Archive of Our Own ^beta

January

When Peter was eight years old, everyone he knew was dead.

His worn-out converse hit the icy ground running, broken glasses that had been taped together so many times fogging up and sliding down his nose. The wind whipped mercilessly at his skin, clad only in a white tank-top and jeans that had been patched up over and over again. The stench of the city stung his nose, all danger&lurkingshadows&metal&fake, the wind clogging his senses and sending his auburn-gold hair everywhere. To everyone else who might’ve seen him, running at 2 o’clock in the morning, they would have said he looked like he was being chased by the devil himself.

{Not that devil. The pentagram one.}

They would have remarked on his shabby appearance, the way everything was a size too large for him. On his hair, which was uncombed and curly, the street lights highlighting the red in his hair. His aunt had always remarked that the red hues were strange for his hair. None of the Parkers had any red hair. His mother had just laughed and told her it must’ve been a recessive gene. May had just hummed, hazel eyes on Peter’s gray-green ones.

It wasn’t till he was four and his parents were dead {mysterious accident, bodies were never found} that May and Ben found out he had been adopted.

Peter wondered if the red came from his bio mother or his bio father.

{He wondered if he had inherited the rage too. The fire that bubbled in his veins and kept him warm even as his body was frozen.}

{The monster was screaming at him. It told him to fight but he ran.}

{Coward.}

His lungs were giving out but he kept running, adrenaline the only thing that was keeping him going. A small rectangular object bit into his hand, the pain keeping his hand warm. His breath fanned in front of him, a reminder of how brutally cold it was out. He didn’t feel it. Peter had worse things to worry about.

He slid into an alley, converse slipping on the icy ground. He scrambled across the alley, freezing and cowering behind the dumpster. Peter took gasping breaths, desperately trying to catch his breath. His heartbeat felt like a timebomb, ticking closer and closer. The hair on his arms rose.
Something was wrong, something was coming, Peter needed to hide.

A car pulled up to the curb. Peter froze.

Footsteps stomped outside of the car. “Where the hell are you, you little bitch!”

Peter held his breath.

{Gunshot. May’s on the floor. Blood is soaking into his jeans.}

Another set of footsteps sounded. “The kid’s gone, dimwit. If they had half a brain, they would’ve taken the subway. They’re probably gone.”

The other person growled. “Fucking dammit.” His voice sounded furious, but scared, kind of like when Flash had thrown a rock at Peter and Peter caught it and Flash had made fun of him for the rest of the day, but Peter had known he had scared him.

“The drive’s probably at the apartment. Let’s go search it now before the police show up. The lady’s dead and the kid can be taken care of. We’ll probably find them tomorrow when they show up to the police station. We can pick them up there.”

“As long as it’s quick.”

A scoff and the footsteps faded away. “Are you seriously scared?”

“Excuse me for not wanting to be beaten to a pulp.”

“Well, you were the one who decided to kill the lady. It was supposed to be simple and you escalated. Now we have a dead person and a missing eyewitness. Besides, the Devil doesn’t trespass into Queens. We’re good.” The voice paused for a moment. “It does make you wonder though. The kid had maybe a two minute head-start? And we were in the car. We should have caught up to them. It doesn’t make any sense.”

A mumbled “Does it look like I give a shit?” and the door shut and the car pulled away.

Peter slowly relaxed. His sense wasn’t going off. He was safe.

He looked around the alley. Well, safe as he could be.

Something felt wet on his face. He wiped it away. He was crying.

Peter knew he had to get up, knew he had to get to a shelter, somewhere safe. But for a precious few minutes, he let himself cry. He had no one else now, no one to take care of him. No one for him to hug, or love, or even talk to.

{Parents gone. Ben’s gone. May’s gone.}

{He didn’t even know what his bio mother’s name was.}

He was all alone.

⇔

February

It had only been a month.

A month since his Aunt had died.

Two months since his Uncle had died.

Four years since his parents had died.

Peter was homeless.

He was hopping from one youth shelter to another, never staying long. Peter didn’t have much on him, only the clothes he had and a ragged and thin sweatshirt that did nothing to keep out the cold. He had a backpack, a useless, full of holes thing that only carried a toothbrush, his toothpaste, some other clothes he had raided from Goodwill, and whatever food he had managed to scavenge that day.

{He kept the flashdrive in his pocket, one hand on it at all times.}

Peter tried to stay indoors as often as he could. It was cold and he could never be warm enough. The chill bit into his skin, all ice&wind&loneliness&lost. He usually spent alot of his time in the library. It was open all day and there were books. But he got hungry. And with no source of income, he did the next best thing.

He stole.

He would pickpocket random people or steal food from stores. Peter wasn’t proud of it. His Uncle had told him that stealing was bad and he should never do it.

However, Peter was hungry. He never took from the people he knew needed it most. No homeless people, no kids, no one who had that look in their eyes that Peter knew entirely too well.

He stole from the ones who had enough, the ones who wouldn’t miss a twenty-dollar bill. He stole from the ones who made that feeling of dread rise from his spine when he got close to them. May would’ve said it was karma. Ben would’ve said it was stealing.

{Of course if Ben were alive, he wouldn’t need to steal.}

Of course, there were times that he got caught. And he could run. He was very fast, and he just knew when he was going to get caught. And he could fight like a demon, a whirlwind of fists and russet hair.

It didn’t help him when he was thrown in the dumpster.

Peter cringed when the smell hit his nose. Why did everything seem so enhanced? Did everyone feel like this? Everything was too loud, too bright. Laughter and jeers hit his ears. Peter gritted his teeth and grabbed the edge of the dumpster, blood roaring through his ears. Anger thrummed through his small form. He just wanted to eat. Was it too much to ask?

{The monster was snarling. It wanted blood.}

Then the laughter turned to shouts, footsteps running away. Someone was fighting the group of boys, yelling at them, but not hurting them. Then it went quiet, but he could hear the thrumming of a heartbeat not that far away. Peter went breathless. Who the fuck-

He swung himself up on the side of the dumpster and paused, staring at his mysterious savior.

Mystery person was staring at him, blue eyes piercing. He had dark hair tied up in a ponytail with a baseball hat on top. He wore jeans and a heavy black jacket that Peter was jealous of. He had black boots with steel tips on the front that looked like it would be terrible to get kicked with. He also seemed to be trying to hide one of his arms behind his back.

“Thank you,” Peter tried to keep his voice low. His hand went to his pocket, making sure the object was still there.

“It’s alright.” The man seemed uncomfortable and awkward. Peter could relate.

Peter studied him. “I’m Peter. What’s your name?”

“I…” The man hesitated, looking torn. “Steve called me Bucky.”

“Is he your friend?”

“I… I don’t know.”

Peter hummed. “Do you have amnesia? That could be why you’re not remembering anything.”

“I don’t have alot of memories,” Bucky admitted, scratching his neck nervously, “I came to New York to see if I could jumpstart some of them.”

“Is that why you have a metal arm?”

Bucky froze, seeming to realize that he was scratching his neck with his prosthetic.

“It’s really cool,” Peter told him, oblivious to Bucky’s panic, “I’ve never seen a prosthetic like that before.” He slid down the dumpster and offered his hand to Bucky. “Are you hungry?”
Bucky stared at him. “What?”

“There’s a sandwich place two blocks away. It’s really good. I’m also starving and in need of deli meat.”

Bucky cracked a grin. “I have no money.”

Peter grinned and pulled a wallet out of his pocket. “They can pay.”

Bucky sighed. “Fine.” He tucked his metal hand into his pocket and slung the other one over Peter’s shoulders. “I’ve been bullied by a five year-old. Life is horrible.”

“I’m eight!”

⇔

Bucky was nice. He was wary, never letting his guard down. He always kept his metal hand inside his pocket, and always kept Peter close to him. He had a face that scared people away and told them that he wasn’t to be messed with. And Peter could tell he had the monsters too. But Bucky was kind. He had saved him from the bullies and he nicked a few bags of chips and stuffed them into Peter’s bag, winking at him as he did so. Bucky was steel&linen&tears&nostalgia. He was sad though. And scared. People were looking for him, so he came to New York to hide. Bucky had told him that he remembered living in Brooklyn, but he didn’t remember it looking like it did now.

Peter had asked him if Steve was looking for him.

Bucky had shrugged helplessly. His face conveyed the message that he didn’t know if it was good or bad.

They parted ways as the sun went down, the dying rays painting the city scarlet red and orange. The shadows seemed larger and Peter knew he needed to hide. That strange, dreaded feeling that he acquainted with danger always seemed at its highest whenever the sun was gone. The city wasn’t safe at night.

Peter told Bucky this. Bucky had laughed, smiling at a joke Peter didn’t understand.

“It’s alright, Myshka,” Bucky told him as they wandered the streets, “I can take care of myself.”
Bucky had insisted, however, on walking Peter to the shelter he was staying in for the night. Peter argued that he didn’t need a babysitter, to which Bucky had used Peter’s words against him and told him it was unsafe for him to be walking alone at night. Which led to a sullen eight-year-old and a grinning former assassin walking through Brooklyn.

{Not that Peter knew he was an assassin.}

When they arrived, Bucky shrugged off the heavy black jacket that he was wearing, settling it on Peter’s shoulders. He laughed, seeing how it dwarfed the small child. Peter pouted and Bucky smiled back.

“I’m not going to be here for a bit. I’ve got to go figure some stuff out. But I’ll see you again.” Bucky promised. Peter nodded solemnly, his glasses sliding down the bridge of his nose. He hugged Bucky, who, after tensing, returned the hug.

“I’ll see you around, Myshka. Don’t tear the jacket.”

Peter giggled. “Bye, Bucky.”

Later that night, as he slept in the corner of the shelter, surrounded by the jacket and steel&linen&tears&nostalgia, he had no nightmares for the first time in months.

March

Peter broke his only rule. The only rule that kept him safe. The rule that he had made when he decided that he was going to live on his own. The damn rule that gave him any sense of security in his life.

Never go out at night.

And what was he doing?

Going out at night.

It was March 17th, Saint Patrick’s day. Well, soon to be March 18th. So that meant alot of drunk people. And alot of green stuff. Too much green stuff. And alot of noise. Mostly coming from the drunk people.

Peter cursed himself, using a few that would have gotten his mouth washed out with soap if any nuns had been in the area. This all because of that stupid cat. That stupid, adorable kitten with black and gray fur that Peter had been chasing.

Peter had always wanted a pet, but the apartment didn’t allow them. But he didn’t live in the apartment anymore. So, cat.

{It never crossed his mind on how he would take care of the kitten.}

Peter kept his head down, using Bucky’s black jacket as a shield between him and the rest of the world. He ignored everyone, his heartbeat a constant thrum in his ear.

Stupid, stupid, stupid, stupid-

“Hey, little girl. What’cha doin’ out here all alone?”

Peter jumped, making eye contact with a yellow-toothed, greasy haired drunk. The guy grinned sickeningly and all Peter could think about was long, hot showers and feeling of being dirty and the name-

“Einstein, come on. Aren’t we friends?”

Peter took a step back, eyes wide and disregarding the fact that the guy had called him a girl. The yellow-toothed smile got larger and that strange feeling that screamed dangerdangerdangerdanger returned.

The drunk took another step. “C’mon, sweetheart. Aren’t you cold?” Peter’s heart thrummed and his hand clenched as the guy took another step-

And fell backwards, yelling as blood spurted out of his nose. He stood up, enraged as Peter clenched his fists, one dripping blood and a bruise beginning to develop. Fire-red rage poured through his veins.
“Don’t fucking touch me.”

{It’s furious, lashing at the world. }

{The monster is grinning inside him.}

“You little bitch-”

A figure slid between them, kicking the drunk in the chest, knocking him out as his head hit the pavement. Which was weird, because the person had to kick him with enough force to knock him out, but not enough to kill him. It was very lucky.

“Fucking pedo,” the figure grumbled. And then they turned to face Peter. And his heart stopped.

She had dark skin with a birthmark that covered her left eye. Her curly, dark brown hair was in an afro, framing the sides of her face. She wore a choker around her neck and fingerless leather gloves that went up to her elbows. She had a leather jacket on over a tank-top with leather pants that held a gun holster . Her boots reached her knees and Peter was painfully aware of his beat-up converse. She was tequila&clovers&wellwornleather&blownkisses and Peter automatically trusted her.

“Hi,” Peter squeaked out, cursing biology and the fact that his voice was high.

The lady smiled at him. “Hey, kid. What are you doing here at night? It’s not safe. Is there anyone with you?”

“Yeah, I just lost sight of them.” Peter dug the toe of his shoe into the ground, not meeting the lady’s eyes. Adults didn’t like it when they thought Peter was all alone.

“Mmm-hmm.” The lady sounded like she didn’t believe a word coming out of his mouth, which was fair, “Well, while you wait for them, you should come inside. Wouldn’t want you to end up frozen by morning.” They walked toward the door of a bar. The sign read Sister Margaret’s for Wayward Girls. “My name’s Domino, by the way.”

“Peter.” He hesitated. “Is it safe?”

Domino smiled at him and he felt a small bit of apprehension fade away. “Don’t sweat it kid. I’ll keep you safe. And besides,” she said, casting a glance to the unconscious body, “I think you can take care of yourself.”

And so, displaying a stunning amount of no self-preservation instincts, Peter followed her into the bar.

⇔

“Fuck, Dom. No.”

“Language, Weasel. There’s a child.”

“Yeah, that’s the damn problem! There’s a toddler in my bar!”

“I’m eight.” Peter told him as he sat with Domino at the bar, sipping a coke. The other patrons of the bar were staring at them. Domino twisted in her seat, meeting them head-on. “Hey assholes, mind your business.”

And so they found something better to do.

Weasel groaned. “Oh, cause an eight-year-old is any better? Didn’t your parents teach you anything about stranger-danger?”

“No. They’re dead.” That earned a choking of her drink from Domino and another groan from Weasel.

Weasel had blonde-brown hair and glasses that were like Peter’s, but less broken. He wore a flannel shirt and a constantly disappointed expression on his face. Domino had told Peter that Weasel was the owner of the bar. Which was why Weasel wasn’t happy with the child currently in it. Weasel was beer&bitterlemons&sympathy&caution, so Peter knew he wasn’t too bad.

“Kid, this really isn’t a place for you.” Weasel tried to reason with him, “This is a bar. Bars are for adults. You are adorable, but you are not an adult. Sorry.”

Domino cut in. “Oh, so are we counting mental age as well? Cause I can at least give you the names of several people who act like children.”

“Wade doesn’t count.”

“He does too, you asshole. At least half of the people here act like children.”

“Hey,” A voice called from the back of the room.

Domino flipped them the bird.

“It’s okay, Mr. Weasel.” Peter piped up, “I can take of myself. Ms. Domino says I’m freakishly strong.”

Weasel covered his face with his hands. “Oh my god. Why are you here. You don’t deserve to be here. Please don’t look at me like that. That look in your eyes makes me want to give you all my money. And I am very broke.”

Domino slapped her hands on the table. “So he stays. At least for the night.”

Weasel glared at her.

Domino glared back.

It evolved into a staring contest.

Domino won.

“Fine,” Weasel threw his hands up in the air, “He can sleep on the couch. But only for the night.”

“Sure.”

“Damn your stupid powers.”

As Weasel left to go to the backroom, muttering about how it was unfair to be manipulated by a toddler, Peter nudged Domino. “You have powers?”

Domino winked at him. “Oh, yes. I’m very lucky.”

⇔

Peter stayed on Weasel’s couch that night, cuddling with Bucky’s jacket. When he woke up in the morning, Weasel and Domino were waiting for him. Weasel was scowling, though it softened when he saw Peter. Domino ruffled his hair and offered him a doughnut, which Peter accepted.

Weasel gave him a burner phone.

“If you ever need to contact either of us, use this. We’re both contacts in this. And if you ever need a place to crash for the night, you’re welcome here. Just please, for the love of christ on a stick, go through the back door. The last thing I need is for you to meet Wade.”

Peter, pocketing the phone, frowned. “Who’s Wade?”

Weasel froze. “Nobody important.”

Peter decided to press him for answers at a later time.

Domino gave him a fist bump and a few fifties. He hugged her, and tried to hug Weasel, which ended with Weasel being chased around his apartment by Domino, who was holding Peter, who was trying to give Weasel a hug.

Peter triumphed and Domino told Weasel to stop sulking.

And then Peter waved goodbye and Domino promised to send him memes and Peter grinned, looking so familiar for a second, like someone Weasel had seen before.

And then he was gone.

Domino leaned on Weasel’s shoulder. “He’s got you whipped.”

“He’s just a kid. What was I supposed to do? Tell him to get lost?”

“Like I said.”

“Oh, fuck you.”

April

Peter had found a dog.

The dog had a death wish.

And judging by its appearance, it had many near-death experiences.

The dogs’s name was Lucky. Lucky was a golden retriever, a very cute dog. Lucky loved pizza. So much, in fact, that he needed to run through two lanes of traffic to go get it. Peter sympathized, but he also didn’t want to see the dog die. And so, after buying the dog a slice of pizza and himself a sandwich, after looking at the memes Domino had sent him that day and the text from Weasel warning him that there was some gang activity in the part of Queens he had stayed at last night, he was off to the address on Lucky’s collar.

Lucky nearly died seven times. He was really living up to his name, Peter thought as he gripped Lucky’s collar and kept him from becoming a pancake in traffic. If he wasn’t so adorable and Peter hadn’t had morals, he would’ve left the dog alone.There was a tag on his collar, an address that wasn’t too far from here, if Peter remembered correctly.

Peter opened the door that led to the entryway of the apartment building. Lucky bounded in, yipping and generally causing a ruckus. Peter grabbed Lucky’s collar again, tugging back his hood and leading Lucky to the elevator. Lucky’s owner lived on the third floor, in apartment 369. Lucky panted and chased his tail, as Peter tapped his foot nervously on the floor. He was hoping that if he returned the dog, he might get a reward, like a bit of food or maybe some cash. And he was slightly relieved to be rid of the dog with a death wish.

The elevator reached the third floor and Lucky bolted, leaving Peter to curse and run after him. Lucky had stopped in front of a door, pawing and whining at it. Peter paused, catching his breath. The door was number 369. There were voices coming from inside the apartment, one a neutral tone and the other, who sounded like a dying goat.

“He’s not dead.”

“And how do you know that?” the dying goat voice demanded, “He could be starving, alone on the streets.”

“He’s probably fine. He’ll show up in a day or so. You could’ve gone looking for him, if you hadn’t decided to be an idiot and get injured. And look, we can follow up on what Jones asked us for without the pooch running off and getting himself killed, which is how you got injured.”

A muffled scream could be heard.

Peter knocked on the door and the two voices went silent. Lucky drooled on Peter’s sneaker. Jerk. Peter fiddled with the sleeves of his jacket as he heard a heartbeat getting louder and closer to the door. The other heartbeat stayed back, a steady thrum in sync with Peter’s.

The door creaked open, the chain lock keeping the door secured. Peter got a peek of an ugly floral couch and what looked like a bow before a man stepped up between the door and the wall. He wore a leather jacket and jeans, with dirty blonde hair and a face that looked like it had been through hell.

“Shit, it’s just a kid,” the dude shouted back over his shoulder. He turned back and unlocked the door, opening it fully, “Okay, is this Scouts or Jehovah’s Witnes-”

Lucky barked, leaping into the guy’s arms. The guy was startled and fell backwards; then a smile broke out across his face. “Lucky!”

This dissolved into Lucky getting many belly rubs and his owner alternating between being overjoyed that Lucky was home and sobbing in Lucky’s fur that he thought he would never see Lucky again. He seemed to have forgotten about Peter, so he was left awkwardly standing in the doorway.

A throat cleared. Peter’s head jolted up to see a girl standing across from him. “Do you want to come in? It’s going to take a second for him to calm down.”

“The dog or the human?” Peter asked, shifting his weight from foot to foot.

The girl snorted. “Both.”

⇔
The girl’s name was Kate, Peter learned.

Kate had dark hair that was tied up in a ponytail with sunglasses perched on her forehead. She was tall and lean, with mischief gleaming in her brown eyes. She was wearing a purple denim jacket with a matching skirt and leggings. Kate was lilacs&oak&arrows&loyalty, and she was so cool. Kate was much older than Peter, she was fifteen.

“Wow, you can do archery? That’s so cool!”

Cue a muffled, “I knew it!” from the carpet.

Kate poured him and her a bowl of Lucky Charms, which they ate as they talked about Steven Universe. Peter decided that Kate was awesome. Seriously, she could do archery and she knew about Steven Universe. And she was a teenager, which was like a fun adult!

Eventually, the man who had been crying on the floor got up and introduced himself. “I’m Clint,” he said, stealing Kate’s cereal. Kate elbowed him and fought him. They seemed to act like siblings. “Thanks for finding Lucky. I would be so lost without him.”

Kate rolled her eyes.

Clint was weird. He acted strange, but Peter could see the gleam of intelligence in his eyes. He was covered in dog hair and was wrapped in bandages. He walked with a slight limp in his leg and had a giant bruise on the side of his face. Clint was laughter&wood&wit&preciseaccuracy. Peter didn’t exactly trust him, but Kate seemed to tolerate him, so Peter guessed he was okay.

He also smelled like a dumpster.

Clint studied Peter, chewing the cereal. “You look familiar,” he said slowly, “Have I seen you before?”

Peter shook his head. “Nope. I don’t know you.”

Kate started laughing as Clint looked crestfallen. “You don’t know who I am?” he asked Peter.

Peter shook his head. “Sorry, Mr. Barton. I’ve never seen you before in my life.”

Kate couldn’t stop laughing.

“Don’t they teach kids anything these days?” Clint groaned. He faced Peter, looking him in the eyes. “Okay, kid. This might be a little hard for you to believe, but it’s true. I swear it on my dead parakeet’s grave.”

He took a dramatic breath.

“I’m Hawkeye.”

Peter squinched up his eyebrows. “Who?”

Kate was no longer breathing.

⇔

Peter left a few hours later.

Kate and Clint had given him their numbers. Now Peter had four numbers in his burner. Kate also gave him a few twenties she had stolen out Clint’s wallet. She winked at him as she stuffed a bunch of food into his backpack along with a few shirts.

“The food is Clint’s,” she whispered as she helped him zip up his stuff, “I’m going to enjoy watching him cry when he realizes his food is gone.”

Peter decided Kate was sadistic and enjoyed making people cry. Mostly Clint.

Clint eventually got over the fact that Peter didn’t know who Hawkeye- Retired Avenger, thank you. I’m still a vigilante through and through.- was and with minimal pouting, came over to thank Peter for finding his dog. Kate thanked him for making Clint cry.

“We should meet up again,” Kate said, eyes glinting evilly, “I’ll teach you archery. You could be my sidekick.”

Peter paused from where he was giving Lucky goodbye. “Sidekicks?” he asked curiously. His eyes widened. “Wait, you’re the purple lady with the bow!”

Clint groaned. “Oh, so he recognizes you?”

There was a half-hour filled with Peter excitedly asking questions, Kate lording it over everyone, and Clint bemoaning the fact that no one liked him.

{In Peter’s defense, he only knew who Kate was because she had beat up a mugger near May’s apartment and his neighbor had been scandalized that there had been a vigilante only 30 feet away from her building.}

{Nobody else had cared.}

Clint gave him a necklace, which contained one of Lucky’s old dog tags. Clint said it was a good-luck charm. Peter, after revisiting the previous memories of a suicidal dog, had his hesitations.

“No, seriously,” Clint insisted, pressing the arrow-shaped dog-tag into Peter’s hand, “I bring these with me whenever I go on a mission, and without fail, I never miss. They are good luck, I swear.”

Peter decided that wearing it wouldn’t hurt.

After promising to call Kate and set up another time to hang out and giving Lucky a final head-pat, Peter said his goodbyes and made his way to the door when Clint stopped him.

“Hey, kid.”

Peter stopped. “Yes, Mr. Hawkeye?”

A snort of laughter could be heard.

“That’s not going away anytime soon,” Clint muttered, then he raised his voice, “Kid, try to stay off the streets at night. Hunker down anywhere you can. Just….just stay safe, alright?”

Peter cocked his head to the side and Clint could’ve sworn that it reminded him of someone. “Why?”

Clint hesitated. “Shi-I mean stuff has been going down lately. Gangs are getting bolder, more violence out at night. The Devil’s been sighted more often lately, outside of Hell’s Kitchen, outside of Manhattan, and if that’s not a sign that something’s wrong, I don’t know what is.”

Peter nodded, biting his lip. He’d ask Weasel if he could stay the night. If a superhero said something was bad, then it must be really bad. “Okay, Mr. Barton. I do have a question, though.”

Clint perked up. “Yeah, shorty?”

Peter scowled at the nickname, but continued on with his question. “If you’re Hawkeye and y’know, a superhero, does that mean you know Daredevil?”

The giggling started again.

Clint was offended. “Excuse me, pipsqueak. We do not speak of that horrible, horrible man. He is banned from this household. He is dead to me. If he turned up on my doorstep bleeding, I would turn him away.”

“So you do know him?”

“Out!” Clint shooed Peter out the doorway as Kate waved goodbye with a huge smile on her face. “Get out you demon child! I have never been so ashamed in my life.”

Peter grinned and waved, sprinting down the hallway to the elevator.

Clint sighed and shut the door.

Kate grinned. “He reminds me of Double D.”

“Oh, hell no. Not another one. Absolutely not.”

May

It had finally sunk in.

It was May 1st, the wind was blowing in all directions. The sun was shining, casting its rays and smiling down on the city. The city felt nice for once, like all the goodness was brought to the center and all the bad was cast back into the dark, told to stay out of sight for once.

If only May were here to see it.

Peter was so angry. He had had this fantasy, a small, glimmering dream that May was still alive, that he could go home, that this would all just go away. That she would come get him and Peter would be okay.

But she wasn’t coming back. Peter had known that when the two men had barged into their home and May’s blood had been everywhere and May had fallen on the floor like she was asleep, but Peter knew she wasn’t going to wake up this time, that she wouldn’t wake up and look with him her sad hazel eyes and soft smile and the reassurance that she wasn’t going anywhere.

The wrath helped drown out the grief.

Seething rage at the people who thought it was fine to shoot people in their own homes, in front of children who had seen too much. Fury at the people whose duty it was to uphold the law, shooting the wrong people and not doing a damn thing. Anger at people who lived in that shiny tower, impassive, but powerful, who saved their lives in the battle, but left them to die in the rubble.

All this fury simmering in his veins, and not a damn thing he could do about it. He’s eight. I mean, yeah. Something was off about him. He was short for age, and he looked like an average kid. But there was just something about him, something that caused people to take a double take when he walked down the street. Something that gave him the ability to crunch metal like it was made of paper in his hands, that allowed him to hear and smell things that no normal kid could. Something that gave him an intense feeling of dread whenever something bad happened and made the neighbors shake their head at that strange boy with too much anger and who definitely was not normal.

He had to sleep at night, hearing the cries of the city and the people who lived in it. He had to hear the people who didn’t have a Devil to protect them at night. All this rage, all this potential in that tiny body was aching to do something, anything.

{Voice in his head, devil on his shoulder, whispering for revenge and chanting for blood.}

But everytime he reached for the warm, black hoodie and his converse in the middle of the night when he heard the screams, he’d see that stupid, rectangular flashdrive and was reminded of the times that Aunt May had sat him down and told him that he had to hide everything about him that wasn’t “normal”.

You’re really special, Peter. But you could get hurt if people find out. Listen to your gut, and never forget to listen to your heart. Above all, you need to say safe. You’re still a kid.

He really wanted to throw it away.

{But Ben had told him it was important and Ben wouldn’t lie.}

{Lock the monster up and ignore its screams.}

Also, Peter was about 80% sure he was being hunted. But that didn’t matter as much because he had managed to shake them each time.

Like this time as he ducked into a small cafe and slipped into a booth, breathing hard. Bad guy had been stalking him for about twenty minutes now. Peter had managed to give him the slip about a few blocks away and hid in the diner to wait him out. He breathed a sigh of relief as the feeling of dread slowly dissipated and the hair on his arms went down. He was safe.

“What do you mean you got stabbed?”

Okay, maybe not.

Peter turned his head to see two men furiously whispering at each other in a booth at the back of the diner. One of them, a tall, dark-skinned man wearing a yellow shirt was staring incredulously at his companion, who had blonde hair and the general appearance and attitude of a golden retriever.

“It was only a little bit, but that’s not the point. Luke, the point is-”

“How is a stab wound a little bit, Danny?” Luke massaged his face with his hand. He honestly looked done. Peter felt for him. And then wondered how he could hear the conversation. Then decided he didn’t care.

“It only bled a little bit.”

“How do you bleed a little bit?”

This dissolved into bickering, and Peter covertly studied them from his booth, six feet away. Luke was wearing a yellow shirt that seemed riddled with quarter-sized holes and Danny had bandages covering his face and bruises peeked out of his sleeve. Luke was pine&hope&vigilance&metal, while Danny was ambition&peony&trust&positvity. They balanced each other out.

“You’re not listening to me,” Danny insisted, shoving a french fry in his mouth, “These guys aren’t a gang; they’re something else. They’re more organized.”

“Then what are they?”

“That’s the thing; nobody knows. There've been a few hits committed by them, but everytime the police show up, they’ve been pushed away by these guys in suits. Mahoney’s about ready to smack someone.”

Luke drummed his fingers on the table, expression thoughtful. “Do you think it could be a cover-up? One of their own? That would explain alot.”
Danny gestured with his hand, nearly knocking over the bottle of ketchup. “It’s not. Jessica asked Clint to keep an ear out and he’s reported back that it’s not. It is a cover-up, but it’s mostly to keep it out of the press. Clint’s got a theory it’s got to do with the Russian Mafia, but Frank seriously doubts it.”

“Was there anything that could be traced back to the group?” Luke stole Danny’s fries. “Any faces, information, locations?”

“Nada. It seems to only be a few people, but there’s nothing. The only reason we know they exist is because they went after Double-D. Jessica says that they seem to be trying to cause as much trouble as possible. Our demon friend says that he’s been looking into it, but it’s like hunting for a ghost. All that he’s been able to find out is that they’re looking for something.” Danny pauses and a shiver goes up Peter’s spine at his next words. “Or someone.”

Who were these people? Were they like Kate and Clint? Was their Clint Peter’s Clint? Like Domino? Were they people who seemed to know everything, like Weasel? Who were Frank and Wade? Who was Jessica?

Were Luke and Danny vigilantes?

Peter had grown up watching the news praise the Avengers, the group of people who more often than not caused more problems than solved. Who left people to clean up their messes while they lived in their tower. And yes, they did good things. But when you say you’re a hero for the world, then you have to be a hero for the world. Not just come out to play when you want to and then leave the world in the dark.

But vigilantes were different. They protected the people who the Avengers didn’t. They took care of the gangs, the rapists, the murderers. The ones the Avengers didn’t care about enough because they were above their pay grade. The ones that people who walked down the street everyday were actually scared of.

The ones that were the reason Aunt May was dead.

Vigilantes were illegal. The police didn’t like them. The media didn’t like them. The government sure as hell didn’t like them. But the government didn’t protect them from the people the vigilantes dealt with.

Basically, that meant that whatever Luke and Danny were talking about could get them thrown in jail for life.

That was so cool.

Luke sighed. “Any news from the ferret?”

“You know he hates it when you call him that.”

“I know.”

“Wade asked, but all he was able to give us was that the thing that they’re looking for was taken by a cop somewhere in Queens.”

Luke whistled. “Shit. Does Mahoney know?”

“Not yet. He will soon.”
Luke sighed and stood up from the booth. “Why do I feel like this is going to end up with us going to Queens for no reason because we’re going to find information that Jess already has?”

Danny grinned and stood up as well, snatching one last fry. “It might not happen this time!”

Luke grumbled and turned to the door. “If I have to fight ninjas again, I swear……”

He and Danny walked out the door, Danny whistling as Luke frowned at him. Peter watched them as their heartbeats faded out of his hearing zone, holding his breath. They never even looked in his direction.

Peter slumped in his seat, eyes unfocused on the table. Holy shit.

He bit his lip, looking around the diner. There was a bored waitress on her phone, the small chimes alerting Peter she was playing Candy Crush and a blonde woman focused on her laptop, fingers hitting the keyboard.

Perfect.

Peter got up and left the restaurant, snatching the backpack Danny had left behind and left the diner, head down and completely oblivious to the wide-eyed stare of the blonde woman wearing a black jacket and a yellow shirt, who jerked up when he got up in her line of view.

{Her fingers itched toward her phone, waiting to press a contact that hadn’t been used in months.}

{It was uncanny. But it couldn’t be right.}

He needed a new backpack.
.

June

Peter was in love with two things.

Animals and picking fights.

And if he was really lucky, sometimes they came in a package bundle. Get both for the price of one.

May and Ben had not been in love with the fact that he often got into fights with people. The reasons were endless. Flash, Ned got picked on, bullies, Flash, that kid who called May a witch, Annie comparisons, Flash, got mugged and decided to play hero, and getting called a girl which involved Peter calling the person an asshat and ending up with the trophy of two broken teeth. Not his.

Peter wasn’t a violent person. He was actually very mild-mannered and very polite, when he wanted to be. He just had a habit of not choosing his battles wisely. He also had a thing where he wanted to fight all the battles.

{Fire’s in his veins, burning all sense of logic and reason. The monster in his chest is pulling at the chains, letmeoutletmeoutletmeout-}

Including the one where he was getting beat up in an alley in the Bronx because he had finally found that stupid kitten with the black fur getting tortured by three doucebags.

Peter kicked someone in the nuts, his hands occupied by the squirming kitten inside his hands. He smiled as he heard the guy swear. Then something hard hit his head and he fell backwards on the ground, stars in his vision. The kitten mewled as he moved to protect it with his body. The assholes kicked his small form, one catching him in the ribs and knocking the wind out of him. His necklace glinted on the concrete, the dog tag catching the dying light.

Wasn’t that thing supposed to be lucky?

Then the massive being wrapped in red and black leather dropped from the rooftop and everything went to shit.

⇔

“Do ya think Boo would be a good name for the kitty?”

Deadpool considered this for a minute. “You sure I can’t name him Schrodinger Snookums Fuzz-Butt the First?”

Peter shook his head no.

“Then Boo it is. You like that name, don’t you?” Deadpool cooed at the kitten, who seemed utterly enamoured with the muscled being that had saved both her and Peter’s life.

Peter rested his head against Deadpool’s shoulder. His glasses were beyond repair, shattered in the alley. He apparently didn’t need them, so he let it be. His jacket had holes in it, so he felt bad about that. Sorry Bucky. His new backpack that definitely wasn’t stolen was fine, as was the burner phone inside. Boo was fine, just spooked. Everything was fine.

Except for Peter, apparently.

After Deadpool had scared the shit of those shitbags, Peter hadn’t known whether to freeze or run. His danger sense was off, but this was Deadpool, as in The Deadpool. The one who was a mercenary. The one who literally anyone in New York with common sense was afraid of.

That Deadpool.

So Peter had blinked with frightened and confused eyes and Boo had mewled and Peter could have sworn the white eyes of the mask stared at him for a moment in confusion before kneeling down beside him and asking him if he liked banana bread.

There was much confusion. Apparently, Deadpool was on a mission to prove to this guy named Cable that he could cook, but he had too much banana bread and his fiance was going to kill him if he didn’t get rid of it.

“I would let her do it,” he confided in Peter as he felt around Peter’s head for lumps. Peter stared at him, not completely sure of what was going on in the moment. “10/10. She could do it with my swords too, for extra effect. But she’s the only one who gets to touch ‘em. They’re my babies.”

Peter nodded and flinched as his head erupted in pain. Boo wailed and clawed at one of the holes in the jacket. Deadpool stared down at him for a moment, before muttering a “Fuck it,” and scooping Peter up like he weighed nothing. Peter squeaked and kicked Deadpool in the kidney. Boo meowed.

“Hey, hey, it’s a-okay. You’ve just got some blood leaking from your head and your head’s probably got a concussion ‘cause of those shit-I mean terrible people playing whack-a-mole with you. Not that you’re a mole. You’re more of a mouse if I do say so myself.”

Peter stared at him. Deadpool noticed. “Don’t worry, I won’t set up a mouse trap for you. Though you’ve got a cat, so I dunno if you’re a smart mouse. Boo’s tiny, but don’t let her near your eyes. Terrible way to lose ‘em.”

He sounded so sure of this fact.

And that is how Peter ended up being carried by one of the most feared mercenaries in the world with a tiny kitten purring onto his shoulder.

“Um, Mr. Deadpool?” Peter’s hand twisted the necklace. Clint had told him it was lucky. It was not lucky. Peter was going to smack him with the necklace the next time he saw him. “Where’re we goin’?”

Deadpool hummed, hand gently cupping the back of Peter’s head. “My place. You really took beating for the little kitty, huh? You one of them vigilantes, baby-”

He stops and squints at Peter. “Pronouns?”

Peter slumps with relief. Praise the lord. “He/Him. I’m a boy. And I’m ain’t a vigilante; I just want to help.”

Boo purred his agreement.

Deadpool laughed. “Oh, Ness is going to love you. And then possibly steal the cat. Or try to adopt you. It’s an even split to see what she does.”

⇔

Vanessa went for the cat.

“Oh, you’re such a pretty kitty,” she cooed to Boo. Boo, the traitor, purred in her arms. “So tiny and adorable. Are you hungry? Yeah, you’re hungry, you superb little feline.”

Deadpool gasped as he gently set Peter down on the couch, careful with his head. “My love, how could you betray me like this? I thought I was the lone object of your affections.”

Vanessa grinned devilishly over her shoulder, long raven black hair tossed over a shoulder. Her brown eyes were like the bitter dark chocolate that Peter had bought himself one day when he had extra money. “Don’t worry, Wilson. I know who my heart belongs to.” Vanessa paused, a smile still on her face. She was roses&brandy&blazingfire&love. “And I’m carrying yours in place of mine.”

Deadpool was making heart eyes. Peter was going to be sick.

Vanessa lightly scratched the head of the kitten. “What’s her name?”
“Our other stray named her Boo. I personally would have gone with James Howlett the Second, but you win some, you lose some.” Deadpool was rummaging through the freezer. “Hey, babe. Where’s the ice?”

“It’s in the other freezer,” she tossed over her shoulder. “It’s by the waffles.” Her eyes were on Peter now. A frown tugged at the corners of her mouth as she surveyed him. Peter knew he didn’t exactly look nice. His hair had grown out, curling at the nape of his neck, and it was sort of greasy because he hadn’t been able to take a shower in a bit. He was all skin and bones as well, ‘cause of the homeless thing and the fact that he was a black hole when it came to food. Peter’s clothes were all tattered, the hoodie that Bucky gave him now covered with holes. His shoes were the worst though, more sandals than converse, with duct tape barely holding them together. At least his backpack was still okay, with the burner phone inside. “What happened to you, sweetheart?”

“Ummm……” Peter didn’t exactly know what to say. How does one politely say, ‘I saw a bunch of douchebags kicking a small, defenseless kitten and I’ve been looking for this particular kitten ever since she managed to get Peter to become friends with Weasel and Domino so of course I had to go save her because I’m really angry right now since my entire family died and I couldn’t do anything so I tried to take it out on them and I’m at least 75% sure I have powers because I threw a grown man against the wall but apparently I can’t take on three of them at once so your terrifying fiance dropped out fucking nowhere and I’m pretty sure he killed one of them but then again he’s fucking Deadpool but he’s actually really nice and he respected my pronouns and he brought me here, and now you’re asking me a question while I’m having a existential crisis.’

Politely.

“He’s one of them hero types, Ness.” Deadpool stood with triumph as he held the bag of frozen peas over his head. He bounded back over to Peter, pressing the pack of peas to the back of his head. “Saved Boo from becoming kitty litter. And in my book, that deserves the highest honor.”

Vanessa grinned at Peter. “You want some food, kid? I’m a terrible cook and Wade sets the kitchen on fire whenever he goes near it, excluding the banana bread incident, but I think I can toast some pop tarts and waffles without burning the place to the ground.”

Peter smiled nervously at her. Vanessa reminded him of Domino a little bit. They both had this look in their eyes that said that they had seen what the world had to offer and weren’t impressed. But Domino was sharp edges and glass to people she didn’t know or like, while Vanessa seemed like a cat, evaluating until you proved worthy of her attention. “Yes, ma’am. Thank you.”

Vanessa pressed a hand to her heart. “Oh, he has manners. Wilson, take notes. You can share them with Logan and Cable.”

Deadpool snorted as he bandaged Peter’s cuts. “As if Logan would be able to listen to me talk long enough to take notes on the things he hates the most. And Cable has manners. Last week, when he threw me off the roof, he gave me a warning. Got up in my face and growled. Never done that before.”

Vanessa raised an eyebrow at Deadpool’s back. “Sure, babe.” She set Boo down on a nest of pillows on the couch next to Peter, walking to the cluttered kitchen. “Hey kid. You want Blue Raspberry or Hot Fudge Sundae?”

“Blue Raspberry, please.”

Vanessa pointed a finger at him. “Just for that, you can have both. What’s your name, hero?”

“I’m Peter. I’m eight. And thank you.” Peter scratched the back of his neck.

Deadpool whistled. “Eight years old and already punching baddies? Where are your parents?”

Peter went white. “Dunno.”

Deadpool looked at him for a moment and the mask that covered his face hid his expression. Peter hoped it wasn’t pity. He hated pity. “That blows balls.”

Peter let out a small laugh. “Yup.”

Wade stood up and stretched. “I’ma take this off. You mind?”

Peter shook his head no. His attention was fixed on the small kitty and the pain pounding through his head. Distantly, he remembered Ned telling him that the reason that Deadpool wore a mask was because he was so scarred.

He looked up- and wow.

Holy shit, that had to hurt.

No, no bad words.

“Aww, you’re trying to moderate the language for the wee ones?”

Fuck, he said it out loud.

Wade cackled and jumped on the couch next to Peter, scooping up Boo who mewled and attached her claws to his suit. He looked relieved and Peter felt protective of the strange mercenary. Wade was honeysuckle&scars&devotion&wickedthoughts. “Nerd! I’m stealing your cat.”

Peter shoved him off, a smile on his face. “She’s not my cat. Besides, Ms. Vanessa already called dibs.”

Wade gasped. “Ms.? Ms.? Vanessa, did you hear him? He’s corrupting my child with his pure soul. Boo will not have this sort of influence in her life, you hear me?”

Peter was giggling as Vanessa walked back into the room with a pile of poptarts on a plate. She cocked an eyebrow as she set the plate of poptarts down and sat in Wade’s lap. “I don’t know, babe. I sort of like being called miss.”

Peter laughed at Wade’s expression of betrayal.

{The fire subsided.}

{The monster sleeps for now.}

⇔

Peter inhaled the poptarts.

Vanessa wasn’t as surprised as Wade. Wade had been stunned. “In all seriousness, are you a black hole?”

Peter shrugged, licking the remains of the poptarts off his fingers.
Vanessa sent him to take a shower, gathering his clothes with a determined look on her face to patch them up to the best of Wade’s ability. She could not stitch to save her life, she told Peter as she held up the black sweatshirt, examining the many holes, but she could get Wade to do it.

{Peter hid the flashdrive in his backpack. He trusted Wade and Vanessa, but not that much.}

He bathed in the shower, relishing the hot water instead of the lukewarm water he always got when he showered at the Y. Peter used the soap that was there, hoping they wouldn’t mind. He ignored the scars that covered his body and the cuts that were healing abnormally fast.

Peter stepped out of the bathroom smelling like sunflowers and wearing too-big sweatshirt and sweatpants. The sweatshirt was obviously Wade’s, reading I am not Daredevil, which Peter supposed was correct.

The sound of voices caught his attention.

“-on the streets, Wade.”

“Then what are we supposed to do? He won’t stay, Ness. He’s got that look in his eye.”

“So we’re just supposed to let him go live on the streets? You know just as well as I do that if you hadn’t interfered, Peter would be dead or on his way.”

“I know. But he wouldn’t exactly be safe here either, with you being an information broker and me being the most wanted person in New York.”

“Technically, Castle is the most wanted person in New York.”

“Damnit, Castle. Quit being a broody bitch.”

“Then he’s just going to go back on the street? We can’t do anything?”

“Well, we could do something.”

“No CPS.”

“Of course not. We don’t know if the kid’s parents are still alive and kicking, and we certainly don’t know why he ran. I’m not placing the kid at the mercy of the fucking CPS. I may be crazy, but I’m not stupid.”

Peter felt the tension in his shoulders fade. Thank gods.

“I know, I just…” Vanessa paused, “I don’t want him to end up like I was at that age.”

“Oh, sweetheart,” Wade seemed to take Vanessa in his arms, “He won’t. I’ll make sure of it. But it's a terrible, horrible world out there and Peter’s not like us. He doesn’t have powers. Besides, he’s a loner. Reminds me a bit of Double D. Probably tries not to get attached to anyone.”

Hey.

It was true, but still. Yeah, Peter didn’t let anyone get close to him after he met them. He never texted Domino or Weasel back more than a single word or a meme. He stayed at Sister Margaret’s, but only if he desperately needed to. Kate texted him sometimes, but he couldn’t bring himself to text more than a few words.

It hurt too much.

“So what happens?”

Wade hesitated. “I know a lawyer.”

And Peter’s heart stopped. Oh shit.

“He’s a decent guy, and he’ll help the kid. He won’t turn Peter away.”

Oh no. He can’t.
If he shows up again, if they find his name, then the men will show up and they’ll take him away or kill him like they did May with her perfect circle of blood on the ground and the eyes that would never shut again or Ben with his cold body and the smile wrinkles on his face that were so slack-

Vanessa sighed. “It’s up to Peter, though. I won’t make him go through with it.”

Wade kissed her forehead. “We’ll talk to him tomorrow.”

Peter decided that this was time to make his grand entrance. “Hey.”

Vanessa looked startled for a second before flashing him a grin. Her eyes were red. “Hey, Pete.”

Peter shuffled forward. “Thanks for letting me use the shower. “

“You’re welcome. And wait! That reminds me,” Vanessa made a stay-there gesture and walked into her room, leaving Peter alone with Wade.

Deadpool.

Scary mercenary that stabs people. With powers.

Powers.

{Does he have the monsters?}

“Can I ask you something?”

Wade propped his head up on his hand. Boo was sprawled on the counter, soaking in the sun.“Sure. You can ask Dr. Wilson anything at all.”

Peter laughed. “You’d be a terrible therapist.”

“Damnit.”

They sat in silence for a few moments. Then Peter spoke up.

“How do you take that rage and make it good?”

All the air in Wade came rushing out. He had not been expecting that. Of all things.

“What’d ya mean, kiddo?”

“You know, the monsters. How do you make them good?”

{Pick up the broken pieces and lock them in a box, never to be seen again.}

He chose his words carefully.

“I don’t know kid.” Wade was staring at his hands. “I’m not good. I’ve never been good. My childhood was fucked-up. My job is killing people, not saving them. I have my monsters, but I’ve learned to let them have control. They stopped being my monsters because I’ve become something worse than them. I’m not Daredevil. Now him? He’s a fury. He’s got alot of rage, and he could take it out on people who don’t deserve it, but he doesn’t. He could kill, but he doesn’t. Mostly because he’s got a catholic stick up his ass, but he takes that wrath, those monsters, and he directs them at the very same things that created them. But he reigns them in, doesn’t kill, doesn’t let them have what they want.”

Peter was quiet. Wade continued.

“Same thing with Jones. She could become as bad as the people who hurt her, but she won’t. She protects, even if she won’t admit it. Same with Cage and Danny and Clint and Dom and Castle. Well, Castle not so much. He’s much more like me, but he doesn’t do it for money. Vigilantes are weird. They’re not like Avengers, because while the Avengers may have their share of monsters and rage, they don’t embrace them. They hide them, like porn in incognito mode. Vigilantes embrace them, they become them. They don’t hide the monsters because the monsters give them strength.”

Wade huffed. “It just depends on how you use them.”

“You could use them for good, but keep a close eye on them. Lock ‘em up inside when they’re not needed.”

Wade twists his fingers together.

“Or you could let them control you.”

“But,” he added, “Either way, you have to recognize that they exist. You have to acknowledge them. You have to become them, in some way. You don’t have to give them free reign, but you’ve got to let them out.”

His brown eyes don’t have a hint of the emotions that Peter saw when he first met him.

“And once you do that?”

Wade let out a short laugh.

There’s no humor in it.

“There’s no going back.”

⇔

Peter leaves in the middle of the night.

Vanessa gave him a pair of new shoes. They’re a bright red, a bit big on him, but they work. She said they had bought them for a kid named Russell, but they were too small for him. He laced them up before he crept out the fire escape. He’s a pretty far away from their apartment, in Midtown Manhattan.

He feels guilty, but Wade was right. He’d run. Vanessa had sat him down, told him that they had a lawyer that might be able to help him. Wade hadn’t met his eyes. Peter thinks that Wade knew that he was going to run.

He hadn’t stopped him.

It’s warm outside, the wind playing with his hair. He’s got Bucky’s jacket on. Wade patched it up so now there’s red patches covering the holes and elbows. Peter likes the color scheme he has. The necklace hangs around his throat, tucked underneath his shirt. The grey backpack that he stole from Danny had lots of random things in it. Keys, gum, snickers, a wallet. No weapons though. It did, however, hold a roll of gauze tape and a red bandanna.

An hour later, Peter’s in Queens.

His hands are wrapped. Ben showed him how, teaching him how to punch and how to defend himself. He wonders what Ben would think of him now.

{The monster opens its eyes.}

Peter knows he shouldn’t be doing this. He’s a child, not even ten years old. He knows this is suicidal. But as he ties the bandanna around his mouth, all he can focus on is the rage in his veins. He has powers. He can help.

They don’t hide the monsters because the monsters give them strength

Peter pulls the hood over his head. Two deep breaths. His face is covered.

You could use them for good, but keep a close eye on them. Lock ‘em up inside when they’re not needed

He makes a promise to himself. To Ben. To May. He’ll only protect those who need to be protected.

No big stuff.

You’ve got to let them out

{The monster is awake now.}

Peter can hear a mugging two blocks away. He smiles behind his mask.

{The monster smiles with him.}

July

It’s addictive.

He takes alot of hits. Kicks. Punches. He nearly got stabbed one time. Peter leapt off of roofs, scaled fire escapes, and faced down a horde of raccoons. He’s gotten more bruises and scars in a month than he’s ever gotten in the six he’s been on the street. He’s stopped muggers, would-be rapists, and drug-dealers.

{The fire doesn’t burn as much.}

{The monster is sated.}

He usually stays in Queens. Brooklyn too. It was the polite thing to do. Manhattan has the Devil. Harlem has Luke Cage. The Bronx had Deadpool. Greenwich had that magic dude. Chinatown had that guy who called himself Iron Fist. Both Hawkeyes operated in Manhattan, but lived in Brooklyn as well. Jessica Jones was terrifying. The Punisher didn’t seem to care where he operated.

He got all this information from Kate, who knew exactly what he was doing and told him not to be fucking stupid and call her if he ever needed help.

She didn’t try to stop him though. She did tell him not to get involved with anything that was above his pay grade.

Meh.

Peter had found a warehouse in Queens, an abandoned little thing that had a small room that could be locked from the inside. After scouting it out for a few days, he set up base there. He had stolen a sleeping bag from one of the youth shelters, so he had a bed. Sort of. He left anything that wasn’t incredibly important to him, there. That meant his extra clothes, his toiletries, and a few blankets that he nicked, along with his stash of food.

He only left the backpack when he went on patrol. It was too big for him to lug around when he fought. The burner phone went with him, as did his jacket and mask. The flashdrive went with him too. He never let it out of his sight.

Peter wasn’t very intimidating. He had looked at himself once, in the cracked mirror that the warehouse had. He was short and skinny, usually with a black and blue bruise on his eye. The red bandana covered the bottom half of his face, with only his gray green eyes visible. His jeans had gotten torn, but Peter figured out how to patch them. Not as good as Wade though. The black jacket now had patches of red kevlar on his elbows and the bigger holes, with red thread stitching the smaller holes together. His red-gold-brown hair was longer than he’d ever allowed to get and it curled in his face. Put it all together and he looked like an adorable baby vigilante.

Which were the exact same words of the mugger that he took down a few nights ago.

Peter told him he wasn’t a kid.

The mugger rolled his eyes from where he was on the ground. “Yeah. And I’m a unicorn.”

Peter told him to think about his life choices or next time he would call the police on him.

The mugger agreed.

Peter only called the police on the rapists, extremely violent muggers, gangs, drug dealers, and the people who beat up innocents. If they were just muggers, he’d stop them and help the people who needed it. He only called the police on the people who needed to get off the streets. That was it.

He had his set of rules.

Thou shalt not interfere with another vigilante's territory. Mostly because they will make you stop.
Thou shalt not call the police on the people who don’t deserve it.
Thou shalt not get stabbed
Thou shall call the purple Hawkeye when help is needed. She, in return, will not tell the elder Hawkeye
Thou shalt not go after enhanced individuals.
Thou shall call the purple Hawkeye every Sunday
Thou shalt not go on patrol when injured. If supplies are needed, then supplies will be given
Thou shall admit that purple Hawkeye is the better Hawkeye
Thou shalt not interfere with another vigilante’s work
Thou shalt not patrol during the day

They had been written by himself and Kate. It was clear to see which ones were his and which ones were hers.

Kate knew exactly what he was doing when he called her for information.

“I know that if I tell you to stop, you’re just going to do it anyway. So there’s no point. But if you’re going to do this, then you need to listen to me. I won’t tell Clint, but then you need to follow my rules.” Kate warned him over the phone. “Got it?”

“Yes.”

“Good.”

And so the rules became law.

Peter was in Hell’s Kitchen at the moment, sitting on an edge of a roof while he finished his popsicle. It was 85 degrees outside, and the sun was merciless. Peter had his jacket tied around his waist, a white tank-top exposing his arms. His converse kicked the side of the building. His face was still sore from the beating he took the night before. He healed fast, but not that fast. Bruises painted his face a violet color, the exact same shade of the grape popsicle he was eating. Peter didn’t come to Hell’s Kitchen often, it being the territory of the Devil and Peter wasn’t completely sold on the assurances from Kate that he wouldn’t steal Peter’s soul. But it was the day and Peter was Peter Parker, not the idiot child from Queens who beat up criminals.

Finishing the popsicle, he tossed the stick in the dumpster and leapt onto the fire escape, his backpack swinging behind him. Peter scaled the fire escape easily, dropping down onto the asphalt. The blazing sun had darkened his skin and gave him more freckles than he had brain cells. He could hardly recognize himself from the person he had been at the beginning of the year. His hair had lightened several shades, now more of a red than a brown, like a cloud of russet-gold curls around his head. He was still short though, that was annoying.

Peter aimlessly wandered the streets, kicking rocks. As he walked, a blonde woman carrying a purse and wearing a red shirt walked out of a building, talking animatedly on her phone.

“Yeah, I know, Foggy. Everything’s suspicious.”

The worst thing about being able to hear everything was hearing everything.

“Frank said that it doesn’t look like usual gang activity. He says it’s way too organized for that.” The woman scowled at the person on the phone. “Hey, just because you don’t like him doesn’t mean I can’t.”

The other person said something.

“Well, he said he was sorry.”

More arguing.
“Look, my guess is that it’s a hate-group. Probably against enhanced humans, judging by the way they’ve only targeted mutants or mutates. In fact, the only hit that wasn’t an enhanced human was the one in Queens. We know it was them because the security cameras showed two of their thugs entering the apartment building. The guys that our friend took out.”

Was she another vigilante?

Possibly-vigilante-woman ran a hand through her hair. “Yeah. The one that connects with the cop. That murder. Do you know if Mahoney knew the guy, by any chance?”

Peter was at least 10 feet behind her. She was talking really hushed into the phone too, so Peter knew that he wasn’t supposed to hear. Thou Shalt Not Interfere with Other Vigilantes or something.

But a murder in Queens? Was it the same one Danny was talking about?

“No, it wasn’t a revenge hit. It couldn’t have been, because the cop was shot and killed off-duty by a mugger a month earlier. They killed his wife.”

Why….Why does it sound familiar?

“So Frank’s guess is that she knew something or she had something. No eyewitnesses and the neighbors didn’t report any noise disturbances. In fact, the only reason her body got discovered was because her kid’s school had been calling her that her kid wasn’t attending school and they sent a welfare check.”

The other voice said a very bad word.

“The evidence points to them looking for something because the apartment was completely trashed. It’s inhabitable now. But,” the lady hesitated, “Whatever they’re looking for, it doesn’t look like they found it.”

Peter’s hand clenched around the flashdrive.

“The kid’s missing too. Nobody’s seen them since that night, about 7 months ago. The police are trying to find them, but the investigation was taken over by the Feds. Or whoever those guys are. I think I have a surname, but since it’s been taken out of the hands of the police, there’s no information besides the basics that the police had and the scraps that we’ve managed to dig up. All we have is the cop’s name, the lady’s name, a general idea of who they’re targeting, and the kid’s surname. That’s it.”

The voice said something.

The blonde lady looked sad. “Yeah, Frank said the same thing. The kid’s the closest thing we have to a connection to anything, but we literally have nothing on them. It’s like they don’t exist.The Feds won’t release the name and the kid apparently hasn’t been seen since January. But it’s pretty obvious that they’re looking for the kid. They’re an eyewitness and they could have the thing they’re looking for.”

The phone’s tinny voice came through.

“Yeah, I’ll send you the police report for the murder. I’ll send you the one for the cop too. We might have to find the kid through some backdoor methods.”

The voice chimed.

The blonde lady smiled. “Yeah, I know. Tell Matt he better be on bed rest.”

More talking.

“Bye Foggy.”

The woman hung up, leaving Peter with a horrifying realization and a sinking feeling in his stomach. That was his family. Ben had been shot off-duty by a mugger barely a month before May got murdered. Peter had been there as Ben’s blood soaked into his jeans, as he listened to Ben whisper that he loved him with his dying breath. He hadn’t been able to do that for May. May had been dead before she hit the floor. And he had been shoved toward the fire-escape, hoodie in hand and flashdrive in his pocket as he ran from the people who barged their way into his home.

Ben had given him the flashdrive. Was that what they were looking for? But Ben had told him it had to do with his parents, not some mutant hate-group. It had to do with his parents, Richard and Mary. The ones he couldn’t remember.

Well, he thinks sourly, it could have to do with my bio parents.

But that makes no sense! He’d asked Ben and May if they knew who his biological parents were, but all they had managed to find after searching was his date of birth, the hospital and his bio mom’s blood type. His bio dad hadn’t even been mentioned. So how could the flashdrive connect to anything?

…...Did the group know that Peter had powers?

Was that why? But how could they know? Had anyone seen him practicing one day? Had they told someone? Did Aunt May get killed because of him? Because of what he was?

Peter was stewing in his thoughts as he caught up to the blonde woman waiting at the street light. She was focused on her phone, fingers tapping frantically. Peter dug his fingers into his arms, leaving red marks. It was nothing, Peter told himself, they weren’t talking about his family. Even if they were, the lady must have gotten her information wrong. Kate hadn’t said anything about this kind of thing. They weren’t talking about Peter.

Right?

The light turned green and the lady began to walk across the street, Peter behind her. He would patrol tonight, he decided, and maybe ask Kate about the group. The lady’s shoes clipped on the asphalt. The smell of gasoline and metal and the mysterious smell of the subway filled Peter’s senses.

Then the world slowed down.

A car was barreling toward the woman in front of him. She was focused on her phone, not aware of the threat coming her way. Goosebumps rose on Peter’s arms. The world was quiet and colors seemed to be too vibrant. The car was coming too fast for the lady to move out of the way, and it would most likely kill her on contact. The world was in slow-motion, a disaster waiting to be painted.

Peter reached out and grabbed the lady’s wrist, pulling her back.

The car screeched past where the lady had been standing only seconds ago. It turned the corner and left, leaving skid marks on the asphalt.

“Holy shit.” The blonde lady was clutching at her heart. Her eyes were wide. “Holy shit.”

Peter put a hand to his head, blinking dizzily. It always hurt after a big thing. Ben’s death, May’s death. And now this time. He didn’t even notice when he was dragged over to the curb by the lady. Peter can’t hear anything for a few seconds, too blinded by the world.
“-what’s your name, kiddo?”

Peter raises his head and looks at the lady through his cloud of hair. She looks shakened-up, but she’s smiling at him. He tries to answer her question. “Peter?”

Emphasis on tries.

“Well, thank you for saving me Peter. I would have been a goner if it wasn’t for you.” She laughs, but Peter can hear her heartbeat hammering away in her ribcage. She knows she would have been dead if Peter hadn’t interfered.

Peter nods, hands rubbing at his bleary eyes. He can see the lady staring at him curiously, lips parted, almost as if she recognizes him. Which is weird. He hopes she doesn’ t.

“Can I get you something?” the lady offers, “You just saved my life. Is ice cream a suitable reward for such an act of valor?”

Peter blinks at her. On one hand, it’s a stranger who probably works with or is a vigilante. On the other hand, it’s a person who works with or is a vigilante that’s offering food. It’s an easy decision.

“Coffee?”

The lady looks startled for a minute before breaking into a wide grin. “Coffee? Of course. Anything for the little hero. My name’s Karen, by the way. Karen Page.”

Peter smiles at her. “Peter Reilly,” he lies through his teeth. Just in case.

He feels bad. Ben told him not to lie.

But just in case.

⇔
They end up going to a little coffee shop. It’s a quaint place, staffed with teenagers working summer jobs. Karen buys herself a black coffee with two sugars and gets Peter a small iced coffee and a chocolate muffin. They take a seat outside. It’s as dry and hot as Hell’s Kitchen’s namesake, but Karen manages to find them a table in the shade.

Karen takes a sip of her coffee as Peter inhales the muffin. It’s so good and warm. He hasn’t had anything like this since he decided to stop stealing. Now he survives off of stale food, the little bit of money he has left, and the shelters.

The iced coffee is also very good.

Karen’s a journalist, Peter learns, though she does freelance and instead works at a law firm. It’s called Nelson & Murdock & Page, and apparently all the people who work there excluding her have no common sense.

“Extremely smart people,” she tells Peter, a fond smile on her face, “But I swear, if one of them jumped off a bridge, the other would follow.”

Karen was nice, and wicked smart. She wasn’t from Hell’s Kitchen, but she lived here now and she knew it like the back of her hand. Karen wasn’t a lawyer, but she was a paralegal and was basically a secretary. She liked dogs, especially pit bulls. She had two best friends, the lawyers who Karen said saved her life. Karen was newspapers&sugar&untoldstories&rosemary.

She didn’t mention anything about a Frank, though. So he must be a part of the vigilante thing. On closer inspection of Karen, Peter decided that she worked with vigilantes. She was brave, but not the kind of brave it took to break the law and nearly get killed by the people who were really breaking the law.

Karen was brave. Just not that stupid.

Peter told her a little bit about herself. What age he was {He’d be nine next month}, what his favorite subject in school was {Science}, what the best Star Wars movie was {The Empire Strikes Back}, what his favorite candy was {Swedish Fish, but Sour gummies were also good}, what his favorite color was {Red or Blue, and maybe black}, and what his favorite book was {Percy Jackson was awesome, but he also liked The Princess Bride.}

“Favorite superhero?” Karen asked him, grinning after Peter finished a rambling explanation on why the prequels, while interesting, were not needed at all in the Star Wars universe.

“What’s yours?” Peter shot back, hiding his smile behind his hand.

“Daredevil,” Karen answered confidently, “I do live here after all. Your’s?”

Peter hummed. “I dunno, what vigilantes protect Queens?”
“Well, you got that small one in the hoodie that’s been terrorizing the gangs in Queens,” Karen answered and Peter nearly spat out his coffee.

Oh shit.

“What?” Peter managed to get out. His heartbeat was racing. This was exactly like the time when May had caught him stealing cookies and had waited until he fessed up to it.

Karen was staring off into space. “There’s a new vigilante. This one’s in Queens. They’re small, but powerful. But it’s kind of disconcerting to see a small-child-sized being pick up a grown-man and throw him six feet.”

“Any guesses on what they are?” Peter asked, unable to help himself.

“Well, Nelson says that it has to be an alien. Murdock is banking on the fact that the videos might be doctored and it’s just a regular vigilante with a death wish.” She stares straight at Peter. His heartbeat is now nonexistent. “But you want to know what I think?”

“Yeah?” No.

“Ghosts.”

“What?”

Oh Thank the lord.

“Ghosts.” Karen insisted. “It’s gotta be a ghost. It’s the only explanation for how it gets around so fast.”

Heartbeat now at a normal pace, Pete shrugged. “Maybe.”

Karen huffed. “No one believes me. What was your favorite superhero again?”

“Ummm..” Peter picks the first name that he can remember. “Jessica Jones.”

Karen pouts. “Oh, so you’re not a Daredevil fan?”

“I am,” Peter laughs a little, “But Jessica Jones is so cool. Did you see how she threw that car at the Juggernaut last year?”

Karen smiles into her coffee. “Sure did.”

“And she’s a private investigator. That in itself is awesome. She’s a detective without the police part. And did you see how she teamed up with Black Widow to take down that hitman? I don’t like the Avengers but-”

Peter stops for a moment, stricken. He knows that alot of people don’t really share his opinions on the Avengers. Why would they? The Avengers took down the aliens, they stopped Ultron. They saved the world. And Peter understands that. He respects the Avengers.

Doesn’t mean he has to like them.

He meets Karen’s blue eyes.

Karen smiles sadly at him. She gets it. He can see it in her eyes.

“I know.”

Interlude

The Devil finds him two weeks later.

You see, Queens has been the object of scrutiny this year. There was the murder in December, the one that killed the cop. Then there was the murder in Janurary. They’re not really big things, tragic, but not the type of things that would cause all eyes to be on Queens.

Then the murders started happening.

Three in Queens.

Two in Brooklyn.

One in SoHo.

Three in Hell’s Kitchen.

Four in the Bronx.

The murders didn’t have much in common. The victims varied in age, diversity, and gender. Most did have jobs in unsavory types of business, but that was all. And most were enhanced, but so was half the Underground. It was a thing to look into, but was mostly likely a coincidence.

Then Daredevil got attacked in March.

It threw the Underground into a frenzy. It was clear now that this wasn’t simply a gang. Yeah, Daredevil got attacked alot, but usually no one attacks him when he’s already being attacked and now the new attacker has killed the former attacker and is intent on beating the Devil’s brains out with a rifle.

So now, the vigilantes are looking into this. All the vigilantes. Jessica Jones, Luke Cage, Iron Fist, Hawkeye, Frank Castle, Daredevil, hell even Wade fucking Wilson is joining in on the hunt. It should be easy. Someone should know something, right?

Nope.

All they have is the mysterious thirteen murders of these enhanced people. So they investigate these victims. But the only thing that connects them is the fact that they were all enhanced and a few of them worked in gangs. And the fact that the bodies were mutilated with what looked like a scapel.

Then Wade’s friend Weasel gets a small tidbit of information. Whoever is murdering all these people, they’re looking for something. A cop had it. Queens.

So now they’re back to square one. All they know is that the group is targeting enhanced people and that they’re looking for something. Something to do with Queens. Great.

Then Micro digs up a shitty surveillance video showing two men entering an apartment building.

It’s nothing, not even related to the murders they’re investigating. But Frank recognizes one of them.

He killed him as they tried to kill the Devil.

So now they have a lead. There was a murder there, someone by the name of Maybelle Parker. Jones does some investigating and what does she find? Maybelle Parker was married to a cop, by the name of Benjamin Parker.

Success!

Well, it would have been if it weren’t for the itty-bitty part that Benjamin Parker was shot off-duty by a mugger nearly a month before.

But it’s a lead nonetheless.

But it’s not a very good lead because while Castle thinks that it’s a mutant-hate group and Wilson is inclined to agree with him, they have no other information because of the guys in suits covering everything up.

So they get the most charismatic person among them {Clint} to go and ask the neighbors questions about the Parkers. They don’t get much, just things about how sad it was for May to pass only a month after her husband, about how scared they are in the neighborhood now, about how scared and lonely their kid must be.

Kid?

Yeah, a tiny whirlwind of chaos. Used to scare the living hell out of people because they would appear out of nowhere. Hasn’t been seen since May died. Poor thing.

Name?

That’s the thing they can’t get right. Apparently, the Parkers kept to themselves. Ben? Kaine? Melissa? Anne? Peter? Jack? They can’t remember.

What did they look like?

Redhead, but with dark roots. Strangest thing because the Parkers were all brunettes. Every last one of them. Gray-green eyes. Freckles that only came out in the sun. Pale skin. Skinny. Long eyelashes. Dimples.

Anything else?

Here’s when the neighbors would get shifty. Gossip slipped through their lips faster than quicksilver.

Strange child. Saw them lift an entire safe by themself. Couldn’t ever surprise them. Heard things that no one else could hear. Used to climb on top of the roof. The rooftop entrance was always locked.

All the neighbors agreed that the Parker child was strange.

All the neighbors agreed that they hadn’t seen them since January.

So Jones throws herself into investigating the kid. Who they are, where they are now, etc. It’s pretty clear now that the group is after Parker. Now they just need to find them.

Easy.

And then Jones finds something.

It definitely isn’t something that she likes.

And so she withdraws, refusing to share the information that she found. It’s personal.

The Devil knows this. Everyone else is preoccupied with something else, they don’t notice, but the Devil knows she’s hiding something. And it’s a big something, judging by the way her breath smells like whisky and the way her gaze is so very vacant.

And the Devil is furious.

This is a kid, he pleads with her, a kid that needs their help.

Jessica laughs, a bitter, broken thing. She knows.

Their words turn to venom, to a yelling match in Jessica’s apartment, the two tempers clashing. Jones has a hand on her chair, slowly crushing it under her grip. Matt’s near the door, teeth bared and full of wrath.

Why, he wants to know, why won’t you help anymore?

And Jessica loses it.

Because he’s my kid, she screams at him, years of suppressed emotions rising, Because he’s your kid too and apparently nobody can be related to me without fucking dying.

And that hits Matt like a truck.

Jessica explains to him, after they’ve calmed down. She and Matt drunkenly hooked up at a party that they both happened to be attending, nine years ago, back in college. It was just a one-time thing. Jessica didn’t even know his name.

And then she got pregnant.

I was so happy, she tells him, It wasn’t made to last.

She met Kilgrave eight months into her pregnancy.

He made me give my baby up, she confides, I got to hold him for two hours.

She smiles.

Best two hours of my life.

She didn’t go looking for him after.

I figured it was better for me not to be in their life. Guess I was wrong.

And then everything happened and she met Matt again and learned his name.

I know I should have told you. But what was I supposed to say? Hi, remember me? We hooked up at that party? Well, you got me pregnant and a dude in a purple suit told me to give the baby away. I currently have no idea who they are, but congratulations, you’re a dad.

His name was Peter.

He’s trans. Didn’t change the name legally, but it’s on his school reports.

Matt has a son.

Matt has a son that’s being hunted.

Jessica is sleeping on the couch, worn-out from her emotions.

The Devil heads toward Queens.

Queens is an interesting place.

There are bad parts. And there are good parts.

No vigilantes.

Well.

Not anymore.

There’s this guy.

Well, they don’t know if he’s a guy.

He’s small. Like kid-small. Skinny too. Stays in Queens and ventures into Brooklyn. He’s been at this for a month at most, started at the end of June.

He comes out at night. Never been seen in the day. He’s fast, too. There’s a few blurry videos, but no one’s got him clearly on camera.

This really shouldn’t be a big thing. Just another idiot vigilante who’s trying to help their city.

But he’s got the Underground whispering.

Seeing a child lift a grown man and throw him will do that.

He’s just a kid. Tiny. Easily taken care of.

But the Underground’s wary of the new player. The gangs are migrating, moving away from Queens.The city feels like it’s holding its breath.

But he’s just a kid. A well-aimed bullet would solve the solution.

He’s enhanced, they hiss, looking over their shoulders, little shit seems to know exactly what’s going to happen. Can’t surprise him either.

Strong too. He’s like that Jones chick. The one who can lift up cars.

Saw him stand up on the wall. He was fucking sticking to it.

But he’s so small. Barely reaches five feet.

Still just a baby.

They say he wears a red and black hoodie. He’s got a little mask that covers the bottom of his face. Red converse. Hands are wrapped. Methodically. Perfectly.

It’s laughable.

But he took down a human-trafficking ring a few weeks ago. He’s taken down muggers, rapists, and the like. And everytime someone does try to go after him, they end up with a purple arrow in their leg.

So this baby vigilante got the Underground whispering.

The Devil goes to check it out.

It’s not hard to find him.

He’s close. Near Long Island City. Close enough to the bridge.

Queens has a set of brass knuckles. He’s taken on a group of five. Daredevil can smell the scent of sweat and whiskey and the stale scent of perfume and fear that’s long gone. Queens is holding his own, punching and kicking, but his form is terrible. Luckily for him, his strength makes up for that. He’s quick too. Nimbly evading and avoiding getting hit.

Then the wind shifts and the Devil freezes.

Every person is made up of phermeromes. Half from their birth parent, half from their other. Matt’s made up of Jack and Maggie and their parents and their parents and so it goes. Everyone else is the same. Matt can smell them.

And the kid below is sunflowers&spidersilk&wrath&answers.

Then he senses one of them raise a glass bottle over the kid’s head and he moves.

The kid is shoved off to the side, as the Devil moves. The mens’ eyes are wide in fright. He usually doesn’t enter Queens. Usually. The Devil moves like a whirlwind, taking down the men until they’re laying unconscious on the ground.

Then he turns to the kid.

His heart is like a drum, but Matt can’t tell if it’s his or the kids. The kid’s shifting from foot to foot. He’s got a few bruises and a small gash as his injuries. Not too bad. Matt takes a breath and is hit by the kid's scent.

It’s him.

The kid that they’ve been looking for. The Parker kid. The one everyone is after. Jessica’s baby. His son.

His fucking son is a vigilante.

He wishes that he could see him. To see if he looks more like Jess or himself. Does he look like Jack? Or Alisa? Or Maggie?

Matt knows that he’s scaring the kid. The Devil of Hell’s Kitchen just appeared out of nowhere, beat up a few assholes, and is now staring at the kid like a fucking psycho.

But he can’t move because his kid is beating up criminals as a hobby and holy fuck he has a kid.

“Peter?”

The word slips out of his mouth, the kid’s name like the softest velvet on his lips. It’s a simple name. It means rock or stone.

Matt remembers from the orphanage reading Peter Pan, the boy who never grew up.

He wonders if the small boy in front of him read it too.

Though you have not seen him, you love him; and even though you do not see him now, you believe in him and are filled with an inexpressible and glorious joy.

Peter’s pulse skyrockets. He runs, leaping over onto the fire-escape and climbing the roof. His converse grind the gravel underneath his feet. Matt can hear his heartbeat fading away into the distance as the kid runs.

Matt knows that he should go after him. Peter’s in danger, he’s got people after him. He’s very obviously a Murdock, because holy shit he’s beating up criminals without regard for his safety.
He needs to find him and bring him to Jessica so they figure all this shit out.

But all Matt can hear is his grandmother’s voice in his head.

Watch out for those Murdock boys. They got the devil in them.

August

Peter calls Kate on his burner phone, dialling the number.

Gods, he hates the Russians.

It’s probably around 2 o’clock in the morning. He’s near the Queensboro bridge and he can see the Avengers tower from where he is. The night sky is overhead, stars like jewels scattered across blue silk. Sirens and yells fill the air for only his ears to hear. It’s cool outside, a sweet relief from the sweltering heat from the earlier day. The moonlight illuminates his hair, casting a silvery light over his hiding place.

Kate picks up on the second ring. “What?”

“I need help.”

There’s a sound of rustling. “What are you doing?”

“It’s more of a ‘what have I already done’.”

“Shit. Peter. Where are you?”

“Queensboro bridge, I think. I’m in a dumpster.”

Kate snorts. “Oh my god. Congratulations on becoming a full-fledged vigilante. Hiding in a dumpster in a notable thing.”

“It smells, Kate. Like really smells. I think a skunk died in here.”

“Welcome to being a vigilante. Now, what did you do, you little shit.”

“I got shot.”

“Fuck! What did you do?” There’s the sound of a car starting.

“Are you stealing Clint’s car? Stealing’s bad. Can you even drive?”

“He’s out. He won’t notice it missing. And who cares? What did you do?”

“Got into a fight with the Russians. I took ‘em down, but one of ‘em got me from behind.”

“What the fuck, Peter. I thought I told you not to do that kind of shit. You’re supposed to call me. And not after you’ve been shot.”

“They were taking kids, Kate. I had’ta help.”

There’s silence on the other side of the phone.

“I’ll be there in thirty minutes. Don’t hang up.”

“‘Kay Katie.”

Kate grumbles.

Peter lets the burner phone rest next to his ear and focuses on not passing out. It hurts more than anything else that’s ever happened to Peter. More than the time he broke his arm. More than the time he got punched in the face for the first time.

It hurts.

{For once, the monster is silent.}

So he tries to think about happy things. Ms. Page had given him a set of brass knuckles, which was cool. She had said they were from a friend, but she thought he might need them after looking at the giant violet bruise on his face. He found a really good book at the library this week. It’s called The Outsiders, by S.E Hinton. It’s well-detailed, almost as if Peter can see what’s happening in real life. His favorite character is Sodapop. He’s so nice and really funny too. He can relate to Ponyboy, though.

He found some fairy lights for his hideout and he found some broken parts of a computer that he’s been tinkering with when he had time.

The wind gently plays with his hair. Kate should be here soon.

It’s been nice. Quiet. Peaceful.

Then he thinks of Daredevil.
It was terrifying. He just stared at Peter with that horned mask and his batons dripping blood onto the ground. Peter had wanted to run the moment he saw him, but this is Daredevil and technically, he was interfering with Peter’s business.

And then he said his name.

And Peter bolted.

How had he known? Was he looking for Peter now? Was he mad? Was Peter going to be sent to the place where they sent mutants? Was Kate going to get in trouble for helping?

Peter didn’t hear as the car pulled up. Kate got out of the car, muttering under her breath. “Hey shithead. I’m here.”

Peter groaned and managed to heave himself out of the dumpster, grabbing his backpack and phone. He landed on his feet, a small whimper escaping him as agony shot threw his body and turned his vision red. Kate helped him into the backseat of the car, letting him lie down on the seat.

“You better not bleed all over the seat,” Kate warned, getting into the driver’s seat, “Clint still doesn’t know who you are and I’d like to keep it that way.”

Peter shot her a bloody smile. “Yes, ma’am.”

When they entered Manhattan via Queensboro, Peter cleared his mind from the pain. “Where are we going?”

Kate’s eyes never left the road. “A friend. She’ll help you.” At Peter’s nervous squeak, she rolled her eyes. “She won’t reveal your identity, doofus. She’s a nurse.”

Peter nodded and sank back down again, exhausted. Bullet wounds really hurt.

He swam in and out of consciousness. He remembered a billboard with blinding lights being passed. The cafe Karen took him to flying out of view. Streetlights. A bar with a red sign. Worn-down buildings.

Then Kate stops the car and drags Peter out of it, grabbing his backpack. She carries Peter up the steps of an apartment building, careful not to let anyone see. Peter’s delirious with pain. In the back of his mind, he feels bad for making Kate carry him up all these stairs. The rest doesn’t care.

Then Kate stops in front of a door and knocks on it.

Two hard, one soft.

It opens and Peter meets the most terrifying being in the nine realms.

⇔

Claire Temple is simultaneously the nicest person he’s ever met and the scariest.

She smells like medicine and hospitals and she’s got long, curly dark hair that’s tied up in a bun. Her apartment is warm and cozy and it feels like a home. She’s quietstrength&jasmine&sage&healing. Her dark coffee brown eyes are shrewd and judgemental as she gently pulls the bullet out of Peter’s shoulder. Her mouth twists into a frown as her hands stitch the various gashes in Peter’s body. She doesn’t say a word, only radiates waves of disapproval so potent that Kate has to go hide in the kitchen.

On the other hand, Peter is very glad puberty isn’t a thing for him yet. No binders for a few more years.

After Claire disposes of the bloody bandages and strips off her latex gloves, she drags Kate out of the kitchen to where Peter is awkwardly lying on the couch, sweatshirt off and chest covered in bandages, stops in front of him, crosses her arms and glares. “Talk.”

“Technically, this wasn’t my idea,” Kate begins, then notices Claire’s glare, “Please don’t call Clint. Or Nat.”

“You’re lucky I’m not dialling Nelson on you, that’s how disappointed I am right now,” Claire rakes a hand through her hair, “Kate, he’s a child. He’s a child. He shouldn’t be doing this. You shouldn’t be doing this.”
“He was going to do it anyway! I would rather know and help him than to leave him alone.”

“She’s right, Ms. Temple,” Peter sheepishly says, flinching slightly as Claire’s gaze snaps on him. “This really was my idea. Kate just makes sure I don’t get seriously hurt.”

“Oh, so getting shot doesn’t count as getting seriously hurt?”

“This is my first time getting shot, so no? But,” he adds hastily as Claire gives him a look, “Kate doesn’t have anything to do with this other than being there when I need it. It would’ve been bad tonight if Kate wasn’t there.”

“That’s the point.” Claire pinches the bridge of her nose. “You’re that new guy in Queens, right? The one in the hood?” At Peter’s nod she continues. “Kid, you’re too way young for this game. Actually, how old are you?”

“What day is it?”

Kate checks her watch. “August 10th.”

“Then I’m nine. My birthday is today.”

“Holy shit, you’re only nine,” Claire whispers under her breath. She rubs at her face. “You know, when I saw those videos, I knew you were young, but not this young.”

Peter shrugs. “I don’t really go after gangs. Or enhanced people. Tonight was weird but that’s cause they were takin’ kids and I had’ta move quickly. Also the Russians are assholes.”

Claire snorts. “Tell me something I don’t know.” She looks at Peter, something sad in her eyes. “Kid, why are you doing this? I know just as well as you do that this could get you killed.”

Peter shifts uncomfortably. “I have to. I have these powers, Ms. Temple. I can help people. I can lift things 3 times my size. I can stick on walls. I can hear and see things that no one else can see. These stitches will heal in a few days just because they can. I know I’m young, that’s why I don’t do the things that Daredevil and the other vigilantes do. I’m just a kid, but I can help people.”

Claire stands still, quiet for a second. Her gaze is contemplative and curious. “You got a name?”

Peter frowns. “No.”

Claire sighs. “That’s fair.” She turns to Kate, who’s watching this with a fascinated expression. “He got a name?”

Kate straightens and Peter swears he can hear the smile that quickly overtakes her face. “Yes. I call him Leviathan.”

There’s a moment of silence as Claire and Peter stare at her. “...Why?” Claire asks.

Kate shrugs and flops onto the couch beside Peter and starts ticking off her fingers. “One, Leviathan is the demon of monsters. Baby vigilante over here is being called a monster. Two, he’s also the demon of envy. From my keen observational skills, I can discern that baby vigilante is jealous of the fact that he can’t go after the big guys. Three, Leviathan is opposed by St. Peter.”

Peter’s never had a sibling before, but he can guess that the feelings of annoyance and betrayal are pretty synonymous with that.

Claire covers her face. “Peter? That’s your name?”

“Yes, ma’am.” Peter mugs at Kate, who smiles so very innocently.

Claire notices and points a finger at Kate. “Don’t you dare think that you’re getting off easy, young lady. I won’t say a word to Clint, but you’re in trouble.”

She then rounds on Peter and he instinctively let out a meep. “And you. You are going to stop going after the gangs. And the enhanced ones. You can keep doing your vigilante thing, but only the little stuff. And if I hear that you don’t, I’ll sike Daredevil on you. And I swear to god, if you ever get injured, come here. You may be the most reckless nine-year-old I’ve ever met, but I don’t want you bleeding out on the street. You, Miss Bishop, are responsible for making sure he doesn’t die. If I find out that you’re helping hide his injuries, I will call Clint. And then, I’ll call Nat. You hear me?”

The children nodded their assent and Claire sighed. “Now sit down and rest. There’s cereal in the cupboards and frozen waffles in the freezer if you’re hungry. I’m going to go take a nap since I got off my shift in the last three hours. Be quiet and stay here.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

Claire pauses by the doorway. “Peter.”

Peter looks up and Claire smiles. “Happy birthday.”
⇔

Peter’s leaning on Kate as the sun goes up. The rays of light hit Peter’s hair and turn it into a fiery blaze of red and gold. His shoulder doesn’t hurt as much anymore and he feels tired and sleepy. Claire’s still sleeping in her bedroom. She had promised that she was going to give Peter a med kit as soon as she could find an extra one. Kate’s watching Parks & Recreation, cackling at the funny parts. She’s curled around Peter, unconcerned with the fact that Peter’s using her as a pillow.

He changed out of the bloody tank-top and jeans into a set of Wade’s I’m not Daredevil shirt and sweatpants. Claire said they belonged to an idiot named Matt, who forgot to reclaim them. Peter loved how soft they were and wasn’t planning on giving them up anytime soon. His hoodie was on top of his backpack, newly stitched. Claire had taken one look at that backpack and an amused smile had made its way onto her face. Peter had asked her what was so funny and she just shook her head.

Peter taps Kate on the shoulder. “Is Clint gonna worry about you?”

Kate shakes her head. “Nah. He’s off on a mission with Nat. I’ve got the apartment to myself. And Lucky’s off with a friend of Clint’s, so I’m on my own.”

They sit in silence for a few minutes, watching as April tried to hide Ron’s ‘Duke Silver’ identity from the rest of them before Peter speaks again. “Why Leviathan?”

Kate smirks. “It’s what they call you.”

Peter stares at her. “Who’s they?”

“People. Queens has never had a vigilante before. It’s kind of a big deal. Also slightly terrifying. The last time New York got a new vigilante was Castle and he’s scary.” Kate shifts a bit.

“But why Leviathan?” Peter pushes. “Why not something else?”

Kate considers this. “I really don’t know. All I know is that one person started calling you that and now everyone has agreed that that’s your alias. I think it’s because of the way you remind people of Daredevil before. Y’know. When he was just the Mask and not the horns.”

“But I don’t even act like him! Last week, I took a mugger down and he laughed at me. And then I punched him.”

“Exactly. When Daredevil started out, no one was afraid of him. Wary, yes. The way they are now? Absolutely not. People don’t know you. You’re a bundle of powers and rage in a hoodie and bandanna. Just like how Daredevil was a walking weapon in a black pajama suit.” Kate sniffs. “I’m kind of jealous. I didn’t nearly get this much attention when I started working with Clint.”

Peter giggles. “So I’m more famous?”

Kate pokes him in the ribs. “You’re not famous. You’re wanted by the city of New York. Congratulations on that, by the way.”

Peter laughs.

Kate continues. “I also think your mutation and powers played into it. Your powers are kinda freaky. Bendy limbs, really strong, climbs on walls. No other vigilante has powers like that. You’re also very tiny. Most people think you’re a cryptid or a ghost. Combine that with the fact that no one knows your identity, your color scheme, and the way you remind people of Daredevil? Mini-Daredevil.”

“No.”

“Yes.”

“No.”

“Yes,” Kate nods, completely unsympathetic to Peter’s pain. “I’ve got one contact that thinks you’re Daredevil’s mentee.”

“Oh no,” Peter’s pale. “Is that why he found me?”

Kate chokes. “You met him?!”

“Sort of? I was taking down some muggers and all of the sudden he shoves me out of the way and starts beating them up. Then he just stared at me for a few minutes.”

“And you didn’t tell me?” Kate hissed, “Were you in Queens? What happened?”

“I was in Queens! I don’t know why he was there. And, uh,” he hesitates, not looking at Kate. “He knew my name.”

Kate wheezes. “Oh my god.”
“He just said my name! And not my wrong one either. He knew my actual name. I’ve never met him before, I swear.”

Kate is cry-laughing into a pillow. “Oh, we’re so dead.”

“Kate, I’m scared.”

Kate’s not looking at him. “We’re so screwed. Because now he’s going to go to everyone and he’ll probably ask Clint if he’s seen you and he might give him your name and Clint will actually recognize your name and he’ll be like, ‘yeah, I’ve seen this idiotic child. My favorite child Kate texts him memes.’ And then I’ll be interrogated by Daredevil and I’ll survive that, but then he might bring in Jones, and I might survive that. But then he’ll bring in Luke, and Luke will give me the look of utmost disappointment and I’ll slowly die inside. I won’t give him anything, but then, because they’re evil, they’ll call Nat and I'll have to give you up and tell them that the vigilante known as Leviathan is actually nine-years-old and is patrolling Queens with my knowledge and help. And then Clint and me will get into an argument about enabling idiots and I’ll have to bring up the part where he literally taught a thirteen-year-old to disable a grown man and it’ll make him sad because I was nicer then and I’ll have to comfort him and then Nat will be disappointed in me, which is horrifying. And Daredevil will want to know why I helped you and then they might think I have a heart, which I don’t. And then Amy is going to lord this over my head everytime we meet up and I’m going to have to remind her that she picks up worms off the sidewalk after it rains and she’s going to argue that worms are better than people and therefore deserve to be saved. And then she’ll want to meet you and you’ll both terrorize the living shit out of New York and it’ll all be my fault.”

“Kate.”

“Shush, I’m spiralling.”

They sit in silence, each terrified of the consequences.

Kate speaks. “It’s okay. If we ever get caught, I’ll call Amy and she’ll help us. I’ll deny it to my last breath and we’ll hop in her van and drive to Mexico.”

“Who’s Amy?”

“My friend. You’re not allowed to meet her under any circumstances. I’m not ready for the gray hairs.”

“Okay.” Peter rests his head on Kate’s shoulder. “Hey, Kate?”
“Yeah, Peter?”

“Thank you.”

Kate grins. “You’re welcome.”

September

Peter’s taken to carrying his backpack everywhere.

It’s a very good idea considering what happened back in August. Ms. Temple hadn’t let him go for the day until she was sure that he healed enough for her to not have a heart attack when she heard about the things he did. It carries all his essentials. His toothbrush, toothpaste, some other toiletries. A little bag of jerky and trail mix. A charger for his burner phone. The med kit Ms. Temple found for him. A sewing needle and red thread. A copy of The Outsiders. A cheap pocket knife. A water bottle. A wad of cash. An extra pair of clothes, the shirt he stole from Wade and pants Ms. Temple gave him. A faux peridot and gold bracelet he bought for his birthday because fuck it, it was his first birthday without May and he missed her.

Everything else stayed on his body. The burner phone was in his pocket, along with the brass knuckles Karen gave him. The lucky charm that Peter still doubted was actually lucky still hung around his neck. The red kevlar and black fabric jacket is zipped up, the hood down. Peter’s pretty sure he can tie his hair back now in true Hamilton style. His red converse are laced up and are much better than the sandals that were previously his shoes. His bandanna is tied around his wrist, a quick pull and it flies off, easily tied around his mouth. Finally, the flash drive is inside his jacket, an inner pocket that’s protected by a layer of kevlar and fabric.

In total, the backpack is heavy enough to knock someone out.

He thinks about this as he slams the grey backpack into the face of a jerk.

The backpack is slung on his back and he secures his other arm in the strap. The jerk goes down and he punches Jerk #2 with his brass knuckles, hearing a crack of his cheekbone. Peter then turns and grabs the hand of the girl they attacked, tugging her along with him. Her dirty-blonde hair is all over her face and a bruise is developing on her cheek. They bolt together, hearing the angry yells of the four guys who are not unconscious.

Peter’s really glad that his asthma went away as soon as his powers started to show up. The girl beside him is breathing hard, but she’s keeping up with Peter’s pace. Her eyes are glinting a cold steel and she’s angry. Peter can relate.

{Fire rolls through his veins}

She nudges him, chin jerking in the direction of an abandoned apartment building. Peter hesitates, but nods, knowing full well that they would get caught if they kept running. They veer into an alley and Peter tugs the girl into the shadows. They stand there, completely silent, not even daring to breathe. Then loud footsteps follow and fade out of hearing.

Doppler effect.

Peter gestures for the girl to follow him. They slip into the building as quietly as possible. It’s moldy and dark, but it’s empty and that’s all that Peter cares about right now. He can hear the squeaking of rats and various other creatures, but no human heartbeats.

Besides the one behind him.

The girl digs her nails into her arms, glaring at nothing in particular. She’s wearing a brown jacket with white fleece and jeans. Her combat boots dig into the dirt ground. She looks like she’s around the same age as Kate, so fifteen. Her heartbeat is elevated, but Peter can’t tell if that’s emotions or adrenaline.

“Ummm…” Peter tries, “Are you hurt?”

The girl whirls around and stares at him. “You’re Leviathan.”

Peter’s shoulders slump. He’s wearing the bandanna, tied it around his face as soon he heard the fight. The hood’s up over his head. “I really wish people would stop calling me that.”

The girl snorts. “You look like a baby assassin.”

“Well, you’re mean,” Peter mutters under his breath.

“What was that?”

“Your face is bleeding. I’ve got a med kit.” Peter opens his bag and pulls out the med kit, grabbing an antiseptic wipe and a bandage. He approaches the girl with mild caution. “Please don’t hurt me.”

“Considering I just saw you beat up three grown men, I’m going to go out on a limb and say that it should be vice-versa. But,” the girl shrugs, “I’m glad to find that I strike fear into the hearts of vigilantes.”

Peter scowls at her through the mask and cleans the cut on her face, bandaging right after. He leans back after, standing a good three feet away. She’s taller than him. Peter hates it. “What’s your name?”

“Rachel.”

Peter squints at her. Her heart skipped a beat. “You’re lying.”

“Can you tell?” the girl who is definitely not named Rachel exclaims, “Are you like Daredevil?”

“Daredevil can tell if you lie?”

“Shouldn’t you know this already? I thought you were his mentee.”

Peter resists the urge to scream into the void. “No. I’m not.”

The girl hums. “Then why Leviathan?”

“I didn’t choose it! I didn’t even know I had one until the better Hawkeye told me.”

“The better Hawkeye?” The girl leans forward, eyes focused on Peter, “Do you mean Kate?”

Peter freezes. “...Maybe? Wait, how do you know Kate?”

“She’s my friend and mortal enemy. I live to annoy her.”

Peter slowly puts the pieces together. “...Are you Amy?”

The girl grins. “Oh, she told you about me? All good things, I hope. After all, I did help her win the title of Best Hawkeye.”

“She said you were her friend and that I was not allowed to meet you under any circumstances. She also said that you would help us escape to Mexico if anyone figured out that she’s helping me.” Peter digs his converse into the ground.

“Why would it be bad if people figured out she’s helping you?” Amy asked. Her eyes widened. “Wait, are you a criminal? Is that why?”

“No!” Peter plays with tape around his fists. “It has to do with my age.”

Amy slowly nods. “....and how old are you?”

“.....nine.”

Amy sits up so quickly that Peter takes a step back. “Holy mother of frick. You’re nine years-old. And you beat up those guys with barely any help. Holy frick.” Her voice is shocked. “Parental figure won’t even let me assist with the beating up of the bad guys. Though, I am a pacifist, so…..”

Peter hesitates before tugging down his bandanna and pulling back his hood, letting the mess of red and gold curls free. “I’m Peter.”

Amy squeezes her eyes shut. “Okay. Alot to process. Just give me a moment.” She pinches the bridge of her nose, then squints at Peter. “Wait. Why is Kate helping you?”

Peter shrugs. “I dunno. When I first started, I was just calling to get information, but she saw through me and told me that I was going to listen to her. I’m supposed to call her if I get hurt or if I’m in over my head. Also, Ms. Temple threatened her that if she didn’t help me, she’d call Clint.”

Amy laughs and she’s peppermint&freesias&sarcasm&photos. “Wow. Even I know better than to cross the great Night Nurse. Kate must be terrified.”

Peter winces and Amy catches it. A grin not unlike the Cheshire Cat’s spreads across her face. “Oh? There’s more?”

“....I may have gotten caught by Daredevil back in July.”

Amy is smirking and Peter prays to the pagan gods of luck that Amy and Kate will never gang up on him. He won’t survive it. “How’d that go?”

“....he knew my name.”

“Kate must be freaking out,” Amy looks absolutely delighted at this thought, “‘Cause she’s probably scared that they’ll bring Nat into this.”

“Who’s Nat?”

“Oh, she’s basically the only one that Kate listens to. Maybe Luke, but that’s only when he pulls out the disappointed mom face.” Amy pats around her pocket. “Shit, my phone. Must have left it back home.”

“You can use my mine,” Peter offers, already fishing in his bag. “Kate’s number is on it if you need it. It’s a burner, too.”

Amy shakes her head. “Not yet. We got to wait for a bit. If those guys are still following us, I don’t want to lead them back to my place.”

Peter breathes out. “Okay.”

He takes a seat next to Amy and she nudges his shoulder. “Hey, it’s okay. It’s the end of September and if you saw Daredevil in July and no other vigilante has tried to contact you, then I think you and Kate are in the clear. And then that means I have enough blackmail to torture her for the rest of her life.”

Peter laughs. “Thanks.”

They sit like that for a while, talking about mundane things and subjects. School {Amy is homeschooled and Peter hasn’t shown up in months}, family {Amy is adopted by someone she calls parental unit and Peter doesn’t say anything}, hobbies {Amy does photography and Peter is told that being a vigilante is not a hobby}. Eventually the sun starts to set and Amy stands up, brushing off her jeans.

“Okay, time to go, baby demon.” Peter scowls at her, but gets to his feet. They make their way to the dilapidated door, pins and needles in their legs. The door creaks as they open and they freeze, but no one seems to notice and so they walk to the sidewalk, streetlights beginning to wake up.

Amy has longer legs than Peter and she takes pride in this, leaving Peter to scramble after her. They’re in Long Island City, an empty part of it. It’s only slightly chilly outside and Peter is drenched in sweat, so he ties his jacket around his waist. His bandanna is around his neck, smelling like blood and tears. He’s wearing a tank-top and ripped jeans, and all the scrapes and bruises on his arms are on display.

“So, where to?” Amy asks, moderating her voice at a low level. She’s on edge, looking around furtively.

Peter considers the options. “Maybe a diner? I’m hungry and they usually have phones there, so you could call your person.”

Amy nods. “Toward civilization it is.”

They walk toward the sound of cars and voices, street lights illuminating their shadows and their footsteps echoing through the empty streets. Peter is looking around, his hand clenched around his brass knuckles. He passed one to Amy, as she had none of her own. She had stared at him, blinking. Peter shrugged.

Amy kicks a rock, sending it scattering across the pavement and Peter’s senses explode.

Dread paralyzes his spine and it feels like pinpricks of pain are shooting across his body. The world is slowing down and it’s too bright. His breathing is loud in his ears and he tastes the smell of gunpowder and metal on his tongue.

{someoneisheretheyknowwereheredangerdangerdanger}

“Amy,” he gasps out and Amy turns to him in alarm, gray eyes wide. “Amy, run. They’re here.”

Her hand grips his arm and they break out in a run, Amy dragging the shell-shocked Peter behind her. A gunshot goes off and they both flinch, but continue running.

“Shitshitshit,” Amy is hissing under her breath. Peter feels sick to his stomach. Then something barrels into Peter from behind, causing him to fall on the ground, hand ripping away from hers. Amy trips, but gets back up, hands scraped and bleeding.

“Amy, go.” Peter chokes out, bleeding profusely from his lip. Amy hesitates, face scared and Peter shouts, “GO. Get help!”

Amy hits the ground running, dodging the two men that leapt out of the shadows to grab her. Her boots hit the gravel, and Peter can sense her frustration and guilt from where he is pinned under the large body that smells like sweat and cheap alcohol and Peter’s having flashbacks of things he would rather forget-

“Leave her,” a raspy voice from above Peter said, weight across his shoulders preventing Peter from getting up or even using his arms. “She doesn’t matter anymore. We got ourselves a bigger prize.”

And then Peter is flipped over on his back, his backpack digging into his shoulder blades. He can’t see very well, but he knows the person on top of him is smiling and he hates it, he hates being so powerless, but Amy is safe and that’s all that matters-

“You’re that little baby hero that’s been running around Queens? What they call you? Leo? Mephisto? Nah.” The guy snaps his fingers. “Leviathan! That’s it. Leviathan.”

The guy chuckles. Peter can’t move.

“Y’know, that wasn’t even your name. Nobody gave you that name. But it’s a nice cover, I’ll give you that. So I suppose I should thank you.”

The other men have gathered around Peter and he’s so scared, he doesn’t know what to do, he wants May-

“We’ve been looking for you,” the guy tells him, tapping Peter’s chest. “Gave us the slip back in January. Sorry about your Aunt, by the way. She was an unintended casualty. But then again, if you hadn’t alerted us to the fact that you were living there, then she would still be alive.”

Tears are beginning to form at the corners of his eyes. He won’t let them fall.

“Then we hear about this kid. A kid that has powers. A kid that has powers that are very similar to ones we associate with our precious little child. And then,” the guy laughs, “you get the name Leviathan, which was honestly a twist of fate. How lucky are you to get the same name as the project that gave you your powers?”

He wants to throw up.

“That girl you saved was going to be used as bait for someone else, but honestly? I’m glad that it ended this way. Now we can go back and finish what we started before you were so rudely taken away from us.”

He doesn’t want to go back. Nevermind that he doesn’t know where ‘back’ is.

“Your dad would be so proud of you,” the guy whispers sickeningly into his ear, “The man’s dead, and yet his hopes and dreams that he placed in you are fulfilling themselves right as we speak. Isn’t that right-”

And then he says that name, the name that he had been called from age one to six, the name that Peter hated, the name that Skip had used, the name that Peter pushed back to the far reaches of his mind and hoped and prayed to whatever god of fortune there was that no one would ever use it again.

{The monster sneers and suddenly Peter is the monster, he’s the one who’s sneering and snarling with fire-red rage in his blood-}

Peter surges upwards with a snarl, fist colliding with the guy’s nose. Blood spurts everywhere and the guy yells and falls back, releasing his weight on Peter. Peter tries to dart away, but there’s hands grabbing him, forcing him back to the ground, kicking and pummeling him. One catches him in the ribs and Peter can both feel and hear the crack as his ribs break. He screams in agony, and someone covers his mouth with a hand and he’s biting, fighting to get out, getoutdon’tmakemegoback-

Then someone slams his head against the ground and he falls back, stars in his vision. He hopes Amy is safe.

“You little bitch,” the guy snarls and he grabs Peter’s red and gold hair, yanking it, “You don’t know anything about the power that flows through your veins. We woke those genes up in you. You wouldn’t be anything if it wasn’t for us. You should be grateful.”

His hands slip to Peter’s legs and Peter freezes. No.

“Maybe a little demonstration would help-”

A gunshot rings out.

The guy on top of Peter falls backward, a bullet hole in his head.

Peter curls up in a ball, hands biting into the cold metal of the brass knuckle as more gunshots ring out. He doesn’t move an inch. Not as every single man that had tried to take him away drops to the ground, blood staining the ground.

He doesn’t move as the gunshots stop and two pairs of footsteps are heard walking toward him. One faster than the other.

“Peter? Peter!”

Amy.

Peter moves, sitting upright. “Amy? You okay?”

Amy laughs a little bit, but it’s not funny. “I’m just peachy. I’m not the one who nearly got kidnapped.”

“Yeah, ‘cuz I told you to run,” Peter points out, then frowns. “Why is everything spinnin’?”

“Concussion.” Another voice says, this one hoarse and rough. “He banged his head pretty hard.”

Peter points deliriously at the man. “You killed them. Killing is bad.”

“Mmm-Hmm.” The man kneels down and scoops Peter up, letting Peter’s head rest against his shoulder. He frowns at the brass knuckle, recognizing it. “Hey kid. Where’d you get this?”

“Oh, Ms. Page gave it to me.” Peter slurs, “She said it was for protection.”

The man huffs. “It was.”

“He gave me the other one,” Amy interjects, nervously looking at the bleeding boy. “Are we taking him to Micro or another place?”

“Micro. I’ve got questions.” The man adjusts Peter in his arms and starts walking away from the bodies, Amy following. “And he’ll find the answers.”

“Hey, mister,” Peter slurs, “I don’t know who you are. Ever heard of stranger-danger? I ain’t going to a secondary location.”

The man snorts. “You can call me Pete.”

“You’re lying. Just like Amy. I can tell. Liar.”

The man who is not Pete raises an eyebrow at Amy. She nods. “He can tell if you’re lying.”

“Shit. Another Red? Is the world finally ending?”

“I hope not,” Peter informs them, “Kate said that she’d buy me ice cream Wednesday.”

Sharp eyes are turned on Amy, who conveniently ignores them. “Kate Bishop? She knows too?”

“Yup!” Peter cheerily tells them, unaware in his concussed state that he might’ve sent Kate to her doom. “She’s awesome. Do you know her, Mr….”
He trails off, squinting at the man with black hair and a scarred and stubbly chin. “What’s your name?”

The man grins at him, all teeth and no smile. “Frank. Frank Castle.”

⇔

Mr. Castle is scary.

Peter wakes up in what looks like the basement of a warehouse. He can vaguely remember being carried to a black car and being laid across the backseat, head in someone’s lap. He knows he was bandaged up, and he thinks he can remember being woken up every twenty minutes. He’s not sure though. It’s a blur.

But he’s in a warehouse right now, and it’s warm and quiet. He’s lying on a cot, blankets piled on top of him. Peter’s body feels scraped and bruised, but he’ll take this anyday over being shot. He’s alone right now, but he can hear three distinct heartbeats from another room. Mr. Castle, Amy, and a mystery person?

Peter’s jacket is slung over a chair with his jeans. Peter double-checks and realizes that his jeans are missing from his body and he’s wearing the pair of sweatpants that were in his bag. Patting his legs, he hisses in pain as he taps a bandage.

Okay, so he was shot. Sorry Ms. Temple.

His backpack is near the bed, opened. He gingerly reaches over and grabs it, ignoring the rush of blood to his head. Everything has been rifled through, which is fair. He’d look through someone’s stuff if they passed out in his hideout. His brass knuckles are gone, as is his burner phone. Peter wants those back. But everything else seems to be where it’s supposed to be. His shoes are neatly placed near the bed and someone took the liberty of taking off his necklace so he didn’t strangle himself to sleep. His bandanna is in the bag with the ziploc baggie of cash. The med kit doesn’t look tampered with, and the shirt is still there. Everything is accounted for.

Wait.

Peter stands up, blood roaring through his ears.

The flashdrive.
Peter stumbles forward, pain lancing like lightning through his leg. His hands find the jacket, scrambling to find the pocket that hid the most important thing that he carried around. His heart’s in his throat. He can’t have lost it, it’s his, he needs it. Ben told him to keep it safe-

Found it.

Peter sighs a sound of relief. Thank all the gods.

Peter puts his weight on his left leg. And immediately goes down, forgetting about the bullet wound.

He knocks the chair over as he falls, causing a huge crash. He hisses a curse that would have made Aunt May smack him across the head. Peter clutches the jacket tighter to him, listening desperately for any sound that the other people might've heard him. Nothing, nothing, nothing.

The door slams open and Peter revisists his earlier point on why Mr. Castle is scary.

For one, he’s the freakin’ Punisher. So…..

He’s tall. Like, unfairly tall. He’s got black hair and a scarred face that glowers disapprovingly in Peter’s direction. Which, in Peter’s opinion, is unfair. It’s not his fault that Peter got shot. Mr. Castle evidently does not agree with him. He also has a knife sheathed in his belt.

Yay, weapons.

Mr. Castle, or as Peter is mentally calling him, Mr. Scary Man with a Knife that is the freakin’ Punisher and is also Amy’s Parental Figure, is wearing a long-sleeve black shirt and jeans with boots. No sign of that white skull that makes the Underworld cower in fear. He’s got bruises on his face and his knuckles are torn and split. He’s gunpowder&blood&hyacinths&loss.

{Peter can see the monsters in his eyes.}

And comparing him to Peter, who’s currently lying on the floor, clutching a jacket with a fallen chair, Peter is seriously wondering how he’s managed to survive his “Idiotic, Reckless Crusade of Justice”, as Ms. Temple put it.

And he can tell Mr. Castle is wondering the same thing.
“You,” Mr. Castle points a finger at Peter, who freezes, “You’re gonna tell me exactly what you know. And then, you’re going to sit your butt right back on that bed ‘cause I don’t care if you’ve got a healing factor. You’re an idiot.”

Ouch.

Peter nods. His hair is hanging in front of his face. “Okay, Mr. Castle.”

“Jesus, kid.” Mr. Castle sighs and slides a hand over his face. “All right. Can you stand?”

Peter twitches his leg experimentally. A searing agonizing pain gives him his answer. “No. I’m sorry.”

Mr. Castle sighs again and scoops Peter up like he’s a rag doll. Peter squeaks, flashing back to an earlier memory of another merc doing the exact same thing. Peter clutches the jacket tighter as Mr. Castle carries him out of the small room and into what must be the main part of the basement. Amy’s there, waiting alongside a man that desperately needs a haircut.

Mr. Castle sets him down gently on the couch and Amy immediately moves to sit next to him. As soon as she sits down, she pokes Peter in the arm. Hard. “Don’t you ever do that again.”

Peter meets her eyes, poker face. Kate hates it when he does that and he’s pleased to find that Amy thinks the exact same thing, judging by the way her nose scrunches up. “No.”

Amy pokes his arm again.

“All right,” the man in desperate need of a haircut speaks up, “Who’s the kid?”

Amy and Mr. Castle speak up at the same time.

“My sidekick.”

“A reckless, suicidal child of chaos.”

They look at each other afterwards, Amy raising an eyebrow and Mr. Castle staring warily at her.

Peter decides that now is a good time to talk. “I’m Peter.”

The man gives Mr. Castle a look like Was it really that hard?

Mr. Castle rolls his eyes.

“You can call me Micro,” the man tells him, “You already know Amy and I think Castle introduced himself.”

Peter scratches the back of his head, hands tangling in his curls. “Yeah. Don’t really remember that, though. S’kind of a blur.”

“Speaking of which,” Mr. Castle interrupts, and Peter gets the feeling that the only reason that he’s not being interrogated is because 1) he’s a kid and 2) Micro wouldn’t let him do it. “We need to talk about that.”

Micro raises an eyebrow at him. Mr. Castle is ignoring it. Amy is watching them, fascinated. Peter is confused.

“Why don’t we let him eat first,” Amy suggests, still watching Micro and Mr. Castle like it’s a movie, “He’s been out for a day and hasn’t even eaten yet. He can eat and you can do your interrogation thing.”

Mr. Castle sighs. Then nods.

⇔

Amy’s idea of a healthy nutritious meal involves microwavable mac & cheese and toast.

Micro makes her get some vegetables and with mild complaining, she digs out a bag of grape tomatoes. Peter loves those.

He tells Micro that and the man laughs. “Amy hates them. She’ll be glad to hear that they’ll be gone.”

Micro is pretty cool. He’s a hacker, he tells Peter, so that’s why he’s got the nickname Micro. He’s Mr. Castle’s Guy in the Chair, so he’s the brains of the operation. He’s coriander&tech&rosemary&crackedcodes.

Micro blinks as Peter shovels down the mac & cheese like it’s his last meal. “Okay.”

Amy and Mr. Castle are equally horrified and impressed. “Y’know, the only person I’ve ever seen eat that much is Jones,” Castle remarks, “You a black hole or somethin’?

Peter went red and ducked his head.

Mr. Castle smiles, but it vanishes quickly as he sits up and a more direct look takes center stage. Amy has found a bag of kettle-corn popcorn and is now sitting on the counter. Micro is sitting over by his computers, a sympathetic look in his eyes. Peter swallows his bite of mac & cheese. Okay, here we go.

Mr. Castle leans his arms on the rickety wooden table. “Who were those men that attacked you?”

It’s a simple question. One sentence.

“I dunno,” Peter tells him, “They knew me, though. And they knew my dad.”

“Who was your dad?”

“Richard Jackson,” Peter takes a bite of toast, “Don’t remember ‘im though. Died when I was, like, four. Mom died too. My Uncle took me in. His name was Benjamin Parker.”

“Holy shit,” Peter can hear Micro exclaim, “Frank, he’s the Parker kid!”

“Figured that out on my own, thanks,” Mr. Cas-Frank mutters under his breath. He looks at Peter. “Kid, was Maybelle Parker your guardian?”

“...yeah. Why?” Peter slowly puts his fork down.

Frank hesitates. “May Parker was shot dead on January 10th by two unidentfied men in her apartment. D’ you know anything about that?”

Peter felt cold. “I was there.”

He can hear a whispered “fuck” and Frank’s face tightened. “Do you know why she was killed?”

“She was trying to protect me.” Peter feels numb. “They broke the lock on our door. May was in the kitchen, I was on the couch. Then the door slammed open and they rushed in. I think they were lookin’ for somethin’. Can’t remember. One of ‘em tried to grab me, but May pushed ‘im back so the other guy shot ‘er. She told me to run.”

Frank is silent. “‘M sorry, kid. Ya shouldnt’ve gone through that.”

Peter’s thinking. He’s right. May shouldn’t be dead. Neither should Ben. But they were. Both of them had died protecting him.

There was the small comfort that they were together now.

“I dunno how they knew my dad, though.” Peter fiddles with his fingers. “He and my mom were scientists. They didn’t do stuff like this.”

“D’ya know who they worked for?” Frank asks.

“No,” Peter tells them, “But I can remember ‘em bringin’ me to work sometimes. I think they were the doctor kind of scientists, ‘cause they used to do my shots and stuff.” Peter shudders. “They hurt.”

Micro is clenching the back of his seat so hard that Peter can hear the plastic creak. Frank has an excellent poker face. Amy has put her popcorn down.

Frank looks at Micro, who winces. Micro sighs. “Kid, have you ever heard of Project Leviathan?”

Peter squints. “Isn’t that what they call-” He notices Frank’s glare, “That vigilante in Queens that is definitely an adult and in no way connected to me at all?”

Amy’s laughing at him.

Frank is glaring at him. “Yeah, we’re gonna talk about that after this. But no. Project Leviathan was an operation conducted by a faction of S.H.I.E.L.D, called Genesis. Started about a decade ago. Ringing any bells?”

Peter shakes his head, confused. “No..”.

“Well, those guys who were after you? They were a part of it. Tried to kidnap Amy ‘cause me and Frank were too hot on their tail.”

“But why would they wanna take me?” Peter asked, “And how did they know my dad?”

Frank breathes out. “Well, as you might’ve known, SHIELD fell last December. And all of the files were leaked.”

“‘Cause it turns out, our government is a bunch of Nazis,” Amy supplied helpfully, kicking her boots against the cabinet.

“And apparently, that’s new news for everyone,” Micro adds.

Frank waves them off. “Yeah, yeah. Anyway, SHIELD was actually HYDRA and so as evidence, Natasha Romanoff and Steve Rogers leaked all the files. Most of these were encrypted, so they weren’t easy to access.”

Micro coughs.

Frank ignores him. “Another result was that the HYDRA agents went fleeing like rats. Different factions that used to be a part of HYDRA rose to power. AIM, Crossbones and his terrorists, and a whole shitload of scumbags that want to cause trouble.”

Frank takes a sip of his coffee. “Genesis was a part of these factions. They existed before the leak.”

“Now, we didn’t know anything about this group. All anybody knew was that HYDRA was still around and their goons were as well. Then, this January, enhanced people started gettin’ killed. Nobody thought much of it at first, ‘cause these were all folk that worked in the line of business that would get them killed. Then Red got attacked.”

“Red?”

“Daredevil,” Amy tells him, “Horned dude. Very Catholic. He and Frank are best friends.”

Peter gives Frank a look. Frank sighs. “We’re not.”

“But anyway,” Micro interjects, seeing as Amy opens her mouth to argue, “Daredevil gets attacked and one of the guys that attacked him was identified as one of the guys who killed your Aunt.”

“He’s dead now,” Frank confirms at Peter’s questioning look, “Shot ‘em twice in the head.”

Peter slumps. Well, that’s ……

Relieving?

He doesn’t know.

“So, we investigate that murder. At the same time, we’ve got our ears to the Underground, listening for anything about this mystery group. Then, we hear that they’re lookin’ for somethin’ and it was last seen with a cop.”

“Uncle Ben,” Peter whispers and Frank nods.

“Yeah, your Uncle. And as we find out, your Aunt was married to him and was murdered by the same guys who are claiming your Uncle took something from them. ‘Course we don’t find out much, just your last name, ‘cause of the government decidin’ to get involved.”

Micro taps his fingers on his chair. “We hear that they had a kid, but literally no one knows who you are. Also, you don’t exist, apparently.”

“May and Ben weren’t really social,” Peter mumbles, then he looks up, “Wait, I don’t exist?”

“You have no birth certificate, no social security number, no nothing. Your deadname-,” Micro says and Peter freezes. Micro notices. “Hey, kid. It’s alright. I know your name is Peter. But your deadname was very obviously made up. All your certificates and whatnot are forged.”

“I was adopted,” Peter offers, “Maybe there was a mix-up?”

Micro shakes his head. “There would have been two birth certificates. One for your biological parents, and one for your adoptive parents. But there’s no record of that. All your legal documents were faked. Good enough for Social Services, but not real. It’s a wonder how your Aunt and Uncle were able to get custody. On top of that, it looks like your Aunt and Uncle got their names changed on their legal records.”

Frank takes a sip of his coffee. “So now you’re missing,” he tells Peter, “And now you’re the only lead. And there’s no legal documentation, no nothing.”

“Well…”

“That ain’t our place to tell,” Frank snaps at Micro, “Jones isn’t sure and neither is he.”

Amy sets her bowl down. Micro looks sheepish.

Frank sets his hard gaze on Peter. “Then you decide to start playin’ hero.”

Peter shrinks into his chair. This feels less like an interrogation and more like a parent telling a child that they’re not mad, just disappointed.
“You’ve been at this for what, three months? With your hoodie and mask? And then you get a name. Leviathan.”

Frank leans back. “‘Course we didn’t figure you and the kid we were lookin’ for were the same person until today.”

“But we knew that this vigilante person and the group we were looking for were connected ‘cause of the fact they seemed to be whipped into a frenzy when you first appeared. Our resident moronic archer had the brilliant idea that the organization was being covered up ‘cause of the SHIELD leak. So Micro decided to decrypt some of the files. And what do we find? Project Leviathan, an experiment conducted by Genesis. And who was the one heading it?”

“Richard and Mary Jackson.”

Peter went white.

“So, with a bit more digging, it’s discovered that Project Leviathan was basically another attempt at Project Rebirth. Another way to create super-soldiers to fight their war. And it’s very obviously HYDRA.”

“My parents were HYDRA agents?” Peter squeaks out. Amy gives him a sympathetic look.

Micro winces. “Not exactly. You see, the reason that you have no legal documentation is because it was a cover. Project Leviathan experimented on children, and you were one of the test subjects.” He pauses, “Legally, Richard and Mary Jackson had no legal right to you. They basically took you from your birth mother, made her sign away her rights, and plopped you down in a facility.”

“You said they died when you were four?” At Peter’s nod, Frank goes on. “The forgeries were made just after they were killed. I’ve got a suspicion that one of the scientists or agents turned tail and hid you. I’ve got an even greater suspicion that your Aunt and Uncle knew what was going on, and hid you for that exact reason.”

“But how did I stay hidden for so long?” Peter asks, “Ben was literally his brother.”

Frank grins. “They faked everything. Apparently, right after the Jacksons died, someone faked your death. You’re listed as deceased on their records. Then, they made hospital records and a fake birth certificate listing a Mary Parker as your mother. Your Uncle and Aunt went from Benji and Mayday Jackson to Benjamin and Maybelle Parker. Nobody knew that you existed until your Uncle got killed and they started lookin’ into your family.”

Peter stares at the ceiling. “So, what happened after that?”

“You happened,”Amy says. At Peter’s confused look, she clarifies, “Vigilante you. Tiny scientific experiment you was still missing.”

Frank grunts. “You come out of freakin’ nowhere, an enhanced being with supernatural strength, right on the tail of this terrorist orgainization, which is targeting enhanced individuals. We believe the reason they were targeting enhanced individuals is because they were being used as test subjects and then being discarded. Then, on top of that, some genius decides to give you the name Leviathan. The exact same name of the project that we’re lookin’ at.”

“So now, everyone thinks that you’re an agent for Project Leviathan.” Micro tells him, smiling a bit as Peter sputters, “Relax, we know that you’re not now. But for a few weeks, everyone thought that you were the successful test subject and that you were hunting for the same thing we were.”

Micro pauses. “Which is funny because we were looking for you. And you didn’t want to be found.”

“So let me get this straight-”

“Gay,” Amy interrupts and dodges the ball-up napkin Frank throws at her.

Peter continues. “My parents really aren’t my parents, they’re actually scientists who were experimenting on me so I could be the next Captain America, but evil. Not only that, but I don’t have a legal name because apparently everything about me is fake. The reason why I can walk on walls and I’m super-strong and I heal really fast is because the people I thought were my parents injected me with stuff that’s probably really dangerous. My Aunt and Uncle knew about it, and that’s why Aunt May died, ‘cause she didn’t want me to go back. My vigilante name is Leviathan because that’s literally the name of the thing that gave me my powers and everyone thinks that I’m huntin’ me ‘cause I work for the HYDRA group and said HYDRA group that is hunting enhanced individuals is also hunting me.”

Frank shrugs. “Yeah.”

Peter smacks his head on the table and resists the urge to primal scream. Then something occurs to him.

“My bio mom…..” He looks at Micro and Frank, “Did she know that she was givin’ me up to, what did you call it, Genesis?”

Peter didn’t know if he wanted to know. He didn’t really remember Richard and Mary. The clearest memories he had of them were the times he went to go see May and Ben. He could never mourn them because he never knew them. May and Ben had raised him. They accepted him when he came out and they were always there for him. He loved them and he missed them. They would always be a part of him.

But he wanted to know, needed to know, if the person who had brought him into the world was like Richard and Mary or if they were like May and Ben.

There was a look exchanged between Micro and Frank. A look that conveyed the words Don’t you fucking dare and He needs to know.

Peter’s hand slipped around the flashdrive. He remembered Ben giving it to him. Ben had sat him down, pressed the flashdrive into his hand. It had been a few weeks before he died. One of the last things Ben had ever given him.

If anything ever happens to me or May, this has all the answers you need. It’s about your parents. I was going to tell you, but just in case I won’t be able to, this has everything you need to know. You have to promise me that you will never show anyone this, okay Peter? This is just for you.

Whatever you do, keep it safe.

“My Uncle gave me this flashdrive,” Peter blurted out, and the two men’s heads snapped in his direction. Peter swallowed down his guilt and nerves. “He said it was about my parents.”

Frank held out his hand and Peter, with a bout of hesitation, relinquished the thing he had been protecting for a majority of the year. It felt like a thousand tons had been lifted off his shoulders.

Frank passed it to Micro, who inspected it. “I can look at it. We’ll see what we find.”

He walked off to his set of computers and Frank stood up from his chair, cracking his back. “I’m sorry kid. Ya shouldn’t have gone through this shit. You’re too young for this shit.”

Frank pauses. “Speakin’ of…”

He looms over Peter and Peter is suddenly reminded that the person in front of him is the Punisher, as in THE Punisher, as in I-Have-A-Body-Count-As-Long-As-The-Hudson Punisher. The person who helped Amy find the mac & cheese was also the person who shot the guy who was attacking Peter straight in the forehead. “You’re too young for this vigilante crap. I don’t care if they’ve given you a name, you are nine fucking years old. I had to bandage your leg from a fucking bullet wound. I’m grateful that you saved Amy and I will never doubt that if you hadn’t been there, bad shit would’ve happened. But it doesn’t take away from the fact that you could’ve been killed. You’ve got a pair of brass knuckles and some super-human strength. You’re angry at the world with abilities you can barely control. None of that’s going to help against a bullet.”

His eyes are on Peter’s. Peter remembers Wade talking to him about vigilantes. About their monsters. About how some become their monsters.

He wonders if this is the Punisher’s way of trying to help Peter not become his.

Peter nods. “Okay.”

Frank’s shoulders slump and he starts to walk to where Micro is. “Wait a few years. Wait till you're older. Learn how to throw a punch. Learn how to control your powers.”

He stops where he is and Peter can see the monster flickering in his eyes. “Believe me. You’ll be just as terrifying as they think you are.”

⇔

Amy braids his hair as they wait.

Peter hates it.

Amy tells him he looks like the fanart of a historical Alexander Hamilton. Peter ignores her.

But as Amy undoes a braid and starts another one, Peter listens to Micro and Frank whisper-argue in another room.

“-was right! Holy mother of fuck, she was right!”

“Keep your voice down, would ya?”

“What the fuck are we going to do? There’s no way she’ll be able to take custody. We’ll be lucky if the kid is placed in foster care considering the government is going to try to snatch up the kid as soon as he shows his face.”

“You sure there’s no legal documentation that would give either of them any right to the kid?”

“Nada. Of course, there’s no legal documentation for the kid whatsoever, so…..”

“Isn’t there anything that can be shown that proves that she’s related to him?”

“Well, yeah. The paper she signed giving up her rights to the kid. Nothing for him, though. Guess they never figured out who the dad was.”

“So he never knew?”

“Doesn’t seem like it. Of course, she didn’t even know until it was too late. My guess is that they took her kid because they knew of her powers. Honestly, the three of them are just a giant trauma cluster.”

“But, if he took a paternity test, then…”

“If he’s the father, then he would have a fighting chance for guardianship. So would she, if she testifies that she was under duress when she signed away her rights. And since her witness on the paper is that asshat, it would be pretty easy to show that she was.”

“So, they could get their kid back.”

“Yes. However, with Genesis hunting their kid down, I’m slightly terrified of putting the kid out there. Right for them to get him.”

Frank’s silent. “What if we put him in a sort-of Witness Protection? Get ‘em off the streets and into a place that’s close to the both of ‘em and can be easily reached. We can keep an eye on him while his legal documentation is made and Genesis is eradicated like the fucking virus they are.”

“...That could work. We would have to move fast as soon as the kid was processed though. I would wait until Barton and Romanoff came back from their Avenger shit so they could work their government magic. And the place would have to be close and secure.”

“The orphanage Red grew up in. The Saint something one.”

“That’ll work. Also, Catholic Guilt’s not allowed ten feet near him officially until the paternity test comes back. Nelson’s gonna have to do this one.”

“What why? He’s the best guy we got for this.”

“Conflict of interest. It’s weird to have the guy claiming to be the father of the kid also helping with his legal documentation. Might be suspicious. More believable to have her file for custody, and have him also file for custody a little later. Nelson would have to be the one to accept the case.”

Was this guy his bio dad? Who was his mom?

“Kid’s gonna need an alibi.” Frank muses. “Won’t that hard.”

“Yeah. Also, when you defend Red like that, it makes it really hard to believe that you don’t like him.”

“Zip it, Lieberman. Let’s go tell the kid.”

October

It’s October 6th.

He’s spent two weeks with Amy and Mr. Castle. Filing evidence, destroying evidence, making alibis. Kate had shown up once, long enough to punch him and inform him that she was now grounded for life because she helped him.

“I’m not allowed to go out on my own anymore,” she groused, lying on the floor, “Of course, I wasn’t allowed to do this in the first place so I’m not completely sure if this is a punishment.”

She straightened up, looking straight at Peter. “Of course, this is nothing compared to the fact that everyone now thinks I care about you. Because I don’t. This heart is pure ice.”

Peter nodded. Amy rolled her eyes from where she was sitting on the counter. “Don’t worry about her. Clint’s making her dog-sit Lucky for a month because she got slashed with a knife and decided she could stitch it up by herself. She’s just grumpy.”

Kate grumbled. “Stupid dog. Drools everywhere. Got hair all over my jacket. Uses my arrows for fetch.”

Amy had thrown a balled-up paper towel at her and Kate had pouted. Amy gave a bright smile. Kate’s pout got deeper. “I need your help in my time of need, Bendix.”

“How’s the dog-sitting going?” Amy asked sweetly and Kate had slumped on the carpet.

“You’re horrible.”

He had to leave a bunch of stuff with Amy, who promised that yes, she was going to mess with it. His burner phone, brass knuckles, the hoodie. He got to keep his backpack and Amy gave him a red hoodie to make up for the one he had to leave behind.

Frank had slipped a worn baseball cap over his head. He told Peter it was for protection and hiding. Peter had shown him the necklace that Clint had given him and Frank had snorted and said he always knew that Clint was an idiot.

Peter’s staring at the front doors of the 15th precinct. It’s cloudy outside, just the way he likes it. It might rain soon. Halloween decorations have been put up around the neighborhood.

Peter likes Halloween. He dressed up as Batman, once. May and him had celebrated Samhain.

Peter takes a deep breath and pushes open the door. Micro had told him exactly what to do, and what to do if it all went to shit. Frank had added that if that didn’t work, he was to run. Or threaten to call Murdock.

Frank had given him a business card. Nelson & Murdock & Page. There was a phone number.
The door closes behind him with a soft click. A police officer with her hair tied up in a bun noticed him first. She beckoned him to the front desk. “Hey kid. What’cha doin’ here?”

Peter swallows the lump in his throat. This for May, This is for Ben. “I need Detective Mahoney.”

The policewoman looks at him with concern. “What for, kid?”

“It’s about my parents,” Peter chokes up. Frank had told him to play on emotions as much as possible. You’ve got bambi eyes an’ the face of a baby angel. Use ‘em to your advantage.“I need his help. Something about Pete Castilgone. He knows him.”

The policewoman takes his word for it and gently leads him to a seat in what looks like a waiting room. “All right. I’ll go get Mahoney. He’s still here, so he’ll be here soon.” She grabs a bowl of mints and offers it to him. “Candy?”

Peter wrinkles his nose at the scent of peppermint. He can’t help it. Peppermint is terrible. “No thank you.”

The policewoman smiles at him and Peter sees her badge says Torres. “Yeah. Same. Peppermints are the worst.” She stands up and winks. “I’ll see if I can steal some lifesavers from Hale.”

She walks off briskly into the precinct, shoes clipping on the floor. There’s a few people in the waiting room with him. A white guy snoring in a trenchcoat. A teen who’s biting their nails next to someone who looks like their parent, an arm wrapped around them. An asian lady calmly flipping through a book, her black hair braided and wearing a green jacket.

Peter tries to look as unthreatening and tiny as humanly possible. His hair had been tied up in a way that didn’t make him look like a girl and the clothes that he had swamped his tiny body. His fingers curled his necklace around his knuckles and he fiddled with the faux peridot and gold bracelet. His converse swept the floor in front of him, swinging aimlessly.

The sound of approaching footsteps alert him to someone nearby.

Remember, he tells himself, you’re just a scared little kid whose only guardians got murdered. You totally don’t have any idea why they were murdered. You definitely don’t have powers. You definitely weren’t that vigilante in Queens. You definitely weren’t hanging out with the Punisher as he and his friend concocted this plan over speakerphone with people that you definitely haven’t met. And you have no idea who your bio parents are.

Last one was true. Frank had told him that they were alive, but had said that it was better if he didn’t know until the test results came back.

Something to do with Peter’s subpar lying abilities.

“Which one of those reckless morons sent you?” A voice barked from Peter’s right.

The lady’s lips twitched up in a smile.

Peter looked up to see a dark-skinned man glaring at him. His badge read Mahoney on the cord around his neck. His hands were on his hips and he looked completely done with everyone’s bullshit. There were bags under his eyes and he smelled faintly of cigars. He’s smoke&morals&borage&honesty. His brown eyes bored into Peter’s, the expression on his face telling Peter that he knew that Peter needed him for an entirely different reason and that it was going to be very stress-inducing for him.

So this was Detective Mahoney.

Peter put on his best puppy-dog eyes. “I don’t know what you’re talking about. I was lost and somebody told me to come here. They said that you could help me.”

Mahoney is unimpressed. Torres is peeking over his shoulder, intrigued.

“Did you get a name from the person who sent you here?” Mahoney asked.

Peter plays with his bracelet. “He said his name was Foggy Nelson.”

The effect that name has on Detective Mahoney is equivalent to splashing holy water on a vampire. Full-body cringe and everything. He flinches back and his lips draw back in a scowl. “Of course he did.”

Peter has never met Foggy Nelson in his lifetime. Frank had told him that he had to pretend to know him. All he knew was that he was blonde and was apparently the bane of the 15th precinct, along with his firm partners.

Mahoney sighed. He notices the asian lady sitting in the corner watching them. He shoots her a glare so vicious that Peter is surprised she doesn’t disintegrate. She just raises an eyebrow.

“You got a name, kid?” Mahoney asks tiredly, “What are you, Bane of my Existence number 5?”

Peter straightens up. “Peter. Peter Parker.”

Mahoney and Torres stare at him. He can sense them cataloging the scrapes on his face and the way that his clothes don’t seem to fit him, the backpack hanging over his shoulder. Mahoney’s eyes catch on his baseball cap, and his shoulders just slump.

“I hate him,” Mahoney whispers, “I hate him so fucking much. Was Murdock a part of this? I hate the both of them. They’re laughing right now, aren’t they. Him and Nelson. So fucking hilarious.”

Torres beckons him from behind Mahoney’s shoulder. Mahoney is still having a breakdown. “All right Mr. Parker. Would you please follow me? I’ve got some questions for you.”

⇔

Mahoney manages to make it thirty minutes before he finally breaks down and calls Foggy Nelson for help.

Peter watches in awe as a blonde-haired man wearing a suit with a brown leather bag over his shoulder strides over and brushes away the guys in suits like they’re flies. Mahoney has his head down on his desk. Torres is with the rest of the station, watching fascinated from their desks.

“I’m sorry, Mr. Nelson,” one of the men in suits interrupts and Peter swears he hears Mahoney whimper from his desk, “But Ms. Parker needs to come with us.”

The precinct is watching this like it’s the only form of entertainment they’ve seen in weeks.

Mr. Nelson raises an eyebrow. “What for? The investigation? I’m sorry, but my client will not be taken anywhere without his consent. Furthermore, if you keep misgendering him, I’ll sue for discrimination.”

Peter is pretty sure that Mr. Nelson just became his favorite superhero. Sorry, but this took the cake.

“Mr. Nelson, this connects to our investigation. Though I’m sure you understand the work we need to do, this is above your pay grade.” Another suit with balding hair begins with a condescending tone that makes the hair on Peter’s arms raise and bile rise in the back of his throat.

In that moment he wondered what made that guy any different from the ones that Peter had taken down with bloody fists in dim-lit streets.

Mr. Nelson must've been wondering the same thing, because his eyes went from soft like velvet to a flinty steel and his body tensed like a live wire. He gave the men in suits a smile that was all sharpness with none of the softness that a smile should have. Like a knife before it’s stabbed into a body. “I’m not sure what you mean, Mr…..” Mr. Nelson draws out his question, pointedly not looking at the nametag on the man’s suit.

The guy’s lip tightened. “Whizz.”

Peter snorted, then clapped his hands over his mouth. Mahoney was massaging his forehead with his fingers, evidently done with the world. Mr. Nelson shot Peter a smile before turning to face Mr. Whizz {Hah!} and his posse.

“Mr. Whizz,” Mr. Nelson began, ignoring the stuffled giggles from both Peter and parts of the police precinct, “I’m afraid I don’t know what you’re talking about. Mr. Parker here is an unfortunate victim of a horrible tragedy who has been missing for a majority of the year. Your “investigation”, if I’m not mistaken, was concluded a few months ago. There is no need for you to question Mr. Parker. If you need his version of the events that transpired, then Detective Mahoney will be absolutely delighted to give you a copy.”

Mahoney gave Mr. Nelson a dirty look.

“But in other words,” Mr. Nelson continues, “you and your men concluded the investigation of Maybelle Parker after you took it out of the hands of the police. Mr. Parker has nothing to do with the investigation other than giving his eyewitness account. Mr. Parker is here because he was missing for ten months, during which the police were unable to look for him because of your investigation withholding evidence that would have been vital.”

There’s a threat that’s left unsaid in between the lines.

“There is no need for you to be here and unless you leave the premises immediately, I will file for harassment with my client.”

There’s a bout of silence. Mr. Nelson is smiling pleasantly at Whizz, the latter of which is failing to contain his seething anger. Torres and the rest of the precinct are watching with bated breath over their desks. The guys in suits are standing awkwardly around, not sure what to do. Mahoney’s leaning back against his chair, eyebrows raised at Whizz and his men. Peter’s nails are digging into his red hoodie, eyes darting between the two men.

Finally, Whizz seems to understand that he’s not going to get what he wants. His lips thin and a scowl forms on his face. He glares with beady eyes at Mr. Nelson. “There will be no need for that.” He turns and faces Detective Mahoney. “I want that report as soon as possible.”

Mahoney regards him with an unreadable expression. “Sure. I’ll be right on that.”

Whizz huffs and storms out of the station, men in suits following behind him. Dozens of pairs of eyes watch him go, most with smirking lips. The station resumes its usual activity, Torres giving Peter a little wave before disappearing into a room.

Mr. Nelson sighs and drops into the chair beside Peter. “Well, that sucked.”

Mahoney glares at him. “Why do you hate me? What did I ever do to you to deserve the shit you make me deal with?”

“Language, Brett,” Mr. Nelson scolds, “There is a very impressionable child sitting here.”

Mahoney just gestures to the baseball cap on Peter’s head.

Mr. Nelson shrugs. “He’s very good with kids, so I’ve been told. Believe me, it wasn’t my idea.”

“No, it was your idiot partner’s,” Mahoney mutters under his breath and Mr. Nelson hears him.

“No, wasn’t his either.”

“And why me?” Mahoney asks, “Why must I be the one to deal with all of this? And also, what is ‘all of this’? Because let me tell you Nelson. As soon as that kid walked in talking about a ‘Pete Castilgone’, I knew this wasn’t just a missing kid case. The fuck is going on?”

Mr. Nelson remains unmoved. “Mayhaps.”

“Don’t you dare ‘Mayhaps’ me Nelson. Does it or does it not have to do with that hate-group movin’ around New York?”

“I don’t know,” Mr. Nelson leans over conspiratorially, “But you should definitely check your email. And you should also definitely check Mr. Parker’s records and legal documents.”

Mahoney’s eye twitches. “Great.”

Mr. Nelson sits back in his chair, seemingly pleased with himself. “Then I guess we should get back to business then.”

Mahoney lets out a sigh, one that shows years of this kind of conversations and stress. He faces Peter. “All right, Peter? Was it?”

Peter nods.

“All right, Peter. I’m going to need your version of events that transpired. Can you state your name for the record?”

⇔

It’s around three in the afternoon when Mr. Nels-Please don’t call me that. You can call me Foggy-Foggy decides that Peter’s been through enough today and that they’re going to go eat something delicious while Mahoney gets to go do paperwork.

Mahoney waves them off while his head is in his hands. He was not pleased to find that all of Peter’s records had been faked and even less pleased when he got the email from a burner email account. He had muttered something about needing a drink and Foggy had reminded him it was still the afternoon. That had not helped his mood.

Foggy led Peter out of the precinct, completely immune to the stares of the other police officers. Peter noticed that the lady in green was gone. Which was weird, since Peter never saw her set foot past the waiting room. And then they’re outside, the brisk fall breeze blowing the stray strands of red hair every which way.

Foggy seems to be at ease, though there’s an undercurrent of tension. His eyes are darting nervously around the street and his hand is vice-grip on Peter’s arm. Peter doesn’t mind. Mr. Castle said that Foggy was okay. That Peter could trust him.

Though Mr. Castle did say he was a hippie with a terrible taste in men. Whatever that meant.

Then Foggy sees something that releases the tension in his body. Peter tries to crane his head to see what he’s looking at, but doesn’t see anything out of the ordinary. He gives a sigh of relief and turns to the nine-year-old beside him wearing a marine corps hat. “So I know you’re probably starving. Does noodles sound good to you?”

Peter nods enthusiastically. “Yes, please. Thank you.”

Foggy smiles at him, taking Peter by the hand and walking toward a small thai restaurant. They take a seat in the back of the small diner in a booth. Foggy orders himself Pad Thai while Peter orders Phat si-io.

Peter devours his noodles at a frightening velocity while Foggy picks at his noodles. The restaurant is mostly empty, it being 3 o’clock in the afternoon. There’s a couple a few booths away. Peter can hear them arguing about who’s turn it was to do the dishes every night. {Judging from the heartbeats, it was the lady with purple hair, not the lady with oversized glasses.} There was also another person, a lady with dark hair and tanned skin with a red scarf.

Foggy keeps shooting her dirty looks. The lady just smiles at him. There seems to be a non-verbal argument taking place.

Peter watches them. “D’ya know her?”

Foggy looks startled for a minute. “Unfortunately.”

The lady rolls her eyes.

“How do you know her?” Peter asks.

“She….” Foggy hesitates and looks over at the woman. She gives him a goading look and Foggy’s nose scrunches. “She is a horrible human being and I can’t believe that she of all people is being trusted with this.”

The lady shrugs.

Peter frowns and adjusts the hat on his head. “Trusted with what?”

“Babysitting. I mean,” Foggy hurriedly explains as Peter sits up with an offended expression on his face, “Just, y’know. Making sure you’re not kidnapped by the government or a Nazi Science Summer Camp.”

Peter squints. “Nazi Science Summer Camp? What’s happening with them?”

“Well, a friend of mine found their hideout-” Foggy sighs and then slumps when he notices Peter’s inquisitive gaze. “When Frank said that you were playing vigilante, I didn’t realize he meant that you had all the characteristics of one.”

The lady gives him a thumbs-up.

Peter sheepishly sinks into his seat. “Sorry.”

Foggy smiles at him and he’s apples&clematis&insidejokes&knowledge. “It’s all right. I’m sorry too. This has got to be pretty sucky for you, not being able to know what’s going on.”

Peter shoves another bite into his mouth, contemplating everything. He swallows. “Do you know my bio parents?”

Foggy chokes. “W-what gives you that idea?” He manages to get out. The lady doesn’t seem surprised, just gazes at Peter.

“Your heart rate elevated when you first saw me,” Peter explains, kicking his feet against the booth, “Your eyes widened too. I look familiar to you, but I’ve never met you in my life. So there must be someone in your life who looks like me. And considering everything going on, it’s more than likely that the person in your life is related to me.”

The lady looks impressed.

Foggy just stares at him. “Holy cow, kid. Just….wow.”

Peter plays with the zipper of the jacket, eyes downcast.“So..I was right?”

“Yeah, you were right,” Foggy admits. “But...Holy crap, kid.”

Peter flashes him a shy grin and returns to fiddling with his jacket. Foggy surveys him over his plate, expression full of amusement and nostalgia. The couple left already. The lady has a knife.

Peter bites his lip. “Mr. Foggy?”

Foggy sighs. “It’s just Foggy, kiddo. I’m not old enough to be called Mr. Foggy.”

“That name makes you sound like an escort,” the lady calls over to them, her voice like silk.

“You’re doing a great job of not being heard or seen,” Foggy snaps back over to her, scowling. “Do you have anything else to add to this conversation, Elektra?”

Elektra squints at him. “Your hair is stupid.”

Foggy scowls at her, touching the aforementioned blonde locks. “No, it’s not,” he mutters under his breath, then turns to face Peter, evidently resolved to ignore the woman in red twirling a knife. “Yeah, what were you going to ask?”

“If...If you know my bio parents, could you tell me who they are?”

Foggy snaps his head over to Elektra, who shrugs. He faces Peter, who’s staring at him with gray-green eyes that Foggy’s only ever seen narrowed with spit-fire rage and red-gold hair that he’s always associated with Matty and secrets and midnight anxiety, staring at a small phone that might ring.
He really is their child.

“I can’t…..I’m sorry.” Foggy’s wringing his hands apologetically. “There’s a bunch of shit going on, and both of them are doing their best to stop it. It’s not safe for you to know.”

“But it’s safe for you?” Peter points out, “Why can’t I just know their names?”

Foggy pinches the bridge of his nose. “Usually, I’m not on this side of the conversation. I’m usually the one who’s asking the questions.” He sighs. “Kid, have you ever heard of a thing called witness protection?”

“Yeah, Mr. Cast- I mean, Pete told me about it. He said that I was going into it while my paperwork is being sorted out.”

“Okay,” Foggy taps on the table, “As you probably know, this isn’t your normal missing child case. You have no paperwork, there’s a nazi summer camp on your tail, and your guardians had no legal right to you. So, as much as I hate to admit it, this is more of a vigilante case.”

“But how are vigilantes supposed to help me with,” Peter gestures vaguely around him, “Y’know. Legal stuff.”

Foggy points at him. “That’s the thing: they can’t. So, while they’re off doing their whole wreaking justice shebang, I’m the one, along with your bio parents, who’s filing your records. Because even though it would be really easy for everyone if we just plopped you down with your bio parents, that’s considered kidnapping.”

“Kidnapping was my idea.”

“Zip it, Natchios.”

“So you could tell me,” Peter points his fork at him.

“Oh, yes. I could. But technically,” Foggy gestures with his hand, “Technically, I have no idea who your parents are because they haven’t filed a case yet. Because wouldn’t it seem suspicious that I know, that you know, who your parents are before they even filed a case for custody?”

Peter frowns at him. “Maybe.”

“This case needs to be airtight,” Foggy looks him in the eyes, sympathetic. “It has to be airtight. It has to seem this is a simple custody case. We have to keep to our alibis and we have to make it look small. We have to make it look like we don’t know what they know. Because if the feds ever get their hands on the information that you gave us, I don’t think we’ll get you back.”

Peter’s quiet. “Will I get to meet them before I go to live with them?”

“Yeah,” Foggy smiles at him, “I had to fight the both of them this morning because they wanted to meet you. They’re waiting for you.”

Peter swallows. “Do..do they know about the, y’know,” Peter looks around furtively, even though the sole people in the restaurant are him, Foggy, and Elektra. “Leviathan thing?”

“Oh,” Foggy leans back in his chair, a grin on his face. “You mean when you decided that the best thing for you to do was become an eight-year-old crime-fighter in Queens? With no back-up, no weapons besides two brass knuckles and powers you barely know how to control? The thing you did that caused you to get concussions, cuts, and on two memorable occasions, shot?”

“Two?” Peter demanded. His face scrunched up and his eyes widened in horror. “You know Ms. Temple.”

Foggy just stares at him. “Yeah, kid. They know.”

Peter sinks in his seat. “No.” He sits back up. “Are they mad at me?”

Foggy considers this. “A little. I’m personally enjoying their reactions because I believe that this is karma. I also think that what you did is very impressive considering you’re the size of a mouse. But they’re more worried for you than actually angry.”

“So, they’re disappointed. Great.”

Foggy flicks a piece of paper over to him. “Oh, don’t pout,” he teased playfully, “They’ll get over it soon. But Ms. Temple only told me about hte getting shot thing, so you’re good the/”
“And in the meantime, I can teach you how to throw knives.”

“No!” Foggy snaps at Elektra, “We are not teaching the nine-year-old how to throw knives! Why the hell did he let you come along? You are a terrible influence.”

Elektra makes eye contact with Peter.

Peter nods discreetly.

The knife-throwing lessons will have to be done secretly.

“Foggy,” Peter pipes up, distracting the lawyer whose gaze fixed on the assassin shows that he does not believe that she will back off the knife lessons. “I know that you can’t tell me who my bio parents are, ‘cause it’ll look suspicious if someone finds out. But can you at least tell me what their first names are? They can be nicknames, I just wanna know.”

Foggy puts his head down on the table. “Why do you two look the same. Same innocent puppy-dog eyes. Same hair. Same intense recklessness and guilt complex. Do you have catholic guilt too? ‘Cause that’s just the icing on the cake.”

“No, I’m a witch.” Peter can help the grin that spreads over his face as Foggy looks up with a startled look. “Aunt May taught me.”

“Oh, I can’t wait to tell him,” Foggy whispers with an evil look on his face, “There’s going to be a riot.”

Peter stops smiling. “Is he going to hate me for, y’know, being a witch?”

Foggy quickly shakes his head. “Absolutely not. He’s not that type of person and he would never hate you for it. It’s just that our third partner at our law firm has been caught trying to summon demons so he’s going to try his best to keep you two apart.”

Peter giggles, previous fears and questions forgotten. “Oh. That’s cool. Did they succeed? Did a demon show up?”

“No, and she has been banned from St. Clinton’s church because of it,” Foggy narrows his gaze at Peter, who can’t help the smile. “No getting ideas from that.”

Peter pretends to frown and slump into his seat. “Darn. There goes my tuesday.”

Foggy snickers and Peter picks up his fork, smiling as he shoves noodles in his mouth. They sit in silence, Foggy smiling absently at something, Peter eating the rest of his food like it’s his last meal, and Elektra sharpening-wait, is that a sai- in the corner.

“Matt and Jess.”

Peter looks up, noodles falling out his mouth. “What?”

Foggy’s staring at his hands. “Matt and Jess,” he repeats, “Those are their nicknames.”

Matt and Jess. Matt and Jess. Matt and Jess. Matt and Jess.

Heart hammering, Peter puts his fork down. “Matt and Jess,” he repeats.

Foggy looks at him. “Don’t you dare tell anyone I told you that,” he warns Peter, “I wasn’t supposed to. And as for you,” a finger is pointed in the direction of the assassin, “I won’t ever help you again if you snitch.”

Elektra rolls her eyes.

Peter laughs.

It feels right.

November

Saint Agnes is okay.

It’s kind of cold and drafty and it always smells like incense and just that weird church smell that automatically alerts you that old people might be here. He can hear footsteps constantly, laughter and trills of joys coming from random hallways. There’s always nuns around, and it’s kind of terrifying because one moment you’re pretending to read another kid’s palm and the next moment a lady in a habit is asking you what in the world you’re doing.

This mostly applies to Sister Maggie.

Peter can never sense when she’s coming and it terrifies him.

She’s like an assassin, but instead of killing you, she makes you sit down in time-out and think about what you’ve done.

Peter took great delight in telling her he was a witch.

Her nose had scrunched up and her gaze went sharp. There was a look in her eyes which Peter associated with when he got smacked upside the head by Ben when he ran his mouth.Then they had a stand-off in which one of the other sisters intervened and told him he could go help clean up if he wasn’t going to go do rosary with the rest of them.

It’s a war now.

Peter once asked her if she thought the church was haunted one night after a door slammed shut for no reason. Was someone murdered here?

She had given him a look. “Not yet,” she had said and the sister beside her rubbed her forehead.

Peter likes Sister Maggie very much. She’s Bluebells&Patience&Sharp-Tongued&LoveLostLongAgo.

Father Lantom wishes that they would stop.

Sister Maggie had given him a long look, Peter matching it exactly, and he had sighed and said something about not being able to deal with three of them.

When everyone else was at rosary, Peter got to help in the kitchen. He wasn’t allowed to do much, but it was nice to not be forced into a religion that he didn’t identify with. He usually stuck to getting things off shelves and pantries. Sister Maggie was usually with him and she didn’t allow him anywhere near the knives.

When Peter had protested, Sister Maggie had glared at him and said, “I don’t trust you not to steal it and go off gallivanting into the night. Already had to deal with one like you before. I know how you people think.”

So she knew.

Explains why she never let him out of her sight whenever they went outside.
Explained why she never seemed surprised or worried when random people would just sit and watch over the children. Sometimes she would speak to them. Sometimes she would glare at them.

Peter knew some of them. And they all knew him.

A large dark-skinned man with a hoodie with holes in it who struck up a conversation with Sister Maggie as Peter and the other kids played tag. {Luke.}

A confused looking man with a dog that kept running ahead of him. His eyes had widened when he had seen Peter. A dark-haired girl had been beside him, scowling at everything and no one. {Clint and Kate.}

A blonde man who had looked very confused and bewildered when he saw Peter with his grey backpack.. {Danny.}

A dark-skinned woman with a birthmark who winked at him from behind sunglasses as Peter fell out of a tree. {Domino.}

A hooded man wearing a dark sweatshirt that had given Peter a scarred grin as he tossed the soccer ball back to the kid. {Wade.}

A blonde woman who had given Sister Maggie a hug and a coffee as they sat back on the park bench and chatted. {Karen.}

A man with a baseball cap and a guarded expression, leaning against a tree as the blonde girl beside him read a book. {Frank and Amy.}

A man who smoked a cigar and got a disapproving look from Sister Maggie and reluctantly put it out. {Mahoney.}

He recognized them. And wondered what exactly his parents did to know so many people that did stuff that was illegal.

And there were others he didn’t recognize.

A man with a steel arm that reminded Peter of a person he hadn’t seen or heard from in months that was being dragged around with a long-suffering expression by Wade.

A woman wearing a yellow shirt and a black leather jacket with a blank expression that told Peter she wasn’t supposed to be here.

A woman with scarlet hair wearing sunglasses and poised tension in her body that reminded Peter of a panther.

Sometimes, very rarely, but sometimes he would catch sight of a dark-haired woman wearing a leather jacket with the faint smell of whiskey or a red-haired man with red glasses and white cane that made a taptap noise.

Very rarely though.

He saw Elektra and Mr. Nelson the most, though.

Elektra always came with Foggy when he went to go talk with Peter, the two of them constantly bickering about whatever was on their minds. It was clear from the dynamic between them that Foggy disliked Elektra and Elektra did not care, but enjoyed arguing.

Elektra was viper&hydrangeas&knifestabbedinback&cinnamon.

It had to do with Peter’s bio dad.

Matt.

Peter’s bio dad was Matt.

Elektra knew Matt.

Foggy knew Matt.

Peter did not know Matt.

So he listened to the conversations and tried to learn.

Foggy called Matt Matty and idiotic fool who is going to get himself killed. Elektra called, well, pretty much the exact same thing, except her tone was a bit more delighted by it. Foggy and Matt were close and Elektra and Matt had been close. Or maybe they still were. It was hard to tell. Matt apparently was not pleased with the fact that he could not just adopt Peter automatically. He had to wait for Peter’s records to be made and wait for the paternity test to come back with the results.

Peter had had to go to the doctor for that, along with getting vaccinations that he hadn’t had before. He hated the doctor. He hated hospitals. He told Foggy that afterwards and Foggy had groaned. Apparently Matt didn’t like them either.

Peter had been dropped off at St. Agnes and into the arms of Sister Maggie two weeks ago. It was mid-November now. According to Foggy, his records were being made and so was the alibi that he had been kidnapped from the hospital at birth by the Jacksons. Then, when they had died, he had been placed with the Parkers.Then Ben and May had been murdered by some strike of tragedy and Peter had been forced out on the streets until he randomly showed up to the 15th precinct. His bio mother, who had been looking for him, found out that he was still alive and was filing for custody along with his bio dad, who had just been recently located.

Honestly, it was the bare-bones truth.

Foggy had told him that his mother had been under much duress when Peter had been taken away and hadn’t known what she was doing when she signed her rights away. Apparently, it didn’t even matter that the document even existed because Peter had no legal records that gave the Jacksons any right to him, so it was declared a kidnapping. So Foggy had conveniently set the document on fire.

Elektra, on the other hand, delighted in giving him detail of how Genesis was going down. Of how the flash drive that Peter gave Mr. Castle and Micro had all the locations and people that had worked with the organization. Of how they were being hunted down one by one.

It bit at Peter’s bones.

{The fire raged at him, raged at the world at large, raged at Peter for being useless.}

He laid in the small bed of his room. It was sparse with decorations, excluding a small dresser and a cross on the wall. The orphanage had given him some plain shirts and shorts after realizing that he had not much clothing to his name. His backpack was still sitting in the corner. Mr. Castle still had his brass knuckles, but Foggy gave him back the burner phone when he got to the orphanage. Amy put her contact in there, so he’s been sending memes and whatnot to Amy and Kate. His hoodie with the red patches had not yet been returned, along with the bandanna which Peter thought was unnecessary. He got to keep the pocket knife though.

His wrists itched unbearably and he clawed at them, staring at the full moon that he could see from his window.

He hated waiting.

Waiting for Genesis to be gone. Waiting to have documents that declared him a living human being. Waiting for the feds to stop trying to bring him in. Waiting for the custody arrangements to happen, so he could go live with two people he’s never met before.

The itching’s in his bones, in his veins. There’s a desperation, a need to do something, go somewhere-

He’s creaking open the window and slipping out to the roof before he knows it.

The lock on the window is broken. Had been broken by some kid who had lived in this room before. Someone, according to Sister Maggie, that enjoyed giving people heart attacks.

Peter is sticking to the wall of the orphanage, hands on the cold stone wall. Peter can remember the first time he stuck to the wall. He’d been messing around near a dilapidated warehouse after school and had been balancing on some rafters. All of a sudden, a huge bang sounded and he had leaped right off of the rafters.

And slammed into the wall.

And then he stuck to it.

Coincidentally, that was the day he learned he could crush metal.

Peter climbed the wall, making his way to the roof. He had done this a few times before, when the words in his brain got too loud. Sister Maggie suspected that he was doing it, but she allowed him under the promise that he wouldn’t leave the orphanage.

Peter shivered at the cold metal underneath his socked feet as he walked to a sheltered part of the roof. The night was clear tonight, a few clouds but otherwise it was just white stars on a black canvas. He sat down and stared at the cityscape. Hell’s Kitchen was alot different than Queens. He wasn’t sure if he liked it.

At least it wasn’t Jersey.

Peter picked at cuticles. Next week, he would be meeting his bio parents. Matt and Jess. He tried to put a face to the names. Did his mom have red hair like him? Did his dad? Did he get his dimples from his mom or his dad? What about his eyes? Were they angry that Peter had been Leviathan? Had his mom missed him when he was gone? Did his dad?

Did they really want him?

Peter hadn’t really known Mary and Richard. He didn’t think they loved him. He couldn’t remember them telling him they loved him. He could remember their faces, but they were always so cold, never smiling. Besides, if they really loved him., they wouldn’t have experimented on him.

May and Ben had been so young when Peter had been placed with them, they were more his siblings than his parents. They had loved him, but May had been 20 and Ben 22 when Peter came to live with them. They wanted him, as evidenced by the way that Ben had tried to cover their tracks by changing his name to his mother’s maiden name when he and May got married. May had been just a kid, really. A kid raising another kid that should have never been hers. Ben and Richard, from what Peter could remember, never really got along. From those small visits when Mary and Richard would visit Ben and May in their small, cramped apartment, Mary had always dumped Peter in May’s arms and Ben and Richard would always end up screaming at each other.

They loved him though. Loved him enough to hide him. Loved him enough to dig deep into Peter’s past. Loved him enough to protect him. Loved him enough to die for him.

Peter missed them so much it hurt his heart. They were the first people Peter had ever looked up to, who he ever trusted. He had trusted them with so much and they had never let him down.

He only hoped that his parents were the same.

Peter was so caught up in his thoughts that he barely registered the heartbeat behind him.

Then the gravel on the roof shifted and that caught his attention.

Peter whirled around, fists up in the way Ben taught him, hair blowing behind him. His eyes darted around, seeking out the heartbeat that was thrumming on his ears. He cursed himself for not taking the pocketknife to the roof even though there had been no point as it was a waste of a weapon.

Was it Genesis? The feds? Sister Maggie? Kate playing a prank on him?

A pigeon?

Then the shadows shifted and Peter stifled a curse.

He was brokenbones&unleashedwrath&coalblackgrit&devilontheshoulder.

{No flowers for him}

The Devil of Hell’s Kitchen.

Daredevil.

Staring at Peter in his red kevlar and horns, billy clubs strapped to his suit in the way that terrified all of New York’s Underground. Peter, on the other hand, wearing his I’m not Daredevil t-shirt and the sweatpants he took from Claire, with his red-gold-brown hair nearly reaching his shoulders and his fists up like a boxer’s.

Daredevil.

Who opens his mouth and speaks, with a coarse gravel that reminds Peter of rocks scraping against asphalt.

“Why is it that everytime I find you, you’re always doing something reckless?”

And that.

That is very mean.

Also very true.

⇔

Daredevil is not pleased to find Peter on the roof of St. Agnes Orphanage.

“Well, then what’re you here?” Peter challenges him, feet still poised to attack, “I don’t see any need for devils ov’r here.”

Daredevil laughs and it’s not really a laugh. It’s more of a bark. “Sure there is. I just gotta be prepared for it.”

Mmmmm.

Foreboding.

Peter does not like that. Not one bit.

He huffs. “Isn’t it a little sacrilegious for you ta be ‘ere? You are basically cosplaying Satan.”

“That’s a new one,” Daredevil mutters. “And no. I’m technically on top of an orphanage, not a church. So, not very sacrilegious.”

“A catholic orphanage.”

“Still an orphanage. Shouldn’t you be in bed? I’m pretty sure the nuns don’t allow children to climb around on rooftops.”

“What are you, my dad?” Peter throws back, not caring that this is Freakin’ Daredevil, the Devil of Hell’s Kitchen who could literally throw him off the roof. He’s angry and tired and sad and since the Devil decided to interrupt, he’s going to take it out on him.

He wants to mourn. Isn’t he entitled to that?

Daredevil freezes, but Peter is too angry to notice. “Can’t you just leave? You scared me in Queens, now you’re doin’ it ‘ere? Can’t you do it from a reasonable distance? Y’know, when you show up in the news?”

“There’s...there’s alot to unpack there,” Daredevil mutters.

“Yeah, well. I wasn’t expecting to be name-dropped by the Devil. You rarely go into Queens. What were ya doin’ there?”

“I’ll tell you if you back away from the edge,” Daredevil’s voice is laced with tension. His body is tense too.

Peter looks down and sees, yes, he is really close to the edge. He frowns at Daredevil. “Y’know I’m sticky, right? I won’t fall.”

“Yes, you and your powers. However, I would feel alot better talking to you if you backed away from the edge.”

Peter huffed, but did as the Devil asked and stepped away from the edge and closer to the Devil. “All right, now why were ya in Queens?”

“Why were you beating up criminals?” Daredevil countered, less than two feet away from Peter. “What possessed you to do that?”

Peter scowls. “‘Cause I was in the neighborhood and thought I’d help a lady out. Y’know, ‘cause no one would.”

Daredevil goes quiet. Still. Like Peter does when he’s thinking. “I was in Queens looking for you.”

“Which me?” Peter asks. At Daredevil’s confused look, he clarifies. “Leviathan or me?”

“Leviathan. I had heard of you, and decided that that day was good as any to go,” Daredevil shrugged fluidly, “It was just a matter of luck that I found you.”

“Well, how did ya know my name?” Peter wanted to know that, at the very least. How in the world did Daredevil know his name?

Daredevil’s mouth twists up in a smirk. “Classified.”

Peter hisses at him and stomps over to where he had been sitting before. He throws himself down and tucks his knees under his chin. “Well?” he snaps at the Devil.

Daredevil cocks his head. “What?”

“Are you going to come over here or are ya just going to stand there and wait for Sister Maggie to spot you and give ya a lecture?” Peter was cold and irritable and full of a I don’t care.

Daredevil hesitates, but walks over to Peter and sits next to him. The place where they’re sitting is sheltered enough so the only way a person could see them is if they climbed on top of the roof and faced their direction. He’s about five inches away from Daredevil and he curls in on himself.

Daredevil.

Here.

Holy Mother of Fuck.

“So you know Sister Maggie?” Daredevil asks, and by the gods, he sounds…hesitant?

The man who wears a devil suit made of kevlar and leather who beats up criminals so bad they have to drink through a straw is nervous about speaking to a child.

{Still no flowers, though.}

And Peter thinks, all right. I’ll give him a chance..

“Yeah, she’s kind of terrifying,” Peter smiles a little bit, “She’s pretty cool, though. I wouldn’t want to get on her bad side.”

Daredevil laughs, and this time it’s an actual laugh. “Of course. Sister Maggie is a creature to be feared.”

“Why?” Peter faces Daredevil, features curious, “Have you met her?”

Daredevil grins. “You could say that. She once happened to find me when I got stabbed and I swear, I think the worst part of that night wasn’t the part where I got stabbed.”

Peter snickers and a small smile plays around on the Devil’s lips. “Yesterday, she said that I could go take apart the old telephone in the office and use the parts as long as I don’t make, like Megatron or somethin’”

Daredevil snorts. “Sounds like her. She’s been asking for a new phone since forever. Does she know you come up here at night?”

Peter isn’t even going to ask how he knows. “I think so. She gave me a earful though, the first night I was ‘ere. Somethin’ that had to do with another kid that used to sneak out onto the roof. That’s why the lock is broken.”

“And that’s why you’re hiding in the darkest part of the roof,” Daredevil notes dryly, “Glad to see that the threat of getting lectured by a nun beats a confrontation with a vigilante wanted by the federal government. Great priorities, kid.”

“She’s scary! You can go deal with her if you think she’s not that scary.”

“No thank you.”

Peter shoves Daredevil and the vigilante laughs.

Peter hums. “She reminds me of Ms. Temple.”

Daredevil tenses and Peter flinches back. “You know Claire?”

“I mean..yeah?” Peter fidgets with the hem of his t-shirt, the irony not lost on him that he is wearing a shirt that declares him not Daredevil next to the actual Daredevil. “I kinda got shot by the Russians, so she helped stitch me up.”

“You got shot?!” Daredevil’s voice is loud and coal-black-grit and gravel again and Peter is rushing forward and placing his hand over Daredevil’s mouth.

“Shhh!” He hisses, “I don’t wanna get in trouble!”

Peter’s pretty sure Daredevil is glaring at him, but he’s not completely sure due to the red eyepieces. Then something warm and wet licks his hand.

“Ewww! Did you just lick me?” Peter immediately draws his hand back. “You did! Gross!”

He tries wiping it off on Daredevil’s suit, but he dodges so Peter has to wipe it off on his sweatpants.

“Those sweatpants,” Daredevil begins, “Claire gave ‘em to you, didn’t she? After you got shot?”

“Which time?” Peter tries to quip, and immediately backtracks as he sees the Devil’s face begin to darken. “Okay, okay! She gave them to me when I got shot by the Russians. Ms. Temple stitched me up.”

Devil’s expression begins to lighten.

“It was Mr. Castle that stitched me up the second time.”

Back to murderous rage.

“You got shot twice?” Daredevil growls, “You’re nine! What the fu-frick were you thinking?”

Peter points at him. “First off, in the case of the Russians, I do not regret that ‘cause they were takin’ kids and me interferin’ helped them get away. I would’a takin’ a bunch more bullets if it meant that kids were safe. Secondly, the other bullet wound was not my fault. It was those Genesis dudes who were huntin’ me and I had no control over that.”

Daredevil pinches the bridge of his nose. “But you’re a kid-”

“So were the people the Russians were takin’” Peter counters, “They were kids too. They didn’t have powers. Not like me.”

Daredevil sighs and he seems human for a moment. Not the Devil of Hell’s Kitchen or the Man without Fear. Just a regular human talking to a nine-year-old on top of a catholic orphanage about vigilante stuff.

Peter can’t really make out what he is, but he’s pretty sure he’s got flowers.

Then Daredevil unclips something and pulls the mask off his head.

Peter gasps and looks around frantically. There’s no one in sight and he and Peter are hidden from view. “Dude!”

Daredevil’s mouth quirks up. “What?”

“You-you can’t just do that! What if someone sees?”

Daredevil waves him off. “No one’s awake. And no one’s near. We’re good.”

Warily taking his word for it, Peter hesitantly studies the man under the cowl. He’s got red hair that glints under the moonlight, just like Peter’s. He’s got scruff too, kind of like Mr. Castle. A nose that looks like it’s been broken twenty times and-

“What the hell happened to your eye?”

Daredevil winces before he registers what Peter said and his brow furrows. “Wait, eye?”

Peter grabs Daredevil’s face, ignoring the small protest. He studies the massive black eye on the man’s left eye. “Isn’t your helmet supposed to protect you from stuff like this? I mean, c’mon. That bruise is massive. How do you see out of that eye?”

“Peter.”

“Yeah?”

“I’m blind.”

“Oh,” Peter blinks. “That makes sense.”

Then his eyes widened. “Wait, if you’re blind, does that mean you have echolocation? Is that how you fight crime? Are you secretly a bat? Were you bitten by a radioactive bat? How was the bat radioactive? Did the bat make you go blind?”

Then he gasps. “Are you telling me you could’ve been Batman?”

“Child. Let go of my face.”

“Whoops.” Peter lets go and Daredevil faces the city in front of them, his gaze never settling on one thing. Just a blank, empty gaze.

“I was not bitten by a radioactive bat. Yes, I do have sensory powers and that is how I fight crime. No, I am not a bat. And no, I do not want to be known as Batman. And adding onto your question from earlier, yes, this helmet protects me from being punched. I was punched earlier today.”

“Who punches a blind man? That shit’s just wrong,” Peter mutters under his breath, fingers under his armpits.

Daredevil hears him and snorts. “When I’m not Daredevil, I have been informed by many that I am extremely punchable.”

Peter laughs, but can’t keep his teeth from chattering. It’s cold. Really cold, and Peter is really bad at thermoregulating.

Daredevil sighs, and offers his arm to Peter. “C’mere. You’re freezing.”

Peter accepts his offer and burrows into Daredevil’s chest, tucking himself under his arm and reveling in the warmth. Daredevil just holds him tight, fingers pressing against the bullet scar in his shoulder.

“Do they still hurt?”

Peter looks up. “Y’mean the bullet wounds?”

“Yes.”

“Nah. I heal really fast. I’ve got scars on my shoulder and my thigh, but other than that, I’m good.”

Daredevil’s hand tightens a little bit on his shoulder, but he just hums. “Good.”

“Are you mad at me?”

Daredevil tilts his head. “Why would I be mad at you?”

“‘Cause I was Leviathan. You seemed pretty angry when I told ya I got shot.”

Daredevil sighs. “I’m not. I’m just worried that you could’ve gotten killed. And I’m a little angry that the Russians shot you. But, no. I’m not mad at you.”

“They only shot me a little bit,” Peter reassures the Devil, “I would’a lived.”
The Devil curls his arm closer around the child with fire in his veins and monsters in his heart. “That’s really not a good thing.”

They sit like that for a while, two humans with strange abilities just enjoying the night. Two figures with enough red hair, secrets, and scars to fill a dozen books. One small figure half-asleep in the Devil’s embrace while the Devil wants to know if it's the right time to tell.

Then Peter gives a great yawn and he knows it’s not.

“All right, bedtime.” Peter grumbles, but aqueinces, getting up to his feet.

Daredevil lets him lean on him while he helps Peter toward the edge of the roof, mask on. Peter, while still groggy, is awake enough to catch himself on the wall as he jumps off the roof, giggling a little bit at Daredevil’s swearing as he did it.

He’s sitting on the windowsill, feet rubbing against the brick when Daredevil asks his last question.

“Why were you on the roof tonight?”

Peter shakes his head, running a hand through curls of red-gold hair. “I’m worried about meetin’ my bio parents.”

Daredevil seems to freeze. “Why?”

“‘Cause I don’t get a redo,” Peter frowns. “I don’t know ‘em, but I have nowhere else to go. What if I mess it up and they hate me?”

Daredevil shakes his head. “They could never hate you.”

“Yeah, but-”

“No.” Daredevil looks so very serious. “They couldn’t.”

Peter smiles at him. “I just hope I’ll make a good first impression.”

Daredevil grins. “You will.”

{You did.}

⇔

Mrs. Flores is a kindly older hispanic lady and also Peter’s social worker.

She and Sister Maggie get along like a house on fire. They gossip nonstop about that grocer on the corner, about how the lady living in that fancy penthouse is definitely having an affair with her chaffeur, about how Bess Mahoney was going to drive her son insane with the way she kept getting her hands on cigars.

Peter figures that it’s an old person thing.

He’s not really listening to them talking about some lady named Rosalind and how she was apparently a bitch. He’s more focused on not puking his guts up.

Peter’s meeting his bio parents today. They’re going to take him home today, too. If all goes well, they’ll be able to keep him until everything is straightened out. And then he’ll be living with his parents.

Peter swallows, fidgeting with the lucky necklace on his neck. He still wasn’t sure if it was actually lucky or if Clint was just making things up. Kate largely believed that the necklace was bad luck, so maybe that cancelled out Peter’s tendency of getting into trouble?

Doubtful.

He’s wearing a button up shirt with his jeans, a second-hand winter jacket thrown over it. The Marine Corps baseball cap is on his head, keeping the November sun out of his face. His red-golden hair is tied back, small strands of it tickling the sides of his face. The backpack’s over his shoulders, full of clothes, his burner phone, the med-kit, stashes of food, wad of cash, the business card Foggy gave him, a copy of the Outsiders, and a rosary that Sister Maggie told him to give to Foggy so he could give it back to someone.

Amy had promised him over the phone that she would give back the hoodie, bandanna, and brass knuckles as soon as she could. Apparently, Mr. Castle kept trying to get rid of the brass knuckles, but Amy was a brave soul and had rescued them from the trash.

“Also, your bandanna is full of blood,” she told him over the phone, “Like, Micro had blood stains all over his fingers ‘cause that’s how soaked it was in blood. Frank tried to throw that out too. Don’t worry, it has also been rescued.”
Amy was an enabler.

“All right, Peter. Are you ready to go?” Mrs. Flores smiled at him, gray streaks in her dark hair. Sister Maggie was standing in the doorway of the orphanage, waiting for them.

Peter nodded, unable to speak.

Mrs. Flores rubbed his shoulder sympathetically and turned to Sister Maggie. “I’m afraid that’s our cue to leave, Sister. Would you like to get coffee with me some other time?”

Sister Maggie smiled and Peter felt really bad for anyone who knew these two women. “I would love that.”

Mrs. Flores led Peter out of the orphanage, the brisk, cold air making Peter shiver. He stopped where Sister Maggie was standing. “Bye Sister Maggie. Thank you.”

Sister Maggie smiled again, but this time was more of a sad smile. “Goodbye Peter. I hope to see you again soon.”

Peter opened his arms up for a hug and Sister Maggie obliged, hugging him tight and hard with surprising strength. When she let go, Peter thought he could see a dampness at the corner of her eyes. “Goodbye, Peter.”

Peter smiled at her and bounded down the stairs to Mrs. Flores. She took his hand and they both waved to Sister Maggie, who waved back. They took off walking, Sister Maggie watching them both.

Peter was thankful for the winter jacket he had keeping him warm. It was extremely cold outside. Mrs. Flores kept a brisk pace, occasionally checking her watch.

“Mrs. Flores,” Peter twisted the necklace, “Where are we going?”

“We’re going to my office,” she explained, “It’s secluded and neutral, so I thought that was a good place to meet them.”

Peter nodded, butterflies in his stomach.

“Are you nervous?” She asked him, expression softening.

Peter ducked his head. “A little.”
She squeezed his hand. “Don’t worry, Chiquito. I’m sure they’ll love you.”

Daredevil had said the same thing.

They reached Mrs. Flores’ office, a small office building. They went inside, Peter stomping his shoes on the mat. Mrs. Flores led him to a small office that smelled like caramel and vanilla. She pointed him to a cushy waiting chair and Peter sat down.

“They won’t be meeting you here,” Mrs. Flores explained, “There’s a room especially for that. I’ll go see if they’ve arrived yet, and if they have, I’ll take you down to go see them whenever you’re ready. In the meantime, you can sit and wait.”

Peter nodded, crossing his legs together and swinging them.

Mrs. Flores gave a little wave and vanished into the hallway, leaving Peter alone to his thoughts.

It was weird leaving the orphanage. Peter was going to miss the other kids. He hadn’t interacted with any kids his age since….

Well, since December. When Ms. June had given them goodie bags full of candy and stickers and Peter had stayed well away from the peppermint and Euge-Flash had invited everyone but Peter and Ned to a Christmas party and Ned had given him a hug before leaving to go on vacation and Michelle had tossed one of those crappy erasers at him before giving him a drawing of him falling asleep in class.

He wondered where that picture was now. He hadn’t grabbed it when he left the apartment building. It must still be there.

Had Ned noticed that he was gone? Did he miss him? Was he panicking? Did Michelle care? Did Flash? Had his school noticed? Was he going back to school? Was it going to be the same school or a different one? When he went to live with his bio parents, would Ned be able to come over? Could they still watch Star Wars together like they used to do?

He felt bad for not trying to find them when he lived on the streets. He felt bad for not thinking about that much.

Not Flash though. He hoped that jerk suffered under immense guilt.

He hoped he’d see them soon.
Peter heard Mrs. Flores’ heartbeat approaching and he quickly sat up, heart pounding. Now or never, he supposed.

“Peter,” Mrs. Flores opened the door, “They’re here. Are you ready?”

Peter touched the necklace for good luck and said a quick prayer to whatever gods were listening. Then he adjusted the brim of the hat and jumped off his chair, fingers nervously tapping on his jeans.

Mrs. Flores fussed over him as they walked down the hall, making him take off the hat and smoothing his hair back behind his ears. It was a lost cause. She did get him to take off his jacket and put it in his backpack, leaving him in his white-button up. Peter’s converse squeaked on linoleum and his nails dug into his palms.

Then they stopped in front of a door. Peter could hear two heartbeats inside, both beating fast.

One sounds familiar.

“Are you ready, chiquito?”

Peter swallows. “Yes, ma’am.”

Then Mrs. Flores opens the door. And Peter steps inside.

And immediately is confronted with the knowledge that his bio dad enjoys drama.

Red-gold hair the exact same shade of Peter’s is brushed and no longer damp and mussed from a mask. Blank eyes are hidden under round red glasses. Billy clubs replaced with a white cane and kevlar switched with a black suit. Dimples appear as Peter enters the room, lips quirking up in a smile that Peter had seen only four nights ago.

He’s coffee&hiddenbruises&justice&marigolds.

{He does have flowers.}

“Hi Peter,” His dad, Matt, Daredevil, says quietly, “It’s nice to meet you.”

Peter swallows. “Y-yeah.”

Holy Fuck Daredevil is his dad. Holy fuck.

There’s another presence in the room, a lady with a leather jacket and dark hair, watching them with a raised eyebrow, but Peter can’t tear his eyes away from his dad.

Mrs. Flores is either oblivious or decides not to get involved.

“Well, I’ll just leave you three to get to know each other while I go get the paperwork,” she says pleasantly, “I shouldn’t be gone more than ten minutes.”

She ruffles Peter’s hair, nods to the adults in the room and leaves. Leaving Peter with his bio parents.

And one of them is Daredevil. Holy fuck.

Explains what he was doing at the orphanage. And why he was so angry Peter got shot. And why he was so insistent that Peter’s bio parents could never hate him.

“Peter,” Matt, Daredevil, says with a tilt of his head. He’s closer now, a worried expression on his face. “Are you alright?”

Peter’s about to shake his head yes when he remembers that Matt’s blind. “Y-yeah.” he squeaks out. “I’m fine. Just...was not expecting this.”

“Oh, Murdock. What did you do?” The lady huffs, crossing her arms.

Matt faces her direction, face innocent. “We might’ve run into each other. It happens sometimes.”

Peter laughs and Matt’s expression devolves into one of joy.

The lady sighs. “I kept up my side of the promise, but it’s fine for Murdock to run around in his gimp suit and see the kid. Totally fine. Absolutely not hypocritical.”

“I didn’t mean to run into him,” Matt protests, pouting slightly, “It just happened.”

“Sure, Murdock.”

Matt seems to realize that Peter is still staring at him. “My name is Matthew Murdock. Matt for short.”

“You could also call him Batman,” the lady offers and Peter giggles.
Matt sighs. “You want to introduce yourself or are you just going to talk?”

“I’m rolling my eyes at you, Murdock,” the lady tells him as she walks very slowly over to Peter, boots scuffing on the floor.

Kneeling down to his eye level, Peter meets a familiar face that he’s seen plastered on newspapers and on TV and a pair of gray-green eyes so similar to his own.

Jessica Jones gives him a warm smile. “Hey, kid. I’m Jess. It’s nice to meet you.”

Holy fuck.

December

His parents are vigilantes.

Well, Jess is a private eye, but she once beat up a gang with Luke Cage so in Peter’s books it counts.

Peter tells Jess this and she snorts. “It was more of them getting in my way than me going after them. Luke just happened to be there.”

She’s still cool.

His parents don’t live together and they’re not together, but they live near each other in Hell’s Kitchen. Jess’s apartment is a few blocks away from Matt’s, and so is the office that Matt works at. Jess had told him that when he was born, Matt hadn’t known he existed and that’s why Matt never knew about him until Jess had found out where Peter was.

“And the whole Hydra thing,” Peter pointed out, “I was kidnapped.”

Jess laughed. “Oh, believe me. If Matt had known you existed when you were born, no Hydra organization would have been able to stop him.”

Her smile was kind of sad when she said it. Peter thinks it’s because she wasn’t able to keep Peter from being taken, even though Peter knows that she tried literally everything to get him back. It’s a gift of luck that Peter ever met her, much less Matt.
Peter’s in Jessica’s apartment right now. Matt and Jessica have a custody agreement in which Peter stays at Matt’s apartment on weekdays, since it’s closer to the school, and Jessica’s on weekends. But since Matt had a case today, Peter’s staying the night on Friday.

It’s weird having two bedrooms. With May and Ben, their apartment was so small that Peter slept in a cramped bedroom while Ben and May dealt with the bedroom with the sentient mold. But at Matt’s house, his room is decorated with stars and galaxies with a small bear with boxing gloves on the bed. Matt had promised him that he would help put up Star Wars posters and whatnot in his room. He said it was important to have decorations in his room.

Foggy, sitting on the couch, dramatically scoffed and took a long look around the bare and empty living room. “Hypocrite.”

“I’m blind, Foggy! There is literally no point.”

“There is a point! It’s called, ‘not living in a cold and empty warehouse’.”

“I lived in a warehouse,” Peter volunteered, getting a startled look from Foggy and a raised eyebrow from Matt, “It had way more decorations than this.”

Foggy raised his glass of wine. “See?”

“No, I don’t.” Matt deadpanned.

Peter giggled as Foggy sighed. “Oh no. There’s two of them.”

And that is how Peter spent his week at Matt’s apartment, watching as Karen and Foggy argued about how to best decorate Matt’s house while Matt moped and pouted from where he was sitting next to Peter.

Apparently, Karen also knew Matt. It was weird how many people he had met in the months leading up to being found that knew his parents. Karen had gasped when she had first seen him.

“Holy fuck, it’s you!”

“Page! Mind your language,” Foggy barked. Then he blinked. “Wait, you’ve met him too? Why did we not find him sooner?”

Karen waved a hand, dismissing the very good point Foggy had brought up. “He’s the kid I told you about. The one that saved me from being hit by a car.”

Foggy dragged a hand down his face. “Of course. That’s how you met him.”

“I mean, he was Leviathan,” Karen pointed out, “What did you really expect?”

“I-,” Foggy pauses, “Okay, you have a point.”

Karen points a finger at Peter, who’s currently trying to sink into the sofa. “Didn’t you tell me your last name was Reilly?”

Peter shrugs. “You were a stranger. Stranger-danger.”

Karen squints and Peter regrets everything. “And I heard from a little birdy that you used to stay nights at Sister Margaret’s. Scared the living shit out of the patrons. You didn’t seem so afraid of strangers then.”

“He did what?” This came from both Matt and Foggy, the former of whom walked out into the living room and fixed a stern glare at the boy in question, blank gaze fixed in Peter’s direction.

Peter glared at Karen. Karen shrugged. Foggy was staring at Peter with a mixed expression of both amusement and resignation. Matt was not happy with the fact that his kid used to sleep at a merc bar.

Peter squirmed under Matt’s intense stare. “Ummm….Karen gave me the brass knuckles!”

Karen’s mouth drops open with shock. “Lies!”

“You did! Mr. Castle can back me up on this one! He gave them to you and then you gave them to me!”

Foggy has his head down on the counter, muttering about he should have been a butcher. Matt’s pinching the bridge of his nose.

“Karen,” he begins. “Why did you give a child brass knuckles?”

Karen puts her hands on her hips. “I did not.”

“Karen.”

“He looked scared.”

“Lies!”

“You did too! Gigantic bruise on your face and everything!”

Peter huffs. “I was not scared.”

“I should have been a butcher,” Foggy mutters.

The brass knuckles, along with the hoodie and bandanna, were returned to Peter by Amy, who managed to slip them by both Jess and Matt under pretense that they were his bloody clothes that Amy no longer wanted. Neither Matt or Jess wanted to deal with that, so Peter hid them under his bed in Jess’ house. Matt had a nose like a bloodhound and he would have been suspicious of the ‘bloodstained, rust-smelling, rag of a cloth that somehow managed to hide your identity’ according to Kate.

Matt’s house is now decorated with wall art and pictures and his counter is no longer a plank of plywood. It no longer looked like an empty room. Peter, with Foggy’s help, had gotten flowers to place around the apartment. Marigolds for Matt, clematis for Foggy, and rosemary for Karen.

Matt did not like the flowers.

Matt was very catholic.

He had frozen when he had sensed Peter with the flowers. Karen, who Foggy had given express warning that if she ever brought an ouija board again to game night she was going to be fired, was grinning over the newly installed counter. Foggy was inching toward the door.

“Peter,” Matt began, “Why do you have flowers?”

Peter had placed the clematis and the marigolds next to each other on the windowsill. The rosemary was sitting on the counter. “They’re good for healing. They help with your spirit and whatnot. So I got you each a flower pot. Matt’s the marigolds, Foggy is the clematis, and Karen’s the rosemary.”

“Oh, that’s so cute,” Karen cooed, obviously taking delight in the way that Matt seemed to be breaking down, “Do you do anything else? Do you have a flower?”

Peter shrugs. “Dunno my flower. But these will help keep you guys safe. They take away the bad energy.”

Matt hesitantly sniffed the marigolds, jumping when Foggy leapt right beside him and whispered, “Boo.”

Matt shoved him. “Jerk.”
And though Matt would deny it to his dying breath, Peter had caught him on more than one occasion watering the plants and just simply talking to them. He would deny it though. The catholic in him was too guilty.

Matt also acted like he had no idea what happened after a small pot of dwarf sunflowers joined the others on the windowsill, stretching their faces toward the sun.

“They just appeared,” Matt insisted, hip-checking Peter, “Told you, it’s your witch stuff.”

The rosemary and the clematis were always in peak condition. The sunflowers and marigolds, on the other hand, seemed just slightly wilted. Peter had caught Matt frowning at the sunflowers once, hand cupped gently around the head of the flower with dying petals.

Jess had flowers too. Peter had placed them over where the window was next to her desk.

Jess and Matt were two very different people. Peter couldn’t comprehend just how they had first met. It was like putting dynamite next to a match and hoping that it wouldn’t explode.

Matt was soft, with a backbone of steel. He had a tongue like knives and silver that he used to inflict damage on the people on the other side of the courtroom. He was protective too. Protective of Foggy of Karen, of Jess, and now of Peter. He shared it with the Devil side of him, the one with coal-black-grit and no flowers. The Devil was so very different from Matt. The Devil didn’t bother with silver words and days long cases, he just went and inflicted pain with kevlar-covered fists on those who escaped justice. Matt had his monster, the Devil, but it only came out when the mask came on.

Jess was lavender&whiskey&simmeringrage&unansweredquestions. Unlike Matt, who kept the monster at bay until he could put on the mask, Jess used her monsters to protect herself. She was thorns and sharp edges, a broken soul with jagged glass protecting the small bits of happiness left. There wasn't much, from what Peter had found. She had her investigations, bits of vengeance she was able to inflict upon those who deserved it. She had her friend, Malcom, who she affectionately referred to as pain in her ass with no brain cells. She had the Defenders, Luke and Matt and Danny, who watched her back and she watched theirs. And now she had Peter, Peter who she had hugged tightly with almost bruising force when she had to leave for the night when Peter had been brought home. Peter, who she had gone with him to May and Ben’s apartment to scavenge whatever they could find that Peter wanted to remember them. Peter, who she had stayed up with all night when he had a nightmare, curling close to him and running her hand through his hair and whispering comforting words.

There was a piece of paper on her desk, a worn-out page of sketchbook paper. Jess always kept it tucked into her jacket whenever she left. It rarely left her person. Peter had glanced at it once, when she had left it on the desk. He had looked back into his own face, eyes closed and red hair falling into his face as he sat at a desk.

So that’s where Michelle’s sketch of him had gone.

Peter would be going back to school in January, a full year after he had gone missing. He would be going into the fourth grade, along with Ned and Michelle. He hadn’t seen them yet, unable to get in contact with either of them. The official alibi for why he had gone missing was that when May had been murdered, he had run and the police had been unable to find him. And then when he had been found, his bio mom had filed for custody along with his bio dad. Nothing about Hydra organizations or baby vigilantes or moms with super-strength or dads with horns and devils. Just a simple tragedy.

Genesis was gone, according to Clint, who had broken into Matt’s apartment and was eating the bagels. Matt had tried chasing him out with a broom, but it had not worked. The Hydra organization was reduced to rubble and anything related to the organization that might’ve survived had been shipped off to someone named Rogers, who would take care of it. So that was one less thing to worry about.

It didn’t really help Matt or Jess.

Sometimes, when Peter’s half-asleep, he’ll hear breathing and heartbeats right outside his door. He’ll wake up and Matt will be right outside his door, asleep in his Daredevil suit, mask off. Sometimes, when he’s at Jess’ apartment, Jess will call out for him and gets worried when he doesn’t answer right away. Sometimes, when he's supposed to be getting caught in schoolwork, but is mostly just screwing around, he’ll catch Jess staring blankly at nothing, hands digging into whatever surface they’re on. He’ll catch Matt with a worried expression on his face, hands just a little too tight on his shoulder where the bullet went through.

Jess feels guilty that she wasn’t there to protect him.

Matt doesn’t want Peter to end up like him.

His parents are a little broken.

It’s okay.

Peter’s a little broken too.

⇔
Peter’s waiting impatiently for Jess to hurry up.

“C’mon,” he groans, “You’re so slow!”

Jess laughs. “Yeah, yeah. I’m so slow. So slow that it’s a miracle that I get to anything on time.”

Peter pouts. “Matt says he’s going to eat everything if we don’t hurry up! And I believe him!”

Jess, raising an eyebrow at him from the doorway of her bedroom, exaggerates her movements, laughing when it gets another groan from Peter.

It’s Christmas Eve, and even though Peter nor Jess were catholic, they were going down to St. Clinton’s Church to go see Sister Maggie with Matt.

Sister Maggie, who was apparently Matt’ mom. And Peter’s grandmother.

Peter wants to know if he’s related to Captain America, because apparently family members are just popping out of the woodwork.

Yule started a few days ago, so both Matt and Jess’ apartments are decorated, Matt’s with a christmas tree and a wreath, and Jess’ with holly boughs and a lamp with a fishnet leg that Jess had found at a target, laughed and immediately put in her cart. Peter’s pretty sure it’s from a movie. It now stands proudly in her window.

Tomorrow’s Christmas, so they’re going to Matt’s apartment to celebrate and trade gifts. Karen helped take him to a store to buy his gifts for Jess and Matt and Foggy. Four presents sit under his bed in Matt’s apartment, all neatly wrapped with a marker scrawled over the paper.

Jess finally finishes lacing her boots. Peter’s hand is on the doorknob, nearly bouncing on the balls of his feet in anticipation. Jess pauses, a smirk on her face. “Wait. I need to check my email.”

“Oh, come on!”

After Peter nearly drags Jess out the door, they meet Malcom in the elevator. Malcolm gives them a small smile and a wave. “Merry Christmas.”

“Merry Chrysler,” Peter responds, giggling a little at Jess’ nudge.

Jess flips Peter’s hood over his face. “You got any work tonight, Malcolm?”

Malcolm sighs. “Hogarth is evil. She’s like Scrooge, but instead of money, she hoards the happiness of others. Like a fun-sucking vampire.”

“If you get done early tonight, you could come over,” Jess offers, “Pete and I are just going over to the church to meet up with Matt. We shouldn’t be gone long.”

“Yeah! We can play poker!”

Malcolm laughs as Jess cuffs Peter on the side of the head. “We do not ask people to play poker with us,” Jess chastises, “Not after you nearly made Clint broke.”

“And his money paid for a wonderful new pair of shoes. And a lego set.”

“Nelson made a huge mistake,” Jess mutters.

The elevator doors open and they step out. Malcolm waves goodbye. “I’ll see you guys tonight, if I can make it.”

“Bye, Malcolm.”

“Bye!”

Jess and Peter make their way down to Matt’s apartment, meeting up there before they head to the church. Peter’s humming the lyrics to a song he barely remembers, hand tucked tightly in Jess’s. Jess is scowling at everyone in her path, which makes it really easy for Peter and Jess to walk through the sidewalk. She occasionally glances down at Peter, a small smile making its way to her face.

She’s like that. Thorns and glass to everyone else and nothing but feather-light touches and velvet to Peter.

Peter’s pretty sure that she used to do that for someone else. That she used to be a protector for someone else in her life. Peter’s not sure who that person was, but sometimes Jess gets phone calls from a number that says Trish and sometimes Malcolm knocks on the door with a worried expression on his face, saying that someone was here before. Sometimes Jess’s voice gets all hard and brittle-rock when Malcolm tells her about this and she runs her hands through her hair and gets a mug of tea that’s brewed to look like whiskey.

Peter hates it. It tastes like nothing, and Jess only drinks it when it’s about something bad.

He hates tea. Tea means bad memories and broken trust and secrets.

Matt doesn’t drink tea. But his thing is the piles of bloody bandages and the bruises on his knuckles that Peter knows doesn’t come from his nights out. Matt tries to hide them, but sometimes when Elektra will mention something and his face will get all tight or there’ll be a bruise just not quite hidden enough and Foggy looks at him with worry or sometimes Matt will thread the rosary through his hands, whispering a prayer, and Peter just knows it has to do with bloody bandannas and cold brass knuckles.

But it’s only sometimes.

And Peter can deal with sometimes.

Because sometimes Peter can’t deal with the smell of white carnations or daffodils and sometimes he stares in the direction of Brooklyn, thinking about a man with a metal arm and violets and sometimes he can’t deal with anyone touching him, the smell of lobelias permanently stinging his nose, and that makes Jess’ eyes go dark with anger and Matt’s fists clench. And sometimes all Peter wants to do is curl up to his mother’s side and breathe in the smell of whiskey and lavender that seems to be a permanent part of her, as she takes a sip of the tea he hates so much. And sometimes he stays awake all night in Matt’s apartment, burner phone clenched in his hand as he listens to sound of the city, breathing in the smell of marigolds, waiting for his father to come back so the trash cans aren’t full of bloody bandages and his fists don’t have punching bag scabs.

So yeah.

If tea is his mother’s and bloody bandages are his father’s sometimes.

Flowers can be his.

Matt’s leaning against his apartment building, head tilted in their direction. Peter sprints ahead of Jess and Matt grins. “Matt!”

“Hey, Peter,” Matt ruffles Peter’s newly cut hair. It no longer can be tied up in a ponytail. Foggy was not allowed to give Peter a haircut. Matt was not allowed to give Peter a haircut. Karen did it. “How was your day?”

“It was awesome! Jess and I went to the dog park and there was this really fluffy brown dog that tried to lick me and it was so cool but also really gross ‘cause germs. But then we went to go get ice cream and we ran into Wade and Vanessa and Wade gave me a kazoo for Christmas-”

Matt’s head shoots up to Jess and Jess coughs discreetly.

“But it went missing soon after so Jess said that next week she would show me how to use the camera. How was your day?”

Matt laughs, mouthing a quick Thank you to Jess over Peter’s head. “My day was pretty boring. Foggy and Karen miss you very much. You’re just in time. I was just about to eat it before they went cold.”

Matt produces a gingerbread scone, wrapped in napkins, from his pocket. It’s slightly squashed, but still warm. “Here we go.”

Peter takes a huge bite, crumbs falling out of his mouth. “‘Hanks, Matt!”

Matt’s smile turns into that goofy grin. “You’re welcome. You ready to go see Maggie?”

“Yeah,” Peter gasps, “Wait, Jess! Did we remember the flowers?”

“It’s in your bag, kid. I knew you would forget them.”

Peter sticks out his tongue at Jess, digging around in his bag for the small pot of bluebells. “Do you think she’ll like them?”

“She adores you,” Matt laughs, “She’d be happy with anything. Just don’t tell her that they’re a witch thing. There will be massive catholic confusion.”

“Or you could,” Jess pointed out, stealing a piece of the scone and earning a squawk of outrage from Peter, “And then she and Matt could have a catholic guilt party.”

“For the last time, it’s not catholic guilt-”

⇔

Jess ends up carrying a sleepy Peter in race car pajamas to Matt’s apartment the next morning, not bothering with a jacket or shoes, just wrapping him in the red and blue blanket and carrying him to Matt’s.

Karen opens the door when she knocks on the door with her boot. She cooes, watching Peter’s nose scrunch up in his sleep. “Holy shit, my ovaries.”

Jess snorts, carrying Peter to the couch and laying him down beside Matt, who’s fidgeting with a christmas sweater he was obviously forced into wearing by either Karen or Foggy. “Nice to see you too, Page.”

Karen flops down onto the chair beside the christmas tree, which has a small pile of wrapped gifts under the tree. “How in the world did you two manage to have such a sweet and adorable child? I swear, he’s an angel.”

“More like the Antichrist,” Foggy mutters under his breath, yelping when Karen swats him. “Oh, please. He’s exactly like Matt, down to the dimples. He’s all sweet and charming, but then you turn around and he’s a feral cat.”

“I am not a cat,” Matt insists, hand dragging through Peter’s hair, “I object to that comparison.”

“I don’t, but that’s my kid, Nelson,” Jess warns, kicking her boots up on the table and earning a disapproving glare from the one who bought it {Foggy}, “My child is innocent and pure.”

“He literally was a vigilante for three months. And Wade said that he met Peter getting beat up defending a kitten. Claire met him when he got shot. Domino says she met him beating up a perv. Danny thinks that Peter stole his backpack. Karen, you literally met him as he saved your life. You also gave him brass knuckles, so you have no say in this conversation. Castle believes that Peter was a punishment sent from god to torture him, because apparently Amy had been texting Peter. And he also reports that he threw away the hoodie, the bandanna, and the brass knuckles, but when he checked the trash can, they were mysteriously missing. So, Peter most likely has those back. He and Kate literally conspired with each other about the vigilante thing. So, no. I do not believe your child is an angel. I would sort him as more of a cute gremlin.”

“Slander.”

“Matt, it’s not slander. He hissed like a demon when Mahoney tried to give him a candy cane last week. Now Mahoney refuses to step foot in our office. I had to bribe Bess with five cigars to get her to tell me where he was.”

“Do you think that would work on Hogarth?” Jess asked. “I think it would. She’s already wary of the fact that I have a kid. The fact that he’s Murdocks might actually scare her.”

“No. Peter is adorable. I will hear no other arguments. He is an innocent child with a pure soul.” Karen sniffed. “At least he didn’t laugh at me when I said I thought Leviathan was a ghost.”

“This was a week after the demon incident. Matt was petrified that some evil force was living in our office for weeks. Forgive me for not believing you about this kind of stuff.”

“Maggie told me that Peter had asked her if the church was haunted,” Matt mentions, listening to the steady beat of Peter’s heart. “She was on watch for an ouija board the entire week. So that’s the kind of trauma you inflicted on the nuns, Kare.”

“I plead the fifth.”

Peter stirs, making the four adults in the room go silent. He doesn’t wake up, just shifts around so his head is on Matt’s lap.

“Oh my god, he’s so cute I’m going to die.”

“No taking the lord’s name in vain, Franklin.”

“Peter sent me a video of you cursing like a sailor the other day. You have no defense.”

“I take back what I said. He’s a gremlin. He’s Jess’ carbon copy.” Matt dodges the hand that comes flying his way. “The night we first met, on top of St. Agnes, he tried to start a fight so….”

“That comes from the both of you. Unless he dissed you. Did he insult you? Because that’s all Jones.”

“Hey!” Jess cocked her head, thinking, “Okay, that’s true. Carry on.”
“He asked me if I was cosplaying Satan,” Matt remembers, to the delight of his companions, “And when I took off my helmet, he immediately asked me what was wrong with my eye. Not my eyes, mind you. He didn’t even notice I was blind. He was more interested in the black eye.”

“Serves you right for getting into a fight with Castle out of suit.”

“He asked me how I could see out of it.”

Karen snorts, undignified. She covers her mouth. “Did he ask you if you were Batman?”

“Yes.” Matt cocks his head, frown deepening. “Why? What did you help him do?”

“Nothing.”

“Page.”

“Your present is very nice.”

“Oh my god.”

“He spent alot of time looking for it. You’re going to love it.”

“I’m firing you.”

“Name’s on the plaque, sucker.”

“Okay, okay,” Jess interjected, “Our child is a gremlin. Nelson, you proved your case. I hope this makes babysitting way more fun for you.”

“Okay, but Matt. Seriously, you need to come home sooner. I know we have a schedule for your thing, but holy shit. He was literally climbing the walls. Literally.”

“Foggy.”

“He was on the fucking ceiling. How was he on the fucking ceiling, Matty. He heard you from two blocks over. It’s like living with a more feral version of you.”

“Franklin.”

“What?”

“I could take him with me if it makes your life easier.”

There was a collective noise of “Fuck no”, “Matt, no”, and “He would love that, but no.”

Matt shrugs. “He’s going to sneak out eventually. I think Frank scared him enough for maybe a few months, but he’ll be at it again soon enough. Amy and Kate aren’t exactly helping either. I heard Bishop the other day teaching him how to use a bow.”

Jess sighs. “Great. Do you think it’s too late for me to convince him to not be a vigilante? I mean, you gave it your best, Murdock.”

“Oh, that reminds me,” Foggy drags a hand down his face, “Elektra’s going to try teaching him how to throw knives. Just giving you a heads up.”

Matt considers this. “Eh, it’s better than guns. I think I’m going to take him to Fogwell’s this week too.”

“I can’t deal with you sometimes, I swear-”

Peter yawns, cutting off Foggy’s speech. He blinks blearily at his parents. “Izzat Christmas?”

Matt tugs his hair. “Yup. You ready to get up?”

“No. Too early.” Peter closes his eyes. Matt opens his mouth in mock offense.

Jess snorts. “Now I know you’re my kid. Sweet dreams, kid.”

“‘Night, mom. ‘Night dad.”

“Well, it’s technically morning, so-” Matt begins, then he stops. “Wait, what?”

Peter is fast asleep.

Jess is staring at the kid in her lap, heart hammering.“Holy fuck. Holy fuck. Did he just say what I think he said?”

“I think so,” Matt murmurs, pressing a kiss to his son’s forehead. There’s that goofy grin on his face again. It makes Foggy smile. “Holy crap.”

“Language, Murdock.”

“I believe I get a pass this time.”

So yeah.

Maybe they were a little broken.

{Monsters and devils and fire-hot rage.}

But maybe.

Just maybe.

They could put the pieces back together.

{Sunflowers&Smiles&Marigolds&WhisperedComforts&Lavender&thefeelingofnotbeingalone}

That would be enough for them.