Silver Webs in a Starlit City

by Goldenwriter17

He was twelve when his family's perfect picture cracked down the middle. His father and older brother were lost to the sea in a storm that could have been avoided. He lost a part of himself to the tumultuous sea—the part that believed, hoped, dreamed. And now, he is seventeen and his brother returns a changed man. And, he changed too, notable when Peter Queen is bitten by a spider.

13. Chapter XII

Silver Webs in a Starlit City

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Summary

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He was twelve when his family's perfect picture cracked down the middle. His father and older brother were lost to the sea in a storm that could have been—should have been avoided. His twin sister couldn't handle the distance and escaped from their home as often as she could. His mother lost herself in her grief—becoming a ghost that wandered the mansion hallways, pale and wane.

He had no one to tell him that everything was going to be alright.

He lost a part of himself to the tumultuous sea—the part that believed, the part that hoped, the part so inflated with light that the silver lining was ever-present. And now, at seventeen—almost eighteen—his brother returns home a changed man from an island of horrors. And, he cannot say that he remains unchanged either, especially when he is bitten by a radioactive spider.

Now, Peter Queen has to find a way to tame his newfound abilities while trying to reconnect with the shell of his brother and their broken family. Though, there are secrets at the very root of his family that threaten to destroy what remains until it is unrecognizable.

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Chapter XII

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Twirling his led pencil nervously between his fingers, Peter glanced at the black and white clock above the classroom door frequently. His mind couldn't stop thinking about the fact that he was going to be working alongside the Hood to have a chat with Moira—she was his mother, how was he expected to be unbiased? Peter couldn't be unbiased about her—no matter the absolutely shitty things that she had done to him recently, he couldn't don a mask and interrogate her about Walter and Tom Edwards, because he didn't trust himself to not react to anything she might say.

And—there was a very heavy might that they wouldn't get a word out of her. If her own son couldn't get her to give him a name, and he had to learn one from someone who had previously jumped him, then how could he anticipate two vigilantes being able to pull the maneuver off? His thoughts cycled back to the fact that Moira was working in line with the Dark Archer—well, he suspected she was, and it was looking incredibly likely that she was—and he couldn't feel more disillusioned by her if he tried.

He chewed roughly on his lower lip, feeling the familiar restlessness buzzing under his skin—pumping from his heart and through his arteries and then threw his veins—as his mind churned about topics far from the physics lesson that Mr. Daniel was scrawling on the white-board. Peter flicked his gaze once more to the clock above the door, watching the second-hand bounce slowly from each tick-mark. The clock was slightly fast, presenting him with even more irritation, though maybe it was pronounced by lunch period being next.

During lunch he could focus on a plan for tonight—rather than attempting to pay attention in his morning classes, the new semester had brought with it a small schedule change in that he didn't have a free period section, which sucked—and also compile all of the research he had on Tom Edwards. Peter might, if he was lucky, have until tomorrow morning for everything to be finalized for him to get that evidence to Detective Quentin Lance. He already had an email ready to go from one of his junk email accounts that didn't have his name attached—online gaming without having to worry about recognition—though it was just missing a few pieces of evidence.

The bell rang obnoxiously, and Peter hurriedly grabbed his things and started shoving them in his bag—Ned approaching him quickly from his assigned seat a few desks over with his bag slung over his shoulders. "Hey." Ned greeted, "That had to have been the most—" He trailed off when he spotted Mr. Daniel approaching with an eyebrow arched, bemused. "—exhilarating physics lessons I have ever been a part of. Truly, motivating." Ned concluded in a falsely bright voice, smile wide.

Mr. Daniel's eyebrow hiked up higher on his forehead before he smoothed the expression away. "Thank you, Ned." Mr. Daniel stated dryly, "Peter—could I talk to you for a second?" The teacher queried with a pleasant smile forming on his lips, "It won't take long, and I'll let you go right on to lunch." He added.

Peter exchanged a glance with Ned, before he nodded, nervously adjusting the strap of his bag. "Yeah, sure, what's up, Mr. Daniel?" Peter watched, out of the corner of his eye, as Ned hurried from the room to snag them a lunch table. The door fell shut behind his best friend, leaving him alone with the physics teacher and the muted noise from the hallway of students rushing to their next class or to third lunch—their lunches were organized by one group going before class, in the middle of class, and at the end and Peter fell into the latter group.

His physics teacher leaned against his desk; arms folded. "Peter, you have always been an exemplary student, almost everyone on the staff is aware of that, but, lately, your work has been mediocre at best, and you've been missing classes. And, when you do attend class, you're not paying attention in lecture—" Mr. Daniel shook his head, waving his hands emphatically a second later, "You're not in extreme danger of failing—but I must admit that most of the staff is growing concerned with your performance since the start of the semester. As well as the fact that your grades were lower than we typically expect from you last semester. I understand that you are in a very challenging period in your life—which is why your other teachers and I have agreed to a few extra-credit assignments to keep your GPA up for college."

Peter exhaled, relieved. Mr. Daniel was completely right; schoolwork and school had been put on the back-burner for him recently. It wasn't intentional, but he was stressed with a lot more than worrying over finishing his senior year of high-school and starting college. His life, which had always been a bit of a juggling act, had added a few more bricks to the juggling until it was a miracle he was keeping it all afloat. So, it wasn't a surprise to him that his teacher—one of the nicer ones that he actually liked—was taking him aside to see what was going on with him and offer a solution.

Mr. Daniel sighed, reaching behind him to grab a standard, black folder. "I have been following the news trends and the staff and I have been updated frequently on your situation, Peter. I understand that things outside of school have been quite painful for you, recently." Here comes the pity. Peter attempted to keep the irritation from showing on his face, though he wasn't sure how successful he had managed. "But, you are in the last leg of high-school, Peter. I would hate to see someone as bright as you give so much before this only to mess it all up now." Mr. Daniel concluded hastily.

The man seemed to sense where he could stick his pity. Peter nodded. "Thank you for the extra-credit. I'll try to do better." Peter remarked, accepting the folder and briefly skimming through it. He saw a few assignments from English, History, and Anatomy, as well as the one from Physics. "And, I'll try to start paying more attention in class." Or seem like I am, Peter inwardly added.

The man placed a hand on his shoulder. "Of course—and, if you need any extra help Peter, feel free to ask. The staff and I are more than happy to provide it." Mr. Daniel glanced at the clock above the door, ticking away the minutes. "Now go on and get to lunch." The man shooed him out of the classroom with a smile.

Peter unzipped his bag on one of the desks to place the folder inside. "Yeah—thanks." He could feel a muscle in his jaw twitch when Mr. Daniel couldn't see his face. It wasn't that he didn't appreciate the offer, but he knew the reason they were being kind to him, and it settled furiously under his skin. Their kindness stemmed from the fact that Peter's step-dad had disappeared and his uncle-figure had died within weeks of each other.

"And—Peter?" Mr. Daniel cajoled; Peter turned to look at him with an arched eyebrow. "Remember to have those assignments in as soon as you can." The man reminded him, and Peter nodded, promising to hand them in in the next few weeks at the most. He exhaled, pinching the bridge of his nose once he was sure that the physics teacher wasn't looking at him as he walked down the emptied hallway to the canteen. Peter exhaled; he still remembered his dreams from less than a year ago. He had applied early to colleges and had received acceptance from almost every single one of them, though he had no idea which one he wanted to go to—the world had seemed like a wide-open expanse for him.

He hadn't realized that becoming Spiderman—donning the mask would give him another reason to not leave. Peter already didn't want to leave because it felt much too soon after his older brother's return, but, now he could feel the near-crushing weight of being Spiderman—with great power comes great responsibility. He wondered, for a minute, if all of that meant that he would have to give up his previous dreams. Maybe that made him sound selfish and maybe he was overthinking everything—thinking way too far ahead at least—but the thought blossomed in his mind like a poisonous flower.

Peter shook his head at himself, entering the canteen and joining the line to grab his lunch tray—today's specialty was spaghetti with meatballs and garlic bread, something that made Peter's stomach gurgle appreciatively. He spotted Ned sitting at their small section of a larger table and grabbed a water bottle, napkins, and a plastic thing of silverware before joining his best friend. Ned swallowed his mouthful of food, not even startling when Peter dropped his blue lunch tray loudly on the table. "So—what did Mr. D want?" Ned questioned.

He opened the plastic bag of silverware. "Apparently, my grades aren't up to the usual standard—" Peter started, a grimace forming on his face as Ned arched an eyebrow. "—and I'm distracted in class so that equals an extra credit intervention." He concluded, pulling the white, plastic fork from the bag and stabbing a meatball.

Ned grimaced, "Well—you have been a bit distracted lately." His best friend interjected. "And, I mean, I totally get it. You've got way too much on your plate for it to be humanly healthy." Ned added when Peter arched an eyebrow at him, wanting to hear his best friend's take on things. A rock plummeted in his stomach as he realized how long it had been since Ned and he actually talked. "Clinic, family drama, other drama—so much drama that I'm surprised you haven't joined the drama club." Ned listed off on his fingers, mindful of the fact that they were I a crowded cafeteria.

Peter took a bite of spaghetti and swallowed. "Point taken." He drummed his fingers against the table surface. "I'll work on being less distracted." Peter conceded.

"We'll see about that." Ned snorted and Peter flicked a piece of bread at him. "So—anymore updates on the T-O-M situation—mission?—what are we calling it?" His best friend looked honestly curious about their operation—investigation thingy.

"I don't know if spelling it out will make people less suspicious." Peter remarked idly. He shrugged, realizing the question probably required an answer. "I've got something at least to email to Detective Lance—fingers-crossed he can actually kick up a fuss about it." He pointedly crossed his fingers and Ned mimicked the gesture. "Ok—so, moving on—did you get your acceptance letter from M.I.T. yet?" Peter questioned, switching the topic.

Ned lit up. "Yup. You're looking at a soon-to-be M.I.T. first-year." His best friend remarked. "What about you? Have you selected which college you're going to go to, yet?" Ned queried; expression painted with curiosity.

Peter glanced down at his spaghetti. "It'd be awesome if we could go to M.I.T. together—be roommates and all of that." He noted quietly. He shrugged a second later, "I don't really know—last year, I was kind of more sure on that front, but now—I'm not sure if leaving Starling would be for the best—my brother is barely coping with me staying at the clinic—" He lowered his voice so that no-one would pick up on the fact that he wasn't going home, hadn't slept at the mansion for three nights and tonight would be the fourth night. "—and me leaving to go to Massachusetts may not be well-met." Peter concluded.

His best friend looked sympathetic. "I know you're worried about leaving your family behind—we're both not going to pretend how hard those five years were for your family—but, it's not like you're jumping on a plane to Massachusetts and never coming back." Ned raised both eyebrows at him, "You aren't—are you?"

Shaking his head, Peter absently moved his spaghetti around the plate. "No. I'm pretty sure my sister would attack me with the family cutlery and her many pairs of stilettos if I even attempted something like that." Peter shuddered at the thought.

Ned laughed. "She would, too." His grin dimmed somewhat. "So—why not? Come with me to M.I.T., you know you want to." Ned teased lightly, waggling his eyebrows. "Do you know how much chaos we could get into?"

Peter snorted. "Ok, you've sold me on the chaos part." He deadpanned. Going to M.I.T. would be nice—it would be nice to get away from all of the weight settling over him in Starling City—but it was a just a dream. Peter had the clinic that he owned to contend himself with and going off to college across the country would probably not be his wisest move. He supposed that he could face-time with Aunt May and Tommy and get the bills shipped to the potential dorm. Peter shook his head at himself when Ned poked his forehead with a plastic butter knife. "Dude—" Peter stared.

His best friend shrugged. "What? You get too much in your head, dude." Ned justified the act of stabbing Peter in the forehead with a damn plastic butterknife. "Don't think too much and just come to M.I.T. with me and MJ."

"MJ's going to M.I.T.?" Peter's eyebrows were hiked up.

Ned chuckled. "Knew that would grab your attention. You crush going to M.I.T."

Peter pinkened. "She's not—I mean, wha—huh? She's one of my best friends."

He didn't anticipate his best friend calmly pushed the tray away and then dropped his head on the table with a loud thunk. Peter bit his lip when the noise drew some attention to them as Ned lifted his head, before people moved on. "Dude—you're awful about it." Ned deadpanned. "Like, it's just sad at this point."

Arching an eyebrow, Peter attempted to ignore the heat settling firmly across his face. Awful genetics right there—he had to be the Queen sibling unlucky enough to turn bright red when he felt emotion. "Hey—I'm not that bad. Wait—what am I defending myself about being that bad about?" Peter furrowed his eyebrows, tilting his head to the side as he regarded his best friend questioningly.

The look Ned gave him made Peter question his life decisions. "You and MJ."

"MJ and I—um—yeah? We're friends?" Peter's voice twisted into something questioning when the near-exasperated look on Ned's face deepened further into exasperation and less into fondness.

Ned snorted. "You two are practically dating without the kissing part—which is great for the rest of us, because we don't want to see the lovey dovey snogging that would occur—but it's frustrating at the same time because you obviously have feelings for each other and should just get together already." His best friend clarified, and Peter leaned back, making a mental note to not finish the spaghetti—there may or may not be spittle in it, depends on how one observed the situation.

He cleared his throat, "You seem—very—impassioned about this." Peter decided slowly.

Throwing his hands up, Ned nodded vigorously. "Of course, I am. Do you realize how many gift-card vouchers I've lost to Gwen recently? You two were supposed to get together at Christmas." Ned informed him.

Peter considered raising his hand like they were in class. "Did anyone bother to inform MJ and I of this decision? Also, teaches you not to make bets on your friends." Peter remarked dryly.

His best friend treated him with the best-friend-glare. It was almost like the care-bear stare, except upgraded slightly. "Ask her out, she's not going to say no." Ned ordered him sternly. Peter considered just sticking his tongue out and not doing so because his best friend was ordering him around but decided that Ned might resort to actually throwing the butter knife he was clutching at him, and he'd rather not explain that to the administration wandering around the canteen.

Peter chewed on his lower lip. "Ned—I'm not sure if you're aware of this fact—but, my life is basically a clusterfuck on crack. It's also like a train crash that you're watching in slow-motion—you can't look away, but it's just going to end horribly. Like more blood and guts everywhere than the amount used on an episode of the Walking Dead or Game of Thrones." He pointed out.

Ned cracked a smile at the comparison and imagery. "Dude, she already knows that and she's still into you. Besides, you two are already close and cuddly and all of that stuff." His best friend countered.

"Ok, fine. I like MJ. Like, really like her—deep feelings and all of that fun stuff—"

"Why did you say fun like that?"

"—but, when I ask her out, I want everything to be perfect." Peter ignored the brief interruption. "Because, she's like my best friend—ok, don't glare me to death—one of my best friends and I don't want to mess that up or ruin that. So, it has to be perfect." He rambled slightly before reaching the conclusion of his thoughts.

His best friend exhaled. "Yeah. But, what if that perfect moment you're waiting for never actually comes? I mean, perfect doesn't exist, there's always going to be something that gives you a reason to hesitate." Ned argued.

Peter could see his point. "You're right." He smiled slightly. "I just—I'm a gigantic mess right now, Ned. Like—more of a mess than I've been in my entire life. I just—I'm not sure that jumping into a relationship would be for the best because I can't give all of my attention towards it—I can hardly even give half." Peter felt the smile on his face twitch before it dissipated completely.

Ned patted his arm consolingly. "I think—that, before you make the choice for the both of you—you should talk to her." His best friend advised. Ned glanced up, "Now—are we going to talk about those extra credit assignments?" Ned seemed to sense that they had explored the leg of conversation to its limits and mercifully switched the topic.

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Compiling every piece of evidence, he possibly could into the email, Peter's finger hovered over the left-clicking button as the curser hovered over the send option. It didn't feel like they had found enough—he had found that there was no involvement of Tom Edwards, but he had found absolutely nothing beyond what everyone knew from Christmas-time about the involvement of the Dark Archer. Peter was also concerned that Detective Lance might not be able to do anything to help—if the man was too small a player on the board to be of any assistance.

He pinched the bridge of the nose, clicking the send button before he could rethink it any further. The first step was to get Tom Edwards out of prison. The second was to figure out the connection between the Dark Archer and everything—and they really had to find a better name for Senor Creepy-Mc-Copycat-Arrow-Dude. "Hey." Gwen greeted when she entered the room, Peter lifted his gaze from his computer screen to regard the blonde—she had started to review medical textbooks on his office sofa and Peter was a bit too intimidated by her apathetic stare to kick her out.

Peter exhaled, "Hey." He attempted a smile, and she raised a skeptical eyebrow at him, the expression silently telling him to talk. "I sent the email to one Detective Lance." Peter toyed with his lip between his teeth. "Do you think I should send it to Miles' dad, too—what if Lance can't do it all on his own?" He added a second later.

Gwen stared at him for a few, long minutes that stretched into an eternity. After a while she lowered her gaze to regard the pages she was flipping through absently. "I think that you did all that you could—and the authorities will handle it." Gwen remarked.

He pursed his lips. "What if it's too late? What if it's not enough? What am I supposed to do? I can't just let an innocent man be sentenced for something he didn't do." Peter contemplated his fingernails, picking at the piece of dirt lodged under his ring-finger on his right hand.

"You're not the one sentencing him, Peter." Gwen reminded him. "You've done everything that you possibly can for him—aside from breaking out of jail and do not break him out of jail, I know where your head goes, Peter—and, even if it doesn't end the way it should. You did everything you could. So, don't feel guilty for it." She continued, her eyebrows raising at him as he let a somewhat sheepish expression cross his features at the call-out. He might have fleetingly considered letting Spiderman break the man out of prison.

It would be his last resort. "Kind of hard for him not to—he's got a massive guilt complex, that one." MJ chipped in as she entered with a cardboard tray of coffees that she had somehow snuck past Aunt May. Peter accepted his coffee from her, warming his hands on the cup. "So—what are we talking about?" MJ perched on the desk, setting the tray down next to her and claiming the third cup after she had given Gwen her coffee.

Gwen pointed at Peter. "He's feeling guilty for Tom Edwards' situation."

MJ furrowed her eyebrows at him. "Well, stop that." She reached behind her to swat him on the head. Peter grimaced, rubbing the spot on his head as he returned his attention to his laptop, without commenting on how exactly smacking him was supposed to put a hold on the guilt complex.

It wasn't like he wanted to have a guilt complex, either. His life motto came into play there where it just kind of happened. "So—any exciting plans for the weekend?" Gwen questioned conversationally.

Peter flicked his gaze up from the laptop, he had used Felicity's programs to hoor his word to Nick Coleman—he had assured the man that he would keep an eye on his family and, so far, the Dark Archer character hadn't bothered them. Maybe that was due to Peter not letting on to anyone outside of his friend group about the Dark Archer's entanglement with the disappearance of all male figures in Peter's life. A part of him seriously wondered what this guy's problem was with him having a father-figure or inspirational male figures in his life—because he seemed to gun for people in that category.

"I don't have a life, so no." Peter deadpanned.

MJ snorted, "Are you kidding me? Your life is—no offense—like one dramatic event after the other." She remarked and Peter mirrored her snort.

It might be a brand of brutal honesty that hit a little too close to home, but it wasn't like Peter hadn't cracked jokes on his life being a soap opera before. "Ok, fine, I have a life that belongs on a soap opera TV show—one that, for some reason, hasn't been cancelled yet, despite the fact that it has the lowest known score on Rotten Tomatoes." Peter corrected himself; voice dripping with a perfectly healthy level of sarcasm.

Gwen chuckled, exchanging a glance with MJ. Their looks were a touch concerned, but she mercifully didn't exude any more concern. "Well—at least, you're not in denial." She commented. "Anyways—any plans this weekend? I heard there's a new showing at the art gallery on Saturday." Her eyes were keen and contained mirth when Peter arched a skeptical eyebrow at her, her lips quirked up at the corners innocently.

He exhaled, "I wish. I've got extra-credit assignments to do." Peter's expression twisted at the memory of the black folder he had in his bag.

MJ's eyebrows raised, curiosity lining her features. "Really? Why? Aiming for something higher than the 4.0 GPA?" She questioned.

Peter regarded her thoughtfully. "I'm not sure that's possible. And no—it's not by choice, apparently my lack of focus in class and the fact that I have a dead friend means that the admin wants to shower me in extra credit assignments to show their pity. It's honestly kind of some twisted logic." He answered; tone factual.

Gwen snorted. "Wow. That's—um—something, right?"

"Not entirely something unfamiliar, though—they did it for my dad, too, though that was a different school." Peter added. He shrugged, "I mean, I could procrastinate, but, with my luck, something would pop up in the next week and then they might—ugh—call in the parental unit." He shuddered at the thought; grimacing when he pictured sitting in a room with it just being Mr. Daniel, Moira, and himself. That sounded like a nightmare in the making.

"Yeah—nobody wants that." MJ agreed. "Though—aren't you currently procrastinating? We all know that surveillance cameras are not a material in homework assignments." She peered over his shoulder to look at his screen.

Peter could admit that she had a point. "You're probably right." He conceded sulkily, rolling the chair over to retrieve the extra-credit assignments. Electing to take another sip of his coffee, he cracked his knuckles and then grabbed a pencil from the silver cup-holder. A further inspection of the assignments revealed practice problems for physics—fifteen that he could count, which sounded lovely—as well as an essay for English class—a research paper on one of the topics provided.

Gwen wrinkled her nose at the upside-down physics problems she could view from the couch. "Ugh, physics." She spun a pencil in between her fingers. "My least favorite science." Gwen added.

MJ nodded her agreement, observing the History and Anatomy assignments buried underneath the top two. For History, he had to write another essay on the Industrial Revolution—picking one of the informative topics. As for Anatomy, he had to do a lengthy packet that slowly went over labeling a few charts and providing functions. "The Anatomy part looks a bit hellish." MJ commented.

The blonde leaned forward with interest, picking up the packet and briefly skimming through the pages. "You do realize that they know what my hand-writing looks like, you can't do the assignment for me." Peter arched an eyebrow at her palpable excitement.

"That's depressing." Gwen decided archly. "I can tell you the answers." She perked up a second later.

"I feel like that's not exactly what my teachers had in mind for the extra credit assignments." Peter remarked, shaking his head with a fondly bemused smile twitching at his lips.

"Well, it's a homework assignment—it's not like they didn't tell you that you could use your resources." MJ countered. "Besides, I really want to go to that art gallery and you're my free ticket in." She added factually.

Peter chuckled. "Should have known you were using me for my money."

MJ tossed him a smirk. "You really should have guessed that, Mr. Silver Throne."

He groaned. "I should have met with Roy privately—you're never going to let me live that down, are you?" Peter stated, the question entirely rhetorical, though she nodded, nonetheless. He folded his arms across his chest, setting an alert on one of the programs for anymore movements by the people he was keeping tabs on. "So—what time do we have to be at the Art Gallery on Saturday." MJ swatted him again and he tossed her an over-exaggerated offended look.

MJ rewarded him with an unimpressed stare. "You know what that was for."

Gwen coughed suddenly. "Could you both not flirt in front of me? You're going to give me diabetes." He tossed her a wide-eyed look, heat crawling up his neck and settling over his cheekbones, though she simply returned her attention to her textbook.

"Is that supposed to make me feel bad?" MJ queried.

Peter turned his attention back to MJ—there was a hint of pink settling across her features, but a pleased smile curved at her lips. He shook his head—girls. "You did bring up the Art Gallery." MJ swatted him once more and he inwardly mused that she was just going to take to physical abuse every time he said the words with his particular brand of snark.

Gwen shrugged. "Fair point. So—is this going to be you two going on a date? Or are we all going to pretend this is an excursion as friends again?" She lifted her gaze from her textbook to regard them with the stink eye.

MJ chuckled. "I feel like we should—solely to annoy you."

Peter glanced towards MJ. "You seem ok with the idea of a potential date with me." His eyebrows were hiked up, the glance he gave her completely questioning. A part of him thought of maybe questioning her sanity—but she might push him out of the chair.

She nodded. "You're oblivious, Queen."

Peter rolled his eyes. "And here I was going to ask you on a proper date like an overly historic gentleman." He deadpanned. Dark curls moved rapidly as she shook her head with a cringe tattooed across her features. "Would you like to go on a date with me to the Art Gallery—as more than friends?" Peter asked, leaning back in the chair as she grinned suddenly—her entire face brightening.

"Pick me up at five." MJ ordered.

"Awe—now, I definitely have diabetes." Gwen's gushing voice twisted into a dry tone.

---

Landing with a silent thump on the billboard he typically met with the Hood vigilante at—and, the thought left Peter with a bit of hysterical curiosity in the fact that he had a meeting spot with another vigilante—he straightened from his crouched position. Once MJ and Gwen had left him alone to do homework—the latter helping him through a little over half of the Anatomy packet, before he decided that he had enough with Anatomy notes and pretended to move onto physics. The subject practically chased the girls out of the room and Peter almost turned with a smile on the ghost over his shoulder.

The fact that he had asked MJ out on a date—and it had been simple and easy—hadn't hit him until the girls left the room, and he had questioned what he had been thinking. There were so many reasons it was a bad idea to start dating someone starting with the fact that he was a vigilante, who couldn't tell anyone about it, and was going to spend the evening helping the Hood interrogate Moira Queen. To his surprise, Peter didn't regret it. In fact, he was kind of looking forward to spending time with MJ in that capacity.

They had been dancing around each other for over a year—and it would be so easy for Peter to just admit that he could see himself dating MJ, seriously. After he had come to that realization, he had wanted to turn and consult with Uncle Ben about it—he had longed so badly to confide in his bodyguard, and it had led to the sickening realization that he was about to go on his first date and Uncle Ben wouldn't be there to assuage his nerves. Peter pulled one knee loosely to his chest, letting the other leg dangle in the air as he plopped down on the billboard, waiting for the Hood.

Peter didn't know if he could do it—be any more involved in all of this. Maybe, that made him a coward. He looked out for the little guy and hadn't targeted the big leagues like the other vigilante because, if he were being completely honest with himself, he knew that vigilantism was a tangled web. The more he got involved, the less likely he would be to pull himself away from it. He was eighteen and maybe the number meant that he was supposed to have at least some details worked out, but he didn't.

Another problem lingering in the back of his mind was whether he could be both Spiderman and Peter Queen. Peter could feel that question digging into his mind, growing roots that stretched and took over. It spread like poison through him. Conflicted, he lifted his gaze to regard Starling City. Looking at the deceptively innocent view he had from his billboard reminded him that he had to do good—and giving up vigilantism would be dishonoring what Uncle Ben had done for him. He would be dishonoring Uncle Ben's memory.

Besides, once the girls had left, he had started piecing together the pieces he had ordered for the mechanical web-shooters, though he hadn't yet attached them to his suit, his idea was that he would be able to modify the thickness and texture of the webbing with the web-shooters, though he knew there would be no small amount of trial and error in that. He had, however, ordered another piece, which was a Bluetooth device to put in his ear and he would have to adjust it to connect to the police scanner.

Peter was also trying to figure out GPS and getting a map added to his suit, thinking of maybe adding a detachable device to one wrist—though he had to still work out the mechanics of shrinking it so that it wouldn't be super clunky and get in the way of his hand-to-hand combat. Not that Peter had been doing much of that recently, webbing did afford him the luxury of long-distance fighting. Despite that, he had plans to return to the Wildcats gym to get some more training in.

He needed to pick that back up and maybe even increase it so that he was more prepared. Peter needed to be more prepared, because he could recognize that he had gotten relatively lucky when fighting against people. Mainly because he was still relatively new to the scene and unheard of due to the whole looking out for the little guy not getting as much media attention as the things that the other vigilante had been doing.

"Plans have changed." The Hood announced as he dropped onto the building. Peter scrambled to his feet, his first instinct was to lift his hands to defend himself, though he registered that it was just the Hood a second later and lowered his arms, letting them hang tightly at his sides. He could feel the waves of tension that crept over his frame coiling even tighter as he regarded the hooded silhouette of the man. "I have yet to sneak up on you, before." The man noted; a voice modulator distorting his voice and Peter inwardly wondered what he had done to earn the distrust.

Peter waved a dismissive hand. "There's a first for everything, Sergeant Greenie." He remarked. "So—what's going on? I thought that you were all for interrogating Moira Queen last night." Peter added, biting his lip.

The Hood shifted slightly. "As of the moment, we have a larger concern." The man held up a phone—the device doubtlessly untraceable, which Peter didn't understand why he had it and kind of wished that he would have thought of an untraceable phone. "I need you to come with me to a meeting with Detective Quentin Lance." He informed Peter.

His eyebrows raised high on his forehead. "You're telling me that publicly anti-vigilante Detective Quentin Lance wants to meet up with you for a rooftop rendezvous." Peter whistled under his breath. He tilted his head to one side, "Forgive me if I'm a bit out of the loop—but didn't he try a sting operation on you a few days? Is that why you want me there?" He came to the general realization aloud.

"Yes." The Hood managed.

"Wow. That sounded very convincing, Sergeant Greenie." Peter noted sarcastically. He stretched his arms. "So—where are we going for your lovely little rendezvous?" A part of him hoped that the man realized that Peter was going to keep calling it that until the Hood eventually snapped at him—he didn't know why exactly he was attempting to annoy the man so much, though, it could be because the Hood tried to arrow him when they first met.

The Hood notched an arrow, "Follow me." He ordered gruffly.

Peter heavily considered his life decisions in the fact that he was going to willingly follow a man who he probably shouldn't even consider trusting. "You've given me PTSD about being around you and a loaded bow." He murmured, jumping off the building and outstretching his wrist. The cooler, near-spring air of the evening enveloped him as he attempted to keep his flipping through the air to a minimum in order to track the movements of the Hood as the man notched arrow after arrow that would allow for him to zipline to the next building.

For a moment, he considered losing himself in soaring through the air—being up as high as he liked was amazing. It wasn't like he had spent his childhood wondering what it would be like to fly—but now, he couldn't consider going one day without seeking out the adrenaline that came with the territory. Maybe, that was why he couldn't give up on being Spiderman—no matter how difficult it got, he felt truly free. Weightless and boneless and everything associated with the two.

It was worth it. Peter exhaled, locating where the vigilante had paused underneath him on a nondescript rooftop, though Peter inwardly preferred his own rooftop because he could plop down on the billboard. He landed in a crouched position beside the Hood, raising his hands in surrender as a gun was aimed at him. Peter felt his heart skip a beat in his chest at staring down the barrel of Detective Lance's gun—he wasn't feeling entirely keen on figuring out his healing capabilities on bullet wounds tonight.

"You brought a friend." Detective Lance stated, gun wavering for a split second as he contemplated pulling the trigger before he lowered it as the Hood reached for an arrow. Peter could imagine that the detective had weighed the pros and cons of apprehending the both of them and arched an eyebrow as he wondered why the man had wanted to reach out to the vigilante who had led Peter here.

Peter tilted his head to side-eye the Hood. "Awe—he called us friends, now." Peter couldn't refrain from commenting, rolling his eyes as he stepped forward, stopping with equidistance between him and the detective. "Hello, sir, I'm just your friendly, neighborhood Spiderman." He introduced himself, debating whether he should hold out a hand to shake—though he realized that maybe the man wouldn't be so keen on shaking a vigilante's hand—before deciding to say screw it.

Detective Lance stared at him as though he had three heads. "You want to shake my hand after I tried to shoot you—and you can't exactly be considered so friendly since you're teaming up with him." He gestured vaguely to the Hood.

Rude. Peter shrugged. "First time I met him, he tried to put an arrow in my shoulder—the gun thing is not exactly winning any accolades for most surprising thing of the year." Peter jabbed a thumb over his shoulder.

He turned back to the Hood; expression critical. "Your partner is rather talkative."

"We're not exactly partners, here." Peter corrected, "It's more so we're in group vigilante counseling." He remarked with sarcasm dripping from his words. Quentin's eyebrows raised high on his forehead, flirting with his hairline. "Anyways, you summoned him for a reason—or is this another sting operation?" He glanced around for the theatrics part—none of his senses were alerting him to someone else being present, but he figured that he might as well do it for show.

The Hood spoke then, "Detective, if this is another trick—you won't like the consequences." He warned; the voice modulator making Peter's humor dissipate as he swallowed, attempting to smother the instinctual fear. Fear tended to twist into protective instinct, and he would not jump between the two as they did as much of the locking eyes as they could given the hood covering the vigilante's features.

Detective Lance sighed. "I hate you. I hate everything you stand for—" The man started.

Peter coughed, "This is not giving me the impression that you don't have some kind of sting set-up." He murmured with some level of consternation as he folded his arms across his chest.

Quentin spared him a glance; visibly swallowing his pride. "—but this lunatic has my little girl—" Laurel, Peter felt a hint of alertness seep into his expression. He hadn't even noticed she was missing—poor Tommy. Quentin held up a piece of paper in between two fingers, the white paper was crinkled a bit as though the man had folded and unfolded it several times. "—he left this behind as some kind of ransom note. His name is Cyrus Vanch." Detective Lance concluded and the Hood stepped forward to accept the piece of paper, quietly reading the scribbled words.

Swallowing, Peter tried to recall where exactly he had heard the name before. It triggered something in his recollection, though he had no inkling as to what. A second later, it clicked. Cyrus Vanch had been all over the news some months back, practically a year ago. He recalled that Cyrus Vanch was sentenced to three consecutive life-time sentences in Iron Heights for drug running, racketeering, human trafficking and connections to over fifty homicides—how would anyone have let him out with all of those connections and suspicions? "Why would he have been released?" He murmured to himself.

The detective glanced at him. "Lack of evidence." He answered.

Peter bit his lip. "Why would he have taken your daughter?" He queried, glancing first towards the detective and then to the vigilante. Maybe Laurel's connection to CNRI had served as a motivation as he recalled that it had been that group who had prosecuted Cyrus Vanch.

Quentin's gaze refocused on the Hood. "Seems like you don't share everything with your partner." The man remarked.

"I suppose we haven't gotten to the stage of exchanging phone numbers like you clearly have." Peter retorted. He had the brief sense of satisfaction as Detective Lance clamped his mouth shut contritely. "So—would someone care to update me on the situation? Or are you expecting me to run in blind helping you get your daughter back home safely?" He questioned, looking to both of them.

"Mrs. Lance and I briefly worked together on some cases." The Hood admitted.

Peter suddenly recalled his seeking out his friends for help, wondering if the same might happen to them. He stiffened at the thought—rethinking whether he should really endanger MJ by pursuing anything with her. He cared too much about her to risk her, but—now, he really wished that he had someone to confide in. Detective Lance nodded, lips pursed and his expression vaguely disapproving. "He'll kill her if he doesn't get to you, Hood." Detective Lance added, appealing more so to the Hood than Spiderman.

Though, he should feel more pity for the man in front of him—losing yet another daughter like this—he didn't. Instead, he felt worry for Tommy precede that. "He'll kill her anyway." The Hood spoke decisively. "So—why come to me?"

Something inside of Peter recoiled at the implication in the words—maybe the voice modulator canceled out concern, but all he could detect was a certain boredom. A certain why should I care. It rubbed him the wrong way. "It's a pretty tight circle that knows about you and my daughter working together." The words were gritted out through a clenched jaw, before Detective Lance smoothed his expression out. "If Vanch knows, it's because someone at the precinct talked. There isn't anybody else I can trust."

The words spoke of Quentin's desperation, the distinct pleading tone that entered his voice in an attempt to cajole the Hood. Peter could relate on the trust aspect—he had spent more than a few weeks circling back to who to trust and feeling completely isolated and terrified. He still felt the faint vestiges of the emotions, the constant looking over his shoulder as though anticipating that the Dark Archer would strike out at him again. Peter was silent as he glanced at the Hood once more—he had a feeling that Quentin hadn't even suspected that he would be present there.

Finally, the Hood spoke once more. "Vanch is holed up in a mansion. It's a heavily fortified position." Peter felt some of the tension melt from his shoulders as he realized that the Hood might be willing to help after-all.

Detective Lance seemed to read into the words the same amount as Peter did, hope lighting his expression slightly. "I was there. I can't take it by myself." Quentin informed him with an agreeing nod. "I need your help. Both of yours, if you can manage it." The man finally glanced toward Peter.

He shrugged. "You already have my help." Peter answered honestly. "And, I'm sure Sergeant Greenie over there will be happy to help, won't you, Sergeant Greenie?" He stared at the hooded figure, hoping that the man could pick up on the meaningful glance.

Quentin looked briefly amused. "Sergeant Greenie?" He questioned, before shaking his head, glancing back towards the Hood with a pleading expression tattooed across his features. "Please." Detective Lance whispered.

The Hood nodded jerkily. "Then, I need your help as well." He spoke. Detective Lance looked reticent, before he nodded after a few minutes. "I need you to never give the phone back to Laurel Lance." The Hood decided, "It is too dangerous for the both of us."

Peter raised a hand, "Can I have the phone then?" He questioned. "What? Are you seriously going to deny me a way to get in touch with you, Sergeant Greenie? I mean, I'd probably prank phone-call you at least eight times, but then it would be out of my system—probably." He folded his arms across his chest.

Detective Lance nodded towards the Hood. "My daughter will never get her hands on the phone; you have my word on that." His gaze landed back on Peter, tilting his head to one side. "How exactly did you become a vigilante, kid? You're not exactly fitting the definition." Quentin furrowed his eyebrows.

He pinched the bridge of his nose over the mask. "If I wanted my origin story broadcasted across the world, I'd leak it to TMZ." Peter remarked dryly. "Besides, how many vigilantes have you interacted with in your career to know what we're all like. You can't base it off the poster-child of growling noises over there." He gestured vaguely towards the Hood, before clapping his hands together. "So, do you have an actual plan for Cyrus Vanch or are we all going to bust in there guns blazing?" Peter questioned, changing the subject.

Quentin's expression sobered. "He has many hired, trained fighters. Two, by my count, on the roof that are sharpshooters along with at least a dozen doing perimeter checks. There are also the men inside the house." He informed them both.

Peter pursed his lips in consideration. "I can get to the roof faster to take out the sharp-shooters. Webbing an all of that." He tapped his fingers against his wrist. "I can also web up those who are near the house, too." Peter added.

The Hood eventually nodded. "I'll come in from the forest, you'll cover me from the roof. After we get Laurel Lance out, I want you to leave immediately." The man ordered; distorted voice firm.

He considered arguing, going inside the house as well, but realized that he would likely get in the way more than help—be a hindrance more than someone helpful and he didn't want to end up catching another set of arrows. "I'll be waiting by the billboard, then." Peter remarked quietly, speaking more towards the Hood than Detective Lance. He turned to the man, "Need a lift?" He questioned, feeling a grin spread across his features. "The sooner we get there, the more chance that your daughter has." Peter added when Detective Lance looked reluctant.

Eventually, Quentin sighed and nodded. "Fine."

---

Dropping down in the middle of the wood, Peter deposited Quentin Lance on the ground. "Here we are, safe and sound." Peter remarked, cringing when the man bent over at the middle looking vaguely green in the moonlight. "Umm—you ok over there, Detective? I'd offer you a brown-paper bag to breathe in, but I don't carry those on my suit." He patted where pockets would normally rest for emphasis. He moved silently towards a tree trunk, pressing one hand cautiously against the rough bark as he peered at the lights he could see in the distance.

"I never want to do that again—ow." Quentin grimaced and Peter saw him in his peripheral moving forward with his gun drawn. "So—how did you and the Hood meet? Is he your mentor or something?" The man questioned, curiosity lining his features.

Peter tossed him a glance, before exhaling. "As I said earlier, we bumped into each other one day. He decided to try and arrow me and I yelled at him for it." Peter gave the brief overview. He crouched down, sticking close to the tree-trunk, as he attempted to focus his senses—attuning them to his surroundings. Vaguely, he could hear the movement of booted feet heavily crushing the deadened grass and leftover leaves. He could also hear a faint voice carrying on the breeze, though he tried to count how many booted feet there were.

The attempt left him with a brief, pulsating headache. Nevermind. "Shouldn't a kid like you be going to school and everything that entails—not spending your evenings working with the Hood?" Detective Lance queried.

Peter tossed the other an irate glance. He knew that maybe the other probably wouldn't feel Peter's rising level of irritation, but he was exhausted with the hypocrisy. "You know what I find ironic—you need his help to save your daughter and he is helping you when he could just arrow zipline his way out of here instead of risking his life. But, despite all of that, you condemn him in every other word." He noted quietly. "Also, focusing on the way things should be—" Peter shuddered at the thought, "—it just leaves you with more regrets. Now, if you'll excuse me, I have to go web up the meatheads on the roof before Sergeant Greenie gets bow-and-arrow happy and wastes all of his arrows unnecessarily." He added.

He pressed his hands more firmly against the tree, sticking to the surface and eventually climbing up the tree. Peter perched on one of the branches, eyes tracing the movements of the men aiming flashlights into the underbrush, before he exhaled and took his chance. He extended a hand, middle finger and ring finger pressed to his palm and wrist angled downward as webbing attached to the satellite dish. Peter jumped up at the same time, swinging himself through the air and landing with a thump on the roof in a crouch.

A quick glance over the side revealed a few startled glances around at the flash of red and blue and Peter lowered himself further into the shadows. He crawled along the roof, eyes scanning the space for the two sharpshooters. Peter located one and remained close to the shingles, extending a wrist to clamp over the barrel end of the gun. "What the hell?" The sharpshooter stumbled back, hand reaching for the gun he had holstered on his thigh.

Peter darted forward before the man could turn the safety off, kicking the gun out of his hands. He flipped over the man when he moved forward with a knife—rolling his eyes because really, a knife—and then grabbed the man's shoulders, kicking the back of his knees and causing the man to drop with frustrated sound escaping his mouth. Peter stepped back, swiftly webbing the guy to a kneeling position on the roof shingles. The hairs on the back of his neck stood on edge as he bent all the way backwards, the bullet grazing the webbed-up man, who shouted beneath the webs over his mouth.

"That's not very nice." Peter remarked, launching himself through the air and then proceeded to web the other guy to the roof shingles by his feet as the man stumbled slightly, unused to such a heavy weight on his lower legs. "Hey man." He waved, not giving the second sharp-shooter a chance to respond or make any noise as he gagged him with another web.

He dropped to the floor when an array of bullets flew over his head, missing him by just hairs. Peter grimaced when a burning sting emitted from his bicep and his hand instinctively shot to the bullet that had went through his arm. He peered over the edge, finding several gunmen moving slowly toward the rooftop where he was with their guns blazing. Peter counted under his breath, waiting for them to reload or get closer before he aimed his wrist at one gun and sealed over the end, jerking his arm back to yank the weapon—firing into the webs over the end—out of the man's grip.

Peter smiled to himself, keeping the trend going as he muzzled the ends of each gun and yanked them away from each respective owner. The hairs on the back of his neck moved as he straightened and flipped over the second sharp-shooter guy, before webbing him up more solidly. The men around the perimeter of the house were still coming toward the house, so Peter quickly started attaching webs to each and every single one of them, before closing his eyes and pulling with all of the strength he had.

He ran towards the center of the roof and attached the webs in his hands that connected all of the gunmen to him and each other, to another knot of webbing. Peering over the edge, he saw the shadow of the vigilante hurrying inside the house—followed by Detective Quentin Lance—as the gunmen struggled vainly in the air for a few seconds. Their feet kicked above the ground, a few feet between the two, as Peter nodded to himself. His fingers prodded against the sluggishly bleeding wound, and he tossed a quick glance around for any specks of blood on the rooftop—he didn't want to take a chance of leaving physical evidence of himself.

To his relief, there was no visible amount of blood on the roof, Peter tossed the shouting men a two-fingered salute. "Well, it was a pleasure doing business with you, men. Though, you've all got to work on your communicative skills. At least introduce yourself before you shoot a gun at me." Peter scolded with faint amusement threading his words together. He stepped off the side of the roof, catching himself on a piece of web before his feet landed against the ground.

Even though the Hood had told him to leave as soon as his part was done or stay on the roof the whole time to make sure that no-one came in after him, Peter stubbornly wanted to make sure that there was nothing he could do to help. "Who the hell are you supposed to be?" One of the dangling men shouted at him.

Peter flicked his gaze up to the man. "Communication skills—work on them. First, you shoot at me, and now you can't even be polite when asking who I am." He made a disappointed, tsking noise. "I'm Spiderman." He introduced himself with a wave.

Hand raising without much thought, he caught the knife that one man attempted to throw at him. Peter arched an eyebrow at the man, realizing that they still had access to their weapons from their dangling position and that wouldn't do for him or the Hood. He sneezed, launching a web at the man's hands and started gluing each person's hands to their sides. "Move anymore and I'll shoot the little brunette inside." One man warned and Peter turned his head to glance at a man who was dangling mid-air with a gun raised steadily in the direction of the window.

"Now that's not leaving me with many options here." Peter shook his head, webbing the end of the gun before the man's fingers could press the trigger. He squeezed the trigger anyways, though the webbing took the bullet. "You know, I wasn't going to dangle you all from the building all webbed up—because it seems humiliating enough for you to be like this—but you just had to add to it, didn't you?" He queried rhetorically.

There were fourteen men that he had to web their hands to their sides, and by the time he had done a full lap of the house, Detective Lance was helping Laurel out of the house—fretting over her as sirens approached the mansion. Peter offered both of them a two fingered salute before taking a running leap, hand outstretched to allow the web to catch on the tip of a tree as he used the momentum to pull himself into the air and soaring over the tree-tops. He knew that the Hood could manage on his own and would probably be privately livid at Spiderman for sticking around afterwards.

He might even be mad about his method of webbing people up.

Peter grimaced, mind wandering elsewhere as he made his way to his billboard—it was a second thought to note that his arm was still bleeding. He landed on the roof with one hand pressed against his bicep—not liking the darkening color of his suit as he realized that he would probably have to patch that up. Peter eyed his wrist on the opposite hand thoughtfully, before shrugging as he placed it over the bullet graze—at least, he thought it might be a graze, it might also be a straight through.

He bit down hard on his lower lip to refrain from shouting as the web settled over the wound. "Fuck—that was a bad idea. I should have just returned to my place of residence and then come here." Peter muttered to himself, sliding down the billboard as he leaned against one of the poles that held it upright. He closed his eyes for a few seconds, regaining his bearings as he angled his head backwards.

Initially, Peter had thought that the most difficult part of the night might be confronting Moira, though dealing with Vanch indirectly and helping the Hood and Detective Lance save Laurel Lance was a welcome distraction from the fact that Moira—that Peter had directly caused what was going to happen there. It was his fault that the Hood was going to go after her—and, despite the fact that Peter kept trying to convince himself that he didn't care, she still wore the face of the woman he had loved his entire life.

Peter just wished that things were easier—that he could go back in time and enjoy the moments where everything felt at peace thoroughly. Before he knew about Moira's involvement with Dad's death. Before Walter disappeared. Before Uncle Ben died in his arms. Even before he knew that the Dark Archer was one of the involved parties that Moira associated with. Time-travel didn't exist, though, and he couldn't go back to the simpler moments—no matter how much a childish part of him wanted to.

Even though a part of him was glad that he knew—it meant that he could help, that he could change things, that he stood a chance at saving people—the other part remembered that ignorance was bliss. It hadn't been long enough for him to determine whether he truly regretted the change in that—sometimes, he did and other times he didn't.

Opening his eyes, he regarded the city for another heartbeat—the hairs on the back of his neck alerting him to another presence on the roof. "How's the detective's daughter?" Peter questioned. "I would have stuck around, but, I'd rather not be arrowed by you again and you had busted out the growly Sergeant Greenie tone when we made our plan of ambush." He added, tilting his head to regard the Hood, one hand still shielding his arm.

The Hood moved his thumb slightly. "She's alright. Shaken, but alright." His voice came out gruff, though he had turned the voice modulator off.

Peter exhaled, relieved. "I'm guessing that you won't be corroborating with her anytime soon, though, right?" He checked and the man nodded jerkily. "So—do you still have it in you to ask Moira Queen some questions? Or have you had enough vigilantism for the night?" Peter queried, standing.

Straightening, the other pressed fingers against the ends of his arrows. Peter kept his reaction down; he carried a small inkling of doubt that the man wouldn't make the attempt again at arrowing him. He didn't know what he might do if that happened—the Hood was his key to getting answers currently and he doubted that the man would give anymore information for Peter Queen. "You seem rather keen on interrogating Moira Queen." The Hood noted.

He chewed roughly on his lower lip, feeling the familiar tang of blood from the rough spot on his lip breaking open. "An innocent man still sits in jail for something he didn't do—something you told me that Moira Queen had something to do with—and she's also connected to the Dark Archer." Peter argued. "And you don't seem keen at all on interrogating Moira Queen—though it was your suggestion, might I remind you." He added, folding his arms across his chest.

"She's not on the list." The Hood stated.

"I don't know if you're aware of this or not, Sergeant Greenie, but not everyone who's not on that list is saintly. Unless the author has magical abilities and wrote down every single person in the world who is bad, then—" Peter trailed off meaningfully. "I want answers and Moira Queen seems to hold a lot of them." He concluded a few seconds later.

Dead silence wrapped tightly around them for a few heartbeats following his proclamation. Finally, the Hood nodded jerkily once more. "I'll ask the questions; I don't want you to get involved—" The man started.

Peter interrupted him. "Sorry, Growly McGrowly-pants, but I doubt that you have any intention on helping my endeavor to free Tom Edwards." He remarked. Softening, Peter pressed his fingers lightly against the webbing on his arm. "I'm not going to detract from your questions, but I do have questions of my own." He added.

The Hood exhaled. "Fine." Peter could practically feel the moment the Hood noticed the webbing Peter had placed over his injury, "What is this?" The man grabbed his arm tightly and Peter reflexively raised his freed arm, hand curled into a fist.

A few heartbeats later he registered the defensive maneuver and lowered his fisted hand, "It's webbing, Sergeant Greenie. You do realize the name Spiderman doesn't just come from my affinity with spiders or me being obsessed with them." Peter arched a bemused eyebrow, letting the emotion drip from his words.

He knew that if he peered close enough, he might be able to figure out who the Hood was underneath the green fabric—he could make out the faint smudges of face paint on the man's face—but he refrained from assuaging his curiosity. "Why?" The Hood questioned.

Peter still lingered on the fact that he found himself with ample opportunity to figure out the man underneath the hood, but he didn't. Maybe it was the same reason that he had kept himself distracted and busy so that he wouldn't have to think about how close he was to finding out the Hood's identity. "Aiming troubles." Peter answered without batting an eyelid. "You really need to invest in non-growly pills, Sergeant Greenie. Or are you attempting to practice your interrogation skills on me, because—not gonna lie—they might need a bit of work." He rambled slightly.

The Hood exhaled and released Peter's arms, he shook the limb out, flexing his fingers for emphasis to chase away the numbness that had started to spread over his skin. Pins and needles danced along his skin, before he lowered his arm to rest against his side. "Let's go." The Hood grumbled.

Peter inwardly mused that the guy needed to stop watching so much Teen Wolf—he was mimicking Derek Hale in the first seasons perfectly. "Ok, chop, chop, Growly-hood." Peter felt a smile twitch at the corners of his mouth. He followed the other vigilante less conspicuously than he had the first time, knowing that—despite the later hour—Moira would still be at the office. Thea's updates, when his twin sister was home, had shown that Moira had thrown herself into work and refused to comment on why things were so awful between Peter and herself.

His twin sister had insisted in her messages that Moira wasn't having an affair with Malcolm Merlyn—but it wasn't quite enough for Peter to return home. Inwardly, he wondered if he could muscle returning to the mansion after they interrogated her. He supposed it depended on what answers she provided. The Queen Consolidated building loomed in front of them as Peter landed with a silent thump in the alleyway across the street in the tracks of the Hood. He side-eyed the man for a minute, before taking a running leap at the building, climbing quickly up the side while the Hood managed the same with his own devices.

Initially, he had thought that the other vigilante solely relied on his bow and arrows, but he could see the other weapons on the man's frame from up-close—weapons that the other attempted to keep hidden in the darker fabrics of his get-up. Climbing up to the roof, grateful for the endarkened rooms inside the building, Peter inched around the lit offices—the entirety of the top floor was lit, which made him pause at the bottom of that floor and peer closely through the glass.

Waiting until he was assured through his own visual assessment that the area was clear, he finished the climb to the roof, swinging himself over the lip that rose up to provide a railing around the roof. Peter walked over to the roof entrance/exit and folded his arms across his chest—it would be easy to rip the door handle off, but he was following the Hood's lead on this one. It was the other man's operation, Peter was just acting as back-up and a tag-a-long, though he had every intention of confronting Moira as Spiderman or even using the Hood's methods of intimidation so that she would see to Tom Edwards' release more firmly than the responding email that Peter had got from Detective Lance after he sent out the massive email.

Wordlessly, the Hood crossed the roof in quick strides, dropping to pick the lock on the rooftop door. He moved quickly, rotating the lock-pick with precision in his fingers. Peter let out a low, impressed whistle when the door opened with a click and the Hood pushed the steel door open. He jumped up, flattening a hand against the roof and then pulling himself up to crawl along the surface of the ceiling. He got to the end of the ceiling and dropped; one hand still stuck to the wall but moving his freed hand to the side wall.

The door to the executive floor was unsurprisingly locked and Peter listened closely for footsteps as the Hood picked the lock once more. They wouldn't have long before the silent alarms would start going off for the break-in, though Peter couldn't recall the security password that would cancel he alarms. "We won't have long unless you've got something to cancel out the silent alarms, Growly McGrowly-pants." Peter muttered.

One hand reached back as the Hood grabbed an arrow from his quiver and handed it over to Peter. He observed it closely, surprised to find a USB connection device at the end of the specialized arrow. Peter got the gist of what was expected of him as the door was pushed open and he gripped the arrow in one hand, scanning the walls for the alarm system. He found it within a few seconds and quickly jogged over to it, plugging the arrow into the bottom. Peter chewed on his lower lip as he waited for the screen to revert back from the warning, alert red and to a bright green color.

Peter almost snorted; he supposed that green would always remind him of the Hood now. He turned and ran to one wall to propel himself up to the slightly taller ceiling—following the Hood silently as the man moved from shadow to shadow to avoid the security detail around the executive office. Their lack of attention made Peter feel momentarily astounded—it was easy for the two vigilantes to reach the office and he frowned, wondering if the Hood had an inside source that was keeping the other members of the security detail preoccupied.

Silently, they entered the office and Peter caught the tail-end of Moira's conversation with several individuals in her office. "—the Unidac merger finalized by the end of the week. We're on something of a clock here." Peter briefly recalled the name and couldn't keep the grimace from stealing across his features. He remembered the issues with Unidac far too vividly, it was the first time he had almost lost Walter. Someone had attempted to kill his step-father that night, though now it was also added to the list of questions—was she somehow involved in that as well?

When the other vigilante moved to announce their presence, Peter grabbed his shoulder, shaking his head. He flicked his other wrist towards the ceiling and attached the both of them to the tall ceilings, keeping the Hood from doing anything. They needed as much time as they could manage, and it would do them both no good if they didn't get the correct amount of time with the Hood wanting to make an entrance. "Wait." Peter murmured, holding his breath a second later as the men in business suits exited the office.

Peter kept a tight hold on the Hood, before dropping him to the ground. He turned his head to track the precession of men as they disappeared behind the elevator doors, releasing a breath he didn't realize that he was holding.

The Hood notched an arrow and spoke as Peter dropped to the floor and cast a glance around their environment. "Moira Queen, you have failed this city." The Hood spoke with the voice modulator turned on. Peter's stomach bottomed out as he saw the head of the arrow pointed at the suddenly pale and terrified woman, the fingers on both hands curling into fists, helplessly. One wrong move, one movement of the fingers and she would have an arrow through her heart. His throat closed at the thought, feeling the worry curl tightly in his chest.

He had begged the vigilante to spare Moira—begged for Oliver's sake, for Thea's sake, and maybe, a little bit, for his own. But, begging did not ensure that the man would honor his word. The woman moved quickly, attempting to reach for the phone. The Hood released the arrow and Peter flinched as the man quickly notched another to shoot out the lamp. The first arrow knocked the phone off the desk; the device landing with a crash on the floor.

"Stand still." The Hood warned, aiming a third arrow at Moira Queen.

Moira held her hands upright, the universal sign for surrender. Her eyes were wide and fearful, and her voice was wracked with tremors when she spoke. "Please don't kill me." Peter's heart softened and then his chest pinched tightly with guilt. This was his doing. He had gone to the Hood and led him on this path.

He didn't know what to do, his heart and mind torn. "Do you know anything about your husband's disappearance and the murder of Benjamin Parker?" The Hood questioned. Peter's attention briefly refocused on the other vigilante, acknowledging that this was the other's way of honoring the fact that he would bring up Tom Edwards. Moira lowered her hands, breathing heavily. "Is Walter Steele still alive?" Peter's hands were cold; gooseflesh breaking across his skin underneath the suit at the near-shout quality of the words.

Moira's expression turned pinched; filled with sorrow. "I don't know where my husband is—I swear." The last word was a near whisper; it hauntingly echoed around the office. "And—I wasn't involved in Ben Parker's murder—Peter is my son; I would have never endangered him." She added, registering the second question.

Liar. Maybe, it wasn't intentional endangerment, but her lies had endangered him. Peter clenched his jaw. He didn't speak though; he didn't have the privacy of a voice modulator to distort his voice and he knew that she might recognize the cadence of his voice. "Do you know anything about the Undertaking?" The Hood questioned; distorted voice severe. Curious, Peter reviewed the words inside his head—what the hell was an Undertaking? Moira moved quickly, attempting to reach for something, though Peter had no idea what. "I said—don't move." He repeated, reaffirming his grip on the arrow.

Peter took an instinctive step forward, though he focused his hearing on the offices around them—checking that no one was going to rush them. Moira's gaze flickered to him; expression twisted into something a bit wearier. The Hood was known, though Spiderman only carried the same know quality in smaller circles—not the circles that the elite ran in. "I—I'm a mother." Moira dropped down to her knees, clutching a photo frame in her hands.

It was a newer picture of the three of them. Oliver in the middle with Thea to his left and Peter to his right. Peter remembered the day it had been taken with a small grimace sliding across his features. They had taken professional pictures with the media for the PR department of the company. It had been a boring, tame afternoon of being dressed up—and, for a long moment, Peter wanted the problems of then back. He would take his irritation of being stuffed in a suit over all of this.

This pain—this grief. "I have two sons; Oliver and Peter. And—and a daughter. Her name is Thea. Peter and Thea—they're just teenagers. Please don't take me from my children." She begged, clutching tightly onto the photo as though it were a lifeline. "They lost their father—they can't lose me, too." Moira continued, a tear sliding free from one eye. Peter could see, out of the corner of his eyes, the hooded figure of the other vigilante softening. "Please—whoever you are, please." Her words were broken by quiet sobs.

Lowering his bow, the Hood exhaled a single affirmative phrase. "I'm not going to hurt you." The Hood outstretched one, placating hand. Everything after that happened too quickly. First, the hairs on the back of Peter's neck stood on edge and then the woman dropped the picture and reached quickly for a drawer, pulling out a gun. She turned it on them and started shooting. Peter jumped at the Hood, hearing the bullets land in the glass behind the man, as he tackled him to the floor.

Peter deepened his voice, as he pressed his fingers into the Hood's shoulder to keep him from rising. "Moira Queen—can't we talk about this without the gun? We don't want to hurt you. We just need to know what you know about the Undertaking." Peter followed the other vigilante's line of questioning, ducking his head when the gun turned in their direction, the glass in front of them shattering and raining on them.

He heard the gun run out of bullets with a few clicks as she kept squeezing the trigger. Peter chanced a glance upwards, rising slowly into a crouched position instead of seated. He flicked his gaze back to the Hood, whose jaw was working soundlessly as he lifted a hand to press against his collarbone. "This is Moira Queen—I'm on the thirty-ninth floor. I need help. There are several intruders, please." Peter considered staying longer to question her, attempting to do a quick calculation of how long it would take for security to reach them.

Exhaling, he pulled the vigilante to his feet and tossed them both in the direction of the window, the glass shattering on their impact. "I'm sorry, Sergeant Greenie." Peter murmured, nearly losing his grip on the heavy man as he turned their bodies so that if he didn't manage to catch them both on webs, he would take the brunt of impact. He turned his head, free-falling through the air with the Hood, before he spotted the top of another building, and he freed a wrist to lash out.

The web connected and stayed much to his relief and the momentum swung them in that direction. Peter could see the side of the building approaching them and released his grip, angling his body to quickly figure out a way to yank them above the near street-level they were at amongst the sky-scraper-esque buildings. He murmured another apology to the vigilante he was clinging tightly to, before turning near vertical to yank them upright. The motion was a bit more difficult with the extra-weight and the web detached.

He panicked, knowing that he would not be able to reach the rooftops. Peter attempted to slow their fall, by turning his wrist vertical and attached them to one of the windows. He banded his one arm against the Hood's chest. They were several feet above the ground on the main-street and Peter let them drop, twisting so that he caught the brunt of the fall again. "We need to get out of here." Peter muttered, hearing the sirens and seeing the faint activity as he tugged the Hood into an alleyway across the street from the QC building.

His mind raced with calculations, and he didn't need all of his training at the clinic to know that he had fractured something in his leg. "You need to leave." The Hood grunted. "Go." The other vigilante growled in Peter's ear as he tried to take the most of the man's weight on himself.

"What?" Peter turned a dubious eye on the man. "You want me to just leave you here—you're injured, Sergeant Growly." Peter countered, shaking his head in his refusal. The muscles in his arms smarted as he attempted to regain his footing—he just needed a minute and then he could get them out of the alleyway and back to the billboard. He froze, he had no idea where to go from there—it wasn't like he could take the vigilante to the clinic without revealing himself, but he couldn't just leave him to die.

He'd left too many people to die. Uncle Ben. The man on the stairs in front of the QC building. And, if the vigilante—who was turning into an unlikely hero to the public eye—died, Peter wouldn't forgive himself for turning the man on this path. "There's nothing you can do for me." The man protested.

Peter furrowed his eyebrows together. "That's not true. I can get you help. I can get you some medicine or—or something. I can't just leave you here to die or be caught. The Glades still needs you." He argued; voice raising slightly in volume.

The Hood forcefully shoved him away and Peter was too stunned by the movement to go back to him. His leg pulsed, the wound burning, as he caught himself on the alley-wall. "Leave." Another growl.

It was like the man needed serious lessons in communicating with others. "I'm not going to just leave you here—you're injured, and I can help." Peter emphasized the last word. He peered over the man's shoulder, starting to see the cluster of emergency vehicles at the front. "We're running out of time. Come on, dude." He moved forward, ignoring the smarting of his own injuries.

The Hood turned to him with an arrow raised and Peter completely froze; jaw slackening as he stared down the arrow-head. He didn't understand—he had helped the man, he had gotten him out of the office, and his reward for that was an arrow to the face. "Go." The other vigilante didn't waver.

Peter closed his eyes. "Why?" He whispered. "Do you really trust me that little? I haven't done anything to hurt you. I've been helping you." Reopening his eyes, he saw that the other vigilante had disappeared. Peter slouched against the side of the building, before he attached himself to the building and began a hurried pace of crawling up the side. He got to the roof and quickly swung himself through the air, heading to the clinic. The pathway was made more difficult with his injuries—the webbed bullet-wound in his shoulder and the fracture in his leg. His head was swimming too—the floaty feeling like everything was falling to pieces.

---

Dropping from the ceiling in the clinic office, Peter quickly shucked off the bloodied garments of his suit—knowing that he would need to scrub the blood away quickly once he got a bandage over his bicep and splinted his leg. Peter held the red and blue fabric up, wearing only his boxers, above the trashcan as he attempted to shake the shards of glass from his suit. Brushing a few pieces off, he grimaced when the sharp ends dug into the pads of his fingers—leaving small nicks. The blood on his suit wasn't all his, most around the mid-section and one arm belonging to the Hood.

If he were anyone else, he could have taken the blood and ran it through a DNA analysis to identify the Hood—and he honestly considered it when he rethought what had happened before he had retreated to the clinic. The Hood had made a second threat to arrow him, after Peter had helped him, after he had spent the entire evening helping him instead of keeping an eye on Nick Coleman and his contacts as he had promised. A part of Peter just wanted to write the Hood off permanently, but, for some reason, he couldn't completely do that.

Peter retrieved a trash-bag from the box on one of the shelves and laid it over the floor to deposit his suit on it. He quickly grabbed a change of clothes from the duffel by the couch he had spent the past few days on and worked the sweat-pant leg around the bruised and swelling part of his leg. The bone hadn't broken the skin, thankfully, but it hurt like hell. Peter pulled a college hoodie on, keeping one arm lowered as he eyed the bullet scrape from earlier. It had been one action-packed night, he mused to himself.

First with Cyrus Vanch and then with Moira Queen. He sank down on his office chair, closing his eyes as he digested everything that had happened. Peter's eyes shot open as he outstretched a wrist towards the door-knob when he saw it start to move. Every muscle in his body tensed, even the ones around his injuries—which was unfavorable—and he adjusted himself, flicking his gaze down to his leg, before webbing closed the trash-bag and kicking it with his uninjured leg under the desk. In truth, Peter probably shouldn't have been standing or walking on it—he hadn't even realized that it had been so bad until he had painstakingly pried the fabric of the suit off.

He could feel the exhaustion prickling along his nerves. Peter knew it would be a bad idea to fall asleep currently, but he couldn't help it—he was so tired. He hadn't slept properly or eaten properly in days, and he felt his hand lower slightly. Sluggishly, he studied the contents on his desk, one elbow propped on the desk while he cradled his head in his hand. "Peter? What are you still doing up? Actually, what are you still doing here?" Tommy's voice was a welcome sound as the dark-haired man entered the room.

Peter would have anticipated that Tommy would be with Laurel—she had just had quite the afternoon and evening with Cyrus Vanch for company—so it was a surprise that the man had dropped by at the clinic and Peter attempted to recall if he had scheduled him for a shift. He would have let Tommy call out if that was the case. "I—you know, I've been staying here the past few days, right?" Peter couldn't recall in the moment if he had talked to Tommy about that—everything was twisting into something a bit fuzzy.

His older brother's best friend had consternation written across his features. "Yeah—I know." Tommy's brow furrowed as he stepped forward into the room, pressing the back of his hand against Peter's forehead. "Hey. Are you ok?" Tommy's eyes were specked with concern. Removing his hand, Tommy pursed his lips as Peter licked his own cracked lips and attempted to form the automatic reply in his throat.

Peter grimaced slightly. "Yeah—I'm fine. Just tired, been doing homework all night." He felt the lie easily roll off his tongue, much to his own self-disgust. "So—what's up? Why aren't you home with Gorgeous Laurel—I don't actually remember if I scheduled you for a shift and I heard about her being missing, so you could have called out and no-one would have blamed you for it." Peter added; he widened his eyes slightly, attempting to keep them from going to half-mast and himself from falling asleep at the desk.

It never tended to end well for him as the papers stuck to his face and were difficult to pry off in the morning. He couldn't keep track of the number of times he had had to re-print out something because the paper had ripped when Peter removed it from his face. "I just came by to pick up some things—ok, that's a lie. Laurel found out that you've been staying here and, well, she's a bit pissed about that." Tommy rubbed the back of his neck. He held his hands up in surrender when Peter pinned him with an unimpressed look. "Hey—it wasn't me who spilled. It was Thea—she's been working with Laurel for forced volunteering and girls tend to gossip." He informed Peter with a note of petulance in his voice.

Peter rolled his eyes. "Ok—so Laurel found out and what does that have to do with you barging in here like your hair's on fire in the middle of the night?" He questioned, eyebrows furrowing a touch.

Tommy arched an eyebrow at him. "We do have a guest bedroom, Petey. She's insistent." Tommy reminded him. "She sent me up here to introduce you to the idea but she's waiting in the car and she's going to come up here, herself, if I don't return with you." His practical brother cringed.

He snorted. "This sounds like kidnap."

"Oh, come on, Petey—you can't tell me that it doesn't sound nice to sleep in an actual bed rather than on that god-awful couch." Tommy countered. Peter exhaled, nodding as he attempted to stand, forgetting the healing fracture in his leg. He hadn't gotten the chance to splint it or anything. He thumped his fisted hand against the desk as Tommy rushed to his side, causing him to flinch as the hairs on the back of his neck prickled at the sudden, abrupt movement.

"I'm fine. I'm fine. I'm ok." Peter murmured; attempting to sound comforting.

Tommy rewarded him with a disbelieving glance. "Are you seriously going to pretend that?" His practical brother stated dryly. Tommy crouched, checking over his leg with a pinch developing between his eyebrows. Peter bit down hard on his lower-lip when Tommy's fingers brushed the swelling in his leg. Tommy noted the gesture and swiftly worked his pant-leg up. His breath hissed out between gritted teeth, "Oh my god—what happened?" Tommy murmured, "I'm going to go get a splint—here." He quickly helped Peter to the couch.

Peter tilted his head back to rest the back of his skull against the top of the couch. He closed his eyes, wracking his brain for a quick excuse to justify the injury in his leg to everyone. He supposed that he could say he had been changing the light-bulb and fell off the desk or fell down the stairs and crawled his way back up. "Oh, Peter." Laurel Lance's visage was perfectly concerned as she entered the room. "Tommy told me that you needed a splint. Jesus, kid, what happened?" She questioned.

He bit his lip. "Change the lightbulb?" Peter offered her a half-smile. Laurel looked slightly confused, her eyebrows raised as he cleared his throat at the inquisitory gaze of the detective's daughter—she definitely resembled her dad in that moment. "I—um, may have fallen off the desk and landed funnily on my leg when the phone started ringing in an effort to change the light-bulb. It was flickering and then it stopped the minute I fell off because lightbulbs hate me." Peter rambled, going with the first cover-story.

The other one would have left people wondering how he could have gotten back to the office with a fractured bone. "Well, that's one way to break your leg." Laurel whistled, sounding impressed. "You're lucky you're in a clinic." She added.

Peter shrugged. "Well—that is the best place to be when you break something." He remarked, smiling at Tommy as the man returned with Aunt May in tow—uh oh, the woman looked supremely disapproving. Peter squirmed slightly as she gently propped his foot up on the table. "Um—hey Aunt May—how's your day going?" He questioned, shrinking into the couch cushions at the trademark disapproving stare.

Aunt May arched an eyebrow, scanning the fracture on his leg. Peter noted that it looked better than it had looked initially. Though, he guessed that she might not share his opinion from the tight set of her mouth. "Mind explaining what the hell you were thinking?" Aunt May asked conversationally, completely ignoring his question.

Rude. That was a very important question. "The—um—flickering lightbulb annoyed me?" His words tapered off; voice twisting into something a bit more questioning. "It's—it's not that bad, Aunt May." Peter added, wincing when she reached over to flick him on the forehead.

Tommy whistled lowly. "You deserved that." He rubbed his face slightly, exchanging a quick glance with Laurel. "So—we should splint the leg and then we can get him home?" Tommy took a step forward, crouching across from Aunt May.

Aunt May clicked her tongue slightly, getting the materials together as she lined the splint up with his left leg. "I would normally want him to stay so I can look at the leg in the morning—but him sleeping in a bed with the leg elevated would definitely help with the pain and swelling." She remarked, sparing a quick glance up at Tommy, completely ignoring the slightly protesting noise Peter made at his treatment plan being decided without his input. "I trust that you'll take him back here in the morning." Aunt May added.

"Would anyone like to ask me questions?" Peter chipped in.

"Nope." Laurel answered, patting his shoulder. Tommy raised Peter's leg slightly so that she could align the splint correctly, before slowly lowering it so that his foot was propped against the end of the splint. Aunt May grabbed the ties and began wrapping them around his leg tightly to keep the splint in place. Peter grimaced at the twinges of pain, though he didn't ask for anything—Aunt May understood and knew his aversion to pain-killers and Tommy was just following her lead.

Aunt May glanced towards Tommy. "Could you go get me a set of crutches that are roughly Peter's height?" She asked, it was more an order than a request. Tommy nodded, standing and quickly striding into the hallway. "Thank you." Aunt May called after him.

Peter chuckled. "At least you remembered your manners."

She glared at him. "Peter." Aunt May warned. He held his hands up in surrender, checking the time on his watch. It was nearing three in the morning, though he had snuck out at close to ten that night.

Laurel cleared her throat. "Do you want me to get him any pain medicine?"

Peter shot her a glance, then looked to Aunt May—he hadn't needed to tell her about his thirteenth birthday, she had just known, which was why she was so averse to Eugene Thompson. "That won't be necessary." Peter insisted. "I'm not a huge fan of pain-killers—bad experience." He waved his hands emphatically.

His brother's ex-girlfriend furrowed her eyebrows at him. "Alright—just let me know if you need any, I might have some stuff at home." Laurel gave in as Tommy returned with the crutches. He held them out to the side as he and Aunt May teamed up to pull Peter off the couch. He balanced himself on one foot, allowing the other to just barely brush against the ground. Tommy helped him fit the crutches under his armpits and he hobbled after them, hating how the crutch pads dug into his armpits.

"I still feel like you both are kidnapping me." Peter remarked.

"Suck it up, dude." Tommy stated without even blinking.

Laurel chuckled breathlessly. "Come on, you two. We all need a bit of sleep." She opened the door while Tommy kept Peter upright and the woman took the lead going down the stairs.

Peter exhaled. "I left my bag upstairs." He reminded them, twisting slightly to view the space behind them and the stairs they had already descended.

Tommy arched an eyebrow. "Do you even have school tomorrow?"

He paused, thinking on it. "I don't actually remember—what's today?"

The dark-haired man chuckled. "It's Saturday." Tommy informed him.

Peter frowned, "Oh—no one told me that." He recalled suddenly that he had promised to take MJ to the art gallery for a date later today. He really wished that they would have brought up what today was, because Peter had completely missed the fact that it was Friday. "I'm taking MJ to an art gallery today." He exhaled, not even realizing he was speaking the words aloud.

Tommy crowed excitedly and Peter got the impression that his practical brother figure wanted to swing an arm over his shoulders, though the man settled for simply ruffling Peter's hair roughly. "That's my Petey. Look at you being all grown up and taking MJ on a date." Tommy sounded more enthused than even Peter. He glanced at Laurel, who rolled her eyes fondly at Tommy. "This is a date, right? You two better not be doing that 'oh we're just hanging out as friends.'" Tommy added, excitement deflating.

He snorted. "It's a date. I'm thinking of taking her for ice cream afterwards or burgers."

His older brother's best friend shook his head. "No. No. No. You've got to take her for Italian." Tommy protested while Laurel just raised both eyebrows at him. "You've got to take her to Table Salt, that's where both Ollie and I had our first dates." He reminded him, waggling his eyebrows suggestively.

Laurel elbowed him slightly. "Yeah and those dates ended so well." She snorted.

Tommy grinned. "Well, I've taken you there—and we're still together."

Peter wrinkled his nose. "Ew—old people flirting."

Tommy made an offended noise. "Excuse you." He gave Peter the stink-eye. "I'd tackle you, but you're on crutches and I really don't want Aunt May to kill me if you get more injured under my watch." Tommy folded his arms across his chest. "The minute you don't need crutches anymore—be warned." He added.

"I could just smack you with the crutches since I don't need them." Peter arched an eyebrow. Laurel sighed, pinching the bridge of her nose. Peter could feel an amused smile curling at his lips as he viewed the exasperation written across her face. It was a nice distraction from the fact that he had a falling out with the Hood after they both went to interrogate Moira Queen—Peter couldn't help but wonder if the other vigilante blamed both the Spiderman side and Peter Queen side of him for everything that had happened.

That guilt settled like a stone in his stomach.

---

"I can't believe that you forgot today was Saturday—what were you going to do? Just show up to school this morning?" Tommy shook his head as they entered the Queen mansion. Peter could briefly recall the car-ride, where they had laid him across the back-seats, though he had been asleep within a few minutes of the car-ride to the bickering of Tommy and Laurel and brief flashes of Tommy carrying him inside in a truly undignified manner. He rolled his eyes as he hobbled in on crutches to the mansion—both Peter and he had heard, first thing this morning, about Moira being confronted by two vigilantes last night and he could hear Detective Lance's voice as Moira and him conversed on the topic.

Peter side-eyed Tommy, shifting awkwardly on his crutches—he knew that Oliver was probably there, too and would probably express concern and over-protectiveness about the tiny fracture in Peter's leg. "I know—you've only expressed your extreme state of disbelief about—seven times this morning." Peter deadpanned. "I'm pretty sure even Aunt May was about to steal my crutches from me in order to smack you upside the head with them." He added with a wry grin curling at the corners of his mouth.

Tommy chuckled. "That should show you how unbelievable it is."

Another eye-roll was Peter's response. "I think it shows me your low expectations for what is believable." He quipped reflexively. They hovered with the faint edge of uncertainty in the entryway as Moira resumed her recount of what had happened the night before and providing descriptions—as much as she was able of the two vigilantes with their respective disguises. Mr. Diggle was the first to spot them and his eyebrows hiked up a few minutes later when he noticed the crutches and the splint on Peter's leg.

Making his way over to them quickly, Mr. Diggle regarded Peter with curiosity. "Are you alright? I could have sworn you weren't on crutches the last time I saw you and your brother didn't mention anything." He cut his gaze sharply to Oliver as he mentioned his charge's name. Peter wondered about what the significant gaze meant, though he figured that it was just friendship pains—friends get into fights.

Peter grimaced. "There may or may not have been a flickering lightbulb above my desk and I may or may not have climbed on the desk and then startled when the phone rang amidst changing it." He knew that there was no light-bulb, just as well as he knew that anyone he told the story to would believe otherwise. He could have deadpanned that he had fractured his leg when he took the brunt of the landing with the Hood's deadweight after making them both jump out a window. "Good news—the lightbulb stopped flickering. Bad news—I have a tiny fracture in my fibula." Aunt May had insisted on doing a scan this morning, where they had located the nearly healed fracture.

He figured that it would probably be completely healed by this afternoon—though, Peter had no idea how he was going to explain that one to Aunt May or Tommy or Laurel. Mr. Diggle shook his head, amusement lining the smile curling at his mouth. "Only you." He remarked.

Chewing on his lower lip contemplatively, he returned his attention to the other figures in the room, hovering awkwardly and a bit uncomfortably on his crutches. "Yeah, yeah, I know. I don't intend to stand on tables ever again." Peter chuckled, the amusement fleeting. "So, is everything ok? We got here as soon as we heard." He added; lips curving downwards as he flicked his gaze over Moira.

"Hey." Thea's voice sounded behind them; sounding tired. Peter turned his head to look behind him, his twin sister looked a bit like a mess, and he quirked an eyebrow when he got a scent of the alcohol that clung to her, probably having been spilled on her dress at some point, so much for that probation. Her eyebrows hiked up her forehead as she slowly blinked, registering the fact that Peter was on crutches. "What happened?" She questioned, crossing to him in a few, short strides, her fingers pressing against his arm to express her concern.

Peter waved his hand dismissively—the movement only slight and halted by the crutches as he reaffirmed his grip. "Embarrassing story about a lightbulb change gone wrong." Peter stated dryly. "As for the fact that Detective Lance is willingly entering the fortress, apparently she was accosted by the two vigilantes running around in cosplay." He attempted to point a crutch at Moira.

Mr. Diggle chuckled, the sound breaking off into a cough into his fist—sounding inappropriately amused. Thea's expression pinched slightly. Oliver seemed to notice their presence and strolled over quickly. "Where have you both been? I've been calling you both all night." Oliver furrowed his eyebrows. "Peter—what happened?" His older brother shot a quick, questioning glance towards Tommy, who held his hands up in surrender—giving Peter the implication that Tommy hadn't thought of messaging Oliver yet.

Thea shrugged. "I was at the club. I get zero reception in there. Also, Mom was attacked? Is she ok?" She answered, the questions lined with concern.

"I got kidnapped by Tommy and Laurel—neither one of them let me have my phone." Peter shot Tommy a narrow-eyed look. The older man arched an eyebrow at him, not even looking the slightest bit abashed.

"You crashed the minute we got you into the car." Tommy folded his arms across his chest. "And we've talked about your sleeping patterns, I don't know why you were even remotely surprised by the kidnapping." He added.

Peter raised his eyebrows. "So, you admit it was a kidnapping?" He confirmed. "And—I've gotten better about my sleeping patterns." Peter thought about it—realizing that he might have gotten a bit worse by Tommy's standards, but he wasn't going to admit that. Denial was his best friend, currently—that and pretending that life wasn't a complete shitshow on crack.

Tommy narrowed his eyes at him. "Well—anything's better than the ten hours of sleep you got in one week." He remarked dryly.

He nodded, "Yeah. I got twelve last week." Peter snorted.

"Peter." Oliver spoke; voice scolding. Peter turned an innocent expression on him—eyes wide and the top row of his teeth showing. His older brother pinched the bridge of his nose in exasperation, turning back to Thea. "And yes, the vigilantes—"

"—in cosplay—" Peter chipped in.

Oliver shot him a look. "—attacked Mom last night in her office."

Thea's expression turned pinched as she looked to Detective Lance for confirmation. The man nodded, shifting awkwardly on the couch before he stood with his partner. "Did they hurt you?" Thea questioned, eyes scanning Moira for any sign of obvious injury.

Detective Lance spoke for Moira. "Actually, she hurt one of them. Shot the Hood point blank with a gun hidden in her office." His glance towards Moira was vaguely impressed, "Though, the man escaped with Spiderman." Detective Lance added; tone twisting into something a bit more disapproving.

His twin sister furrowed her eyebrows. "I've heard of the Hood vigilante. But—who's Spiderman?" Thea spoke slowly. Peter kept his expression perfectly concerned with the answer, knowing that he wasn't expected to know much about the second vigilante—who he was.

"Spiderman is a new vigilante that we suspect has been working with the Hood." Detective Lance answered. "Not to worry, we'll soon uncover who they both are, and they'll see justice for their crimes." He assured them. Peter inwardly cringed at the fact that Detective Lance would be focusing any iota of attention on his alter-ego.

Thea didn't look as appeased as Detective Lance was probably hoping for with the assurance. "Did you get any evidence? Like—a blood sample or—" She started, seeming to rack her mind for words.

Quentin's partners pursed his lips disapprovingly. Detective Lance exhaled; fingers curled tightly. "There was a screw-up in the lab." The man got out. He looked entirely upset about the fact that one of his only massive leads had gone up in smoke, though Peter couldn't help but feel relieved. Even though the Hood had attempted to shoot him again and left him alone in that alleyway—injured and exhausted—he still knew that the man had the potential to do a lot of good in the city and he couldn't be responsible for the Glades losing that.

Oliver pursed his lips. "That's too bad."

Detective Lance hummed thoughtfully; eyes considerate as they rested on Oliver. "We'll be in touch." He promised; him and his partner taking their leave. Moira thanked them; a sound echoed by Oliver. Peter thinned his lips, biting his tongue as he refrained from making an excuse to leave. He knew for a fact that he didn't want to be here—especially considering his involvement with the previous night's events.

Thea quickly hugged Moira, shaking slightly as the woman ran a hand over the top of Thea's head. Peter knew that his twin sister had forgiven her for the perceived offense, though Thea maintained her distance for Peter's sake. "Oh, sweetheart. I was so scared. I thought I might never see any of you again." She glanced around at them, and Peter noticed Tommy quietly take a step back, getting away from the emotional tension in the room.

Peter exhaled. "I'm just glad you're ok." Thea's voice was slightly muffled into Moira's shoulder.

"I thought they were going to kill me." Moira looked just as shaken as she had last night, the faint twinges of panic and fear forming a concoction that tattooed itself across her features. Peter hobbled over to them, leaning heavily on his crutches as he outstretched a hand to put on her shoulder in comfort. Moira leaned into the touch slightly, flicking her gaze to look at him.

Oliver's voice was just this side of dangerous. "Hey. I promise you, they're never going to bother you, again." His older brother promised. Peter moved out of the way so that Oliver could wrap his arms around both Thea and Moira. He flicked his gaze to the side, unsure with how he was supposed to feel. Theoretically, he knew that he should not think that she was still involved, but—despite last night—he still had all of the evidence of her being involved as well as a practical confession.

Thea groaned. "Oh—come on—can't you two not do the weird fighting thing you've been doing for the past week?" She pulled back, pinning her gaze on Peter—expression lined with disapproval. "Mom was just attacked by two psychos—you can't seriously be still mad at her for no good reason." His twin sister gestured first to Peter and then to Moira.

Peter bit the inside of his cheek to refrain from shooting back that he had plenty of a reason to be completely done with Moira. "I'm here—aren't I?" Peter exhaled, biting his lip hard enough to draw blood. It tasted metallic in his mouth.

"Thea." Moira warned.

His twin sister scowled at him, ignoring Moira's warning. "Are you—are you serious? Peter—do you even hear yourself?" She raised her voice slightly as Oliver attempted to diffuse the situation with a repeat of Thea's name. "You're so mad at her that you don't even care that she could have died last night." Thea folded her arms across her chest.

Peter threw his hands up as much as he was able. "If I didn't care, I wouldn't be here." He argued. "I'm not in a super hugging-mood because I'm on crutches. In case you missed the silver crutches under my arms—FYI, I didn't just go into the closet today and decide I wanted to accessorize with crutches, I actually need them currently." He rambled slightly, gesturing emphatically with no true purpose. He turned to Moira, "And, I'm relieved that you're not hurt. I'm relieved that you're ok. But that doesn't erase the fact that we had a falling out recently." Peter addressed her.

Moira closed her eyes. "I know that it doesn't. And—I'm sorry. For everything." She reopened her eyes, exhaling. "The police—they also informed me that Tom Edwards is being released later today since new evidence emerged that he wasn't—that he was innocent." Moira added.

He could feel his relief spread at the fact that his email had worked—though he could still feel the tension enveloping his body. It wasn't over. He knew that the Dark Archer had framed Tom Edwards for a reason and the temporary victory wouldn't last for long. Though, he supposed it was comforting to know that nobody aside from the Hood and himself—and Nick Coleman—knew about the man's entanglement with everything. "I suppose you're going to try and tell me that you had a hand in that?" Peter lifted a skeptical eyebrow at her.

If she tried to claim credit for the anonymous tip, he might turn and hobble straight out of the mansion. Moira exhaled. "I helped convince a few people to listen to Detective Lance when he came forward about an anonymous tip." She narrowed her eyes at him. "That was you—wasn't it?" Moira confirmed.

Peter shrugged. "Did anyone else guess as much?" He questioned. Moira shook her head in the negative. "Then—no." Peter denied.

Thea's eyebrows were furrowed when her gaze bounced back and forth between them with some level of uncertainty. "You both were fighting about Tom Edwards and Ben?" She spoke the words softly; voice cautious.

Moira flicked her gaze over Peter's face, and he subtly nodded. He was far from forgiving her, but the fact that she had nudged things along further was a start. Though, he knew that if he discovered that that was a lie—he would turn away from her completely. There were only so many lies he could take. "I didn't believe Peter when he claimed that the man was innocent and tried to discourage him from looking into it." Moira finally answered. "I didn't exactly go about it in the best way." She added with a well-timed cringe.

Peter snorted. "You really didn't." He bit his lip. "I know that I haven't exactly been the easiest to get along with since—since Walter disappeared. And Uncle Ben dying made it worse. I've been angry." Peter confessed quietly. "And that's not entirely fair to anyone—for me to be taking it out on you—" He directed his gaze to Moira. "—and I'll try to do better." Peter concluded shortly.

"Does that mean you're coming back to the mansion?" Thea questioned hopefully.

He bit his lip once more. "I don't know. I kind of like my independence." Peter admitted with a wry grin. "Granted, I probably should not be living at the clinic." He conceded, the wry grin biting more into his cheek as it widened.

Thea's eyes darted down to his splinted leg. "You probably shouldn't, considering you somehow managed to injure yourself changing a flickering lightbulb." His twin shook her head, bemused. "And—I get it. I've been kind of angry, too." Thea added softly. "I miss Walter."

Oliver's expression was tightly controlled when Peter flicked his gaze over his older brother's countenance. "I'm sure he'll be home soon." Oliver promised, exchanging a quick glance with Mr. Diggle. Peter spotted Tommy on his phone behind Mr. Diggle, scrolling through something with a hint of an awkwardness lingering over his frame. "In the mean-time, you're moving back in, Petey." Oliver added, clearing his throat, speaking in a slightly louder tone so that Tommy could be given the impression that the serious talk was mostly over.

Tommy pouted. "Awe, but Laur and I loved having him over." His older brother's best friend contributed. "He didn't even snore loudly. I swear, sometimes, I used to be able to hear Oliver snoring through the walls from down the hallway." Tommy teased lightly as he shot Oliver a glance.

Peter wondered how Oliver truly felt about Tommy and Laurel being together and seeming so comfortable in their relationship. "Was it more like a lawn-mower or a leaf-blower or an air-plane?" Peter threw out random comparisons.

The dark-haired man nodded, expression grave. "All of the above at once." Tommy answered solemnly. Oliver rolled his eyes, a ghost of a smile curling at his lips. Peter still got the sense that there was something else going on inside Oliver's head, but he didn't drag any attention to it. He would want the same done for him. "Also, May requested that you take it easy—so back to the couch." Tommy pointed to the couch, turning to Peter with his eyebrows raised.

Grimacing, Peter shook his head. "If you try to drag me to the couch, I will whack you upside the head with my crutches. I might fall over and hurt myself even more. But, you'd also fall over, and I consider that a win." Peter warned.

Thea chuckled. "Of course, you would consider that a win." She rolled her eyes; voice dripping with sarcasm. "I still want the details of how exactly you managed to fracture a bone changing a light-bulb." His twin sister added.

Peter snorted. "There's not much to that story, Thee." He shook his head. "Also—can I please have my phone back?" Peter turned to look at Tommy, who rolled his eyes but conceded the device. "Thanks." Peter turned the screen on and unlocked the device with one hand—the movement slightly awkward and halted. He had a few messages from their group-chat, apparently Miles and Gwen had resumed their debate about whether Gwen should watch Miles' YouTube again. Another message was from MJ—questioning if they were still on for later, he guessed from the emoji she used at the end that Aunt May had told her about Peter's tiny, hairline fracture and the lightbulb story.

Tommy waggled his eyebrows. A motion that Peter noticed in his peripheral. "Oh—is someone texting his girlfriend?" Tommy teased.

His twin sister rolled her eyes. "They have to have gone on a date to be boyfriend and girlfriend." Thea pointed out.

Peter could have sworn that Tommy was about to do some hopping up and down and squealing like a fangirl. He almost lifted his phone to video it but decided to just message MJ back with an affirmative. "Oh—did Petey not tell you? Him and MJ are going on a date today." Tommy declared like an announcer in a sports' game.

"Awe." Thea cooed; voice slightly mocking. "Where are you going?"

Maybe he could get away with running away—knowing the world of teasing he was in for. "We're going to an art gallery and then for ice-cream." Peter answered, lowering his phone after receiving a message back from MJ. He could probably still drive, though MJ would probably still insist on driving them instead. It was only his left leg—not his right, his right leg was his driving leg. "And no, Tommy, you have not changed my mind on going to Table Salt." Peter added without evening glancing at Tommy.

His twin sister raised her eyebrows. "What's wrong with Table Salt?"

Peter matched her expression, his own slightly edged in sarcasm. "Not much. Other than the fact that Tom-tom and Ollie over there have turned it into a place where they go for hook-ups." Peter deadpanned. "Besides, going to Table Salt would be kind of awkward." He added, "Seeing as it is a suit and tie place and neither one of us like those." Peter's expression became pinched at the thought.

Thea looked interested. "And—she would like an art gallery?"

He snorted. "Well, I would think so considering she suggested the art gallery." Peter dryly informed her. "Besides, I think it would be fun—though I can't wait until she can actually be a part of the art gallery. Like, you would not believe the kind of sketches she has let me see in her sketchbook. They're incredible." He rambled slightly, face becoming slightly more expressive.

Oliver clasped a hand on his shoulder, "Well, now, we've got to give you the traditional first date pointers." His older brother informed him with a smirk playing at his lips. Peter gulped immediately, being practically forced from the room by Tommy and Oliver—Mr. Diggle tailing behind them with a bemused air surrounding him—as Moira and Thea watched them go. He was not looking forward to those 'pointers.' They sounded like a brand of hell that wouldn't even be remotely fun.

---

Adjusting the flowers in his hand, Peter shifted slightly as he leaned heavily against the crutches. He really wished that he could ditch the crutches—private experimentation with walking had shown that his leg was completely healed, but he had to keep up the pretense since he hadn't managed to disguise his pain the night before when Tommy barged in with all of the best intentions.

The old, dingy elevator creaked as it slowly climbed up to the apartment floor that MJ's family lived on and Peter bit his lip—Oliver and Mr. Diggle had dropped him off as Tommy had a shift to cover at the clinic, and MJ had texted to tell him that the gallery was within walking distance so they could just enjoy the fresh spring-air, if that didn't bother him. Peter hadn't minded the thought of walking, the only irritant about walking would be the way the crutches dug into his armpits. He had a small inkling that he would end up ditching them before the night was over, though—for now—he was stuck with them.

Unless he wanted to explain the unnaturally quick healing. Which he really didn't. The door slid open, and Peter hobbled across the carpeted floor, scanning the door numbers for the familiar apartment number that belonged to the Jones-Watson family. Peter released his grip on the crutch handle and fisted a hand to knock, hovering slightly as he angled the crutches outwards to keep a grip on the flowers and knock on the door. On the way, he had stopped at the florist he had visited only one time—the time after the shooting at Unidac when Peter had gotten get-well-soon, bright flowers for those hospitalized—to grab a bouquet of flowers.

He could hear the din of voices in the apartment as someone approached the door and undid the latch to open it. "Peter—it's good to see you." Mr. Watson greeted with a warm smile. "How are you doing?" The man continued, stepping to the side to let Peter into the apartment. He cast a quick, assessing glance around, spotting Mrs. Jones on the couch, browsing through some recently shipped library books. It had been a while since Peter had been in the apartment and the scent of freshly made books and biscuits made him feel more relaxed than he had felt in a long time.

Peter shrugged as much as he was able. "I'm doing alright, Mr. Watson." He glanced down the hallway, looking for MJ quickly. She seemed to sense that he had arrived and emerged from her room in a floral dress that made Peter's breath catch in his throat. "Hey." Peter greeted, "I got you flowers." He held out his hand and MJ took them with a smile. Unsurprisingly, the flowers on her dress matched the ones he had given her—he had gotten her favorite flowers after-all.

"Thank you." MJ's expressive, warm brown eyes were twinkling with barely hidden amusement. She turned to her mother, "Um—Mom? Do you think that you can help me get a vase?" MJ asked and the woman with matching curly, dark hair book-marked the page she was on before lowering it to rest on the couch and scribbling something down on a paper attached to a clipboard.

Peter could feel a smile twitching at his lips. "I'm guessing she thinks that you need to give me the shovel talk." Peter turned to regard Mr. Watson. The man chuckled, both remembering the first time he had shown up—he had received the shovel talk just before leaving and been slightly intimidated by the man for months. Now, though, he was rather comfortable with him after spending so long around each other.

Mr. Watson's amusement was tangible. "Hey—for all you know, I could have added to the shovel talk." The man remarked. Peter turned a questioning, arched eyebrow on him. "Have my baby girl back by ten—Petey." He placed a hand on Peter's shoulder.

He could feel amusement curling tightly in his stomach. It wrapped around him, making him forget the real-world for a little bit. "Of course—though, I think you might be taking it easy on the kid on crutches, sir." Peter teased lightly.

"Of course not." The man denied. "I could injure you with no one even noticing since you're already on crutches. It's a perfect cover." Mr. Watson specified. MJ and her mother returned with the vase of flowers, MJ disappearing into her room to place the flowers on her desk with the promise that she would be right out. Her mother went to her father's side and quirked an eyebrow at Peter.

"You two are playing nice, right?" Mrs. Jones questioned.

Mr. Watson rolled his eyes. "Of course, we are, what do you take me for?"

MJ grabbed Peter's elbow. "An overprotective dad." MJ deadpanned. Her father reminded them both of the time to come back, and Peter assured him that he would have MJ back by then. "So—you got dressed up, huh?" MJ teased, pressing the downward button for the elevator as the apartment door swung shut behind them—Peter had a feeling that her father might be peeking through the hole just for the principle of the thing.

Peter glanced down at the pale blue button-up and dark jeans with a shrug. "You're in a dress, MJ." Peter pointed out. "You look beautiful, though." He added sincerely, not wanting the comment to be misinterpreted.

She ducked her head. "Thanks—you don't clean up too bad, yourself." MJ smiled brightly at him. "We're not going to make this an awkward first date, are we?" She questioned as the elevator doors slid open.

He glanced at her. "We're going to attempt normalcy—because we're both incredibly awkward." Peter interlaced their fingers. "Besides—I'm thinking that once we get done at the Art Gallery, we could go for either ice-cream or burgers." He added, hobbling into the elevator on the crutches.

MJ snorted. "Speak for yourself on the awkward thing." She teased lightly. "And, honestly, burgers and ice-cream are going to be the best thing ever." MJ sounded completely enthused about the idea. Peter released a small, relieved noise as he pressed the button for the ground floor. She flicked him suddenly on the forehead and he gave her a questioning look. "Don't pretend you don't know why I did that. You know exactly why I did that." MJ flatly informed him.

Peter could feel a smile twitching at his lips. "It was the Art Gallery thing, wasn't it?"

She raised her flick-ready fingers warningly and he chuckled at the visible threat. "You're on trouble-prone individual. How exactly did you manage to fracture your fibula between last night and now?" MJ changed the subject when he conceded defeat on the way he drawled the words Art Gallery—it was solely to irritate her and she knew that. "I would almost think you were running for the hills—again." She teased, not even expressing any hurt over the statement.

"I'm positive that you would run me over with your car and then beat my mangled corpse with a baseball bat if I attempted that." Peter remarked dryly. "Besides, focus on the bright side of the crutches—no one is going to bother us or start the shove-gave in the middle of the sidewalk." He added.

"That's a plus to the crutches situation." MJ conceded. "We could also hit anyone in the paparazzi with the crutches." She continued, a smile twisting at her lips as she ran over the scenario of some potentially bored tabloid writer snapping pictures of them together.

"Yeah—let's go catch them assault charges." Peter sarcastically encouraged.

"Don't worry—I know someone who could make them disappear." MJ whispered conspiringly.

Peter arched an eyebrow. "You say that like I'm not your contact that could make them disappear." He pointed out. "Also, I have to tell you about what Ollie and Tom-tom did when they found out that we were going on a date. That conversation—" He shuddered; it shouldn't even be considered a conversation, more so a traumatize-Peter session.

MJ cringed. "Nope. I don't want to know what goes on in Tommy's head and this feels like a deep-dive into his brain." She informed him, shaking her head a few times as they entered the street and Peter pulled up the directions as well as the tickets he had purchased online with the link emailed to him. "I feel like that place would traumatize me for life." MJ added.

Peter snorted loudly. "You would be joining me in being traumatized, then." The crowd of pedestrians gave them a loud berth, some throwing Peter disgruntled looks as though he could help the crutches. "Wow. Sorry that my broken leg somehow managed to offend you good sir." He murmured for MJ to hear.

MJ chuckled. "Maybe it's the splint that offended him—it's probably got some invisible ink to everyone but his own eyes that says something offensive." She whispered back. "So—how's your Mom? It's all the news can talk about—even though Tom Edwards was released like two hours ago—her being ambushed by the two vigilantes." MJ seemed slightly hesitant to bring the topic of Moira up, which Peter could understand—she was the only one who knew the most of the story, other than the Hood, about why he had refused to return home. A part of him was still hoping he could find an excuse to not return home again for tonight, though he knew that it might reflect poorly on their attempt to make amends.

He cringed. "She's doing alright—Thea was pissed at me for still being upset with her." Peter informed her. "So, I'm in search of a new excuse to not go home." He added, contemplating if he could just toss the crutches in the nearest trash bin.

"Lab project with Ned?" MJ suggested.

"I have a feeling that my twin is suspicious and would attempt to corroborate and we already know that Ned does not hold up well under interrogation." Peter pointed out. MJ chuckled, both remembering Ned's reaction with Tommy's interrogation face.

"Fair point—we've got to come up with an air-tight excuse." MJ mused.

Peter felt his smile become a bit more real. "Love that you're encouraging my plan of running away from home—but having an excuse that doesn't make it look like I'm running away from home." He remarked.

MJ nodded. "Of course." She gave the building that the art gallery was being hosted in a quick once-over. "Let's get inside—you've got the tickets ready to go?" MJ led him with some level of excitement in that direction.

"Yes, dear." Peter snorted, unlocking his phone and holding up the email for the security to view. MJ flicked him on the forehead. "Is it any wonder that I'm injured so often? Frequent abuse, people." He rolled his eyes. The walls inside were lined with different paintings and Peter found his attention wandering from each painting with slight interest.

"No one made you change the flickering light-bulb." MJ dryly informed him.

"Its existence caused that."

"Just stare in amazement at the paintings, Queen."

---

Bonus

---

The thudding sounds of his hands striking the workout equipment was nearly lulling for its simplicity—Oliver could feel his mind receding from all of the problems plaguing him. He wasn't even remotely convinced of his mother's innocence with the Undertaking, having Mr. Diggle follow her around and put a mic on her had only revealed more details and Oliver was considering a different angle to come at it with. He knew that Tom Edwards being released might have started mending things between Mom and Peter—but Oliver was only finding more and more fault in Mom's stories.

He also knew that Peter might have pretended to smooth things over with Mom for Thea's sake, but his brother was no closer to wanting to be in their mansion—that much Oliver could read on Peter's face when they had briefly touched upon things in the study. Oliver didn't completely blame Peter for his reluctance to be there, though, he did want his brother to be at home knowing that it was the Dark Archer who had been after him. He didn't know what that meant for things—and that feeling of being in the dark made his skin itch and temper thin—because his brother had been targeted by someone Oliver as the Hood had been fighting just six weeks beforehand.

For a split second, he considered whether it was his fault that Peter had been targeted—if, somehow, the Dark Archer had figured out that Oliver Queen was the hooded vigilante. He wanted Peter to be home because it was safer than him staying at the clinic in the Glades. Even if the Dark Archer might not still be intending to target his little brother, he still wanted Peter to be at the mansion for protection purposes. Though, Oliver had to consider whether that thought was true—if their mom was involved with the Dark Archer than maybe the man had access to their mansion, it meant that Oliver should consider spending his evenings at home so that he could be prepared.

Though, he had to keep crossing names off the list. Oliver knew that Felicity Smoak was familiarizing herself with the names and reconsidered the advice that Spiderman had given him when he had shared the book with him. Spiderman had seemed to think that there might be something more going on—something that caused them all to work together, and he had an inkling that it might be the Undertaking that Mom had mentioned in the conversation that Oliver had played repeatedly to motivate himself to actually interrogate the woman.

Rescuing Laurel Lance from Cyrus Vanch had provided a welcome distraction for a few hours, but he had given in easily to Spiderman's own want to question Moira Queen. Oliver felt a grimace sliding across his features as he considered the fractured trust that he now held with Spiderman. He could clearly see that the person under that mask was just a kid. A kid that had helped Oliver out of a situation, despite the fact that Oliver had previously attempted to arrow him, and Oliver had chosen to go instead to Felicity Smoak because he knew more about her. He knew that she could be trusted with his secret since he had her name and could run background checks on her.

He didn't have the same assurance with Spiderman and couldn't take the chance on the kid finding out that it was Oliver Queen under the hood. That didn't mean that he didn't feel a twinge of regret for the resignation that had lined the kid's frame when Oliver turned the bow and arrow on him. He had also, before heading home in the wee hours of the morning, did a few more checks and discovered a grainy video of Spiderman and him landing—there was every chance that the landing had injured the other.

Oliver knew that he had to figure out a way to fix things with Spiderman—despite the fact that they both didn't trust each other with their identities, he knew that he might need the other vigilante to help him with the Undertaking. "You might want to take it easy if you plan on taking someone off that list tonight." Diggle spoke as Oliver broke the wooden staff he was using on the training equipment, the wood splintered in his hands, the ends sharp and Oliver wondered if he might get a splinter from it if he poked it.

"This is me taking it easy." He deposited the weapon and tugged a shirt on, running a hand through his hair. He could see Felicity sitting behind the newly organized computers, fingers flying across the keys as her eyes lingered on the screen—peering through the rectangular glasses perched on her nose. She looked out-of-place in the dark lighting of the foundry with all of the bright colors of her outfit and the blonde of her hair. Oliver remembered his assurance to Diggle that they could protect her—that they would protect her.

As long as she remained down here in the foundry, he knew that he could definitely keep that assurance. Though, Felicity did make him a bit curious—she had signed on with them and even hinted at suspicions that he was the vigilante, but only for Walter Steele, his step-father. For a second, he wondered how her, and the rambling Spiderman might get along. "So, who's our lucky guy tonight?" Diggle questioned.

"Ken Williams. His pyramid scheme stole millions. People didn't just lose their homes. Their lives are ruined." Oliver could feel the familiar anger at the thought of the man coursing in his veins. It was difficult to not give into that darkness when faced with people who only returned what they took out of selfish fear instead of it being the right thing. "Why don't you call it early tonight, I'm not expecting much trouble." He informed the two of them, grabbing his bow and sliding the hood on his head.

A part of him recalled Peter's comment on it being a cosplay outfit. Oliver headed to the exit and entered in the password, but the screen only turned red when he jiggled the handle. Oliver re-entered the password, but the door handle didn't give. He turned back to the main room, feeling a bit of annoyance curling in his chest as he recalled the fact that Felicity Smoak hadn't faltered in her typing upon his exit, barely even looking at him.

"Felicity!" He shouted, striding back into the main area of the foundry. The basement area under the club was still something that he was attempting to disguise, though he had been a bit preoccupied with the list, interrogating his Mom, freeing Laurel Lance, and figuring out what to do with his fall-out with Spiderman. It had been a brief concern with the blood he had left on the other vigilante's suit, but nothing had surfaced so Oliver figured that his vigilantism might have temporary secrecy for now. "Did you just—" Oliver trailed off.

Felicity turned to face him, biting her brightly colored lip. "Computer override your lock?" She answered, "Maybe a little." She admitted and Oliver wondered for a minute, how she could only do that a little.

Oliver tried to keep his temper in check. "What are you doing?" The words were a low, warning sign.

Felicity opened a few tabs; information Oliver had gleaned over in his own research on Ken Williams. "I pulled up some information on Mr. Williams. Did you know he's a father of a 10-year-old boy?" Felicity continued biting her lower lip as she returned her attention from the computer screen to him. "I told you. I'm only in this to help Walter. Not to be an accessory to orphaning little kids." She clarified; reiterating her sticking point when she had agreed to join them provisionally.

His grip was slipping, and he could feel Diggle's gaze on them both. "I'm just giving him a warning." Oliver informed her in a tight, low voice. He wasn't going to orphan the 10-year-old son of Ken Williams, he might be gruff and a bit intimidating at times, but he knew where to push. Though, a voice in the back of his mind noted that he had hardly counted the existence of a child.

"Has it ever occurred to you that you could do some real good in the city?" Felicity questioned. She seemed momentarily hesitant, "Like with the Spiderman. It's a kid under that suit, almost everyone in the Glades knows that and he's becoming popular because he's helping the little guy. Despite working with you, people in the Glades still think he's trying to do good. You could do the same, beyond just recovering people's stock portfolios and their saving accounts." Felicity babbled a little bit, her blue eyes boring into his.

Oliver tensed at the comparison between himself as the Hood and Spiderman. He reached over Felicity to cancel the override on his system, jaw clenched. "You're not the only one who knows how to reboot my system." Oliver remarked tightly. He didn't like the mention of Spiderman or being compared against him because he knew that the kid was like Felicity—both were bright people, and they weren't drowning in darkness like Oliver, and he didn't like how both reminded him of his own darkness and failings.

Felicity stood, "I made a mistake." She admitted.

Oliver could almost see the pulse racing in her throat. "Getting in my way? I don't disagree." He raised his voice slightly.

She shook her head in the negative. "No. Signing on with you." Felicity side-stepped him, hands gesturing, "Even provisionally." She walked out of the foundry, entering the code for the exit and quickly leaving.

Glancing towards Diggle, the man only offered a close-lipped, amused smile and nodded his head in the direction that Felicity had left in. "She has a point, man." Diggle admitted. "Though, we haven't talked about what went on with our little Spidey last night." He raised his eyebrows questioningly. "I had almost thought it would be him instead of Felicity dragging you inside when the comm turned off." Diggle added, not letting the matter rest even as Oliver plucked up the bow.

Oliver pursed his lips. "I did not have the chance to run any of the calculations on Spiderman as I don't know who he is. I have to be careful with who knows my identity, Dig." Oliver reminded him.

Diggle's expression turned into something a bit more wary. "Even if you don't know his first or last name—he has helped you, Oliver. Helped you despite your own reputation—which hasn't exactly been glowing the entire time you've been active. You've also done your own research into the kid—" Diggle trailed off meaningfully.

"I'm not going to take that chance." Oliver spoke with a note of finality. "My point from earlier still stands—I'm not anticipating much trouble from Ken Williams." He readied himself, exiting the lair with his mind circling from Spiderman to Felicity and how he was supposed to mend things with the two—knowing that he would need them both for figuring out what was going on with the Undertaking.

---

...It's been over a week, that's totally the reason that I wrote the bonus scene. Definitely not because I wanted the Olicity scene in there (I also wanted to peek in Oliver's head regarding the pointing an arrow at Spiderman thing). So, in terms of Arrow episodes, this included a bit from Betrayal, the Odyssey, and the Dodger. Also, I need some MJ and Peter being their adorable selves to console myself from the end of Spiderman: No Way Home, because that just hurt my soul...I know they're going to make it better, they better or else this fangirl might be a bit angry and then resort to angry fanfiction writing (I'm mostly kidding about that). Also, I realize that Peter hasn't faced many consequences in high school other than being slightly scolded for all of the skipping (though the school was tentative about approaching Peter since he did recently experience a loss and are attempting to cooperate with him). I also brought up the potential of him leaving Starling to attend MIT with his friends, which he is going to go back and forth with himself about before finally making a decision.

Anyways, there isn't much to say currently, so I'm going to leave off here, so, as always, I hope you all enjoyed the chapter and I'll see you all in the next update.