the Tower at will, that he was off SHIELD’s radar, that he wasn’t a prisoner. 

There was more to the tale, but that was another story altogether. 

Peter went to therapy now. That was one of the bigger changes in his life. It had been something he’d been consistently against for years. The Avengers, of all people, had convinced him otherwise. 

He was going out for his regularly scheduled Matt Time, sure, but he also had an assignment from his therapist, Lauren. Peter was to talk to Matt. About Richard. 

Peter had told Lauren that it’d been over a year since he’d escaped the foster home. They’d said that the fact that Peter had to escape was enough to warrant fear that didn’t die out immediately. His simmering trauma was completely valid, according to her. 

“You said yourself that Matt won’t judge you for what happened,” Lauren had pointed out, tapping their pen against their notebook. “I know that this will be a challenge for you, but it’s important that you talk to someone you’re close with about this.” 

“Matt still hasn’t even called himself my mentor,” Peter had argued. “How do I know that I’m as important to him as he is to me?”

The eyeroll Lauren had given him let him know that he was spouting bullshit. “Why don’t you ask him? Based on what you’ve told me, I think I already know the answer.”

So here he was, completing the assignment she gave him. He knew now that Matt wouldn’t think of him as weak to admitting to the abuse (Lauren had spent almost an entire session convincing him of that.) So if he knew that, why was he so nervous as he approached Matt's apartment?

Nerves are to be expected, Lauren’s voice calmly recited in the back of his mind. You’ll get through it. Everything will be okay. 

Once Peter arrived at Matt’s door, he didn’t even have to knock before the man pulled the door open, welcoming Peter in. As always, the kitchen table was decorated with stacks of papers, but it seemed that Matt was taking a break from his work if the audiobook playing in the background was any indication. 

“You’re worked up,” Matt noted, taking his seat on the couch. Peter sat across from him, his legs already bouncing. “Care to share?”

“Would you say that we’re close?” Peter quickly asked, before clamping his mouth shut and clenching his teeth. 

Matt’s brow furrowed, and a slight frown formed on his face. “What’s got you asking?”

“It’s just—” Peter sighed, running a hand through his hair. “You know back when we first met? And we started those sessions? And I tried to refer to you as my mentor, and you kept saying that that wasn’t what the sessions were? And I stopped bringing it up after a while? Is there something wrong with you being my mentor, Matt?”

Matt blinked at Peter’s word vomit, and he sighed. “Shit, I messed up, didn’t I?”

Peter didn’t respond. You’ll get through it. Everything will be okay. 

“I had a mentor growing up, kid,” Matt started to explain, and Peter’s eyes widened as he realized that he was about to get a taste of Matt’s backstory. “He helped me learn how to be an enhanced blind person. He wasn’t…a good man, really. Very controlling. It was a complicated relationship. When I learned that you were a child, I wanted to help you…I just couldn’t end up being like my mentor.”

“So you denounced being a mentor at all,” Peter finished, connecting the dots. 

Matt nodded, his face still twisted. “I thought I could show I cared in other ways. Protecting you, but emotionally distancing myself enough that I wouldn’t come to control you.”

“But you failed at distancing yourself,” Peter pointed out.

“Obviously,” Matt snorted. “You’re pretty hard to stay away from. But, well. I ended up caring enough about you that the idea of controlling you never even crossed my mind.”

“Oh. That—oh.”

“I didn’t realize that you were so hung up on that, kid. I’m sorry.” Matt gestured around them, to his home and their maskless faces. “But, after all, I do think we’ve passed the point of mentor and mentee.”

Peter nodded slowly. “I guess we have. That’s funny, I think.”

Matt smirked lightly. “I can still be your mentor, if you want. Though I’m not sure that I’m even teaching you anything anymore.”

“Nah, you obviously don’t like the concept of mentors,” Peter dismissed. “How about…coach.”

“You’re kidding, right?”

“Master?”

“Definitely not.”

“The All Knowing Oracle.”

“Peter, I’m going to throw something at you.”

“I’m thinking…counselor.”

“Is that just a lawyer joke?” Matt intoned, rubbing at his eyes with exasperation. 

Peter grinned, shrugging. “Maybe, maybe not. I like it. We can be counselor and protégé.”

“Fine, if that’s what satisfies you,” Matt huffed, spoken like a true counselor fed up with his protégé. “Okay, we’ve established that I care about you. Gross. What else is bugging you?”

Peter sighed, his smile beginning to fade. “Right. Uh. So you know how I started therapy, right?”

“Of course.”

“Right, so, my therapist told me to tell you about something.”

“Take your time,” Matt encouraged.

Peter did not, in fact, take his time. “Richard abused me,” he blurted, and soldiered on past the spike of Matt’s heart rate. “Emotionally and physically. I ran away from him last July, and I was homeless until the Avengers captured me last month.”

Despite Peter’s worst imagination, Matt replied with a slight, soothing smile. “I kind of figured, kid.”

“What?” slipped out of Peter’s mouth in shock. 

“I didn’t know the details, but I knew something was up. Signs of abuse aren’t terribly heard to miss when you know what to look for and you can hear a person’s biological reactions. And when you never made any moves to contact Richard once you escaped HYDRA, or got kidnapped by the Avengers, I assumed that you and him weren’t in contact anymore.”

Peter blinked, and slumped into the couch. “Oh, thank God. That’s a fucking relief.”

“You thought I’d be upset with you.” It was a statement, not a question. 

“Kinda?” Peter replied, his voice hesitantly lilting up. “Like, maybe you’d think I was weak, or something. Y’know. ‘Cause I ran away.”

The look that passed Matt’s face was so devastated that Peter would’ve believed it if he was told someone just died. “Peter. You could never be weak. You’re the strongest person I know.”

“Now you’re just a cliché,” Peter weakly joked, but Matt’s determined expression discouraged him from continuing. 

“You’re a victim, and I’m glad that you knew you didn’t deserve that bastard’s abuse. I’m glad you ran, kid. You did the right thing.”

Peter cracked a smile. “You have no idea how much I wanted to hear you say that.”

“Maybe a little,” Matt returned, his own smile gracing his face once more. “I’m proud of you, kid.”

Peter could’ve shouted with joy. Instead, he asked for a hug. 

Matt swept him up without hesitation. They’d never been much of a hugging duo, but with how much Peter craved them, and how securely Matt’s arms held onto him, Peter was determined to change that.

“If I had to end up a mentor,” Matt muttured, “I’m glad it was because of you.”