Mr. Castle is gone when Peter wakes up.

Peter's pretty sure that rising early to someone like Mr. Castle means before the sun, so he's not sure why he's disappointed to find himself alone when he opens his eyes and sees sunlight shining through the curtains. His letter to Ned on the nightstand is gone too, replaced by Mr. Castle's Kimber like some kind of warped parting gift.

According to the alarm clock, first period is just about to end. It'll mark the most Peter's ever missed of school since becoming Spider-Man, as sick days are no longer a thing for him. Ned's probably well beyond freaking out by now and Flash is most likely spreading ridiculous rumors that he'll have to struggle to dismantle when he gets back. MJ will either have tons of questions or no questions for him, and Peter's not sure which one would be worse. He bets that his teachers will be giving him the same looks he got after Ben died, all rueful and poignant and every time he'll raise his hand in class they'll pounce to call on him with an eager expression like he's finally emerging out of a shell of depression in their presence.

He bets he'll get double those looks, suitable for being orphaned twice the usual number of times. Not to mention whatever story Mr. Castle and the lawyer decided to spin around him; he doubts he'll be able to pass off "I spent some time hanging out with the Punisher" without being required to have at least a dozen therapy sessions. Matt Murdock must be some lawyer for Mr. Castle to think he can pull that off, but Peter's surprised to find that Mr. Castle's faith in this guy is enough for him.

Peter absently reaches for his burner on the nightstand. Maybe he could dig into it himself. He has the law firm's number in his call history and he wouldn't mind talking to the nice lady again. Then again, Mr. Castle seems to be operating on some sort of timetable, and Peter doesn't want to suffer the consequences of screwing that timetable up.

But he also knows that Mr. Castle's timetable isn't without fatalities.

Peter throws off the blankets and pushes himself to his feet, decisively flipping open his phone. He goes to his call history and scrolls down to the number he knows to be David's and dials.

"Hi, Peter," David answers after the third ring, a strained note to his voice.

"Did you find anything?"

David huffs. "Well, good morning to you too." Peter winces at himself as a less than stifled yawn sounds from the receiver. "You know I sleep, right? For future reference, I'm a pretty all-around average human being, so-"

"Sorry," Peter mumbles, but more for the sake of getting to the point. "So… is that a no?"

"You're worse than Frank," David sighs. "Yeah, I did some digging. Finally accessed Gargan's prison files. Know what I found?"

Something between anticipation and dread flares up in Peter's chest. "What?"

"That he's a sociopath. 'Anti-social personality disorder' is what it said. And he's already made up his mind that he wants you dead. He's not going to-"

Peter fails to hold back a scoff as he begins to pace, running a hand down his face. "You don't know that, okay?" he snaps, then takes a deep breath to pull himself back. "Look, there has to be something. You don't- I don't want anyone else to die because of me. So- So if you can't help me with that, then-"

"Peter." There's a shift in David's tone. "You know what I was before I got tangled up in this shit? An NSA analyst. I know people. I know how they work. So when I tell you that Gargan's not going to settle with anything less than your death, believe me, I know."

Peter opens his mouth to protest, but it dies in his throat. That's not- That can't be right. May would never agree with that. One analyst's opinion doesn't warrant a death sentence. No one can get to really know a person like that by just watching videos or reading files about them. David can't know if-

"Look," David blows out a long breath. "I know that's not what you want to hear. But nobody's dying because of you—they all made their own choices."

Peter grits his teeth. That's not what Mr. Castle said. Peter's made his choices too. "You don't get it. This is my fight, okay? It's me Gargan wants. Not you, not Mr. Castle. I should be the one that decides how it's going to end. And I don't want anyone else to die."

"You're a child."

He has to resist the urge to throw the phone against the wall. He knows damn well that he's a kid—how can he forget when he's constantly being reminded of it—but that doesn't mean that he's suddenly incapable of having a moral compass. Child or not, he's been Spider-Man for almost a year now. He's been in more fights than David probably ever has, created his own devices to win them, and he hasn't ended a single one of them with murder. And to think that David and Mr. Castle suddenly know what's best for him better than he does now that he's on his own—Peter tightens his grip around the phone.

"Peter…"

It's in the same tone of voice the teachers used to use.

Peter shakes his head. He's not doing this Mr. Castle's way. He can't let it play out like that. May wouldn't want vengeance, and she especially wouldn't want Peter being complicit with it. Criminal or civilian, Spider-Man doesn't let people die. If he's supposed to be Spider-Man when all this is over, he can't do it knowing he sat by and allowed someone to be killed for him. If Mr. Castle's right and there really is no way this ends with everyone alive, it won't be because of his inaction. Peter reaches in his pockets and applies his web-shooters to his wrists.

This is Queens. His home turf. He knows where the criminals hang out and he knows just what kinds he needs to find. Peter raises the phone back to his ear. "Thanks for looking," he bites out.

"Woah, hey, hold on," David rushes out before he can snap the phone closed. "Just- Just hold on. I know how Spider-Man works too. I studied up on you, remember?"

Peter takes a slow breath. Someone straight-up admitting to trying to uncover his secret identity is hard to forget.

"Are you gonna stay in that motel room after you hang up?"

Peter swallows and clamps his mouth shut.

"Yeah, that's what I thought. And I'm guessing that Frank's not in there with you. So if you're gonna go out there regardless—" Peter hears static through the receiver, indicative of movement "—I'd rather not have you parading your face around Queens. Around Thirty-eighth and Thirty-fourth might have what you're looking for. Lots of drug deals going on in a spot along there, and Gargan's guys are the distributors."

For a moment, Peter's mind goes blank at the information just presented to him. His jaw drops and it takes him a few seconds to process it. "I- Thank y-"

The line goes dead.

Peter tightens his jaw and faces the door. He sets the burner back on the nightstand and beelines for the dresser when he hears how loud the wind whistles against the window. The heater in his suit would be real nice about now, though Peter's in no position to be picky. He scans through the few clothing items in the drawers and settles on Mr. Castle's black hoodie, quickly pulling it over his head. It smells faintly of gun oil and he has to bunch up the sleeves to free his hands, but it does a decent job of concealing his web-shooters and it seems heavy enough to make the cold bearable.

He heads for the exit, but something stops his feet before he can grab for the handle. The top of the nightstand recaptures his attention out of the corner of his eye, the Kimber, phone, and alarm clock the only things on it. He'd almost forgotten that Ned's letter is gone. Which means Mr. Castle always intended to deliver it, just as Peter asked him to.

Peter doubles back to slip his burner in his pocket before he shuts the door behind him.

Frank unscrews the lid to his canteen and takes a swig.

He'd rather rely on decent rest over coffee to keep himself alert, but he's learned to make do. Staying out until morning hadn't been the plan. Everyone's eager to rat with the muzzle of a rifle to their head, yet the accuracy of such info is a whole different shitpile. Nobody knows where Gargan is and everybody knows someone who does. Frank's only rewarded with the confirmation that Gargan's keeping Spider-Man's identity close to his chest and that no one has the guts to question why he's so set on finding a high schooler in the first place. Not that Frank expects anything different from this crowd.

It's a goddamn relief when he finally gets an address instead of a name.

Frank shifts his coat to better conceal his gun; the last thing he needs is to attract attention. Unless what meets him is a gamechanger, Frank commits to return to Peter after this next stop. The kid should be getting hungry by now and the only thing that makes Frank less comfortable than leaving him alone for this long is the thought of bringing him along. He has to remind himself that the kid's not helpless—super strength goes a long way. And he's more capable than Amy was in every way except for the fact that when it comes down to it, he won't pull the trigger.

If only that wasn't the one that matters the most.

The address leads to a fourth-story apartment in a complex in Astoria that's far too occupied for his liking. The decision to get a better vantage point into said apartment comes instantly to him, and it's not long before he's on the roof of the neighboring building and angling his rifle to the window. He props it up on the edge of the wall to steady the gun before he lowers himself behind it and peers through the scope.

It'd be a fucking miracle if Gargan waltzed into his line of fire, so Frank's not surprised when that's not what happens. There's a distinct lack of a scorpion tattoo on the neck of the guy that backs up into the frame of the window, and Frank can't see enough of his face to determine if he's one of the men David had shown him way back when he first agreed to put them down. Only a few seconds pass before he paces right back out of the frame, allowing Frank to focus on the wall and door behind him.

The wallpaper is dull and tearing away at the edges and there are scuff marks on the wooden door, clashing with the fancy knick-knacks on the shelf next to it. When the guy appears back behind the window, Frank can make out an expensive watch on his left wrist. There aren't many reasons as to why a guy who doesn't have money troubles would keep living in such a run-down apartment. Seems like the address isn't a bust after all. Frank moves his hand up the barrel of his rifle to tuck it away, intending to get face-to-face with the man when he notices that the man's left wrist is shaking.

The guy falters back and holds his arms out in front of him, palms up. His eyes are wide and there's a sheen on his forehead, his mouth moving quickly as he gives consistent tiny shakes of his head. A gun sits at his waist, a gun that Frank can't figure out why he's not reaching for. Instead, he runs his hand through his thin hair before scrambling back like a cornered rat.

Frank narrows his eye as he adjusts the scope. The guy presses his back against the window and slides to the side, fumbling as the curtains catch around his shoulder and the curtain rod falls to the ground. He jolts at the presumed crash and drops out of Frank's sight. A shadow falls across the floor that moves toward the man, preceding—

The hell?

Frank blinks. Leans forward, adjusts his scope, and checks again. His eyes have never deceived him before.

The fuck is—?

There, in all his red and gold glory, stands Iron Man himself.

He strolls up behind the window while making flaunting gestures with his arms, the sunlight glaring off his armor into Frank's eye. Iron Man bends down and roughly hauls the guy up by his shoulders, even going as far as brushing them off in a way that might seem friendly if it weren't for the way the man trembles. He claps his gauntlet-fitted hands together and starts pacing in a tight circle, his faceplate keeping Frank from having the slightest goddamn clue what he's talking about.

Spider-Man at the warehouse had been a surprise. It shouldn't have been, as everything about his appearance there fit his MO, so it was Frank's own fault for not anticipating it. Iron Man is from fucking left field.

Last Frank checked, Tony Stark is keeping himself busy by building robots that run cities into the ground and being the poster boy for the Sokovia Accords that sparked the Avengers' team-ending pissing match. Unless the guy Frank had been scouting is some alien in disguise and Peter somehow managed to get himself into fucking galactic level shit, he can't begin to imagine what Stark deems to fit his paygrade here. A PR stunt maybe, because Frank doesn't doubt that there are people who would applaud Stark for putting away a drug dealer, as if it required any effort on his part to do so.

Frank takes his finger off the trigger. His bullet wouldn't even dent Stark's armor, and he doesn't need Stark tracing the shot if he went for the dealer. He's stuck watching as Stark and the guy move behind the window, then leave his view for a good couple of minutes before he finally sees Stark exit through the door. Frank ducks down behind the wall completely and pulls his gun with him. He fishes his phone out of his pocket and holds it up in front of him, taking a moment to angle it just right to capture the reflection of the neighboring building's roof on the screen.

It's not long before he makes out the opening of the roof access door before Stark steps out and flies off without so much as a sound or a glance behind him. Frank waits a long moment to assure himself that he's well and gone before packing up his gun and making his way to the stairs.

He only bothers to check in on the Avengers shit every so often to make sure he's likely to remain off their radar. Once he has that determined, he couldn't care less about what the media force-feeds him about them. Maybe paying attention to it would've done him some good, because right now it's a toss-up if Stark killed that dealer or not. Only one way to be certain.

Frank keeps his pace casual as he crosses the sidewalk to the apartment complex. There's no lock on the front door, so Frank doesn't waste time opening it and slipping inside. He holds his handgun in front of him and presses close to the wall as he scales the stairs to the fourth floor. All but one of the apartment doors are closed. Frank locks his eyes on his target and silently walks the length of the hall.

Keeping his back to the wall while holding his finger over the trigger, he nudges the door open and waits.

"Listen man, I told you everything I know, okay?!" A persistent thudding follows the words.

Frank steps in the room.

The dealer is handcuffed to what must be the bedroom door, his struggles turning frantic as the color drains from his face when his eyes land on Frank. Christ, even the handcuffs are the on-brand red and gold. Frank twists the knob when he closes the door behind him to ensure that the latch doesn't make a sound.

"Hey, woah, you're not supposed to- whatever you think I did, I swear I-"

Frank shushes him as he steps closer and the dealer's wise enough to go silent. "Wanna tell me about that little chat you just had?"

"Look, if you think I called him, that's not it, okay? I'd never- I didn't even know he was-"

The crack of his nose under Frank's knuckles gives him a twinge of satisfaction. The scum gasps and sputters as he uses his free hand to wipe at his bloodied face.

"You think that I thought you have Iron Man on speed dial?" Frank growls, making a show of drawing up his gun.

"No! He said he was- something about playing connect the dots. About where you are and where you've stashed the kid." A cold pit opens in Frank's stomach. The shitbag breaks off, brow furrowing as he studies Frank's face. "Holy shit. You didn't know?"

Frank hardens his expression and presses the gun against his temple. "Didn't know what?"

The dealer flinches under the barrel. "That kid—the one that you took from Gargan? Iron Man's looking for him. So he's looking for you. I don't know why, and I didn't tell him anything because I don't know anything. And the police are on their way, so you don't have to-"

Frank cuts him off with a round to the forehead. Took him from Gargan tells him more than he needs to know about where this bastard's allegiance lies. He heads for the door as he starts to make out the wail of sirens in the distance and all but runs down the stairs.

A cold rush of wind blasts his face when he exits the apartment. He takes a sharp turn into an alley and forces himself to walk the rest of the way to the car.

No way in hell is Iron Man looking for Peter. If Gargan found out the kid's identity, it'd be a breeze for Stark. How he knows Peter's with Frank is a different matter entirely. The bodies of May and the men that Frank put down should be all identified by now; it's likely Stark found out what gang they were tied to and worked from there. Or he went down David's route, maybe managing to scrounge up the footage from the convenience store if Frank's bullet didn't ruin it. Stark has the skills of a spook to run gait recognition if Frank missed a camera that caught him and the ki-

Frank almost stops in his tracks. The spook.

Shit. Frank's decision to refuse the Central Park meeting was a dodged bullet. He twists his mouth into a frown, trying to bring the conversation to the forefront of his mind. You have something that doesn't belong to you made a hell of a lot more sense coming from someone under Gargan. Who did Stark think Peter belonged to? Him? Why was he set on finding the kid in the first place? Frank can't recall any of the Avengers giving a damn when Red dropped off the grid. What singles Spider-Man out?

Central park, noon tomorrow. Bring the kid, unharmed. Another thing that had made sense coming from Gargan; part of that no one can kill him but me thing he has going. Since when did Stark care about Peter getting hurt with the kid swinging around and stopping armed robberies for the past year? Something had to have changed for him to-

It all clicks into place.

The Sokovia Accords. Or the Superhero Registration Act, as so many news outlets seem fond of calling it. Frank's seen firsthand how long it takes UN decisions to be enacted, so it makes sense that Peter's been Spider-Man without trouble for the last four months. But the kid's not careful like Red is. Frank doesn't think Peter would know if the government dug into him. As long as the kid stays in place, keeps his routine and his offenses minor, it makes sense for the government to decide to deal with the big fish before moving on to him and slamming a contract in front of his face and telling the kid to sign up or rot in a cell for the rest of his life.

But the second Spider-Man drops off the grid, he becomes unpredictable. Frank's well-aware of how dangerous an unpredictable Spider-Man can be. Seems like their priorities just shifted.

It's not just Gargan after the kid now.

Frank opens his burner as soon as he makes it to the car. Red would know the most about this Sokovia Accords shit and how it applies to the kid, and for a second he finds his finger hovering over the number. But he doesn't have time to launch into an explanation, so he scrolls down to David's contact and dials.

The phone clicks halfway through the first ring.

Frank clears his throat. "I need you to look into the Sokovia Accords."

"Frank? Oh, thank God. You gotta tell me when you switch phones, becau- wait, Sokovia-?"

Frank lets out a sigh as he runs his hand down his face. "David-"

"No no, put a pin in that. There's a parking garage on Thirty-eighth and Thirty-fourth that you should be at five minutes ago. Peter took off."

Frank's blood runs cold. "What did you say?"

David keeps talking, but his words sound distant. "I tried to stop him, but he was going to leave anyway so I thought I could direct him somewhere- Look, he's gonna try to contact Gargan. I thought if Gargan could be baited in and then you could- I've been tracking him with security cameras, but I lost him in the parking garage about two minutes ago."

"Shit!" Frank twists the keys in the ignition and swerves onto the road. He ends the call and glances between his phone and the street as he goes to Peter's number. His only assurance comes when it goes to voicemail in the middle of the second ring. Frank throws his phone on the passenger seat. "Goddamnit, Pete."

At least Amy had survival instincts. This idiot's wandering through the city, maskless, with a fucking gang and the government on his ass. And Frank never gave Peter David's number. The only way the kid could've called him is if he- Frank tightens his grip on the wheel. The little shit. After he promised to get Red to set the kid up, taught him how to disarm, hell, let him cry into his chest- Frank never expected anything in return, but Christ, he thought he'd earned something other than this.

Frank clenches his jaw. When he gets Peter out of this, they're gonna have a long fucking talk.

Frank presses on the gas and tries to tell himself that his racing heart can be chalked up to anger alone.