What Stick wouldn't give to be in Matt's shoes right about now.

He'd get one whiff of Peter and light up in the same way a dog does when gifted with a new chew toy. After all, an orphaned, enhanced kid, all but handed over to him? Stick would be on about "the war" and pinning the kid to the ground in no time.

The kid. Spider-Man's a goddamn kid.

It's no wonder that Matt never ran into him when the Kitchen's problems occasionally drifted into Queens—it was probably past his curfew by the time Matt came around.

Spider-Man's muscles are taut with tension and Matt can taste the salt from his tears. His stomach isn't growling, but his breath tells Matt that he hasn't eaten since last night. His skin is cold, his finger is broken, and he smells like blood and gravel and cheap shampoo. Yet Frank's scent muffles most of it, clinging to the jacket that's too long for Peter's arms and falls below his waist. The only lingering warmer spots on him are the back of his neck, where Frank had put his hand, and his cheek, where Peter had pressed it against Frank's shoulder.

Frank hadn't even hesitated. Not for a second. He'd let Peter cling to him and held him just as tight in return, guiding his head to rest on him without a moment of wavering. It explains why Peter's breathing grows tighter and he sniffles too much to attribute it entirely to the cold as the car's engine roars to life. His head swivels to track it as it rolls down the street. He takes a shaky breath and clenches his fingers tight around the bundle of clothes in his arms when the car turns out of his sight.

Matt draws in a deep, quiet breath through his nose before he turns to face the kid. "You holding something?" he asks lightly, gesturing to the clothes in Peter's grasp.

Peter jumps as if he'd forgotten Matt was there. "Uh, clothes."

Matt pats the satchel at his side and holds out a hand. "Here." Carrying an armful of clothes down the sidewalk would draw attention that they don't need, especially from anyone looking for Peter.

"Thanks," Peter mutters as he passes them to Matt, but not without a moment of reluctance. Matt shifts, angling himself so that Peter can't see the billy clubs and black mask at the bottom of the satchel when he opens it. He stuffs the clothes inside, packing them in before latching the flap closed. He can practically feel Peter's gaze trained on him as he moves, his weight shifting from foot to foot depending on which way Matt faced. Matt's not sure whether it's him or the hell the kid's been through that has him on edge. Either way, Matt has a feeling that the only reason Peter's not bolting is that Frank instructed him not to.

Matt would have to work on that. "You ready?"

Peter shrugs, then shrinks down a little as heat rises to his cheeks when he processes his fumble. "Yeah, sure," he lies.

Matt doesn't know why he asked. Still, he lifts his cane off the ground and holds it at his side. "Mind if I borrow your arm?" The concern might not be founded, but it'd still discourage him from straying.

"Borrow my—?" Confusion coats his voice, quickly cut off as his tongue clicks against the roof of his mouth. "Oh, yeah. I mean, no, I don't mind."

It's hard to tell if his heart fluttering is indicative of embarrassment or a lie, but Matt goes forward with it anyway. He grabs Peter's elbow with a light grip and gives him a soft nudge, all the kid needs before he starts moving. He keeps his weight in his toes as he walks and his arm is stiff under Matt's hold, and he's facing anywhere but Matt himself.

"So," Matt tries, "what sounds good for lunch?"

"Lunch?" Peter says it as if he's unfamiliar with the concept.

"Ninth Avenue's only a block away. Pretty much anything you could ask for there."

Peter dips his head. "Thanks, but I'm not hungry."

Matt suppresses a frown. Maybe Peter's too old to have fallen for Stick's play. Buying him food to coax him into opening up is a page right out of Stick's book, something Matt mentally berates himself for trying to reference. Yet at the same time, the kid needs to eat. Matt debates pushing it for a few seconds before deciding against it; if he wants to get anywhere with him, going against his expressed wishes isn't the best way to proceed.

"Have you been to Hell's Kitchen before, Peter? Take a right up here," he adds, giving Peter another nudge. The kid's quick to oblige, taking a sharp turn and muttering an apology when Matt's shoulder brushes against a signpost in his effort to keep in contact with him.

Matt wouldn't be surprised if Peter is familiar with the Kitchen; Spider-Man is a different story. Someone swinging on webs through his city is something he should've noticed, and he can only wonder what else he misses if Peter affirms it. But the kid only gives a small shrug. "Not really."

"How come?"

Another shrug, more hesitant this time as if he's stewing on what to say. "I dunno."

Most of the criminals Matt corners are more eager to talk to him. The only thing that seems to be keeping Peter responding is an effort to not come across as rude. It's more than the effort that Matt made at his age, and he's rewarding the kid for it by trying to make small talk right after interrogating him.

Right as Matt decides to let it go, Peter lets out a small sigh. "It's kinda—" he casts a quick glance behind him and to his sides before lowering his voice to a mumble "—Spider-Man business. I stay out of Hell's Kitchen 'cause, you know… Daredevil."

If it weren't for Peter guiding him along, Matt would have halted in his tracks. Somehow, he's able to keep his tone even. "I don't follow."

"It's hard to-" Peter breaks off, reaching his free arm behind him to scratch at the back of his head before shaking it. "It doesn't really matter, anyway."

Matt quells the rush of frustration before it can show on his face. "Try me."

"I don't know, it's-" Peter breaks off and works his jaw. "I guess… he's like, the original masked vigilante. Looking out for the little guy, you know? I thought about stopping by when I started out, maybe hope to run into him at the same crime scene or something, but… it would've been really awkward if I was like, 'Hey, I'm Spider-Man,' and he's like, 'Who?'"

Jesus Christ. An attempt at a response rises and dies in Matt's throat. "So you… you wanted to have street cred first?" he barely manages to get out.

Save for the Daily Bugle, which Matt has learned from firsthand experience to listen to with a grain of salt, Spider-Man seems to be viewed overall favorably by both the public and media. Matt tries to listen for him whenever he pops up, as the sample size of masked vigilantes, as far as he knows, is limited to the two of them. Even Foggy and Karen have taken note of the similarity, sometimes summarizing newspaper articles and videos for him when they come across them. Beyond the completely different ways Spider-Man and Daredevil are portrayed in the media, they never spend much time dwelling on the other vigilante.

"No, not-" Peter's just as quick to cut himself off as he is to protest. "I mean, I guess you could put it that way. But then right after my aunt found out, Daredevil attacked that newspaper and church, so-"

"Daredevil didn't do that," Matt corrects, perhaps a second too swiftly. "That was a copycat. Cross here."

Peter stops at a crosswalk once Matt tugs at his arm. "Yeah, we know that now. But at the time, my aunt was- basically, Hell's Kitchen was off-limits."

While it stings to hear just how far Fisk's efforts to smear his name had spread, it's a relief that Peter's aunt had made that call. The last thing Matt had needed was to factor in Spider-Man on top of both Dex and Fisk.

"I didn't believe it at first," Peter continues, moving his hands to his pockets with a small shrug, "so I did some research, and I found some articles that explained how it wasn't, like, completely out of the blue. Apparently, he stabbed some guy in the face before tossing him off a roof and putting him into a coma. And he breaks a lot of bones, and he's tortured people too. Even after the imposter thing was cleared up, I thought…" Peter trails off. "Uh, the walk symbol's on."

Matt holds his tongue as he adjusts his grip on Peter's arm to cross the street. Peter's not wrong, after all. He puts it simply, but he's not wrong.

It's no wonder the public paints them in such different lights. There's not much to create controversy over when Spider-Man's worst crimes appear to be trespassing and property damage, with perhaps an occasional assault charge that's black and white enough that Matt could come up with a solid defense for it on the fly. Spider-Man is the kind of vigilante that helps the elderly cross the street, catches bike thieves, stops bank robberies, and will pose for a picture.

But those aren't the kind of things that get you on a gang leader's personal hit list. If this Mac Gargan still wants Peter dead at the risk of pissing off Frank Castle, then it's personal.

Even the shitstorm that had surrounded Ray Nadeem looks tame compared to what Frank just piled on his plate. Keeping Peter out of Gargan's hands is simple enough; nothing any more complicated than what Matt had done before. Figuring out how to keep Spider-Man's identity secret without letting Frank put a bullet in Gargan is a different story. Blackmail had worked with Fisk, but Matt has a feeling that good material won't be as accessible this time around. Then there's the fact that Peter doesn't have anyone to take him in. Uncle shot in an alley, aunt killed in the warehouse collapse days ago, and too young for emancipation. Putting him in the system is the logical option, but that's a hell Matt's all too familiar with.

Then there's the Sokovia Accords.

"It's not even grunts, Red," Frank had said. "Kid doesn't know it, but fucking Iron Man is on his ass. Last thing I need is him thinking they can have a friendly chat about it. Tried pulling that shit with Gargan."

He hadn't thought the Accords had been implemented yet. Matt had made sure to go over the Accords with Foggy as soon as they were publicized, and they'd had a long discussion about Daredevil afterward. If the government is able to find out about Matt's enhancements—a thankfully big if in his case—the best-case scenario is that he signs the Accords and has to wear a tracking bracelet for the rest of his life. Worst case scenario… 'Any enhanced individuals who use their powers to break the law (including those who take part in extralegal vigilante activities), or are otherwise deemed to be a threat to the safety of the general public, may be detained indefinitely without trial.'

Even the best legal team can't help without trial. And when there's footage of Peter scaling walls and stopping buses, his enhancements are impossible to play off.

"… think he's good for the city, though. Especially if it's between him and Wilson Fisk. That guy's huge. I wouldn't want to be within twenty feet of him without my- with what I can do," Peter says with a quick glance behind him.

Matt snaps back to the present, frowning as he runs Peter's words over in his head. "I'd imagine what you can do wouldn't matter as much if you have enough training."

Peter falters with his next step. "I- I guess."

Wait. Surely he has… "You've been trained, right?"

Peter opens his mouth, but for a moment, no noise comes out. "Yeah," he says, followed by a second, more confident, "yeah."

Jesus. Despite his uncertainty, it's not a complete lie. Come to think of it, unless the person who trained him is his school friend or a criminal, the list he gave Matt of the people who know his identity doesn't match with the possibilities. It only affirms that there's someone else that he's hiding, someone else who knows. Hopefully it's the person who trained him—if not, Matt would have to keep digging. "What sort of stuff have you been trained in?" he asks, keeping his tone light.

"Um, Mr. Castle taught me how to disarm. But they say experience is the best teacher, so…" Peter trails off as if he has nothing more to add.

It takes an extraordinary amount of willpower to keep himself from reacting. It's nothing short of a miracle that Peter's not dead. He was fourteen, with powers he doesn't know how to use yet, untrained, and he decided to put on a mask and go out on the streets to fight criminals. Shit, maybe it would've been better if Stick had gotten to him.

Matt dismisses the thought almost immediately, but the shock still remains. Shit. It's a question of when, not if being Spider-Man is going to kill him if Matt allows him to continue. Hell, he's already had a number of far too close calls. If Matt manages to fix this and Peter thinks he can just hop back on the streets- Christ. Matt should've paid closer attention before it came to this. If he had just picked up on the fact that Spider-Man is only out and about after three in the afternoon and on weekends, if he had put second thought in to just how young his voice sounds in the videos…

Fifteen. He can't know what the hell he's doing. Someone who's not old enough to decide to fight for their country shouldn't be fighting for their city on the streets. Whatever comes of this, whether Peter likes it or not, Matt knows that he can't allow an untrained child to continue dancing around the barrels of guns.

That's not your only option, Matty.

Matt shoves Stick's voice to the back of his mind.

"Boss, I've picked up Castle's name on NYPD tactical frequencies. Four DOAs following reports of shots fired in a parking garage on Thirty-eighth and Thirty-fourth in Astoria. Officers are on the scene."

Fucking finally.

After finding out that eight of Mac Gargan's men had been killed in a warehouse collapse where Spider-Man and Castle were seen, interrogating some of his other lackeys seemed like the next logical step, but all he's found is that they don't seem to know any more than he does. Castle has Peter, Gargan wants Peter, and nobody knows where anybody is.

Castle's made himself a very hard man to predict, Tony will give him that. Hacking into Homeland hasn't gotten any more difficult despite the number of times Tony's done it, not that he's complaining. The fact that Homeland had Castle and proceeded to let him walk is something he takes issue with.

Homeland had Castle in an office, unrestrained, and wearing a goddamn hoodie, talking with a federal agent into a camera about some Kandahar business that Tony doesn't have time to give a shit about. He'd dropped a bunch of names of people that he'd killed, most corrupt enough that Tony couldn't find it in himself to care. But when the agent had mentioned a Zubair… We go, we find him. We dragged him out of his house in front of his kids. His wife was screaming. Same thing we did to a bunch of other guys.

Castle had delivered it all with an even voice and a flat expression, like none of it fazed him in the slightest. He corroborated what a videotape apparently already confirmed: that he'd stood by as some CIA higher-up tortured an Afghan police officer. His tone was cold when he affirmed that he was the one that had put a bullet in the officer's brain. He hadn't known that Zubair was innocent at the time, but Tony couldn't see the impact that knowledge had on him as he recounted the man's murder.

Tony could only make himself watch the tape once. Zubair had begged for his life, said that he wasn't a terrorist, that he had a family, and Castle hadn't hesitated for a second before shooting him in the head.

This is the man that has Peter.

The address FRIDAY supplied him is so close that it's almost like Castle's mocking him. It doesn't even take Tony a minute to arrive on the scene. Half a dozen squad cars are clustered around the garage's entrance while a few more block off the road. Police officers mill about below him, each going still and looking up one by one as he flies closer. Tony can make out jaws dropping as he eases power off his repulsors to land, a motion he'd consider making more theatrical if he were here for any other reason.

This time, despite the wide eyes and gaping mouths, he's not here to put on a show. His faceplate folds back into his suit, but all he can do is take a breath before a voice speaks up behind him.

"Well, it's about goddamn time one of you started taking this shit seriously."

Tony turns to face the speaker. He's got a bullet-proof vest on top of his white button-up, both covered by an NYPD jacket. His hands rest on his hips, one awfully close to the gun in his holster. But it's the golden badge dangling around his neck that catches Tony's attention, the word Sergeant shining back at him.

Tough crowd, but at least he's forward. Tony can appreciate that. Tony opens his arms in a here-I-am gesture and brings them back to his sides before he speaks. "Considering that Earth seems more or less alien-free at the moment, we thought we'd try our hand at the domestic threats."

The sergeant scoffs and gives a tiny shake of his head. "You started in the right place. We've got four DOAs in that parking garage. That makes eighteen courtesy of Castle in the past few days."

Tony lets out a contemplative hum. "Yeah, tell you what—you go clear out your boys in blue, and I'll get Castle out of your hair."

Instead of complying, the sergeant's eyes narrow. He opens his mouth before promptly shutting it, his brow furrowing before he speaks. "So what, you've got some kind of Avenger's jurisdiction that you're going to wave?"

"Pretty much," Tony replies without missing a beat. God, he doesn't have time for this. "The Avengers operate under the supervision of the United Nations, and here I am: operating."

The sergeant just turns his head to the side, regarding Tony out of the corners of his eyes.

"You know, Secretary Ross did bring up the idea of official Avenger's ID cards—guess it's my fault for shutting him down and thinking that there wouldn't be anyone who didn't recognize-"

"I know who you are," the sergeant interrupts flatly. Any other time, Tony would be impressed. "But I've been put in charge of the Punisher case for over a year now, and I don't need-"

"You ever met him?"

The sergeant breaks off and raises his eyebrows. "I- Met him? Castle?" His tongue flicks over his lips. "Never sat down for a friendly conversation, but yeah. We've had our run-ins."

"Right. You can stay, Sergeant…?"

"Mahoney," he replies tersely. Mahoney glances behind him and starts to sigh before cutting himself off. He jerks his head in a follow me gesture before leaving for the garage, not even checking to make sure that Tony's on his tail. "We've identified two of the four bodies, and if I had to guess, the other two also work for this Mac Gargan guy. Castle seems set on taking him out, though I think it might be mutual. Now, we don't know for sure yet that Castle killed these four, but it fits his MO down to the letter."

Tony purses his lips and nods, running Mahoney's words over in his mind as he follows the sergeant to the parking garage's ramp. "So four here, and eight in the warehouse collapse a few days back. That's twelve. You said eighteen."

"That's right," Mahoney confirms. He stops at the edge of the ramp, blowing out a long breath before he turns to face Tony. The look on his face makes Tony's heart batter against his ribcage. Tony has to clench his jaw shut to keep the words from bubbling out, which only ends up freeing his nose to take in the sickly stench of blood. "Six of Gargan's men turned up dead in a gas station in Hempstead yesterday morning. Cashier called it in, said she saw them squaring off and got out of there before shit went down. Reason it's not in the press yet is that it ties in with another ongoing investigation."

Mahoney steps closer, locking his eyes on Tony's and lowering his voice. "According to her, Castle had a kid with him."

Tony has to swallow to keep his breath from catching in his throat. Yesterday morning. While Tony was checking out their hideout, Castle took Peter to a fucking shootout. Tony takes in a breath through his mouth and exhales through his nose, striving to keep his voice steady. "Have you identified the kid?"

"Again, I've got a guess." That's all he says before he heads down the ramp, forcing Tony to follow.

Tony's seen too much of his own share of blood and torture and bodies to consider himself a squeamish person, but the sight that meets him at the bottom of the ramp is enough to make his stomach churn. Three bodies are littered carelessly in the center of the parking lot, their limbs angled awkwardly as if they had dropped where they stood. Dark blood pools and streams around each of their heads, their faces somewhere between white and ashy gray. A handgun lies near each of their sides like it'd slipped out of their fingers on its way to the ground.

But it's the man against the wall that has Tony's heart drop to his stomach. At first glance, it looks like he's still standing. His head hangs over his chest like his back is somehow stuck to the wall.

A white glob of webbing binds the man's hands to his sides. Peter's webbing. More webbing coats his eyes, the white stained red with a stream that runs down his forehead to his chin, dripping onto the concrete floor.

"Clear out! All of you!" Mahoney calls, his voice almost making Tony jump.

Protests fade into questions and whispers as the officers notice Iron Man by Mahoney's side, but they're quick to follow the order. In less than a minute, the parking garage is silent.

"Headshots, all of them," Mahoney states, gesturing to the bodies. His voice sounds distant. "Now here's the thing about Castle: when he took out the Kitchen Irish, he mowed them down. Dogs of Hell, too. Didn't waste any time making it clean. This—" Mahoney scans the lot "—is clean."

Tony bites down on his tongue and blinks, forcing himself back to the present. "You're suggesting Castle didn't do this?" he asks doubtfully.

Mahoney shrugs. "I'm suggesting Castle couldn't afford to be messy."

Shit. He's good. Tony stalks over to the man against the wall, looking him over before reaching out to touch the webbing sticking his hands to his sides. Castle could've taken Peter's web-shooters, but given what Mahoney said, that's not where Tony's leaning.

"Got any idea what that white shit is?" Mahoney asks, his footsteps approaching from behind. "Because if you say it's some alien-"

"'fraid not. I'll do you one better, Mahoney." Tony spins around to face him, cocking his head to the side. "Why does Frank Castle take a kid with him to kill a gang? C'mon, spitball. Actually, hold that thought," Tony says when Mahoney takes a breath. "What's the ongoing investigation? Who's the kid?"

The last thing he needs is for the NYPD to draw a connection between Peter and Spider-Man. The webs on the man could be damning if Tony doesn't play his cards right.

Unfortunately, Mahoney knows how to put two and two together. "Best guess? Peter Parker. Reported missing a few days ago when he didn't show up to school. But teens run off and pop back up all the time, so we didn't think much of it until we found out about his aunt. Again, didn't release her death to the press 'cause of the ongoing investigation."

The floor vanishes from under Tony's feet.

"What?" he can barely get out.

That's not right. That's not goddamn right. Checking May Parker's status was one of the first things he did. It was missing, not fucking dead. He'd assumed Castle threatened her to lay low, not fucking- Shit. He'd been sure to check the Parker residence and hadn't found any sign of a struggle, the only other way Castle could've gotten her is if he- May is—goddamnit, was—a nurse. If he grabbed her on her way to the hospital with her badge pinned on her shirt-

Holy shit. Does Peter know? The threat on May's life could be how Castle's keeping him from running. Or he does know, and Castle tortured information about his friends out of him with the promise that they'll meet the same fate as May if Peter tries anything. Either way, Peter won't be the same when Tony gets him back. Fuck, he doesn't even have any family to go to-

"Stark? You okay?"

Tony snaps his head up, drawing in a quick breath before meeting Mahoney's eyes and nodding. "Peter's aunt—what happened?" he manages to get out.

"The warehouse collapse. She got caught up in it. No idea what she was doing there."

Tony narrows his eyes. "'Caught up in it?' You don't think Castle killed her?" He doesn't mean for it to come out like an accusation.

Mahoney sighs properly this time. "Look—I went over the background check myself. A nurse, no gang affiliations, brings extra cans to the food pantry—hell, the worst thing on her record is a speeding ticket. Castle wouldn't have killed her."

"What, because he's got a code?" Tony scoffs.

Mahoney doesn't miss a beat. "Earlier this year, I was driving him to the precinct in an ambulance. Had him handcuffed and everything. But when this other crazy bastard drove me off the road to get to him, Castle freed himself and I was stuck in the front seat. He could've left then and there, but when the ambulance caught fire, he went in and saved my ass. Day earlier, he was practically suicidal when he thought his stray bullets killed three innocent women."

A part of Tony wants to shake his head, to dismiss Mahoney's words as the bullshit they are, but the other part can't help but notice the dead serious glint in his eyes.

"Now, I want Castle locked up just as much as you do," Mahoney continues. Tony holds back a huff; if that were the case, he wouldn't want Castle locked up at all. "But he didn't kill May Parker. And if her nephew is with him, Castle's not going to kill a kid."

"So why the hell did he bring Peter here? Since you know him so well." A voice in the back of his mind warns him that snapping at the officer he asked to help him isn't the smartest play, but to Mahoney's credit, he doesn't even bat an eye.

"Spitballing? Bait. The Parkers have some connection with Gargan, and Castle's using the kid to draw him out."

That… That actually adds up. It explains the sedatives Castle used, probably to keep Peter from running until he found out his identity. From there, blackmail could be used to keep the kid cooperative. And if Peter Parker was being used as bait for Gargan, not Spider-Man, then Gargan must be aware of his identity as well. That poses another problem. If nothing else, at least Mahoney seems confident that Castle's not going to have Peter killed. A part of Tony wants to ask if he thinks Castle would torture him; an even greater part of Tony doesn't want to know.

"Okay," Tony mutters, clapping his hands together as he focuses back on Mahoney. "I'll shoot you a text later. Save my number and give me a call if you remember anything important. I'm taking the Castle and Parker case off your hands. Two birds, one stone." Tony offers Mahoney a tight-lipped smile as he pats his shoulder.

Mahoney glances over at Tony's gauntlet-covered hand before stepping out of his grasp. "Hold on a-"

"I'm gonna need all the files and evidence you collected. Ballistics, last known locations, that sort of stuff. How many people know about the Parker case?"

Mahoney's mouth opens, but for a few seconds, nothing comes out. "The- The connection between the cases is just guesswork since I don't have anything concrete tying them together yet, but you-"

"Just you? Great." Tony strides to the center of the parking garage, giving it one last once-over before heading for the ramp. "You'll receive an NDA about that tonight. Oh yeah, and that security cam at the entrance—I'm gonna need the footage. The NYPD hasn't watched it yet, yeah?"

Mahoney presses his lips in a thin line. "No, Stark-"

"If it's about the paperwork, I'll get it to you before the NDA." Tony would have to make some calls and scrounge up some actual paperwork for that to happen, but he knows which strings to pull. He fires up his repulsors and brings his faceplate back over his head before Mahoney can get a word in edgewise. "Oh, and if you ever get bored of the NYPD, give me a call."

If Mahoney responds, Tony doesn't catch it. He has footage to watch. And after that, a long, long talk with Pepper.