"How old would she be by now?"

"Next month's her birthday. She'd be fifteen."

Fuck.

"You'd be in so much trouble by now, trust me. She'd be scaring the life outta you."

Amy was more right than she could've known.

Fifteen. Not even halfway through high school and still can't drive without an adult in the car, and even then it's a toss-up if he's ever been taught how. It's almost funny, in a fucked-up sort of way—the kid swings on webs over traffic and throws himself in front of armed criminals, but he'd be crossing the line if he got behind the wheel or tried to get himself a full-time job. Peter probably hasn't started shaving yet, but one spider bite later and the government wants him in a cell for the rest of his life. Or, if Frank's being realistic, he can recognize that fifteen's young enough to mold into a new weapon if someone high up really set their mind to it. Hell, Frank's put down guys at that level that would jump at the chance.

And Frank- Shit. The kid's the same age his daughter would be, and he put a fucking gun to his head. Pulled the trigger too, but it was the offhand comment about this not working out that amped up the waterworks. Of course a fifteen-year-old would take facing the brunt of Frank's anger over not having anybody to rely on for the first time in his life when a gang's hunting him down. Survival instincts are a hell of a thing, but the kid's selective about when he wants to use them. Then again, the expression that twisted Peter's face when he found out that he had a place secured with Red doesn't add up with that. He didn't have to hold on to Frank like his life depended on it, but neither did Frank have to hold him back.

Frank gives a small shake of his head and forces his attention back to the task at hand. Pretending this could've ended any other way isn't gonna help nothing. The kid's where he needs to be. Going by how close Red was to decking him back at the motel, Frank's sure that he's going to keep Peter as far away from this bullshit as he can. Peter'll be all about that; kid loves getting sidelined from the action. If Frank's lucky, Red will be too busy figuring out how to make that stick for either of them to fuck up this mess even more.

Gargan's got more wits about him than most of the lowlifes who think they're the shit, Frank'll give him that. Rat must've crawled back into his hole, because in two days since the garage incident all Frank's managed to gather is jack shit. Still, Frank knows how Gargan's kind work. Someone will spill something sooner or later. And if Stark does manage to follow the trail of bodies before Frank finishes it, at least the kid won't be waiting for him like a prize at the end.

But first things first.

"Mac Gargan," Frank says slowly, taking a step closer to the bloodied shitbag shaking at his feet. "Where is he?"

"I don't know! I swear to God, I don't know," the guy cries out, pressing himself into the wall of the warehouse. He's staring up at Frank with a wide, terrified eye, the other too swollen and purple to make much use of. His breathing is fast enough that Frank's inclined to believe him, but he switches his aim from between the eyes to the knee last second before unloading. The pained howl comes a second later as the guy curls in on himself, clutching at his leg before smearing red all over the floor.

"Am I supposed to believe he up and disappeared? Trusted you all to play nice while he's gone?" Frank growls, ignoring the scream that comes when he presses his boot on the guy's busted knee. "Bullshit. He's talking to somebody. I know he's talking to somebody. I want a name."

"I don't- fucking- have one!" the scum hisses out. His good eye shuts tight and his mouth twists into a grimace, genuine enough to let Frank know that he's wasting his time.

"Fair enough."

Frank raises the muzzle of the gun to his forehead, just barely keeping himself from squeezing the trigger when the guy gasps out a desperate series of, "Wait, wait, wait- Please, wait-"

Letting the stallers have their way has never done him any good before, so Frank internally curses at how desperate he's gotten when he ends up lowering his gun.

The guy seems equally surprised if the way his jaw goes slack as his protests die off is anything to go by. But he comes back to his senses quickly enough, clearing his throat and rushing out, "Look, I just- This guy- he tells me where to be, and I'm there. I don't know if he- I can take you to him-"

The man topples back into the wall, then careens to the side to meet the ground as the gunshot echoes around him. Crimson streams out from the hole in his forehead and Frank steps back as he pockets his handgun to avoid getting the filth all over his boots. I can take you to him. Out of the kindness of his heart, too, Frank bets. Jesus Christ. It's almost become a routine at this point. Maybe Frank would've been smart to use Peter as bait. Seems like Gargan won't come out for much else.

Frank turns away and shakes his head, dismissing the thought almost immediately. The garage incident came too goddamn close to adding the kid to the body count, and beyond that, Peter doesn't have the stomach for this shit. Peter had been on the edge of breaking down from it all after Frank had to lead him out of that garage, but he seemed to acknowledge that Frank dropping the guys with guns trained on him was a necessity to the point where he didn't put up a fight when Frank cleaned him up and got him to settle down. If Frank had managed to pull the trigger on Gargan, he's not sure that the kid would've let him put him back together.

Frank's almost to the door when a loud ringing stops him in his tracks.

A glance behind him confirms the guy's phone is lit and buzzing from inside his front pocket.

The timing is a stroke of incredible luck, that's for sure. Not out of the question, though. Frank's fairly certain that it's happened to him a few times before, but he still finds himself slowly turning on his feet to reexamine the warehouse around him. No cameras, no hiding spots he hasn't checked, no footprints in the dust where there shouldn't be, but shit, what he wouldn't give for the kid's danger sense about now. Frank silently draws his gun and backtracks to the body, looking it over for a brief moment before shaking his head with a scoff as the ringer goes silent.

The hell is he expecting? Bars to shoot down over the windows? Christ, all this superhero shit is getting to his head. All the same, he keeps his finger poised over the trigger as he heads for the exit, already mapping out which alleys offer the most discreet escape when the phone blares again behind him.

Shit.

Frank doubles back and rolls the body over, muttering a curse as he fishes the phone out from the pocket to be greeted by white text reading Blocked Number.

It's a split-second decision: answer it, or get the fuck out. Stark can track him the moment he starts talking, but that's operating under the assumption that Stark doesn't already know he's here. Frank's never gonna find out how the fuck Stark pulled this stunt if he books it, and if nothing else, maybe it means something that Stark's not currently hovering outside the window with the cavalry. Besides, throwing away his shot at getting a glimpse at Stark's cards is a stupid play; Frank just has to ensure that he's not revealing any of his own in the process. Frank swipes at the screen as he raises the phone to his ear.

"Castle?" comes the voice after a lengthy pause, drawing out his name. "That you?"

Frank lifts his gun and scans the windows. "Stark."

"Hey, you stay on the line and I promise I'm stationary," Stark says, as if Frank had been seconds away from hanging up. Hell, maybe he should be. But Frank knows how these types of things work, so he returns his gun to the waistband of his pants.

"You promise?" Frank echoes. "Cross your heart, Stark?"

Stark scoffs before drawing in a slow breath, dropping his voice to a tone that Frank doesn't recognize from any of the interviews. "While there's nothing I'd rather do than be personally responsible for putting you in the ground," Stark grits out, pausing to let his words linger like he's expecting Frank to be shaking in his boots, "I've done my homework. And I think that there's a way we both walk out of this with what we want."

Frank lets out a low hum and shakes his head. Stark's talking like this is some goddamn business arrangement. Shit, it might as well be to him. "That how you made this call?" Frank asks, glancing over at the body. "More homework, or a lucky guess?"

Stark's tongue clicks against the roof of his mouth—he doesn't want to get into that one. But Frank's the one with the ace, and Stark knows it. "You know, most criminals don't question it when a new smartwatch appears at their front door. Did some cross-referencing, figured who you'd be after next… Forgive me for jumping to conclusions when our buddy here flat-lined."

Frank automatically looks to the guy's wrist, something twisting in his gut when he spots the blood-splattered watch. Goddammit. Stark knows he's after Gargan. No wonder Stark decided to give that tidbit up; he knows as well as Frank does that Frank can't keep this up if he has to skip over every guy that has a watch on. He'd almost rather take the bounty that the Schultz's put on his head with Amy, because at least then he could still do his fucking job.

"So here's my proposition," Stark begins after a beat, as if he was waiting for Frank to come to that conclusion. "I can find Gargan in five minutes. You set up the time and place. You hand over the kid, and I'll give you Gargan. On his knees, gift-wrapped, whatever you want."

Frank barely holds back a huff. Is that what Stark thinks this is about? Still, a part of him is tempted to agree. He'd bluffed his way through hostage exchanges before. But Stark's not Russo, Agent Orange—hell, even the Schultz billionaires don't come close. If Stark really did his homework, then he'd want to see Peter for himself. Even if that was on the table, Frank would have no guarantee that Stark would let him walk, even with the added illusion of security that letting him pick the time and place provided. Like Stark doesn't have a goddamn iron suit that could have both him and the kid in the dirt in a second.

"Getting better, Stark," Frank says, shifting the phone on his ear. "Still gonna have to pass."

If the noise that escapes Stark's throat is anything to go by, he didn't see that one coming. To his credit, he's quick to cover it up, because his voice is steel when he speaks next. "So how's this end, Castle? Once Gargan's dead, huh?" Stark pauses like he's expecting an answer, but he has no problem picking back up when Frank doesn't give him one. "I've seen the footage. Holding a gun to Spider-Man's head isn't gonna work forever. Are you gonna let him go, or do you want another kid to take a bullet 'cause of you? Is that what you want?"

Frank's trigger finger thuds repeatedly against his palm as he's forced to blink the red from his vision and quell the boiling in his blood. "Didn't like it when he dropped off your radar, did you?" he asks quietly. "You wanna know how this is gonna play out? I'll spell it out for you." Frank goes quiet and draws out the silence, and knows he has Stark right where he wants him when he doesn't break it.

"You are never gonna find that kid again."

Frank leaves Stark with that. He ends the call and drops the phone on the cement floor, watching the screen shatter.

He gives himself a minute at most before Stark shows, so Frank doesn't waste his time making his way to the door. He pauses last second to pull his burner out of his pocket, studying it with a frown. He'd never even consider it with anyone else, but as much as he hates it, he's only gotten glimpses at what Stark's capable of. He was able to get the guy's phone number from the watch easily enough. Frank's never heard of burner phones being tracked before, but he's not about to put that past a man who could build a tech suit out of scraps in a cave.

Frank tosses the burner on the ground and pulls out his gun to fire a quick round through the center, sending it skidding across the floor.

He's out of the warehouse and back in the crowd by the time he sees a flash of red and gold pass overhead.

"Just so we're on the same page," Foggy begins with a deep breath, "Spider-Man is a doubly orphaned teenager with a gangster and Tony freakin' Stark on his ass?"

"Basically." Matt barely manages to stifle his sigh. "Did Brett show you the NDA?"

"Nah." Foggy shakes his head and crosses his arms, not bothering to hold back a sigh of his own. "Said he just wanted to rant about it when I ran into him at the precinct. I mean, he's been on top of the Castle case ever since he got promoted, then out of the blue Iron Man just-" Foggy cuts himself off with a swooping hand motion and a sound effect to accompany it as he plucks something imaginary from the air.

There were only a few reasons Matt could come up with as to why Stark wouldn't want the NYPD involved, the most obvious one being he doesn't want Spider-Man to fall into their custody. It's possible that he also doesn't want to risk the NYPD putting together Peter's identity, which could lead to it going public. While Matt's relieved that their goals might be aligned in that respect, he doesn't like the implications that come with it. The public outcry that could follow if Spider-Man's revealed to be a kid getting sent to the Raft… it's no wonder Stark wants to avoid that.

Foggy puffs his cheeks and blows out a breath as he stuffs his hands in his pockets. "Tell me you've got good news on your end. How's Peter holding up?"

Matt lets out a small scoff. A quick shift of his focus to his living room confirms that Peter's just how they left him: cross-legged on the floor, the flipping of pages and the clattering of Legos surrounding him enough to keep him from paying any mind to their conversation. Apparently the knowledge that he likes Star Wars and that his hobbies include Lego building was enough for Foggy to set the trap and pull Matt out into the outside hallway, and honestly, Matt's just ashamed that he hadn't thought of getting the kid anything like that earlier. It's definitely a nice change of pace from the behavior that struck the kid since the end of Foggy's last visit.

It's no longer a question of if Peter's planning to take a night out as Spider-Man; it's a question of when. Matt had almost panicked when he heard the kid rifling through his first aid kit at two in the morning, but the kid quickly disappeared back into the bedroom with scissors and the needle and thread for stitching without any scent of an open wound. The distinct snipping of cloth came soon after, which Peter's at least polite enough to use one of his own t-shirts for. An impromptu mask, if Matt had to guess. And considering how often he texts his 'Guy in the Chair,' the pieces aren't hard to put together.

"I think- I'm almost certain he's planning on going out tonight. He was lying about not knowing any of Gargan's associates."

Foggy leans back into the wall and tilts his head up against it, letting out another sigh. "So as our resident vigilante," he starts, lowering his voice, "what could someone do to get you to not do that?"

Matt dips his head and lets out a humorless chuckle. "How do you want me to stop Spider-Man?" Matt challenges, ignoring the edge to Foggy's tone. "He's not giving me any names, Foggy. We have nothing if he stays."

Foggy makes a discontented noise in the back of his throat before shooting back to a standing position. "Hold on, you can't-"

"If you have a better idea-"

"Yes!" Foggy hisses. "Just tell him that you're Daredevil and that- that he can't do that! One vigilante to another, or something."

"Because that worked out great for Frank," Matt retorts with a huff.

"He's the Punisher, Matt! I think Peter can recognize the difference!"

Before Matt can get out a response, the rustling from inside the apartment stops altogether. Matt jerks his head to the door before shaking it, prompting a deep sigh from Foggy.

"Just… I hope you know what you're doing."

Matt takes a slow breath before turning away and placing his hand on the doorknob. "Thanks for stopping by, Foggy."

"Yeah." Foggy's chin drops to his chest and his breathing shifts as if he's about to speak, but the way he turns toward the stairs last second is enough to indicate a changed course. "Guess I'm gonna go and make Karen upset that she doesn't have attorney-client privilege. Call me if you need anything. Or if you can convince Peter to save me."

Matt gives him a nod as he closes the door behind him, quietly hoping that he won't have to take him up on that offer.

He can practically feel Peter's gaze on him as he reenters the living room, but the kid's heartbeat is slow enough that he couldn't have overheard much. A small, indecipherable mass of Legos sits assembled in his palm, the other pieces scattered around him in a messily arranged arc. The instruction manual rests in his lap, the box and other packaging sitting on the coffee table behind him. It's more cluttered than Matt would like, but Peter seems content enough, so he doesn't comment on it. The sudden childlike satisfaction feels jarring when compared to everything preceding it, yet Matt's heart still feels heavy at the knowledge that it's not going to last.

"Did you guys hear from Mr. Castle or something?" the kid asks after a moment of fiddling with the Lego mass, the forced nonchalance poorly masking the hope in his voice.

For once in his life, Matt's almost regretful that the answer is negative. "I don't have his number. But I can let you know if he calls," Matt adds when Peter's shoulders droop.

Though he can't imagine Frank calling with any news that Peter would like to hear, the kid's appeased enough with his answer to return his attention to the Legos. He scans over the floor and glances between the manual and the Lego arc, reaching for a couple of false positives before settling on the correct piece with a triumphant huff. There's something both amusing and horrifying with the fact that Spider-Man's attention can be redirected from preparing to track down a criminal with nothing but a Lego set, something that makes Matt wish that he'd hit Stick harder when he had the chance.

Matt clears his throat. "What are you building?"

"Luke's X-Wing," he answers without sparing a look in Matt's direction, then quickly tacks on, "from Star Wars."

Matt gives a hum of acknowledgment despite the lack of clarity the answer brings him.

"I've actually already got one of these, but Ned ended up building most of it, so." Peter shrugs as he flips the page. "Not- Not that I'm complaining. I'd rather build it than display it."

"Not much fun in displaying it," Matt comments, quietly surprised that Peter's actually putting forth an effort to carry the conversation.

Peter nods absently as he reaches for another piece. "Yeah. It's not-" A loud buzz from the coffee table cuts the kid off, prompting him to abandon his search in favor of reaching for his burner. His pulse hastens as he types away at the keypad before going still to study the screen, a concentrated air about him until he raises his palm to cover his mouth and blows out a breath through his nose.

"Ned all right?" Matt prods.

Peter's head snaps back up. "No, yeah. Ned's fine. It's just-" He breaks off, working his jaw for a moment and only continuing once Matt gives an expectant raise of his brow. "Basically, there are these Twitter accounts that monitor superheroes, right? It's mostly blurry pictures and grainy videos—sightings and stuff. They obviously don't get everything, but I still like to check it sometimes, you know? And the one on Spider-Man updates almost every day, but…" Peter swallows, and Matt presses his mouth into a thin line once he realizes where this is going. "Ned sent me a graph they just posted, and… this is the longest I've been gone in months. I mean- What happens when the criminals realize that?"

All of the ease from earlier vanishes as if it'd never been there in the first place. Peter studies the screen a moment longer before he flips his burner shut and returns it to the table, then proceeds to pick at the corner of the instructions without any effort to read them.

Matt racks his mind for an answer, trying and failing to come up with something that he hasn't already prepared a counterargument to a thousand times over. No teenager should take it upon themselves to keep a city's criminals at bay, but Matt's hesitant to start that conversation. Though he had turned away from Daredevil for six months after he told Karen, who continued to reassure him that crime was lower than it had ever been, statistics didn't matter when he heard shouts from blocks away that he convinced himself police would attend to. So he bides his time by stepping around the kid to grab his burner and slide it to the opposite end of the table until it's out of his reach, earning a small huff in response.

Not for the first time, he wishes he'd thought to pay at least one visit to Queens to investigate the new vigilante on the scene. Nip the problem in the bud before it devolved to this. Matt sits against the armrest of the couch and clears his throat to catch the kid's attention. "What the criminals do isn't your responsibility, Peter."

Just like that, Peter goes stock-still. The manual falls through his fingers as he freezes, his breath hitching almost inaudibly while his heart pounds against his chest. His mouth parts before he abruptly snaps it shut and sniffs. "Yeah, well. At least until Gargan's put away," he says, a forced note of diplomacy in his tone that's covering up something Matt can't quite pinpoint.

Matt dips his head and draws in a slow breath. Once Gargan's put away, he has Iron Man to worry about, a problem he hasn't even begun trying to come up with a miracle solution for. "Maybe you should wait until we find you somewhere permanent," he proposes airily. "You said Spider-Man stays out of Hell's Kitchen, right? You can't swing all the way to Queens everyday."

"Yeah, but Midtown's nearby. Its buildings are better for swinging, anyway." Peter reaches out for a Lego and snaps it into place. "Besides, Daredevil's activity dropped too. I mean, someone's gotta look out for the little guys."

Goddamnit. Matt goes to pinch the bridge of his nose and quickly plays the movement off as pushing up his glasses. The longer this goes on, the harder it's going to be to convince Peter that the correlation is just a coincidence. How's he supposed to—? Shit. Matt clenches his hand tight over the edge of the armrest, then lets go before Peter can take notice. The only way the kid would know about any recent lack of Daredevil is if he searched for it. Which means…

"Hey, Mr. Murdock?"

"Matt's fine, Peter," he says, quickly shifting his expression to make up for his clipped tone when the kid looks up.

"Matt," Peter amends after a beat as he fiddles with the Lego in his hands, "I just- I know my case isn't… easy." That's the understatement of the year, but Matt withholds a snort in favor of a tight-lipped smile. "And I know I haven't been- I just want you to know that I really am grateful for what you and Foggy are doing."

Though the kid's sincere, the way he says it sounds more like an apology than an expression of gratitude. As to what he's apologizing for, Matt doesn't anticipate finding out.

"Oh, well," Matt takes a breath and gets to his feet, "I'm just looking out for the little guy."