Peter was alive.

Maybe.

The sky yawned above him one second, smudged orange around its edges with the life of the city—

He heard gunshots and yelling, and though he knew somewhere deep inside him that he should be responding in some way to those sounds—moving toward them to save someone or maybe jerking his body away from the path of the ensuing bullets—he was swimming somewhere in deep, dark water.

Or maybe it was cotton, and he was wrapped so thickly in it that he couldn't see or smell or hear anything.

He could barely breathe, but…he wasn't that concerned.

He was just kind of sleepy. Floaty.

His eyes slipped closed, and the sky blinked out.

Someone was talking to him.

But the voice was yelling down at him from somewhere far away, and even when Peter tried to crack his eyes open because it was rude not to look at someone when they talked to you, all he saw was a bunch of black shapes.

He could see black shapes with his eyes closed, so maybe no one would mind if he just kept them closed.

"—police are four blocks away."

Police.

Peter knew that word and it was a good word, so he summoned all his energy and clawed out of the dark water or the cotton or whatever the heck he was stuck in—

Sedative. Hostage.

—and he opened his eyes.

A black human shape was crouched over him, and Peter sluggishly thought that maybe he should punch it because it was probably a bad guy, but the water was rising in his head again.

"Yay police," Peter whispered, his tongue fuzzy with all that cotton, because he knew the police were good. Maybe they could save the hostage? Save him?

Peter's heart pounded louder in his chest, but his eyes were slipping closed again even as the maybe-bad-guy slid an arm under Peter's back—ouch—and lifted him up. The maybe-bad guy was strong, even though he grunted a little at bearing Peter's dead weight.

Dead.

Peter wasn't dead—was he?.

Peter tried to frown at the fact that his not-dead self was being carried away from the police by a stranger, but he was far from sure he'd succeeded. He was even less sure that the arm he meant to throw out to stop the guy actually moved at all.

Did this stranger know where the captive woman went?

The police needed to help her because the bad guys were still out there in the dark somewhere...

Right?

"Where is she?!"

Peter jerked himself into an upright position, peeling away from pavement in a move he instantly regretted because pain lanced throughout his head, his back, his shoulder, his leg, his…his everything.

"Sit still," a voice growled, and Peter faintly recognized that voice, but he didn't remember why right away. "She's safe."

Peter didn't believe the voice.

He was sitting on the ground—no, on a roof—and it was nighttime. There was the sound of sirens somewhere really close by and a pattern of red and blue lights splashing intermittently across the concrete wall in front of him. A dark figure was leaned up against the said wall, just outside the range of the flashing lights, and he was tossing something small and compact from hand to hand. A weapon of some kind, perhaps?

Fight. Sedative. You failed, but you're alive. Is she?

Peter resisted the frustrated groan rising in the back of his throat and instead pushed himself backwards, closer to what he hoped was the lip of the roof he was on. Maybe he could see down below, try to find out what had happened to all those bad guys and to the woman.

"You're bleeding," the figure in front of him said, voice neutral.

Peter grimaced, now painfully aware of the warm, wet spots on his leg and shoulder. They hurt far less than the pulsing headache racing the length of his brain, and they were already healing. They were probably just bullet grazes—the relatively low severity of which was honestly a miracle in and of itself—so Peter ignored the figure's words and merely refocused on his mission of getting his back to the wall.

His limbs felt like they weighed a couple of tons apiece and he was pretty sure the darkness wasn't supposed to be swirling around like that, but he was making progress. And the figure wasn't stopping him either, so there was that.

How long had he been out?

What happened to the woman?

Who was this figure who'd carried him up to the roof?

And why did he feel so achingly slow, like his every thought was being dredged up from an endless abyss and shattered against the sides of his brain in slow motion?

Peter's back quite suddenly slammed into the hard concrete of the roof's edge, and he squeezed his eyes shut in pain. When he tried to open them again, they felt impossibly heavy and his head still hurt so bad.

He wanted to go to sleep.

Instead, he opted to sit there with his eyes closed for a few more seconds so the world could reorient itself—though that didn't mean he couldn't try to find out what had happened.

"Where is the woman…the hostage?" Peter said, each word dragging itself out from between his teeth in a rasp. "Who are you?"

There was a slight shifting sound in front of him, and it made Peter suspicious enough that he was almost able to crack his eyes open. But alas, the invisible fifty-pound weights remained firmly attached to his eyelids, and he could do nothing but wonder what the figure was doing.

"She's safe. The cops arrived as I was cleaning up—"

"Cleaning up?" Peter asked before his brain completely caught up with why that phrase should be alarming in this context. At least his tongue was cooperating a little better now.

"She's uninjured and with the officers now."

There was a pause, and then Peter summoned pretty much all the energy the sedative cocktail thing had left behind (because now he remembered) and actually opened his eyes. Why did he just believe this guy? Was it the way he said it, or did the un-sedated part of him already figure out something his still-sedated side hadn't quite put together yet?

The black-clad man in front of him was still tossing something from hand to hand, leaned casually against a jutting portion of the concrete roof. And though Peter was pretty sure he was a little cross-eyed as he squinted, attempting to better assess his companion, he thought he could see a dark mask of some kind covering the man's face.

Or, rather, a black mask covering the man's eyes.

Peter's mouth went dry all over again, and the pieces slid together with a nauseating mental click. As if he could read Peter's thoughts, the man stopped tossing his weapon (baton) back and forth and lowered it to his side as soon as Peter made the realization.

Great.

"Why did the sedative wear off so quickly?"

The man's voice was much harder than it had been a few seconds ago. Peter stared at him in a perverse mixture of awe and dull trepidation, and then he blinked. Hard.

"Uh…"

Enhanced metabolism and healing factor, his mind supplied too late. Not that being able to actually say that out loud would have helped Peter's situation one bit.

The man pushed himself off the wall, and some part of Peter's brain was distantly shouting that he should maybe kind of be afraid that he was coming closer—but the bigger, slower part of his brain calmly protested that, so Peter actually felt pretty chill about the whole situation. Like he was in an intense dream he knew couldn't actually hurt him.

The man stopped about an arm's length away from Peter, shoulders squared, all-black outfit almost making him into an extension of the shadows themselves.

"Why were you in Hell's Kitchen tonight, Spiderman?" he asked, and this time his voice seemed way more scary. Maybe it was just because Peter now knew who he was. Knew all the rumors.

"Wait…you're…you, uh," Peter swallowed. "You're the—the Devil!"

Daredevil's mouth only twitched ambiguously underneath the black fabric concealing his eyes, and the action made Peter feel weirdly less nervous.

"Not quite," he said, pulling minutely away from Peter. The man tapped the baton he still held in one hand against his thigh, dipped his head a bit thoughtfully. "You're enhanced."

"You saved us," Peter responded somewhat defensively, not sure why it should matter to the Devil of Hell's Kitchen if he were 'enhanced' or not. He did not feel like getting into a conversation about radioactive spiders at the moment, especially since he felt like he was literal seconds from falling asleep again.

Daredevil didn't respond, and before he could actually say anything else, Peter thought of a much more relevant topic of conversation. His confidence grew a little with each word because Daredevil was still technically a good guy…right? He'd heard the stories.

"Were there any more prisoners down there, after you fought off those gunmen?"

Because if those stories about Daredevil were true, he had most definitely fought off those gunmen by himself and he had most definitely checked to see if anyone else had been saved. Peter just wasn't sure he wanted to know how the vigilante fought off the gunmen.

Daredevil seemed to regard Peter for a moment, who was sagging there against the raised edge of the roof with his legs splayed out in front of him and eyelids that were fighting to close of their own accord. Peter knew he was vulnerable at the moment, but it hadn't hit him just how vulnerable he was until then.

"No."

Peter felt his stomach twist.

"I was too late, then," he muttered, letting his eyelids win the battle and tipping his head back until his neck strained. At least the one woman was safe, he thought.

No thanks to Spiderman.

"They were gone long before you showed up," Daredevil said in response, shifting his weight to the other leg. Peter rolled his neck forward, squinting warily at the man. His posture was tight, stiff, and he appeared to be staring off the edge of the roof, past Peter and at the police who were still working down below.

Peter didn't quite have the energy to look there himself, but he was curious as to what the Devil meant.

"But that woman was there, as a hostage," he said quietly.

Daredevil tipped his head softly to the side.

"She was a decoy. Of sorts."

"But I figured out when this deal was supposed to take place. They had messages up even in Queens—" Peter began to insist before Daredevil dismissed his remarks.

"They were old, then. Or designed to mislead. Those traffickers were here to set a trap."

Peter furrowed his brows in concentration, now recalling what the bad guy had told him as soon as he'd found the hostage.

You weren't the one we wanted, per se, but we could still have some fun with you.

"They were setting a trap for you?"

Peter was surprised when Daredevil let out a short, bitter kind of laugh. It was quiet, but the reaction was amplified by the way the vigilante then began pacing in front of him, steps measured even though they belied his agitation. He twitched his baton against his leg as he moved.

"They thought they were."

His voice was dark, and it gave Peter another pause as the details regarding what had happened before he'd been sedated began slowly returning to him, filling in the gaps in his memory.

Some of the police lights down below pulled away from the wall after a few seconds, leaving the pair of them in a deeper darkness that Peter tried to compensate for by straightening up. His vision swayed a little bit, but he felt significantly more competent than even a few seconds ago, so he risked pulling his legs a little closer to his chest as well.

The woman was safe.

Daredevil had rescued them.

He had failed, but this fight wasn't over yet.

Peter belatedly realized, in something like a daze, that he had yet to thank Daredevil for saving both his and the woman's lives. He was about to remedy his oversight when the other man stopped pacing. He dropped his hands to his side—fists clenched warningly—and twisted slightly to face Peter.

"You would have gotten yourself and that girl killed," he growled, and Peter opened his eyes a little wider, pushed back the memories that were springing up like specters around Daredevil's words. He'd been in a similar situation with Mr. Stark once, hadn't he? After the ferry incident?

But things had changed in a lot of ways since then.

"I came here to help—"

"You have no idea what you're doing, kid. Powers and fancy flips are still no match for guns if you don't know how to manipulate the situation to your advantage." Daredevil's cutting words—which weren't very loud overall but were definitely louder than his previous statements—made Peter jump a little. He also tried very hard not to let them cut deep into him because he knew he messed up and he knew he looked like an idiot out there—but it wouldn't happen again. He and Daredevil didn't even know each other - so why was the vigilante taking it upon himself to lecture Peter as if he were his mentor or as if he were somehow responsible for Peter's bad choices? And how old did Daredevil guess he was anyway, if he was already calling him kid?

Those thoughts aside, May would tell him not to give up, Ned and MJ would tell him not to give up, and he was pretty sure even Mr. Stark would tell him not to give up if he were here. And they were the people whose opinions he could truly afford to value, the people he knew without a doubt to be on his side. Everyone made mistakes sometimes—but it didn't mean they were a mistake or that the things they could do were mistakes.

There was a reason Peter had these powers and was in this city.

Peter sat quietly for several heartbeats, let his thoughts coalesce because, despite the few stabs of emotion he'd felt intermittently during this conversation, he felt surprisingly calm overall. Not exactly steady, but definitely more solid than he remembered he was when he kept slipping in and out of consciousness a little while ago.

"I did make some mistakes tonight; you're right, sir," he began. "I'm sorry for getting in your way or whatever because of them…I don't really know Hell's Kitchen and I didn't call for backup and my stupid suit isn't even working that well—" Peter took a deep breath.

So much for organizing his thoughts and being totally calm.

"But I don't apologize for coming to help tonight because I couldn't just…not."

He didn't see Daredevil's immediate reaction because he'd squeezed his eyes shut against a wave of guilt over all the specific mistakes he'd alluded to. He and that woman would most certainly be dead if hadn't been for Daredevil's timely intervention. And cognitively he really did believe that tonight didn't mean his overall choice to try to stop this trafficking deal was the wrong one…but it could feel like it. Like he wasn't worthy of wearing this suit or going out as Spiderman at all if he made such stupid mistakes. It was a familiar mental struggle at this point.

A few moments later, as he regained control of his own thoughts, he did hear the rustle of fabric. Daredevil was moving closer.

Peter opened his eyes, and the vigilante was crouched near enough to him that even in the dim light Peter could see the distinct outlines of the man's stubbled jaw, the thick threads of his mask (how did he see?), the glistening tear visible on one of his arms. His stomach jumped.

"You're hur—"

"Don't come back to Hell's Kitchen."

The Devil's words were cold and pitched low, almost a growl. If Peter had been in any other mindset at the moment, he might have even been intimidated. As it was, however, the command only made him more resolute. He pushed away the thoughts of his own pain, of the fact that Daredevil was also injured.

Peter bit down and grunted as he pushed himself into a crouch with his hands, trembling a little from muscle fatigue. His sudden proximity forced Daredevil to recoil a little bit just to avoid Peter's face mashing into his.

Whoops.

"I won't make that promise, Mr. Daredevil," Peter said when he was confident he could maintain his admittedly awkward position. His heart was pounding somewhere in the background, but he wasn't entirely sure it wasn't due more to adrenaline than any fear over how Daredevil might react.

The man was known to be unpredictable, swift, and ruthless. What if he didn't think Peter was on his side after all?

"I won't make that promise because I'll do whatever it takes to keep this city safe. I…I failed tonight, but that just means I have to work harder next time. Have to be more prepared. I'll stay out of your way if that's what you want, but…I'm not going to stop caring for my city. Just like you won't—just like you haven't."

Daredevil's posture was so rigid at that moment, so poised for what looked like an imminent attack, that Peter's Spidey-sense very nearly went off. He could feel a kind of diluted buzz beginning under his skin as he waited for a proper response, his heartrate rising higher and higher even as lingering remnants of the sedative fought to keep it slower.

Daredevil cocked his head to the side. Not even half a second later, he pressed his lips into a thin line and stepped back, restoring a normal sense of personal space between them.

"Fine. Just…remember your limits."

Peter blinked. A horn sounded somewhere a few blocks away.

"You…aren't going to try to convince me not to keep going?"

That's what most adults in his life would do at this point, Peter thought, and he had been spending the past few seconds preparing a little monologue just to refute such an attempt. But Daredevil's mouth just twitched again, as if he couldn't quite figure out whether he should laugh or growl at Peter.

He seemed to like growling much more than laughing.

"No."

Daredevil turned around and began walking silently to the opposite edge of the roof then, as if he were content to leave the conversation with that very unsatisfying and anticlimactic ending. Peter was utterly confused and had realized he should probably call May to let her know he was alright, but he had something else he needed to say to the retreating vigilante - something he'd literally just hinted at but wasn't being given the explicit opening to actually say at the moment.

"Mr. Daredevil?" he called.

To his mild surprise, the man stopped. He didn't quite turn around, but his head was kind of turned sideways, as if he were listening over his shoulder.

Peter stood up shakily, moving as quickly as he thought he could away from the edge of the roof so he didn't unexpectedly topple over it. He took a deep breath, peered through the gloom of the night.

"Thank you for saving me a—and the woman."

Daredevil gave him a terse, dismissive nod, but Peter wasn't done yet.

"And thanks for…the other stuff too. While everyone was—you know—while so many of us were…gone."

Daredevil turned, and even without being able to discern any of the features on his face, Peter could tell he was slightly confused.

"I did some, uh, research after I came back. From the Blip I mean. I saw that you were active in Queens and a couple of other places too—not just Hell's Kitchen, like usual, while so many of the world's heroes weren't here."

Peter paused, uncertain when he saw the way Daredevil's shoulders tensed up (he really hoped he took care of his injured arm—). He continued anyway when the man didn't say anything, however, his words rushed but sincere.

"I dunno if you, you know, lost anyone when the Blip happened, but even if you didn't, managing two cities like that couldn't have been easy. And I…I really appreciate you taking care of my—our city, I guess, while I was gone. I couldn't exactly be the friendly neighborhood Spiderman while I was dusted and…it kinda sucks that that meant you had to do all of this in New York pretty much by yourself. But I think you did well, and I really appreciate it. Lots of people do."

Peter definitely felt like he'd crossed one too many personal boundaries in his little spiel, but he really had done some research on New York and the crime and vigilante activity it experienced during that five-year period he'd been gone.

Proportionally, it seemed like crime rates had never really slowed down much—and, to add insult to injury, the Blip had dusted away a seemingly disproportionate amount of the people who could and were actually willing to deter such crime. New York, of course, had not been spared that deprivation, and as far as Peter knew, Daredevil had been literally only one of twovigilantes who had still been able or had chosen to stay active before the Snap had been reversed.

And he was the only one who'd consistently done so, too.

That had to count for something, and Peter wanted to make sure Daredevil knew that—even if he couldn't exactly condone all of the details he'd dug up surrounding Daredevil's methods.

Daredevil suddenly cleared his throat, and Peter focused in on him again.

How long had he zoned out anyway, and how long had Daredevil been standing there, feet away from the roof, frozen by who knew what kinds of thoughts?

"Watch your back out there, Spiderman," the man said, and his voice was less gravelly than Peter had heard it yet. "And don't take them for granted—the people…the city you've chosen to protect."

He paused, seemed to almost physically wrestle with the next sentence -

"We all need one other more than we want to believe."

And then he was gone. He just…flipped off the roof, without webs, seemingly without any clear destination in mind.

Peter stared after him for a few moments, trying to unravel his cryptic parting statement, before the urgency of assuring May that he was alright prompted him to make his own exit. He would dwell on this encounter more later, when his head was clearer and, perhaps, when he had gathered more information on exactly what Daredevil had been saving them from.

Because he wasn't going to stay away from Hell's Kitchen if he saw more signs of their activities in Queens.

And maybe he'd even run into Daredevil again while he was at it—albeit, under (hopefully) different circumstances. The vigilante wasn't quite as frightening as Peter's gut reaction had tried to convince him; it seemed there was more than brute violence to what he did each night.

Peter didn't quite trust himself to flip off the roof as he left, but he did manage a web. He trusted that Daredevil had "cleaned up" what needed to be cleaned up, and it sounded like the police were almost done down below him anyway. He needed to get home before he stacked any more worry onto May and his friends' plate because he still had no idea exactly how much time had passed since he'd first been shot with that tranquilizing thing.

As such, he was soon moving swiftly away from the roof, away from the slowly emptying scene of the fight, away from the clingy darkness of Hell's Kitchen and back towards Queens.

Towards home.

Towards the people who kept him going even on nights like this.

A/N: Hello again! For starters, this is my first time writing Daredevil, and it was honestly quite fun. I have a lot of...complicated thoughts regarding his character and how I chose to portray him here, but we're just gonna roll with it and hope for the best (ignore timelines, por favor). In other news...this story is almost done! I hope you've been enjoying it, and I thank you so much for reading and/or leaving feedback! :D

"'How long will you defend the unjust and show partiality to the wicked? Defend the weak and the fatherless; uphold the cause of the poor and the oppressed. Rescue the weak and the needy; deliver them from the hand of the wicked ... Rise up, O God, judge the earth, for all the nations are your inheritance.'" ~Psalm 82: 1-4, 8