Chapter Text
June 7th 2016. Rhodey’s POV
“I’m telling you, this guy is completely nuts! Like, we had guns and he just went at us like we were waving toys. My buddy shot him in the leg and— He didn’t stop. He barely winced, and then he webbed us up like it was nothing. He’s either immortal, or suicidal. There is no other explanation. ”
Rhodey sighed. It was the third time this month that a criminal expressed worry about Spider-Man’s mental health. Nine months of increasingly reckless behavior. And he wasn’t the only one to have taken notice of it.
Each day came with a new scathing article by J. Jonah Jameson, exploring new ways to accuse the masked vigilante from endangering the good people of New-York with his foolhardy stunts. One headline from the past month still haunted him.
Could it be that the red suit serves to hide the blood of Spider-man’s victims?
The photo beneath showed the vigilante in the rain, his suit leaking wine-colored water. Your average reader might have assumed dye, but to someone trained to read physical evidence, it told a story of untreated injuries, fresh layered over old.
Rhodey had filled enough reports to know the vigilante was anything but violent for violence’s sake. In fact, he often went out of his way to ensure his opponents came out of their fights with minimal injuries. No, whatever blood stained that suit was his own, and when confronted with recent footage, it was a miracle the guy could still fight at all. He wasn’t completely unaffected though. Slower reflexes, unsteady stance and exhaustion visible in every movement proved how stretched thin Spider-Man was. And Rhodey was done standing by.
He pulled out his phone, dialing the only number that could help with the situation at hand.
“Tones, I need a favor.”
“Whoa, what happened to ‘hello, how’s your day Tony?’”
“Fine. Good evening Tony, how are you tonight?”
“Better before that tone of yours. What’s up?”
“Remember that vigilante I keep telling you about?”
“The Spider Guy? What about him?”
“I’ve had criminals tell me he fought like he had a death wish again.”
“What’s up with that?”
“It’s like the third time this month.”
“We’re only on the seventh, though?”
“ Exactly. ”
“And what do you want me to do about it? I’m no shrink.”
“I want all the information you can get on the guy. I’m making this personal. And I need you to go talk to him.”
“You want me to go talk to your creepy bug-man? Why do you even care about that dude?”
“ He kinds of remind me of you.”
“I make you a suit and that’s the thanks I get? Being compared to a crawling vigilante in a onesie?”
“You know what it’s like to lose yourself trying to help everyone else. I think he’s less suicidal than… guilty. Trying to atone from something we don’t know about. And if he dies out there, Queens loses the one guy still holding it together. Besides, it’s not like he’ll let me talk to him. It’s like the guy got a cop radar, because even out of uniform, the moment any officer gets close, he bolts.”
“ … I’ll see what I can do.”
“Thank you Tones. You rock.”
“Yeah I know.”
The line cut and Rhodey sighed, going back to his reports. A neat stack of files was waiting for him. A few phone logs and surveillance review to thumb through, a noise complaint and a lost pet report that had somehow gotten on his desk, and his major cases that were still waiting for his attention. One was a suspected alien-tech homicide that needed to be passed on to S.H.I.E.L.D.
The other was a missing-child report. Peter Benjamin Parker, age 15. Reported missing 8 months ago by his guidance counselor. 5’7, brown eyes, brown hair. Ward of the state after his aunt’s death two months prior to the disappearance. Last seen leaving Midtown School of Science and Technology. Presumed runaway.
The trail had gone cold months ago but when the previous officer on the case had given up, Rhodey had taken the case himself. He knew he was holding on to a ghost but something about it didn’t sit right.
He got up to grab a mug of coffee. This was going to be a long night.
***
Tony’s POV
“Friday? What do we know about the arachno-dude?”
“Spider-Man is a vigilante primarily operating in Queens, with frequent appearances in Manhattan during daytime hours. Patrols seem to focus on lower income and higher crime areas. Favors rooftops travels. He has a pronounced Queens accent and a tendency to verbally antagonize opponents. Voice analysis suggests the use of a modulator, making precise age determination impossible.”
“So a chatty parkour hobbyist in costume. Got it.”
“He has been active for two years, one month, and eleven days. His current patrol window averages between ten a.m. and three a.m. Previously, activity concentrated between six p.m. and two a.m., but that shifted roughly eight months ago.”
“Shifted? Why?”
“No clear causes. Times suggest possible changes in employment schedule.”
“So the guy got fired and instead of finding a job he decided to go fight criminals full time.”
“Known abilities include the generation of web-like structures, enhanced strength, wall adhesion, and possible super-hearing and accelerated healing. It remains unclear whether these are the result of technological augmentation or biological mutation. Overlaps with recent fires, mugging and burglary reports suggests access to emergency channels.”
“So he’s either got a mutant with a scanner app or a tech enthusiast with too much time. Got it.”
“Estimated height: five foot eight. Current suit appears to be a customized combination of joggers and a pajama top. Ninety-five percent match to a commercially available set. Reinforced stitching indicates repeated damage and unskilled repairs.”
“…You’re telling me New York’s most famous vigilante is fighting crime in his pajamas?”
“That is correct, sir.”
“Great. Because nothing screams ‘professional hero’ like bedtime fashion meet terrible seamstress.”
“Additional note: reports of increasingly reckless behavior have been filed over the past nine months, closely followed by the change in activity hours. Despite consistent negative press from the Daily Bugle, public sentiment remains largely positive. Slandering articles are mainly written by J. Jonas Jameson, and all pictures provided source from a freelance photographer called Benjamin Riles.
“Last confirmed sighting: Fifteenth Street.”
“Any recent injuries?”
“According to police and civilian reports, Spider-Man sustained a gunshot wound to the left leg and two stab wounds within the last five days.”
“Fuck. And he’s still going?”
“Based on footage, yes. He is favoring his right leg and hunching over more. Breathing erratic. Movement speed decreased 29 percent.”
“ …Yeah. Because nothing says “fine” like limping through rooftops at three a.m… Alright. Assemble the suit. And send a copy of this to Rhodey.”
***
Tony’s POV
Tony had no will whatsoever to go play therapist to some random dude in a onesie. But Rhodey had asked. And if his best friend was out asking favors, that had to be important.
So here he was, suited-up at three a.m., chasing what must have been the stubbornest vigilante in the entirety of the United States. And that was counting the X-mens…
“Listen kid, we don’t have to do this, I just want to talk.”
“That’s how it starts and then I end up signing stupid papers giving away my identity. No thank you Tin Man!”
“I’m not here for the Accords!”
“Then stop chasing me!”
Tony was ready to give up and to call it a night, sorry Rhodey your bug boy is too stubborn, when Spider-Man’s web stretched thin and snapped mid jump. The vigilante went plummeting down and Tony’s heart skipped a beat. He couldn’t get there in time! But somehow, the guy managed to stick one web up at the last second, and nearly missed the ground. He swung there, looking about to topple over.
“S- Stay away. I just need a- a minute.”
The Iron Man suit landed right next to him and Tony walked out. The guy had a ragged breath and he smelled of copper.
“Yeah, no. Sorry man you lost your brooding privilege the moment you almost gave me a heart attack. What the hell was that?!”
“Just- Web malfunction. Give it a minute and I’ll be ready to go again.”
“Like hell I’m letting you swing back home like this. You look like shit. No offense.”
“None taken.”
“We need to talk about how you keep getting stabbed though. Only mutants with crazy regenerative abilities can afford to ignore knives and guns the way you do. And seeing with the state you’re in right now, they aren’t kicking in. You have three stab wounds Kid, act like it. Avoid getting more.”
“It’s only two, and I stitched them. I’m fine. And don’t call me Kid.”
“Oh right, you stitched them. That makes it sooo much better. Do you have a martyr complex or are you just plain suicidal? Because, newsflash kid. You can still rip them open, you can still bleed out or get them infected. And guess what? You can’t save anyone if you’re bleeding out in an alley.”
“That’s none of your business. I had it handled. Leave me alone.”
“No, no. We are not done here. You call it handled but you are so reckless even criminal notices. People start to worry about you. So you shut up and listen. Stitches aren’t a magical solution. Especially with your seamstress talents if I can judge from your suit. Besides, pain is distracting, I would know. Unless you have enough painkillers in your blood to knock out a horse, you should be nowhere close a fight. And if you do, well we have other problems. So you’re gonna let me check you up and patch you before you bleed out right there.”
“Leave me alone, I don’t need your help.”
“No can’t do. I ain’t leaving until I’m sure you won’t go swinging straight into a building the moment I turn my back, though luck kid.”
“I’m not a kid, stop calling me that.”
“I’ll stop calling you a kid when you stop acting like a petulant child. But that ain’t happening any time soon so suck it up, buttercup. Now stand still while I check you over.”
“If you move one step closer, I’ll bolt.”
“Friday?”
“Scan shows multiple shallow lacerations across thoracic and abdominal regions. Two deeper punctures on the left flank. One bullet graze on the upper thigh. Partial healing, no infection yet. Body temperature low. Evidence of prolonged sleep deprivation and caloric deficit.”
“It’s really not as bad as she makes it out to be.”
“Yeah, no. It’s probably worse. You won’t let me take you to medbay will you?”
“No chance.”
“Alright then. Take this med kit. And use it. I’ll know if you don’t.”
“I’m no charity case! You can’t just toss me a medkit like that!”
“Of course I can. I’m Tony Stark. I’m also ordering pizza so get ready to riot if it arrives cold.”
Spider-Man snorted. Okay so the kid could laugh, good.
“You better order pepperoni then.”
“It should get here in about 20 minutes.”
Spider-man sat down, and so did Tony. The vigilante sighed and opened the medkit with side glances to the hero. Tony pretended not to notice the shaky hands or the hisses through the mask as he started cleaning wounds. But a side glance confirmed what he already knew. The guy sucked at stitches. For a while neither of them said anything. Tony could have left. Maybe he should have. But he stayed. Until the shaking stopped. Until the kid had inhaled the food like he hadn’t eaten in months.
“Should I have ordered more? You destroyed that thing!”
“Eh, fast metabolism. I’m always hungry.”
“Alright. Are you good to swing back home or would you like a ride?”
“Like hell I’m letting you give me a ride.”
“Figured. Here’s my number. Call if it gets worse.”
“What if I don’t?”
“Then I’ll come looking, and we can have a repeat of this conversation. Without falling hundred feet below first, preferably. See you around, Spider-Guy!”
And just like that, Tony walked back into the suit and flew in the distance.