Note: So, this is lead-up. Pure, unadulterated lead-up. Lead-up to the words that hopefully none of you will expect.

Anyway. I do not own Spider-Man. Please review, comment, or criticize. Most of all, enjoy.


The Spectacular Spider-Dad

Chapter 7

Assumptions


Peter crouched on the edge of the rooftop, looking at the very run-down building across the street.

"So, how do you want handle this?" He asked, turning to Matt. Matt had his helmet off, head cocked to one side, eyes shut, nostrils wide open.

"Most of them are all inside two rooms deep in the building," Matt said, eyes opening. "Maybe two guards by the back entrance, we-" He stopped, straightening and looking down either side of the road. Peter followed his gaze. Police cars and dark vans were streaming up on both sides. Within seconds, the building was surrounded by cars; an equal mix of cops and goons kicking in the doors and holding a perimeter outside.

"Well, this all looks very legal and wholesome and not in any way illicit." Peter snarked as gunshots rang out from within the building. Cops and goons began exiting a few minutes later, trailing Chechens and their captives. "Standard Dramatic Entrance Protocol?" Peter asked.


Sergeant Gates was siting in his car, keeping an eye on a rather unorthodox operation, when a large red metal stick plowed through his windshield. Getting out in a hurry and trying to scream for calm over the various screams of other people, he had a great view as Daredevil dropped down from the roof of the building he was helping raid and land on the roof of the car across from him. His shouts went unheard, and half the cops and non-affiliates there were about to react on instinct when a series of wet blasting sounds rang out and suddenly every man and woman holding a gun found it tearing out of their hands and sticking to the ground. Gates tried to suppress a groan of anguish as Spider-Man dropped down on top of his car.

"Now, I know exactly what this looks like," Gates began to say, "And, I swear, hand to God," He crossed one hand over his chest and held the other up, "It ain't what you two are thinking."

One of the men of questionable repute, Gates recalled his name was MacReady, old associate of the Silveretti family before Fisk bought him off, came striding out of the building, holding a…

"What the hell is that?" Gates demanded.

"Building clear?" MacReady asked.

"Yes, but-"

"You're gonna want to step back then." MacReady pressed a lever in on the device he was holding. Seconds later, the building exploded floor by floor. Gates reached to cover his face with his hands in disbelief, then turned to Daredevil. "Just knock me out, please. I'd really prefer just waking up with a head injury and explaining things to people besides you from there."


Peter slid down onto the park bench and tried his best to look casual. The blocked-number text had asked him to meet, and while he was fairly certain he knew who it was, he couldn't help but be nervous. Especially since he was back in the game, however temporarily, he tried to tell himself. He heard someone sit down on the bench behind him.

"Don't turn around, just keep looking ahead." Phil told him from the other bench as he pulled a newspaper out of his bag and took a sip of the coffee he was carrying.

"Is the spy-run-around really necessary?" Peter asked.

"Paranoia comes with the job, but that's not all of it." Phil sighed. "Fury said you'd be kept informed, I'm here to keep you informed. Honestly, even if you weren't supposed to be kept informed, I'd be here anyway."

"I appreciate that, Phil." They sat there for a minute, basking in the mutual respect and friendship. "So, what you guys find?"

"That museum job was a bunch of guns-for-hire, paid quite well in cash funneled through about six different shell companies before it reached the same continent as their bank accounts." Phil took another sip. "We traced as much of the money as we could, lead us to a Sammy Sikes. Works for Wilson Fisk." Phil had expected further questions, but only got silence. "Peter?" He broke paranoia-protocol and turned in his seat. To find an empty bench.

"How'd he do that?" Phil asked himself. "I'm the secret agent super-spy. That's my thing. He shouldn't be able to do my thing to me."


"This wasn't what we settled on, Fisk." Wilson Fisk turned from his wide-windowed view of the city and gazed sardonically at Captain Jean DeWolff.

"I believe what we settled on was an earnest co-operation, Captain. As far as I can tell-"

"Save it. When you came to me with this scheme of yours, I only agreed because I assumed you'd show some restraint." DeWolff looked positively livid. "Blowing up a building is rather the opposite of that. We already had the men responsible in custody, so why'd you go and-"

"Perhaps it's because I place slightly less faith in the justice system than you do, Captain. How many years did it take for me to finally be prosecuted?" Fisk let the question hang. "Shows of force are going to be necessary for some enterprises, especially if we intend to continue in this manner. In any case -"

Fisk stopped, and DeWolff turned, at the sounds of commotion outside his office door. Grunts of pain and the occasional gunshot. A few seconds later, a man came crashing through the large wooden double-doors, breaking them off their hinges. Spider-Man, dragging Wesley by his tie, stepped through the shattered doorway and fixed Fisk with an obvious death glare, and DeWolff with one of disappointment. The costumed man dropped Wesley to the floor, and started walking slowly towards Fisk's desk.

"Whatever it is you think you're here about, I can assure you, it's not-"

"Shut up." Fisk could almost feel the temperature in the room drop at those words, at the tone the normally jovial superhero used. "How'd you know?"

"Know wha-" Fisk didn't get the chance to finish. In a flash, a red-and-blue leg slammed into his desk, and suddenly he was being pushed backwards by his flying desk into the window so hard, the industrial-strength glass cracked. A fist punched straight through a few inches of hardened mahogany, then tore the whole desk in two.

"I'm not in the mood for coy, Fisk. How'd. You. Know?" Fisk truly couldn't help the chill running down his spine, hearing such dangerous intent coming from this particular man.

"I told you, I don't-" Hands seized his throat. Arms, stronger than he'd ever remembered them being, lifted him clean off his feet and slammed him against the window, lengthening the cracks. Fisk grabbed at the arms, the hands, tried to pry them loose, and found… he couldn't. He had a moment to reflect, with astonishment and a little terror, that in all the years he and the man before him had been fighting, one of them had always been holding back. Considerably so, it seemed. Then the fingers around his neck began to tighten. Began to choke him.


So, justifiably angry Peter cliffhanger. Also, there's a reason I brought Fisk back, and there's a reason DeWolff is working with him. And much like the words Fisk and Peter will be having next chapter, the project they're tackling together (and the underlying reason Fisk is back in New York) also isn't what you probably think it is.