Chapter Summary: And, somehow, this feels like betrayal.
His arms reach up to the evermore
A cedar growing and grasping for the skies
Branching outward, branching in
As time, itself, devised
There was a swooping noise as the lithe body of Daredevil jumped gracefully from the roof of a building and onto the pavement beside Peter. His suit was scuffed and there was a shallow cut bleeding sluggishly on his jaw but he didn't seem to mind.
"I didn't know when I'd see you again," Daredevil remarked casually.
Eyes widening in shock, Peter gaped at the other man.
"We – we haven't met," Peter said, hoping Daredevil didn't somehow guess his identity.
"I've got good senses, Spidey. Don't worry about it," he soothed, shrugging his shoulders a little.
Peter rocked back onto his heels, hands stuffed into his pockets as he sniffed as if to smother his anxiety.
"Yeah, well, it's not like we shared numbers or anything. This is kind of the only way I could contact you," he said.
Daredevil barked a short laugh, sounding almost surprised, before crossing his arms and leaning against the jagged brick wall of the alleyway. Peter joined him, shuffling awkwardly to the wall to fold himself into a seated position on the ground.
"What brings you here?" Daredevil asked though Peter suspected he already knew – somewhat.
There was a large pause as Peter tried to gather the courage to say something, anything, that would help him or at least convey that something was wrong.
(Though screaming in the middle of the street for Hell's Kitchen's vigilante might have already clued the man into that.)
"I – " he started, halting to take a deep breath.
(The space between breaths sometimes makes him feel like he's drowning. As if a lack of oxygen for only a moment is the same as the rush of cool water filling one's lungs. As if choking on nothing can compare to a silent and futile scream for survival underneath the surface of a black and depthless sea.
Sometimes, though, he thinks it does compare rather nicely. If one thought that the horrible, anxious feeling of being short of breath was nice, that is.)
"It – it's hard to explain," Peter said, though it was very easy to explain.
(What was difficult was the act of actually saying it.)
Daredevil hummed in acquiescence.
"Well, I can't say I have all night, but I can wait as long as it takes for me to hear something criminal going on," he told Peter, not unkindly.
"Sorry," Peter muttered reflexively, "sorry, I just – "
He made a strange breathless noise through his nose as if he was laughing without actually making a sound. His shoulders shook as he curled his face towards his hand. The burn of a serrated and sharpened knife scraping at the lining of his throat made him cough wetly into his hands.
"I – I just can't say it," he said, biting his lip in distress.
"What can you say?" Daredevil asked patiently and, after a pause to consider his words, Peter tasted triumph on his tongue.
(He could do that. He could speak indiscriminate words that tied together like string tangling on a spool. He could say things that meant nothing and everything at the same time. He could say things that knotted meaning into the framework of his soul.
He had words, no matter how vacant.)
He choked it out, his eyes pleading for something – he just didn't know what. "When I was 9," he rasped, his voice more a grating sob than coherent words, "I had a baby sitter.
"He came back and it – I don't know what to do anymore," he said, his words cold on his lips as he spoke
They collected in the air like snowflakes gleaming in the light of the city. Dangling from his mouth, icicles twisted like daggers off his tongue.
His nails scratched at his scalp as he rocked forward onto his toes. He sniffled and laughed, smiling with bitterness so fierce it tore cracks of age into his face until he looked ancient with all the resentment he harbored.
(He sits there with scars in his mind, his body, his life and wonders if they notice. Do you think they'll see what has happened to bring him here today?
Sitting - closed legs, closed eyes, closed corner of a mind - in the starlight of the far-off sun like he has stopped for prayer. He is in reverie, a question mark on all tongues.
What has happened to him? Who is he and why?
He wants to ask. He wants to be asked.
He wants to understand and be understood in equal measures. He wants to notice the unspoken malice hiding in words that slowly chip craters into skin. He wants to say what he means without saying anything at all. He wants to know the truth behind drunken insults and the meaning of a stranger's smile curving like a flower petal off their face.)
"I – I'm breaking apart. And it, it feels like the world is burning and I'm stuck behind; frozen," Peter whispered slowly, eyes unfocused and lost, "left to deal with things I can't control. The only thing that feels real, feels important about me, is Spider-Man. Helping people, it's, the only thing I'm living for anymore."
"You can't help others if you break yourself apart," Daredevil counseled, his voice soft and slow like a lullaby that purred out from deep within his chest, "it will only lead you to ruin."
Peter paused, looking up to the sky. His view was blocked by fire escapes and the crisscross of powerlines winding through the air. He clutched a hand to his chest and felt his heart pound like a marching band stomping against the fragile skin of his ribcage. His pulse fluttered like the wings of a butterfly jumping erratically underneath his skin.
"What," he started, his torso swelling with air as he took a deep breath to gather himself, "what if I want to fall apart? To 'ruin' myself?"
A long silence fell as Daredevil paused to assemble his thoughts. It made Peter's palms sweat and he rubbed them nervously on the denim of his jeans.
(There was a shipwreck in his heart. Feeding sharks lazily circled it looking for prey in the jagged wreckage of his love.
He was already a ruin. He just hadn't quite acknowledged how that brokenness might affect him.
He just hadn't acknowledged that his mind had more room to decay.)
"I can only hope you don't," Daredevil eventually said, face solemn, "for your sake, and this city's.
"You do a lot of good, kid. You don't deserve anything less than to thrive. You deserve more than whatever's happening to you. You can take back control of your life. I know you can."
"But what if – what if I can't? What if there's something preventing me from ever being happy? Being – being real?" Peter asked desperately, his hands shaking his knees as he squeezed them underneath his trembling fingers.
"What would that be?" Daredevil asked, sliding down to join him on the ground, "you seem real enough to me."
Peter laughed bitterly, "But does that matter to me? Does it mean anything if you find my existence meaningful when I watch the world go by without feeling anything?"
"I think it matters. Frankly, I think you matter more than you're giving yourself credit for."
"Well, I think – I think that, it's one thing to be seen and another to be known. Me, I'm just seen. But Spider-Man, he's known. He's real and tangible and people – people can feel the impact he has. Me? I'm just another kid from Queens. I'm not – I'm not important. My existence in and of itself is just an inconvenience. Everything about me is, it's just inconvenient."
"Yeah?" Daredevil asked, "what's your name?"
"Peter, Peter Parker," he responded, face turned to his lap.
"What do you like to do for fun? Besides being Spider-Man," he added when Peter opened his mouth to respond.
"Well, I," Peter said, frowning a little, "I guess I like to take pictures and I'm pretty good at chemistry.
Mr. Stark says I'm good at tech too, but I think he's just being nice."
Humming, Daredevil pulled out one of his Billy Club's and tapped it softly against the asphalt. He flipped it in his palm before smacking the flat side against the ground and holding it there, perpendicular to the tarmac.
"Have you ever made anything cool?" Daredevil asked, seeming genuinely interested.
"I made my webs from scratch," Peter said cautiously before quirking a small smile, "that's pretty cool."
"So, they don't come from your wrist? Guess everyone was wrong on that one," Daredevil commented, smiling serenely.
"They – what?!" Peter asked, horrified, "People thought it came from my wrists?!"
"Yeah," Daredevil replied, amused, "there are whole debates on your powers and what they entail."
"Huh," Peter said, face slack with disbelief, "that's slightly mortifying."
"Some people think I'm the literal devil so don't get too worried about it," he consoled, rocking his club slightly in his hands, "I'm sure one day people will know the truth."
"Yeah," Peter said as he sighed, face turning melancholy with indecision, "one day."
"That day doesn't have to be today, kid. But," Daredevil grimaced, leaning his head back against the brick, "it needs to be soon."
"Why is that?" Peter asked with a furrowed brow, swiveling his head to glance at Daredevil.
The visible parts of the man's face looked as though they were carved from stone. His expressions grated together into a granite silhouette that shined like rubies in the night lights. Determination dripped from his profile like a river carving its' way through the Earth – a constant and unchanging force cascading forward to reach its' goal.
"Because," Daredevil said, his voice almost dark in its deep tenor and it made Peter shiver a little as an instinctual cold dread swept down his spine.
(Skip's voice was like honeyed liquor, so rich you could inebriate yourself from the drawled syllables alone.)
"If you don't do something, I'll do it for you," he finished gravely.
Peter's heart stopped in his chest. Gawking with wide and wary eyes, he watched Daredevil rise fluidly from the ground. The words weren't necessarily bad, but they were ominous and final – spoken like a promise but he didn't know what it entailed.
(What is a promise to him but the certainty of pain? How many times have things been set in stone that meant something good for him?)
"You're not an inconvenience," Daredevil said, words fiercely vehement, "You deserve happiness just as much as the rest of us.
"Put your number in there and don't hesitate to call for help or even to learn how to throw a proper punch," he said as he tossed a blocky phone to Peter.
He fumbled with it for a second before gripping it tightly to his chest with sticky hands. Looking at the screen, he saw it open to a new contacts page. He quickly typed in his info with unsteady thumbs.
Unsurely passing it back to the man, he watched in slight astonishment as Daredevil took it from Peter's palm without even looking behind himself to see what to grab.
"Stay good, kid," the man said as he turned his head to the side with a smirk, "duty calls."
Flicking Peter a flimsy two-fingered salute, he scaled the building with predatory grace.
Peter slumped a little where he was sitting. His body thudded harshly against the wall. Wincing as his spine hit the angry bumps of clay poking out of the bricks, he closed his eyes and tried to ignore the feeling of aimlessness swirling like an angry hoard of bees underneath his skin. He clenched his fist in a quick motion and imagined the swoosh of air was the sound of ceramic breaking between his knuckles.
His skin felt itchy as if it was just patches of a burned soul. Clawing at his forearm, he examined his blunt fingernails as they carved thick, white lines that quickly turned pink with irritation. He squashed his fingertip against the ground and watched idly as his skin turned pale with bloodlessness.
"What am I supposed to do now?" he asked to the sky as a growl of thunder resounded through the city.
After a moment of staring at the gathering clouds and waiting for rain, he answered himself.
He had a few people to talk to.
(When the end of the world finds your feet, step back a little. Watch the world go by from a safe and secluded marble balcony.
After all, it's easier to ignore disaster when you're comfortable.)
They say anger stemmed from the liver. It roiled in the organ and spread like a disease through your tissues until your body burned from it.
(And people would come from miles away just to see someone burn out; like moths drawn to a flame, people have a certain tendency towards things set ablaze.
Like a cigarette stub crushed into an ashtray, people have a proclivity for self-destruction.)
Peter was angry like a pack of wild boars stampeding through a forest undergrowth, but he didn't think it came from the sea of hatred winding through his veins.
(Who for? Himself or Skip? Who does he hate?)
He was angry at the world even though it showed no ill intent. Only people could be so cruel as to carve darkness into the Earth, but it was so much easier to hate a concept rather than an individual. How much easier was it to dislike a person from afar than from up close?
(Have you ever looked to those who are your flesh and blood and tried to dredge up hate for them? Have you ever tried to hate that which you once loved?
It is so much harder to forgive the sins of those who are distant to us – those who spiral on the edge of our awareness.)
There was a gloomy mass writhing within him, rearing its' head and growling for acknowledgment. The world burned a blistering blue and hung around his neck like a collar. His shoulders ached with the weight of it and he stumbled under his own expectations.
When one's only thoughts were lined with paranoia and anxiety, the muscles would tighten from the constant stress and the nervous system would overload from the strain. In short, relentless anxiety left untreated would lead to greater issues and, eventually, an explosion.
In his case, his 'explosion' was that he wanted to somehow throw the world into the deepest pits of hell and walk away as if that would solve his problems. He wanted to toss the Earth into the trash as if it was a common piece of litter.
He wanted to run away from the life he had given no consent to join.
But there were moments in life where the only way you can move forward is by convincing yourself that you have to do something.
(You have to do this for your mom, dad, sibling, grandparent, aunt, uncle, mentor, guardian, etc. etc.
You have to do this even though nothing is truly required of you. The consequences of inaction all stem from other people and their reactions to you. Maybe that's why Peter hated people so much: the only reason you had to do certain things was for them – unless you wanted to end up in a jail cell for not paying your taxes or if you didn't tend to your basic bodily requirements, which would affect you greatly if you happened to neglect them.)
If he looked up he could see rock bottom.
(He thinks he has a right to be angry about that.)
He closed his eyes and curled up against the wall. He didn't want to move and he had at least a few hours before the sun rose. Laying on his back, he pushed up his hood so his hair wouldn't touch the asphalt. Fists curled tightly, he pounded them on the ground beside his hips in frustration.
"What do I do?" he pleaded to the sky before turning to his side. He cushioned his head on his arms and clamped his eyes shut.
'I really don't want to do it,' he thought. There was a lot he had to do, after all. Talking took so much energy.
'I'll do it in the morning,' he promised himself before drifting into a half-asleep state.
Waking up to the sound of a car horn, he pushed off from the ground in a swift and furious movement. Dawn was approaching like a grey smear of paint on the horizon. The air was wet with humidity and a misty wind whistled down the alleyway.
Pushing his hood up and hunching his shoulders, he paced toward the street and joined the small number of people walking the sidewalks. He tapped his fist nervously against his thigh as his eyes glazed with thought.
He stared at the ground and stumbled through the crowd with only his reflexes and senses to guide him. Mr. Stark was going to be angry with worry and Aunt May would be frantic.
Skip would be smug with success, his bags packed for moving out and triumph lining his face like tinsel on a Christmas tree.
He didn't know how he was going to face them. He didn't know how he was going to say the words he needed to.
(There was a monster in human bindings hunched in his home as if he was a friend. His words – confessions of silver and shadows and bare skin – had been clogged by talons wrapped around his throat. He had been sucked dry by a fiend with sharpened teeth – his bones hollowed and echoing with only faint impressions of normality as there had been a time when he could not write his traumas in a list as if they were personality traits.)
An itch of un-scratchable stress crawled up his spine and he twitched in discomfort until his muscles were taut like bowstrings drawn for the hunt.
(The arrow points somewhere foreign, but will its path travel outwards or in? Will his own stress turn against him or will it exit in some magnificent breath as if it was smoke whisking away on the breeze?)
Twisting his arms and rolling his shoulders, he huffed in frustration. So much for 'doing it in the morning' when once he woke up he was already trying to find ways to procrastinate. Mainly by going to the local coffee shop that seemed to be whispering invitations at him.
('Buy something both obscenely sweet and expensive, Peter. 6 dollars isn't too much for a latte, Peter. You can totally afford it with your non-existent paycheck, Peter,' the shop whispered and he shook his head even as he stuffed his hand in his pocket to check for spare cash.
'…we have brownies,' it said, and he groaned in defeat as he pulled out the 8 dollars and 29 cents that had been hiding in his jeans for emergency milk runs.)
"Okay, that's it," he muttered to himself, "I can't handle money and no one should ever expect anything less than financial failure from me."
Him considering if he should get a job at the Daily Bugle to help out with rent didn't mean that he was completely immune from teenage impulsivity, after all. Plus, some part of him was trying to spin this as good. As if him suddenly being able to eat or even just desire a pastry meant that his diet was improving.
(It probably just meant that his blood sugar was low.)
Sighing, he trudged to the opposite side of the street with a brief glance to make sure it was clear. He rubbed at his eyes and cringed at the crust that crinkled around his eyelid. Swiping away the sleep until he felt he was decently presentable, he raised himself to his full height as he reached the outside of the shop. He looked distastefully at his reflection glaring at himself from the glass window of the shop. If anything, he looked a little worse than the night before, even if he seemed less distressed.
His hair cascaded onto his forehead in waves of matted chestnut. The locks curled above his tired eyes like coils of wire that tied him to the material world by a thread. He swiped a hand through his hair and grimaced when it came back greasy. The oil stained his hand like wood tar and stuck to the very roots of his soul. It clung to him like an infection that showed the physicality of his state of mind in the worst of ways.
(When one can look and cast their judgment upon you from sight alone, it is quite obviously rooted in a deeper problem.
Some of the worst things to happen to people can be so deep inside their mind that no mortal eye can see it. It can infect the dark corners of your psyche until your very being is rotting even if you appear radiant with health.
Only, once that rot spreads to the outside – to the face and all its neighbors – some may no longer be able to cleanse themselves of their affliction.
Peter hoped he hadn't deteriorated so far that he could not come back from it.)
Even knowing he had super-powers couldn't change the fact that he looked bloodless and weak.
(He hadn't thought he'd ever feel weak again after the spider bite. He hadn't thought that he'd look at his form and cringe away from his own frailty as he had when he was younger.
He had thought that powers made you strong.
He had thought wrong.)
Pushing into the store, a doorbell rattled like coins in a church bin and he flinched away from the noise. The walls closed in like a vise and he breathed shakily from claustrophobia as a primly dressed woman skimmed by his shoulder to exit the shop.
Walking closer to the pastry case, he observed the sweets from afar and silently balked at the prices. His belly button had gnawed a hole into his spine until it had scabbed into a callus, but his stomach still had room to whine for food. He stared longingly at the nine-dollar breakfast sandwich on display before switching his eyes to the – frankly ginormous – brownie baked into a mini-pie pan.
(Though it wasn't quite miniature so much as about half the size of a 9-inch pie pan.)
Deciding that procrastinating anymore would be obnoxious, he walked up to the half-asleep cashier and ordered the brownie with a strained smile.
(The cashier totally thought he was homeless which, rude. The homeless population – at least in Queens – would never be stupid enough to buy a 5-dollar brownie when they were already scarce on money.)
Deciding not to say anything, the cashier completed the transaction with an awkwardly polite, 'I hope you enjoy your food, sir.'
(Was he really old enough to be considered a 'sir'? He felt as helpless as a child and as blisteringly caustic as an old man. He felt strange within his body – a mixture of newborn immaturity alongside the grating creak of ancient limbs.
Did he really age years within the small expanse of catastrophic time he had subjected himself to? Did he wrinkle with depression as his heart baked into a desiccated pottery piece underneath flames burning with agony? Had his soul tempered his unwashed features into old and withered oak?)
The brownie looked even bigger outside of the display case and his mouth watered as the cashier? Barista? – whatever, all that mattered was the brownie – drizzled a coating of caramel sauce on the fudgy dessert.
(They even toasted it, too.)
Rocking back on his heels as he waited, he noticed a different server carrying out food to the other few patrons who were seated. Deciding to join them, he slumped onto a stool at the bar lining the wall farthest from the door.
Smashing his face none too gently on the counter, he hunched forward in his seat. He pillowed his head on his arm and picked at the wood grain of the table. Raindrops began to drizzle lightly on the window before speeding up and hammering the glass like war drums resounding with foreboding. The sound was soothing, though, like the splashes and rumbles of the song of the ocean he'd heard the few times he'd been to Long Island beach with his Aunt.
(And Uncle. They'd never gone to the beach without Ben. He didn't know if they could.)
The smell of freshly baked brownie wafted into his nose and he perked up. A different server than before set the brownie down in front of him with a sympathetic smile before hurrying back to the counter. He stared contentedly at the gooey chocolate chips melting on top of the goodie and sighed.
(When Peter was 16-years-old, he ate a brownie as if it would somehow cure him of all that he had suffered. After all, sugar was the best medicine. Right?)