Archive of Our Own

- Choosing Destiny -

The clock read six PM, and Peter Parker was tired.

It was rush hour, people bustling home from work, to grocery stores and restaurants, to bars and clubs, itching for that release from a stressful day. They were walking home to their families, to be greeted by mothers and fathers, daughters and sons, wives and husbands. Their people were waiting for them.

Peter didn’t have that. There was nobody waiting for him, no family to greet him at the door, no people to go home to. There wasn’t anybody to ask how his day was, what he did when he went out – not that he ever did, really. He’d been alone for almost four months now, and it wasn’t getting easier.

The world had gotten over the shock of Spider-man's betrayal, if Peter could even call it that. Because, of course, it wasn’t him who murdered Mysterio. In fact, Mysterio wasn’t even murdered, he had succumbed to the injuries sustained in the fight he had made , while his team doctored the footage to imply otherwise.

It had ruined him. Spider-man was a murderer, and New York had lost their trust in the one and only, friendly neighbourhood vigilante. 

The news bashing him was getting old. In the city that never slept, people moved on from his so-called betrayal and onto the newest celebrity scandal – and J. Jonah Jameson took his rage out on Peter, the lowly freelance photographer working for the Daily Bugle.

Paying rent was impossible. Jameson was cutting his paycheck with every photo sent in, and Peter Parker was out of time. He was getting evicted at the end of the month, he knew it. He’d been late on rent every week for two months, short on the amount owed for the last month. 

God, his landlord must hate him. 

The clock read five past six PM, and Peter Parker stared out the window, wondering if patrolling was a good idea or not, knowing that Queens, that New York, that the world hated him.

They didn’t trust him to help them, despite only ever doing just that before Mysterio had ever entered the picture. 

Nobody trusted Peter Parker, either. He couldn’t afford his bills, often heading to gyms to shower to keep his apartment's water bill as low as possible. His hair was unkempt, and he drowned in the clothes he wore, buying the cheapest second hand clothes he could find. 

He wasn’t approachable, in short.

He visited Ned and MJ at the cafe she worked at, back when he was going to tell them everything. That the universe had forgotten Peter Parker, to keep them all safe. That they had a life together, before all of this.

They’d…they’d actually looked happy. MJ had a light in her eyes that Peter hadn’t seen in what felt like years, and Ned was chattering away about college and legos, like he used to before…everything. He just couldn’t do it. 

They were better off without him, without Peter Parker ruining the good thing they had, without the tragedies of Spider-man weighing him down. He ordered his coffee and left, and hasn’t stepped foot into the cafe since. 

He was well and truly alone. He had nobody in his corner. Nobody knew who he was, and there was nobody left who he even wanted to tell, anyway. May was dead, Happy was working with Mrs Potts and away from the trouble that Spider-man brought, Ned and MJ were at college, and none of them remembered him. That just left Peter, alone. 

The clock read ten past six PM, and Peter Parker gave himself five more minutes. 

Five minutes to put on the suit, for what would be his final try at protecting the streets of Queens. His final attempt to show them that he could protect the city like he used to, that he wasn’t a murderer, that he only wanted to help.

Five minutes to catch his breath, the shadows of his past clogging his lungs and making it hard to remember what it felt like to be free of burden. Five minutes to change his mind, not that he ever would.

Five more minutes.

Peter put on the suit with a sigh. ‘ If they don’t want me now’, Peter reasoned, ‘ then I won’t come back. Maybe then they’ll see what they’re missing without me.’

The minutes came, and they went, and Peter had not moved since putting on that suit, still standing in the middle of the living room, staring out of the window with a vacant look. Five minutes had come and gone, and he was no less ready than he was. 

He took a breath and moved anyway, jumping out of the window with a shaky smile. How bad could it be, really?

***

Oh it was actually a fucking horrible idea, why had he thought about going out, Jesus Christ on a stick this was such a bad idea–

Every single civilian he had saved had either hit him, fully punched him, dodged his advances of help, cursed at him, or thrown something at him. 

And then someone pulled a gun on him, someone who he had just saved from being beaten half to death. And this man looked so similar, so terrifyingly shaped as Peter’s past, that there was nothing else he could imagine doing other than running as far away as possible. 

He had sensed the camera on him. He knew that running was going to make his image even worse than it already was, but he didn’t care. He needed to get out, he needed to get away from the gun, to get away from the memory of Ben on the floor with a bloody hand slipping down Peter’s face.

He wasn’t able to breathe, he wasn’t able to think, he had just run. And a rag-tag group of wannabe gang members had taken advantage of his mental vacancy, getting the jump on him when Peter was down for the count.

He stretched from the warehouse he stood upon, trying to see what was happening, below, and – ow, yeah, his shoulder was absolutely broken. 

And he probably had a concussion, too. Great. 

“What on earth possessed me to come out tonight?” Peter muttered to himself. “I knew it was going to be like this, so what was the point?”

He knew why. He knew that he couldn’t stop, either. Not forever, at least. The city needed someone protecting them, someone to patch up what was left behind from Mr Starks death, the hole that the disbanded Avengers and Iron Man had left behind. 

But if they didn’t want him, they weren’t going to get him.  

For the first time in four years, Peter Parker had finally had enough.

He rushed home in the best possible fashion – shit, that was a wall – and took off the suit just as fast. Thrown into the back of his closet, he forgot about the world for a moment. He forgot about the weight of his sins and focused on himself, Peter Parker.

Who he was outside of the suit – and right now, Peter Parker was a nine-year-old boy, freshly traumatised by the death of his parents. And then he’s fourteen, watching his uncle die after being shot. And then he’s seventeen, watching May die because his need to save anyone who needed saving was too strong for the world to handle. And then he’s still seventeen when the entire world forgot who he is. 

Peter Parker is nobody, a myth, a forgotten tale. 

He wonders if, in his past lives, he ever made it over the age of twenty-five. He’s been accustomed to death since before he’d even hit double-digits in age, surely there’s at least one life, one universe out there, where he got to grow old and happy?

Peter rubbed a hand down his face as he fell into bed, and passed out before his head had even hit the pillow. 

…And not even five hours later, Peter was woken up to harsh knocking on his door. 

Groaning, Peter got up and put a shirt on, calling out he’d be there in a second…and opened the door to a very tired landlord.

“I’m sorry, Mr Parker,” the man sighed, handing over his eviction notice with a sad smile. “I just can’t deal with the late and short payments any longer.”

“I…no, yeah, I understand,” Peter stuttered, reading the notice. ‘ Shit, I only have two weeks left?’ 

“I do hope you’re well, Mr Parker, and that your luck will be better.”

“Yeah, yeah…thanks,” Peter whispered, nodding as his landlord walked away. Fuck.  

At least he hadn’t actually unpacked properly. He’d only been living here for just over three months – and he hadn’t actually wanted to empty out the boxes. Memories of May didn’t belong in a dingy apartment in Queens. They belonged in their house, with her.  

He didn’t want to tarnish the physical aspects of her memory – and Ben’s too – without her there to witness it. When he didn’t feel loved, feel safe in the space he was in right now. 

He started packing as soon as the front door was shut. There was no point in wasting time, not when he knew he was about to be out of a job – can’t take photos of Spider-man without a Spider-man, can you? – and would therefore not be paying rent. He just had to find a place, first, and anywhere but Queens sounded like a good place to start.

Looking at his lack of items and belongings, he knew it wouldn’t take long. Clothes in that box, knick knacks in that one, the kitchen supplies in the one over there. 

Looking at the Spider-man suit, Peter sighed, and stuffed it at the very bottom of the ‘Do Not Open’ box – the one with every memory of Mr Stark, of the Avengers, May, Ben, MJ and Ned – and taped it shut.

If New York didn’t want Spider-man, then Spider-man didn’t want New York.

***

Spider-man: Where has he gone?

For one week now, Spider-man has been missing from the streets of New York, leaving us to wonder: Where has he gone?

The bright, friendly, neighbourhood vigilante has disappeared, and nobody knows where he has gone. The last confirmed sighting we have of him was a week ago, as he ran through a displeased crowd with a gun pointed to the back of his head. 

Had the anger aimed towards him become too much to bear? Did the fame get to his head? We all have questions, I am sure, but for now, there are no answers. Spider-man has not been seen, and it doesn’t look like he is set to return any time soon. 

Will New York be alright without him, or are we entering a new age of crime that has not been seen in years?

***

Peter Parker had been living in Hell’s Kitchen for a week now, and he had been mugged a total of three times so far. This most recent time he’d ended up stitching a slash on his bicep shut, after a drunk had come after him with a knife looking for money – only to be disappointed in the fact Peter had less than 50 cents to his name.

The crime rate here was different, and eerily so. It was ten times worse than Queens – five times in comparison to the sketchier sides of town in Queens – and he could feel the danger in the air. His spidey-sense had been on constant high alert since he’d moved, and the constant anxiety was hard to get over.

It was worse at night. When the lights would turn off and the sun went down? That’s when the devil came crawling. 

Now, although he’s on a…hiatus, of sorts, Peter is a vigilante. He knows who the other vigilante’s are, and he knows where they patrol, the areas in which they’ve claimed as their own. Spider-man had Queens, and Daredevil has Hell’s Kitchen.

Of course, there’s also Deadpool, Frank Castle, Luke Cage, Jessica Jones, Danny Rand…but Peter Parker, who was Spider-man, was in Daredevil’s territory. 

And Daredevil was dangerous.

He could feel it in the way the night-air was sharper, full of adrenaline and tension in the crime going on underneath his apartment building. He could feel it in the way people would only speak in a hushed whisper as soon as the sun went down, fearful of disturbing the Devil of Hell’s Kitchen.

And Peter knew that Daredevil was the most territorial fuckhead of the whole vigilante crew. Hell, Peter had heard rumours of Frank fucking Castle being sniffed out like a goddamn dog after stepping foot into Hell’s Kitchen.

He’d believe it. 

But that doesn’t matter, anyway. He has no money, no job, and barely anything to his name – he needs to get back on his feet before he even dares to think about patrolling again.

He needs to get a new suit – one that looks nothing like the old one with memories woven into the colours of the stitch – and new gear. He needs to get his mind in the right space, but it needs to be soon.

The itch to help, save, protect has been growing and growing ever since he’d stepped foot into Hell’s Kitchen, and he knew it was only a matter of time before he’d be leaping into the fray.

Even if he wouldn’t be returning as Spider-man.

***

Peter’s job working as a line-cook in a shitty, run down restaurant paid better than Jameson would even dare to think of. Every paycheck puts a small, sad smile on Peter’s face, and his bosses throw in free food for him after every shift as well.

It’s almost like they can sense the troubled-teen in him, or something. Funny how that works, right?

Even better, there's enough money left over after for paying bills and food that he can afford a few niceties a couple times a month - which he's been putting towards gear for his new suit. 

It looks nothing like his old one – in fact, it’s barely even a suit, it’s more like combat gear. Thick, kevlar cargo pants, combat boots, and a compression shirt woven with kevlar threads, and a mask he made himself, reinforced to cover his jaw, his eyes, and his temples.

Does it look weird? Probably. Does it feel fucking strange? At first, yeah. But the point wasn’t aesthetic – though he does feel a bit emo wearing it all – it was protection of himself, and his identity.

Sure, nobody knows who Peter Parker actually is, but he’d rather not be found out again because he’d decided to beat up a mugger in the middle of Hell’s Kitchen.

No web-shooters, no spider markings, and most importantly, no red and blue fabric. Dark green and black were the colours he wanted. He was staying as far away from Spider-man territory as possible. 

‘Daredevil can’t cover all this ground. He can’t help all the people calling for him at once,’ Peter reasoned with himself, adorning the suit. ‘And if he can’t be there, I will.’

Fuck his territorialism, he was going to help, no matter the cost. If Daredevil asked him to stop, he’d tell him where to shove it. If Daredevil tried to fight him, well. Peter would fight back with everything he had.

He needed a fresh start, and this was singing to him. There was nothing and nobody who was going to put an end to this now. He knew he wouldn’t be able to stop patrolling – not easily, and not forever, either. He knew that he would always feel responsible, hearing and seeing people getting hurt and not doing anything to help.

With great power comes great responsibility. That was what Uncle Ben had told  him all those years ago, as he’d bled out in front of Peter’s eyes. It had stuck with Peter for life – something he embodied in his civilian and his vigilante life.

Who cared if Daredevil didn’t want help? He was going to offer it anyway, no matter what. Even if it was selfish, fighting in another vigilante’s territory to curb his own guilt. He needed to help them.

And for the first time since Mysterio, Peter leapt out the window without hesitation.

- A Fork in the Road -

Peter grinned under the mask as he felt a nose break under his bleeding fist. He was more ruthless than ever, angrier than ever, using his patrols to vent out the frustrations of the world.

He’d been so, so angry, in a way that wasn’t surprising. He hadn't let himself feel until now, until he had left Spider-man behind and adorned this anonymous vigilante identity. He doesn’t speak when fighting – Hell, he doesn’t speak at all unless he has to – and every hit is harder than the last.

He’d slipped and started spiralling before he’d sent his first victim to the hospital, and it had only gotten worse from there. He hadn’t killed, but it was a close thing. Men in hospitals with broken ribs from breaking into homes, men and women in coma’s for assaults. Pedophiles and rapists left brain dead.

He was just what the dirty alleys of Hell’s Kitchen needed. They’d all gotten complacent, used to the Devil’s ways, and they’d all learnt what to avoid.

He was a wild-card. 

Peter never patrolled the same areas twice in a row. He changed it up every day, creating new routes for himself, attempting to hone his hearing to pinpoint exactly what fights he wanted to be involved in – while avoiding a certain leather-clad vigilante in the process.

He was a moving shadow, not staying in the same areas for a prolonged amount of time. He was always on the move, always covering new ground, always ready for something to go wrong and needing to get up and out in a moment's notice. He was unpredictable, and that’s exactly how he liked it.

With his temper, his ruthlessness, and his newfound knack of sending people to the hospital, it wasn’t long until the whispers started.

“You need to watch your back, the shadows can hear ya’ talk,” they’d say. “Watch your mouth, the Shadow’s listening.”

And with the whispers getting more frequent, with Peter’s newfound fame in the criminal underworld, it wasn’t long until Daredevil had found him. 

And he was, to put it lightly, pissed.

Peter was breathing heavily, retying the bandages around his knuckles as Daredevil came up beside him. It was a desolate area, on a rooftop where nobody could see them. A perfect vantage point of the city below him, and the right height for a broken spine to occur if he got thrown off.

Shit.

“I believe you know why I’m here, don’t you?” Daredevil growled.

Peter shook his head, and said nothing. He wasn’t giving this man anything – but in the back of his mind, a question popped up. ‘Where have I heard that voice before?’

“No? Well, let me tell you, then; You’re in my territory. Leave. I don’t care where else you end up sending people to the hospital, but keep your shit away from Hell’s Kitchen.”

Peter turned around to face him, his arms hanging loosely at his sides. The blood on his fists have stained the bandages red. He still says nothing. Peter will not give anything away. 

Daredevil, not one to be perturbed, gets angrier, stepping forward into Peter’s space.

Instinctively, Peter flinched. Hard, almost falling back with the sheer force of it.

The Devil in front of him faltered, and he took two steps back. 

It’s silent now. Peter is staring, Daredevil is staring, and this little contest they have going on doesn’t look like it’s ending anytime soon. ‘Does he not have places to be, or something?’

“I’ll stay out of your hair,” Peter whispers, loud enough that Daredevil can hear him, his voice scratchy with disuse. “But I’m not gonna stop, and I’m not leaving, either.”

Peter jumps to the fire escape and leaves. He doesn’t need to look back to know that Daredevil did not leave the rooftop for a while.

*** 

Hell’s Kitchen: The Devil’s Apprentice?

Hell’s Kitchen has gotten a name for itself in the name of crime, and the man determined to end it all. The Devil of Hell’s Kitchen.

But now a new face has appeared. A Shadow in the night, as ruthless as the Devil himself. 

The appearance of this new, equally violent vigilante has left people wondering: has the Devil gone and gotten himself an apprentice?

So far, the two have not been seen working together. Shadow, so far, has been working alone, taking down criminals with ruthless efficiency, stopping people in their tracks and letting fear simmer in the air around him. 

Will he keep us safe? Or is this man toeing a fine-line between vigilante, and villain?

***

Walking home, smelling like grease and second-hand cigarette smoke was a new low for Peter, but with his free food in hand, he guessed there really wasn’t much to complain about. 

Cursing his super senses for picking up the scent of three day old grease on his hands, he came to a stop as a familiar voice echoed from the alley next to him. 

“No, I don’t know who he is. Yes, I’m talking about the new guy – no, I don’t know his name…no. I – no, I have no idea. All I know is what people have been saying on the street. They all think I’ve gotten an apprentice in the last two weeks, and they’ve taken to calling him ‘The Shadow,’ or something.”

Oh shit, that was Daredevil. Talking about him.  

“That I do know – shut up, it’s not my fault the guy doesn’t really talk, okay? They tell each other – what? Yes, ‘they’ as in the criminals I beat up on a nightly basis – can you let me finish? Thank you. They tell each other to ‘watch out for the shadow, he hears you talking.’ No, I don’t really know what that means, other than, unfortunately, he’s probably good at his job.”

Well. He wasn’t expecting to get complimented by Daredevil of all people today, but he’d take it. There’s a first for everything, apparently. 

“No, I’m not pinning Wade on him! The guy flinched so hard he almost fell off the damned roof when I took a step forward. I think Wade would send him into an early grave, and I don’t want that on my conscience – yes, I know I’ve sent people to the hospital before, but that’s different! I–”

Wade? As in Deadpool? Since when were Deadpool and Daredevil even friends? That wasn’t the point, Peter was getting out of here, now. There was no way he wanted to stick around for that conversation – no matter the outcome.

Actually, he was skipping patrol tonight all together. Hell’s Kitchen could deal with The Shadow taking a day off. He needed to recuperate, fix his gear, and stay the Hell away from Deadpool – and Daredevil too, really, but he was in Hell’s Kitchen, so that wouldn’t last very long. 

There was nothing he could do, really.

Stepping through his front door, Peter didn’t even bother to turn on the lights. He kept them off, turning his desk lamp on instead, using his senses to fix his gear. A few stitches here and there, and altering the bandages he wrapped around his knuckles. 

They’d be good as new for tomorrow.

***

Peter, true to his word, had only taken one night off after hearing Daredevil’s conversation on the phone. He’d let the criminal underground have a night of fresh air, before cascading down upon them again.

Who knew it only took one night for them to find some confidence? 

Coming from a vigilante background of ATM robbers and people trying to deal alien weapons, Peter hadn’t been used to traffickers, hardcore drug dealers, and people who would rather see him dead than alive. It wasn’t surprising he’d get his shit rocked, despite the strength he’d displayed throughout his time in Hell’s Kitchen.

The fight was still going on, but he knew he’d come out on top. Eventually. Did he have a cracked rib and a broken nose? Yes. would he be going to work with a black eye, and lie about being mugged tomorrow? Also yes. But he didn’t care. The thrill of stopping danger, of making sure some little girl wasn’t going to be injected with heroin – was worth it. He’d take the hit over and over again if it meant he could keep at least one person safe.

Some of the Queens criminals, in comparison, had genuinely liked Spider-man. They had let him help them, let Spider-man give them the resources to turn their lives around, to make a better name for themselves, and some of them had done it. Hell’s Kitchen criminals, however, didn’t like people nosying themselves into their business. 

Peter appreciated his anger. It kept him alive. As much as he hated it, he’d rather be angry and alive, than peaceful and dead.

May wasn’t ready for him yet, and that was okay. He had a job to do, people to help, and a world to try and change. May and Ben would just have to wait a little bit longer.

Peter ducked underneath a punch, sticking out his leg to foot-trip a man coming up behind him. There were more of them, now, which had him at five-to-one. He was losing the upper-hand, and fast.

He was tempted to run. Tempted to throw a well-aimed punch to a couple groins, and get the fuck out of there.

Then Daredevil showed up. One man down, four to go. 

Peter nodded Daredevil his thanks as soon as the fight was over, both vigilantes panting with exertion. He turned and climbed the building, slipping into the shadows and using his strength – and subtly using his sticking ability – to nimbly use the bricks to make his way to the rooftop.

He intended to leave, to go home and set his nose. It was late, and he had work tomorrow. He’d be a shitty line cook if he set something on fire because he was more tired than usual.

But Daredevil had followed him. 

“I stayed out of your way, you know,” Peter said, turning around to face the vigilante. “This is twice you’ve sought me out, now.”

“Why are you here?” Daredevil growled, in lieu of an answer.

“I need to be,” Peter replied with a tired shrug.

“No, that’s my line,” Daredevil…pouted? Peter snorted, shaking his head. He looked up to see Daredevil smirking.

The man clearly thought he’d gotten somewhere. He hadn’t. Peter refused to give anything about himself up, not anything the man didn’t already know. He can’t let people in, not again.

He’s angry, sure. But that anger is laced with fear. Parker Luck would have it that Daredevil would lose his life if Peter ever let him in, and he refused to let another innocent person die because Peter had the audacity to care about them. He refused to be the last one left behind, over and over again.

He needed to be in control of his own destiny. And if he had to be a loner, a nobody? He would be.

“What’s your name?” Daredevil asked, making a show of keeping his distance. 

Peter tilted his head, making a show of considering it, before he walked past the leather-clad vigilante, clapped him on the shoulder, and jumped from the building without uttering a single word.

***

Deadpool was staring him down with a gun in his hands. Deadpool was staring him down with a gun in his hands.

Peter wasted no time in turning and sprinting as fast as he could physically manage it, throwing people in his way into walls, not caring about the cracking of bones that immediately followed.

‘Fuck, he’s following me. What the fuck am I supposed to do?’

He climbed. Peter climbed as fast as he could, hoping to hop from rooftop to rooftop, jumping up and down the walls until he lost his mercenary assailant. And he got close, sure. But as soon as he’d leapt from the first rooftop to the second, he was tackled from the side, sent sprawling onto the harsh concrete below him.

Peter has never fought harder, or dirtier in his life. He’s snarling, kicking and scratching, not even holding back his super strength as he lands a well-aimed kick to the ribs – but Deadpool is not fazed in the slightest.

In fact, he gets cockier, more aggressive, fighting harder and harder. Peter gets a hit to the face, his head hitting the ground with a crack. Stars blind his vision and he relies on his dwindling senses to dodge the attacks coming stronger and stronger.

Until they stop.

“Knock it off, now!”

Peter leapt up, panting, eyes wide and terrified, taking five steps back and away from Deadpool, and… Daredevil?

“Red, let me go,” Deadpool ordered, his voice hard. 

“Absolutely fucking not,” Daredevil growled. “I don’t care if you’ve got a hit out on him, if you’ve been hired to kill him. Take one fucking look at him, and tell me he’s older than twenty-one.”

Silence.

“Tell me!”

Deadpool stood, and turned to look at Peter. He looked at Peter standing there, wiping his bloody knuckles on his pants, stretching out the very broken ribs he was currently feeling. 

“Are you alright, Shadow?” Daredevil asked, his hands out. He hasn’t moved forward.

“Fine.”

Peter started to move, to leap off the roof, to go home and spiral like he really fucking wants to right now, when Deadpool squared his shoulders, and points the gun at Peter’s head again.

He froze. Of all the time to freeze, it just had to be now – and Peter hated the way his heart dropped to his stomach, the way he could feel himself pale under the threat of the barrel.

Daredevil titled his head, looked at Deadpool, and growled.  

Peter barely noticed. All he could see was blood, blood, blood, pooling under his feet and his Uncle's pale, shaking body. He could feel the blood of his second father-figure dripping down his face as Peter is fourteen, and scared of the world.

“Is a man like you really scared of a little weapon like this?” Deadpool asked, a teasing – but lethal – lilt to his word.

Peter couldn’t help it – he laughed. It was quiet, it was short, jarring, totally uncalled for in the situation at hand. But he laughed, and Deadpool dropped his weapon, hsi posture changing.

“You’re one little psycho, aren’t you?”

Peter smiled. 

“I just don’t think I’m exactly old enough to be called a man, yet.”

Daredevil and Deadpool both flinched at the empty tone in Peter’s voice. He didn’t care. He turned around and left them to do whatever it is a vigilante and mercenary for hire do. He needed to sleep, thanks.

***

Peter sat himself up on the wall with a wince and a gasp, the jolt of pain felt throughout his whole body. It burned, and even though he tried to stop it, tears began to fall.

There was a huge, gaping stab wound in his stomach, and he didn’t know what to do. There was blood everywhere, he was bleeding out, and he didn’t know what he was supposed to do from here.

He missed Mr Stark, and FRIDAY, and Karen, working together to keep him safe. He missed May, ready to hold his hand as he woke in the Avenger’s Med-Bay. He missed MJ and Ned, who would tease him relentlessly about his recklessness, while hugging him and telling him to be more careful. He missed the fact he used to have options, safety, choices, people, a family.

As much as he missed the people he had lost, he didn’t want to die. Not here, not now. He still had things to accomplish, a world to make better, people to protect – even if they didn’t want him to. He wanted to live, damnit!

He was only eighteen…he didn’t think he’d run out of time so soon. They weren’t ready for him yet.

“Fuck,” he croaked out, sitting up even more, biting his lip and whimpering to stop the scream he swallowed down. “Fuck, fuck, fuck.”  

More blood pooled under his hand, and he was getting too weak to keep pressure on the wound. His head was spinning, and he couldn’t think straight. He didn’t even know where he was anymore. 

He just wanted May. He wanted May to tell him that everything would be alright. That she wasn’t mad at him, he was doing his best, that there were always going to be bad people in the world, and he would never be one of them.

He wanted Mr Stark to come around the corner, worried shouts of ‘Underoos!’ and fatherly touches, telling him he was okay, that he was here, that he was safe and sound and would be right as rain in no time.

“God,” Peter whispered, voice cracking. “I bet Daredevil can…hear me fuckin’ dyin’ over here. Shit!”

Peter slumped down the wall, his hand falling off of the wound. He didn’t have the strength to pick himself up anymore. 

Peter heard footsteps approaching, heard them go from a saunter to a run. He imagined the man who stabbed him, coming back to finish the job. He imagined another criminal stumbling upon him, deciding to get his own licks in, to take advantage of Peter’s state.

He felt a gloved hand on his face, its touch light like a feather, he opened his eyes – when had he closed them – and saw Deadpool, his comically wide, white eyes now furrowed with worry.

“You’re okay. It’s okay.”

Deadpool checks the wound, curses, and turns to Peter. “I’m sorry, but this is really going to hurt.”

Peter tried to make a confused sound, but cut himself off as white-hot pain clouded his vision. Deadpool was apologising, keeping pressure on Peter’s wound as he whimpered, trying to push himself away from Deadpool's hands.

“I know, I know, you’re alright,” Deadpool whispered. “You’re okay, I’m gonna help you, kid.”

Peter bit back a scream, a sob escaping his lips again. He was shaking violently, still trying to push himself away from Deadpool.

Deadpool kept his hands on his wound, no matter how hard Peter tried to get him to stop. He heard Deadpool mutter something about a ‘Red’ and a ‘nurse friend,’ but his hearing wasn’t working as it should, and his vision was cutting out too often to focus on anything in the moment. 

Until Deadpool turned his head, and screamed: “RED!”

Peter flinched, hard, which sent more pain shooting through his body, which made him bite back yet another scream of pain.

“Shit, I’m sorry,” Deadpool whispered, sounding truthfully apologetic. “I needed Red here, he knows a nurse to help you.”

Peter couldn’t answer him. The pain was getting to be too much to talk through. He was too tired to talk. He wanted to sleep.

“You have to stay awake, kid, okay? Don’t go passing out on an old man like me now, okay?”

Peter tried to nod, he really did, and Deadpool continued telling him to stay awake, started talking about the colour of his suit, the weapons he owned and where he got them, all to keep him focused. 

“Wade, what the fuck?”

‘Oh cool, Daredevil’s here. Can he hear me dying?’

“Nobody is dying,” Daredevil snapped, though his voice was shaking, and the hand that started cradling his head was shaking, too. “Especially not you. Wade, grab my phone out of my pocket, and call Claire. Tell her to meet me at my apartment now.”

Peter felt sluggish. Sleep felt like a good idea. He was so tired.

“No, stay awake for me, Shadow,” he heard Daredevil say. “You have to stay awake.”

Peter heard Deadpool and Daredevil talk to him, but soon enough, their voices had faded out. Peter closed his eyes.

- Back on Track -

Peter opened his eyes with a muffled groan, his eyes focusing on a ceiling that was absolutely not his. He shot up with a panicked expression, before gasping at the pain.

All of a sudden, he realised what had happened. He’d been stabbed. He’d almost fucking died. Daredevil had carried him here. Deadpool had put pressure on his wound not even a week after trying to kill him. He was in Daredevil’s apartment. He was in clothes that were not his. 

His hand frantically reached for his face, and he was thankful to feel his mask still intact, and firmly on his face. He relaxed a little, looking around. It was a nice apartment – not super fancy, but not as bad as his, either. 

He’d apparently looked far enough around to lock eyes with Daredevil and Deadpool, who were watching him worriedly. 

“Are you okay?” Daredevil asked, his voice uncharacteristically soft.

“Fine,” Peter muttered, looking at his hands. They were clean, but he could see blood under his nails.

“Bullshit,” Deadpool laughed. “You just got one of the worst stab wounds I’ve seen in a while, and I’m friends with Red over here, who fights crime like knives are made of marshmallows.”

“I do not,” Daredevil grumbled, making his way over to Peter. “It’s not my fault that my organs seem to befriend every knife pulled out on me.”

“Oh, is that what you’re calling it now?” Deadpool teased, walking with Daredevil. 

Peter had never been more confused in his life. 

“Am I allowed to go?” Peter asked, stretching his neck and back, despite the twinge of pain that caused. “I don’t want to hold you up, or interrupt…whatever the hell this is.”

Daredevil snorted. “Don’t mind Wade, he’s just like that. Are you sure you want to leave, though? You don’t have to just now if you think you should rest more.”

“I have work tomorrow,” Peter shrugged. “Fighting crime doesn’t pay, unfortunately.”

It wasn’t because of work. He couldn’t let either of them see the fact that his bruises were already healing. He couldn’t let them see that the stab-wound was already stitching back together, and would be closed over in two days. He couldn’t let them see his powers, and have them tie him back to Spider-man, to the life he left behind.

He needed to get out of there, and fast. He also, however, needed to stay calm, to not alert the two of them to what was going on in his head. He needed to act rational, but not out of character.

“You’re going to go to work with a stab wound?” Daredevil asked, and the incredulous tone was not lost on Peter.

He shrugged. “I mean, I’ll probably get sent home if my boss finds out, but I’ll get free food out of it anyway…”

“I’ve killed someone for a burger, I get that,” Deadpool chirped.

“Wade.”

“Dude,” Peter sighed. “That’s…”

“Wrong? Probably. He hurt a kid though. He deserved it as much as I wanted that cheeseburger.”

“Wade!”

Peter just shrugged. Some people did deserve it, and he was no stranger to that. That didn’t mean he had to like the idea of murder, though.

“What’s your name?” Deadpool asked, his tone suddenly serious.

“You called me Shadow, yesterday,” Peter shrugged. “That works for me. Where are my clothes?”

Daredevil sighed. “I’ll go get them.”

Peter whispered his thanks and waited, and let himself be led into a bathroom to change. 

He looked like he’d been hit by a fucking truck. Mottled blacks, blues, purples, and greens covered his chest, face, arms and back, and the red gauze on his abdomen did nothing to help him look like the picture of health. His eye bags were the worst he’d ever seen them, and he wondered when he let himself slip this far.

He’d never let himself get this bad before. Never so unhealthy, never so fucking careless. What on earth had happened out there last night?

Peter changed quickly, walking back out and heading to the window.

“Kid, you got a phone?”

“What?” Peter asked, frozen in place.

“For vigilante work – a burner phone,” Daredevil explained, glaring at Deadpool.

“Oh, no. I don’t.”

Daredevil threw what looked like a tiny black brick at him, and Peter caught it effortlessly. 

“It’s a burner. It’s got my number, Wade's number, and Claire’s number – you were out like a light when getting treated, but she was the nurse who patched you up last night. Text or call if you need us.”

Peter nodded, turning the phone over in his hands. It was a piece of shit, and Peter knew it would run so slow. He made a mental note to fix it up a bit, to make it safer to use, too. 

Peter waved goodbye, and left through the window without another word.

***

DD: Patrol?

SW: yeah, i’m patrolling tonight.

DD: Good. Wade’s missed you.

SW: disgusting

Peter, Daredevil, and Deadpool had started patrolling together more often than not, after that fateful night. At first, Daredevil would catch him on patrol, check up on him, and then go back to doing what he was doing.

Soon, it turned into hour-long talks on a rooftop, then into sharing patrol routes, then into patrolling together. Wade would join them too, making their lives a living Hell, but in the end, the reaction the three of them would get from criminals made it worth it.

The first time the three of them had stopped somebody together, a fully grown man had pissed his pants, before passing out. Gross, but objectively hilarious. Peter was allowed to enjoy the little things in life.

Wade had started calling the three of them Team Red. Which, of course, did not make any fucking sense, because Peter wasn’t wearing red anymore. When he pointed that out, Wade wordlessly handed Peter a blood-red bracelet to wear.

Peter puts it on before going out every night.

He knew he shouldn’t have let this happen, though. He was starting to enjoy their company, starting to trust them, and he was scared. He was scared of Parker Luck, of ruining the good thing he had going by telling them things about himself, about letting people in again. 

He was getting careless, too complacent. He needed to be more careful. He needed to make sure nobody got too close, too deep into his life before they lost the chance to get out of it. He couldn’t let them get hurt.

He didn’t want these guys – who were like older brothers to him, now, and wasn’t that scary to admit? – to die on him, all because he entered their lives. Because he’d had the nerve to decide he didn’t actually want to be alone anymore.

He’d debated telling them more about his life outside of Shadow often, wondering if it could really be that bad. But as he would go to speak, his throat would close up, and he wouldn’t be able to say what he’d wanted to. It was too much, too soon. It had only been roughly six months since Mysterio, and he was only eighteen.

He didn’t want to be the catalyst that would destroy their lives. He didn’t want to be the one to cause the blowup, the explosive reaction of being let in, and reciprocating the trust the two men so clearly had in him.

But…surely a little information, a little truth here and there couldn’t hurt…right?

“Why’d you become a vigilante anyway, Shadow?” Daredevil asked. “And don’t copy my lines again and say ‘I need to, it’s my job’ or some bullshit, I want an actual answer – if you’re willing.”

“Wait, you said that to him?” Deadpool asked. “To Red?”

“Should I not have?” Peter asked, shrugging. “He asked, I answered. I’d just met this fuckhead when he asked.”

“No no, just – that’s what he tells everyone – Red, are you sure you don’t have a long lost family member out there that’s oddly Shadow-shaped?”

“Yes, Wade,” Daredevil sighed. “Anyway – Shadow?”

Peter shrugged his shoulders. He debated lying again, saying that he felt like he had to, but…he wanted to let these guys in. Just a little. Even though it was downright terrifying to do.

“Because…when there are things you can do that others can’t, and you choose not to, and bad things happen? That’s on you. It’s like my Uncle told me – with great power comes great responsibility, and all that.”

Wade – as the man had forced Peter to call him – and Daredevil were quiet for a moment. 

“Your Uncle must be one hell of a man, Shadow,” Wade said, his voice softer than usual.

“Yeah,” Peter said. “He was.”

***

“Should we help him?” Peter asked, standing next to Wade, but still keeping his distance. 

“Which one?” Wade asked, looking at the scene before them with glee.

Daredevil was fist fighting Frank fucking Castle. On a rooftop. In the middle of Hell’s Kitchen. For, apparently, no fucking reason. 

The three of them were patrolling, and Daredevil had just…stopped. Dead in his tracks. Sniffed the air, growled, and then shot off like a rocket, clambering up a building and letting out what could only be described as an exaggerated war-cry.

By the time Peter and Wade had joined Daredevil on the roof, Frank Castle had him in a headlock, and was threatening to throw Daredevil off of it. 

“Uh…either of them?” Peter asked, tilting his head to try and make sense of…whatever the hell was going on. It looked far too orchestrated to be an actual fight, but Peter was clueless.

“Nah. This is how they greet each other, really.”

“Get back here, altar boy!”

“Go fuck yourself!” Daredevil growled, diving after Frank again.

“You wouldn’t be able to watch it if I did,” Frank cursed, dodging Daredevil’s kick to the ribs with ease.

Peter snorted, the jab reminding him of a lawyer he’d had before…all of this had happened. The ‘really good…lawyer’ – oh. Shit. 

Peter knew where he’d heard that voice now, when he’d first met Daredevil. He knew he recognised him from somewhere, despite never actually having met the vigilante before.

Because Daredevil was Matt Murdock, a lawyer in Hell’s Kitchen, at Nelson, Murdock and Page. Shit. Shit.  

He knew him. Peter actually knew Daredevil, in and out of the suit. But, of course, Daredevil – Matt – didn’t know Peter. Not anymore. His memories of Peter would have been replaced with memories of Spider-man, the story twisting in Matt’s mind to make sense for the context that was now changed in his memory.

He was trying to avoid this. He was trying to avoid people from his old life, people that did not need to be brought into his cluster-fuck of a life anymore, and unknowingly, Peter had done it. He had brought someone back into his mess. 

He felt…relieved, though. It was nice, he supposed, having someone he knew from before. Even if the man didn’t know him anymore.

Wait. Matt Murdock was fucking blind. Surely Daredevil wasn’t…there was no way.

Daredevil was dragged around, and Peter got a good look at his face, and…no. Yeah. Peter was good with faces, he remembered everyone he interacted with, burned their features into his brain so he’d never forget someone’s name. This man was absolutely Matthew Murdock, the blind lawyer.

How the fuck?  

That…oh that’s so impressive, actually. 

“You alright there, buddy?” Wade asked, worry lacing his tone.

“Huh? Oh, yeah, I’m okay. Just remembering something.”

“Do I need to kill anyone?” Wade demanded, facing Peter and basically staring into his soul.

“What, no! Oh my god I didn’t mean it like that–

“Just making sure,” Wade smiled. “Are you boys done now?” he called out, clapping his hands.

“I s'pose,” Frank grunted. 

‘Jesus, he’s like a more unhinged version of Mr Bucky,’ Peter thought. 

“Who’s the new guy?” Frank asked, pointing at Peter. 

“He’s the Shadow everybody is so scared of,” Matt replied, smirking at Peter. 

Frank whistled in response, while all Peter did to respond was shrug. It’s not his fault people seem to be scared of a little anger.

“Are you two done flirting? I do actually want to get shit done, tonight,” Peter asked, crossing his arms.

Frank grinned. “Oh, I like this guy.”

Peter grinned back, as Matt in the background promptly lost his shit, raging on and on about how he wasn’t flirting with Frank fucking Castle, he’d rather die than think of Frank like that–

“Dude, I was kidding,” Peter deadpanned. “Calm the fuck down.”

***

As soon as Claire walked out the front door, Peter let himself go. Before, he was standing still, breathing evenly, the picture-perfect example of keeping calm under pressure.

Now? He let the mask slip and fall to the floor, showing his true feelings on the situation at hand.

Matt had snapped his leg clean in two, landing wrong after a jump. He’d needed Peter to call Claire, while Wade carried him to his apartment building. A trail of blood from the gash where Matt’s bone was sticking out of his leg followed them.

Safe to say, Peter was freaking out the whole time. He’d clearly hidden it well, if the shocked looks Wade and Matt were now giving him were any indication. His breath hitched and Peter paced the room, his hands violently trembling.

“Shadow, I’m fine,” Matt soothed. “It’s just a break.”

“Yeah, a break where your fucking bone was sticking out of your goddamned leg!” Peter replied, hysterical. “That’s not fine. You needed a hospital.”

“Claire sorted it,” Matt sighed.

“We also don’t really do hospitals, kid,” Wade replied, a small smile on his face, though he sounded worried. “Too many questions, and not enough ways to lie about it.”

“It was a clean break, Shadow. The bone is relocated fine, the wound is stitched, and it’s braced well. I am okay,” Matt reiterated, shaking his head. “I’ve had so much worse.”

“That’s – ugh, that’s not the point!” Peter snapped, walking around to face him. “How are you so fucking calm right now? Are you not worried about how you’re going to explain that in your civilian life?”

“No, because most people typically don’t ask me questions about injuries,” Matt smirked.

Right, he was blind. He could just use that as an excuse, in the ways of hate-crimes, being clumsy, crossing the road at the wrong time – d amn that must be useful, in a way.

“You – Jesus fucking Christ.”

“Kid, I swear he’s okay,” Wade said, keeping his voice steady. “He really has had so much worse. To him? This is nothing.”

“Yes, because that makes me feel so much better, thank you Wade,” Peter growled, running a hand through his hair.

“Why are you so worked up?” Matt asked, tilting his head. “You’ve seen me get injured before, but you’ve never lost your cool like this before.”

“Because the injuries you’ve had before – that I’ve seen, mind you – haven’t been this bad! Christ, you could at least fucking act like you’re the only one without super-healing!”

As silence cascaded the apartment, Peter realised what he’d said, what information he’d just given them. He sighed, and sat down on the couch in front of Matt, his head in his hands. They were still trembling.

“I’m sorry, I’m the only one without what?”

“Did you just imply you have super-healing, Shadow?” Wade asked, genuine excitement in his tone.

“Don’t sound so excited, Wade, it’s not as pretty as it sounds.”

“Is that why you were in such a rush to leave my apartment when you got stabbed?” Matt asked.

“Partially,” Peter admitted. “It’s a little hard to gaslight people into thinking two days is the normal time for a stab-wound to close over. Especially vigilante’s who have actually been stabbed before.”

“Two days?” Matt deadpanned. 

“If I have enough food, it’s usually overnight,” Peter admitted. 

He didn’t know why he was telling them this. He didn’t know why he was letting them in – but, he did know one thing. These bitches were fucking stubborn, and he was so tired of lying.  

“...How?” Wade asked, resting his head on his hand.

“Wade,” Matt hissed.

“No, it’s fine,” Peter sighed. “It was a long time coming, I suppose.”

“What was?” Wade asked. “Ooh, tell me the gossip!”

Peter shook his head. While he found himself hesitating, he also found himself relaxing. He wanted to tell them. He actually wanted to give them this information, this little piece of the puzzle that was his life in all its fucked up glory.

“I’m Spider-man,” Peter sighed, wringing his hands together.

“Sorry,” Wade said after a pause. “Did I hear that right? You. You are Spiderman? ”

“Spider-man,” Peter replied. “You gotta say it with the hyphen, Wade. I can tell you’re not.”

“How can you tell if I’m saying it with the hyphen–”

“Super-hearing,” Peter interrupted, deadpan. “I can hear it. Really well, in fact.”

“...Huh,” Matt said. “I wasn’t expecting that.”

“I figured,” Peter shrugged. “I haven’t exactly gotten a reputation for being friendly recently.”

“No, you have not,” Matt mused, smirking. Something told Peter that Matt preferred this version of him.

Peter shrugged, and let the conversation lull into silence. God, he was so tired. He didn’t know what else to say, and was silently willing anyone, either of them, to start asking more questions, to get the awkward tension out of the room. 

“Where did you go? Why stop?” Wade asked, sitting down in front of Peter, next to Matt. 

‘This feels like an intervention,’ Peter thought, before sighing. “Sometimes, people only learn to love what they have once it’s gone. New York didn’t want Spider-man. So I left. Simple.”

Peter could tell by the look on their faces that they could tell he wasn’t giving them everything. He could also tell they weren’t going to pester him about it. While they were stubborn, they were respectful of his boundaries, his need to keep  his identity, his life a secret. 

They’d both been there, Matt more than Wade. Especially since Matt didn’t actually know that Peter even knew him. 

“Are you going to go back to being Spider-man?” Wade asked him, thankfully hyphenating the name this time. He was a fast learner, that one.

“Maybe. I want to, but…”

“You don’t want to leave Shadow behind,” Matt finished for him, nodding his head.

“Exactly. I…I’ve seen too much, been put through too much for me to go back to being the happy, kind, friendly neighbourhood Spider-man. Some people don’t deserve that treatment.”

“No, they don’t,” Matt whispered.

They lulled into silence once more. It was nice, this time, rather than awkward. Peter felt some of the weight he’d been holding lift from his spine, making him feel looser than he had in months.

While he was still scared of connection, of trust, it felt good to have people in his corner who knew something about him, even if it was just an old, on hiatus, second secret-identity.

“What powers do you have?” Matt asked.

“Super-senses, a sixth-sense that acts as weaponised anxiety, super-healing, super-strength, and I can stick to walls.”

“What,” Wade and Matt both deadpanned.

“What part of that are you reacting to?”

“All of it,” Matt replied, shaking his head. “What the fuck, kid?”

“How the fuck did that happen?” Wade asked, shaking his head. “There’s no way some of that isn’t exaggerated.”

“It’s not, and I got bitten by a radioactive spider,” Peter replied, leaning back on the couch. 

“You got what?” Matt asked, shock very evident in his voice. Honestly, Peter was enjoying this. It wasn’t often he or Wade managed to break the ‘I’m-a-grumpy-git’ exterior that Matt displayed, so he was savouring the moment.

“Forget about that, Red,” Wade shushed. “You cannot stick to fucking walls. I don’t believe you.”

Peter titled his head, wordlessly stood on the couch, raised his arm, and jumped. He felt his hand connect to the ceiling, and then kept his hold. 

“Oh my god, what the actual fuck?” Wade whispered. “How the fuck are you hanging from the ceiling? That’s not physically fucking possible, oh my god–”

***

A week passed in a blur. Neither Matt nor Wade had brought up Peter being Spider-man again, and for that he was thankful, letting him feel more relaxed around them now. He was no longer bothering to hide the creepier sides of his spider-identity, so to speak, which had some...interesting side-effects.

He would stick himself to walls pretty frequently, scaring the shit out of criminals, coming from above, and more often than not, to the sides of people. The amount of people who’d screeched like children was uncountable.

He enjoyed their terror, but they’d started whispering again, wondering if he was a new version of ‘the spider guy,’ or if they were one in the same. It made him a little nervous, but since he barely talked during fights, and he was ruthless, mean, angry, there was little to compare the two identities.

Other than the wall thing.

Exactly one week later, Matt pulled him aside. 

“I have something for you. You can tell me to shove it if you want to, but I wanted you to have it anyway,” he said.

“Sure,” Peter responded. “...Is the ‘something’ your charming presence, or?”

“No, you little shit,” Matt huffed. “We have to go get it. Are you coming or not?”

“Yeah, yeah,” Peter responded with a grin. “I’m following you, don’t worry.”

They ended up in Matt’s apartment, and Peter was ordered to stand in the living room and wait by an unnervingly excited Matt – which, truth be told, was freaking Peter out a little bit.

He comes back out no less than two minutes later, holding a bundle of fabric in his arms. In the low light, it was hard to see what it was, but when Peter stepped closer…

He saw a new suit. Specifically, a new Spider-man suit.

It’s dark. Not a bright colour in sight – almost black, actually, but visibly blue and red, with a small spider emblem on the chest. It’s thick, made of the same materials that Matt and Wade’s suits are made of, and there’s more space for weaponry, first-aid, and whatever Peter could need.

“We didn’t know how you do the…web thing, so that’s been left out, but everything else should be perfectly fine.”

Peter was shell-shocked. “The web-shooters are in my pocket, actually. I keep them on me. I just don’t use them because that seemed pretty counter-productive to the whole ‘I’m not Spider-man shtick’ I had going on.”

“Do you like it?” Matt asked, a knowing smirk adorning his half-covered face. 

Peter snatched the suit out of his arms. “I’m putting it on now. There’s your answer, asshole.”

Peter could hear Matt cackling as he adorned the suit, looking in the mirror once it was completely on. He looked…grown. He didn’t look like the image Mr Stark had tried to create for him, he didn’t look like an Avenger, and most importantly, he didn’t look like the hero his fourteen-year-old self had tried to carve himself into.

He looked like a vigilante, the exact type of hero he wanted to be. 

It was fucking perfect.

The two headed to the rooftop once Peter came out of the bathroom, Matt clapping him on the shoulder as he passed. Peter was a nervous wreck, wringing his hands together and immediately second-guessing himself as soon as he was out in the open.

Then Deadpool showed up, and screeched like a thirteen-year-old girl.

“We’re officially Team Red! Oh my goodness I am so ready for this!” Wade gasped, pointing at Peter’s wrist. “ You kept the bracelet!”

“Of course I did,” Peter huffed. “Do you really think I’d get rid of that?”

Wade squealed, again, and started to jump up and down, clapping his hands together. He looked like…well. He looked like a child hopped up on sugar.

Peter smirked under the mask. “You alright there, big guy? Did you have too much sugar today, Wade?”

Matt snorted from behind Peter. “I think he injected it into his bloodstream, by the sounds of it.”

“Sue me for being excited, ” Wade huffed. “But seriously, are you ready for this?”

“Yeah,” Peter replied softly. “I actually am…try to keep up, yeah?”

For the first time in months, Peter shot out a web and swang away, cackling at the gleeful reaction from Wade he left behind, and the bone deep sigh from Matt.

For the first time in months, Peter was happy.