For what it's worth, Peter does feel guilty about sneaking out.

He'd debated with himself for at least ten minutes over whether or not he should leave a note—something that adds up to I'm sorry and I'll be back before morning—and he was on his way to search for a pen and paper before it hit him that Matt wouldn't be able to read it. When the image of MJ rolling her eyes is vivid enough to make him wince, he appeases it by shoving his burner in his pocket and vowing that if Matt called, he'd answer. Which, if he's lucky, won't be a problem because Matt will never know he left in the first place.

But Peter knows how the Parker Luck works, so he mentally practices an apology as he layers up with one of Matt's black, heavier sweatshirts (that he silently promises him he'll return without damage) and quietly borrows a folded ten from the wallet in his nightstand (borrows, because he is going to find a way to pay Matt back). It doesn't change the knot tightening in his stomach as he slides the bedroom door open, especially when he's met with the billboard's shine illuminating the room that'd definitely be keeping him up if Matt hadn't given up his bed for him. It's yet another seemingly unappreciated gesture to add to the growing list.

If nothing else, whatever Spider-Man-related lecture he's in for when he gets back, it can't sting more than any of May's.

A creaky floorboard nearly gives him a heart attack while he's ascending the stairs to the roof access door, but Matt's form on the couch remains motionless while Peter holds his breath to keep himself from gasping. I don't know what's worse, he can practically hear MJ tsk, the fact that you're sneaking away from a blind man or the fact that you're bad at it. What are you gonna do if he gets up? Pretend not to be here?

It takes a minute of frozen anxiety for Peter to assure himself that Matt's still asleep, and it's only when he slips out the door that he can breathe again.

Finally, he can actually breathe. The wind is crisp and stings against his cheeks, but the mere fact that he's back on the rooftops more than makes up for it. The street lights reflect off the asphalt to create a painting that his normal schedule doesn't allow him to see and makes him wonder why he didn't push May to stay out later. Hell's Kitchen is aglow below him, the screeching of tires and the distant wailing of sirens greeting his ears in a way he didn't think he'd miss. The billboard casts a long shadow behind him once he moves out from behind the door, making his black outfit a canvas for an array of shifting neons. He has to squint for a moment to allow his eyes to adjust before he can fully take in his surroundings. Over half of the buildings are brick and shorter than he's used to—older, if he had to guess. But they're clustered closely enough that Peter bets he won't have to use his webs to travel between them, which means less of a chance that someone makes him out as Spider-Man.

At least, that's the plan. Spider-Man probably isn't the first thing people would assume upon seeing a dark masked figure running across the rooftops in Hell's Kitchen; he just hopes he won't run into the real thing. Matt had brought up Daredevil's previous experience with copycats earlier, and the last thing Peter wants is the Devil of Hell's Kitchen getting the wrong idea. Maybe Daredevil will take another night off, Peter hopes as he pulls his mask over his face. Either way, the worst-case scenario on the rooftops is getting attacked by Daredevil. Worst-case scenario on the sidewalks is getting killed by Gargan, so it's not a hard call in the end.

Peter rushes to the edge of the roof and takes off. Weightlessness overtakes him for a moment before he sticks his landing on the roof of the next building, the rush of adrenaline chasing away the cold almost immediately. For a second he's tempted to fire a webline and swing to the oncoming roof just for the thrill of it, then shakes his head and reminds himself that he's not Spider-Manning, he has a job to do.

According to Ned's slightly less than legal research, Aaron Davis is staying in an apartment on the opposite side of Midtown, just across the river from Queens. Hopefully the new address isn't a reaction to Peter figuring out his previous one, because he doubts that the man is suddenly going to find Peter intimidating if he isn't in the mood to be helpful. Still, Peter's not running in blind this time. He knows who he's after, he knows what he wants, and he's at least seventy percent sure about how to get it. If a witness is all that stands between getting Spider-Man back and making Gargan pay for what he did to May, then Peter'll be damned if he lets himself screw this up.

Davis had referred to Gargan as a crazy guy he used to work with when they last talked, so Peter's fairly certain that he doesn't have to worry about severing any loyalties. Since Davis told him about the ferry deal, he clearly didn't take any issue with Gargan going to prison either. That's another bonus. If Peter remembers correctly, Davis was convicted for larceny, not murder or assault, so he's not likely to-

Peter skids to a halt as a tingle pricks at the base of his skull.

He peers over the edge of the building, half expecting a group of goons with face tattoos passing underneath, but the sidewalk is empty save for an old couple walking hand-in-hand. A shadow moving behind a dumpster out of the corner of his eye makes him start, but it's only a cat that emerges a second later to dart to the opposite alleyway. The most dangerous thing he can spot is a rusty nail a few feet ahead of him, and it's not even face-up.

"C'mon, Spider Sense," he mutters, shaking his head in an attempt to clear it. "Don't glitch out on me now." With that, he backs up to get a running start to leap to the next building. A part of him anticipates the feeling of cold talons digging into his shoulders to carry him up into the air, yet he lands quietly despite the fact that the dull buzzing stays with him.

Peter frowns. His Spider Sense hasn't ever been off before, has it? He slows to a walk, waiting for something clearer like a duck or a behind you or anything he can actually work with. Fingers poised over his web-shooters, he scans his surroundings again to no avail. A shiver travels from his neck down his spine, but he has a feeling it has less to do with the icy breeze and more to do with the cold pit growing in his chest. Something's wrong. Something… Someone-

Peter breaks into a run and jumps for the next building, sticking against the side and scrambling for the roof. He almost slips as he struggles to get a grip on the gravel, and he swears he can hear footsteps as the rocks scrape around him that disappear as soon as he regains his balance. He sprints across the rooftop and rolls into his fall to land on the one ahead, his heartbeat roaring in his ears to the point where it blocks out anything useful. Instinct sends him scurrying up a radio tower, clutching on until he can barely feel his fingers against the freezing metal. He cranes his neck and shifts, looking for something, anything out of place, but the only movement comes from a clothesline swaying in the breeze.

The buzzing is still there. It's faint, not nearly as prominent as it was when Foggy had snuck up on him a day ago, but it's not leaving. Peter wraps an elbow around a metal bar to free up his hand, fingers hovering over the web-shooter's trigger, and draws in a shaky breath. He hasn't been out the past few days, and you're not even doing anything illegal, Peter forcibly reminds himself. This is Hell's Kitchen. He has actual, violent criminals to catch.

Repeating it over in his mind like a mantra, Peter slowly detaches himself from the radio tower and back to the roof, but it doesn't feel solid beneath his feet. Get a hold of yourself, Spider-Man. He won't be able to get back before Matt wakes if he keeps stopping and starting like- Peter stops in his tracks.

If he's wrong, he's going to lead Daredevil straight to Davis.

Better safe than sorry, right? Peter takes a deep breath and rolls his shoulders. Before he can give himself the chance to reconsider, he runs and leaps off the edge of the roof, twisting in mid-fall to fire a webline at the building he just sprang off of. Peter turns in the air as he dips toward the ground, then runs as silently as he can along the wall to propel himself to complete his arc. He lands on the opposite side of the building he started on and hurries to the fire escape, pressing himself to the ceiling of one of the platforms and quietly peering up through the metal mesh.

For a long moment, nothing happens.

But this time when he hears a footstep, there's nothing to muffle it.

His stomach drops as he waits for the horned silhouette to spill across the bricks. Then hopefully jump across the alley and continue on its unconcerned-with-Peter way, nothing more than a close encounter that Peter can tell Ned about to make his jaw drop and pester him for details that he doesn't have. But whatever's up there does not move a second time.

Okay. Peter shapes the word with his mouth, not daring to speak it aloud. Daredevil is far from the scariest hero or villain he's encountered. Not nearly as much as of a shoot first, ask questions later kind of person as Mr. Castle, from what Peter's heard. Before the copycat had attacked the newspaper, he'd even toyed with the idea of swinging by when he heard that Wilson Fisk had been released from prison. He'd track Daredevil down, land in front of him with an impressive flip, and say something along the lines of, 'Hi, I'm Spider-Man. Fisk sucks. How can I help?'

'Hi, I'm Spider-Man. Please don't attack me or torture the criminal I'm after,' is far from his ideal first impression. Still, Mr. Castle had dropped his gun and stopped threatening to shoot him once Peter explained the situation when they'd met. And considering how suspicious he's acting and how bad this looks… Could he fight Daredevil? It'd been an abstract thought before, more of a what if than something he actually had to plan for. He doesn't stand much of a chance hand-to-hand, so finding an opening for a well-aimed web is his best shot. It still doesn't change the fact that his heart's racing as fast as it had when he had first spotted Mr. Castle with that skull on his chest. Deep breaths, Spider-Man.

"Hey, Daredevil."

No response.

Great. Well, his cover's blown anyway. Slowly, Peter lowers himself to stand on the platform below. "Devil of Hell's Kitchen? Mr. Daredevil?" Peter tries, clearing his throat in an effort to rid the tremor from his voice. "Uh, you probably can't tell from the get-up, but it's Spider-Man. From Queens. I'm just- incognito, right now."

Nothing.

"I'm actually on my way out of Hell's Kitchen, so if you could stop following me, I'd- I'd really appreciate that. I've just got some… some Spider-Man business. You know how it is."

If Daredevil does know how it is, he doesn't comment on it.

"Um. You're welcome in Queens anytime for Daredevil business. But I'm on a tight schedule, and I can't get this shirt bloody or anything, so if you could-" Peter breaks off as the wind whistles through the alley and sends a can clattering across the pavement below. "If you could…" And I'm talking to a brick wall.

God, he misses Karen. She'd activate the heat signature feature and enable him to see what he's missing or send up his drone to help him check ahead. Even if there's nothing, just her voice affirming it would come as a relief. But Karen's not here, so when he presses his fingers against the wall to return to the roof, it's hard to convince himself to follow through. Maybe the sidewalk is safer. His Spider Sense certainly doesn't like where he is now. Peter pulls his hand off the wall and turns down the fire escape stairs. Odds are anyone looking for him wouldn't be scanning the streets of Hell's Kitchen at one in the-

His Spider Sense doesn't even get the chance to warn him.

He hears a CLANG a millisecond before red glints inches in front of his nose and the baton bashes into the bricks.

Holy shit.

Holy fucking shit.

His pulse skyrockets as he clambers over the railing and onto the wall, shooting webs to the roof with both shaking hands to yank himself up. His heart feels like it's trying to batter out of his ribcage and his head is spinning from an odd mixture of relief and terror, but he doesn't stop running to as much as cast a glance behind him. His stomach flips when he realizes that he can't tell if his footsteps are echoing or if he's being tailed—all he's sure of is that he has to get out of Hell's Kitchen.

The buzzing in his head dials up to a droning as he nears the end of the roof, contrasting with the way he should be feeling upon spotting Eighth Avenue a building away. The edge of Hell's Kitchen, right? He won't be able to make the jump without using his webs, but he'd take the risk in a heartbeat over the devil breathing down his neck. The street doesn't appear busy, and- shit, those definitely aren't echoes.

Peter sends a webline to a water tower across the street and swings. He relies on his Spider Sense over his vision to enable him to weave through the legs of the tower, the wind burning his eyes and making him miss his suit's lenses when his elbow thuds against a pole. Peter manages to slide into his landing and get straight back to his feet, maintaining his momentum as he risks a glance back across the street to find an empty roof. What the hell? Before he has time to investigate further, his Spider Sense gives him the first plain instruction he's gotten all night.

Keep running.

So he races across rooftops and over alleyways while his pulse thunders in his ears. His lungs start to burn with the frigid air, but Peter doesn't dare to slow.

He's four blocks away when the buzzing finally goes silent. Peter stumbles to a stop and half leans, half collapses against an exhaust vent and shoves his mask up his face, watching clouds form in front of him with every shaky exhale. His hand quivers as he wipes it down his face and finds sweat glistening on his palm.

No time to rest, kid.

Slowly, Peter stands himself back up and tugs his mask over his eyes.

As it turns out, not many ice cream shops are open past midnight in November.

In hindsight, it's really something Peter should've accounted for. It takes five minutes of searching before he finds a mom-and-pop grocery store that looks like it has promise, and five more minutes of waiting for a trio of college kids to leave with a package of beer before he decides it's empty enough to enter maskless. The cashier gives him an odd look when all he places on the counter is a ten-dollar bill and a carton of Neapolitan ice cream, but it's New York, so a tired "have a nice night" is all he gets after he gets back the change.

He did, however, account for the fact that he couldn't tell apartment numbers from the outside of the building. By the time he's next to the fourth story window Ned had directed him to, an electronic billboard tells him that it's a quarter until two in the morning and the numbness from clutching the ice cream is almost to his elbow.

Here goes nothing. Peter experimentally pulls up on the glass, unsurprised to find the window unlocked at this height, then promptly shuts it before he can crack it open much further. Breaking into his apartment probably wouldn't be his best impression, and that's something Peter's screwed up enough for one night. He adjusts himself to try to peer down the black hallway, but as far as he can discern from the empty kitchenette and living room, Davis is asleep.

Peter balls his hand into a fist and tucks the ice cream in the crook of his elbow, biting back his lip as he stares at the glass. Hey, it's Spider-Man again. Sorry for waking you up, but could you please act as a witness against the crazy guy you used to work for and talk about your criminal acts to my lawyers? He works his jaw and draws in a quick breath through his teeth. Maybe leaving Davis webbed to his car for two hours wasn't the best call. Maybe this whole thing was a bad call—after all, Matt and Foggy make a living off of persuading people. The idea of leaving the problem of how to get Davis to cooperate to them isn't as unappealing as it should be.

Then again, it was Peter's insistence that Toomes' guy aim his gun at him instead of Davis that got him talking last time, not threats or anything a lawyer could throw at him. And after his help with the ferry, the idea of handing his name over to two lawyers and possibly roping Davis into a mess of legal consequences if he doesn't cooperate feels like a pretty crappy way to say thank you. Even if it ends up working out, Peter doubts that course of action would encourage criminals to cooperate with him in the future if Davis spreads around how Spider-Man expresses his gratitude. Besides, Peter didn't barely escape Hell's Kitchen to opt out now.

Swallowing, Peter raps against the window and waits.

He leans in close until his breath fogs up the glass, but the apartment's unchanged when he takes his sleeve to smear it away. Peter wavers before pounding louder a second time and just as he's debating whether or not to invite himself in, there's a sharp tingle at the base of his skull.

The gun emerges before the rest of Davis from the hallway, outstretched in front of him as he steps into view. He's got on black sweatpants and a loose purple t-shirt with a logo that Peter doesn't recognize, a feeling that's evidently mutual when his gaze lands on Peter and his gun flies up to Peter's face. "Shit!"

Peter fights back the urge to duck out of the window, forcing himself to remain still. Larceny, not murder. He hasn't killed anybody.

That the cops know of, a traitorous voice reminds him.

Slowly, carefully, he readjusts his grip on the ice cream carton to press it against the glass and hopes Davis chalks his shake up to the cold. Davis' eyes shift from wide to narrow, a tight line forming between his brow as he frowns. Then, to Peter's immense relief, he shakes his head as his chin drops to his chest, the handgun falling with it. The corners of his mouth are quirked upward when he looks back up and stuffs the gun into the waistband of his pants. He gradually approaches the window and halts a foot away, staring up at Peter with a quizzical expression for a beat before he reaches out to push it open.

"The hell is this?" he says, looking Peter over. "Where's your costume?"

"Oh, well red and blue isn't exactly great for stealth missions."

Davis' eyes flick down to the ice cream in Peter's hold. "Stealth missions?"

"Yeah," Peter affirms with confidence he doesn't have. "Top secret, high-level stuff."

Davis just stares at him with an impassive expression that Peter can't begin to try and read.

Peter draws in a slow breath and quietly hates how diffident he sounds when he gets out, "Can I come inside?"

After a beat, Davis gives a shrug that could mean anything from I don't care to why would you ask that, but he doesn't protest when Peter pulls up the window and climbs through. He leaves Peter awkwardly shifting his weight from foot to foot to warm himself up as he moves to the wall and flicks on the lights. Peter's not sure whether to feel threatened or assured when he proceeds to close the curtains. Davis finally settles against the back of his couch, scratching at his nose before crossing his arms over his chest. "I don't even…" Davis trails off with a vague gesture in Peter's direction. "What is this?"

"Um, Neapolitan." Peter steps forward and holds the ice cream out.

Davis frowns, studying Peter with a low hum. "Uh-huh."

Before Peter can be grateful for the mask concealing his burning cheeks, Davis sidesteps closer to accept the ice cream from his hands, though not without hesitance. He turns toward the kitchenette and places the ice cream in the freezer, casting occasional glances back at Peter as he moves. His face is unreadable apart from his shifting eyes, but his hand isn't nearing his gun, so Peter takes that as a win.

"Is this an apology, or you wanna know something?" Davis stops in front of the cupboards and furrows his brow.

"Do I have to pick one?" Peter counters, telling himself that he's trying to set the tone of his questioning rather than stalling it.

Peter tries not to squirm under Davis' steady gaze, hating how exposed he feels without his lenses. "Aight," Davis finally says. He opens up the cupboard to reach for a glass and there's something different in his eyes when he turns back to Peter. "You want somethin' to drink? Whiskey, scotch…?"

Peter finds himself shaking his head before Davis can finish. "Oh, I'm not—" he catches himself just on time "—thirsty."

Davis' pause is a second too long before he closes the cupboard and hums an acknowledgment. He moves to the small dining table in front of the closed window and pulls back a chair, then gestures from Peter to the one across from him. One shot at this, Spider-Man.

Slowly, Peter follows the cue and takes a seat. Interrogation, take three. He'd tried taking a page out of Mr. Castle's book last time, but threats and intimidation aren't options here (and honestly, not something he thinks he can pull off). How does Matt handle these conversations? There was that same level of collectedness, but whereas Mr. Castle was always blunt and to the point, Matt speaks like he's leading Peter to a certain conclusion that's much harder to disagree with once he arrives at it. A tactic best suited for the courtrooms, he bets. And when they were first introduced, Matt had made sure to build up to the important questions, not open with them.

"Have you heard about Mac Gargan?" Peter scoots forward and makes the effort to meet Davis' eyes.

"Heard he ain't in prison." Davis leans back in his chair. "You want anything else, you're outta luck."

"No, no-" Peter breaks off with a breath. "I already know how to put him back in prison—for good, this time. I just need information about that ferry deal."

Davis cocks his head to the side. "Thought you were there for that."

"Yeah, well," Peter flicks his tongue over his lips and picks at the cushion's seam, "I'm not exactly an unbiased source."

It takes a moment to sink in. When it does, Davis lets out a scoff that makes Peter's heart sink to his stomach. "You serious?"

A response dies in the back of Peter's throat.

"Look- I appreciate the ice cream 'n all," Davis leans forward and rests an elbow on the table, "but even if I was a- a witness to something, this ain't shit I wanna get into."

It's at this point in the conversation when Matt would go silent and sit down, giving himself a chance to collect his thoughts and for Peter to reconsider his own. But the panic bubbling up in his chest sends words spilling out of his mouth before he can think them over, his nails digging into his seat to keep himself from shooting up. "All I need is for someone to confirm that Gargan bought those weapons. You- You don't even have to go to the police. I mean- I know these lawyers that can-"

"Woah, woah," Davis interrupts, palm open in the air. "One of Gargan's guys told me they were gonna make a deal on that ferry, and that's what I told you. I can't confirm nothing."

Peter knows enough about the law to understand that hearsay isn't going to get him anywhere. "But you have to know something. You don't- Gargan has to be put away. He has to, it's not like last time with-" Peter swallows and forces a slow breath. "Who's the guy that told you? Someone- Someone must've told you."

Davis doesn't waver. All he does is stare at him steadily as he drags out the silence, quashing any hope with it. "I've got somewhere to be in—" he glances over at the microwave clock "—five hours." He pushes back the chair and makes his way over to the window, pulling back the curtains. "You should head out."

Hold on. This can't be- Peter shakes his head, trying to reel his thoughts back into place. This isn't how it's supposed to end. Davis is the only lead he's got, the only thing Matt and Foggy could come up with- What would Matt say when Peter has to tell him that he blew their only shot? That they have nothing better than Mr. Castle's solution? What would May think if he not only couldn't save her, but he can't even get the guy who killed her- Think. There has to be something he's missing, something he can say or some detail that he's overlooked-

Davis clears his throat, his eyes narrowing in warning. Peter scoots the chair back, metal screeching across the wood floor, and forces himself to his feet. And to think he'd thought this would be a win. After the collapsing warehouse, the parking garage- At least Davis isn't trying to shoot him. Gargan, Davis—how could neither of them care about-

Wait.

Peter stops in his tracks. "Mr. Davis, how old is your nephew?"

Peter knows that he's definitely spent too much time with Mr. Castle when Davis' hand twitches toward his gun and his first thought is good.

"My nephew ain't got nothing to do with this."

"Depends." Peter straightens to his full height, meeting Davis' eyes head-on. "How old is he?"

Davis shifts his jaw, a steely look in his eyes that Peter hasn't seen before.

"Have you heard about the warehouse collapse in Queens not too long ago?" Peter presses. "The explosion?"

"What about it?" Davis asks through his teeth.

Peter shrugs and faces away from Davis, starting to stroll around the table at the same casual pace he remembers Matt used. "I guess I really pissed Gargan off, 'cause he kidnapped elementary schoolers to get me there. Six first through third graders, I think. We- I barely got them out before the building collapsed."

He swallows back the lump rising in his throat to push away the thought of who he didn't get out.

Davis' chin lowers to his chest as he blows out a slow breath through his nose. Instead of turning to Peter when he looks back up, he grabs for the curtain and pulls it closed. "You didn't hear none of this from me, right?"

It takes all of Peter's willpower to contain the rush of excitement that comes at the words, shoving the sorrow to the corner of his mind. "Oh, yeah. Yes," he says, nodding vigorously.

"The guy you want is the techie to the- that winged guy that you caught," Davis says after a moment of hesitation. "He's the one who made the weapons and put the price tag on 'em. If all you need is a guy to say Gargan paid for that shit, then he's who you want. Got real sloppy after his boss left; probably be willing to cut some sort of deal."

"What's his name?"

"Phineas Mason. Heard he's based in Bushwick, edge of Queens."

"Phineas Mason," Peter echoes, cementing the name in his mind. He heads for the window, failing to keep the spring out of his step, and tugs the curtains aside to push it open. "Uh, thanks," he adds, shifting to face him. "Really, I-"

"Hey, just- don't make this a thing." Davis steps closer, crowding Peter out the window. "I don't want to be your- I don't want you knocking at my window every time you think I know some- some criminal underworld shit."

But you know criminal underworld shit every time. "Right. Sorry," Peter says instead, though more as an apology and less as a promise. He takes a breath to prepare for the blast of cold air as he maneuvers to the outside wall, but a shudder washes over him anyway. The faint click of the window locking behind him elicits a huff that warms the cloth in front of his mouth.

For the first time in a while, as Peter leaps from the wall to the next building, he actually feels light.

Though with Daredevil out and about on the rooftops, he just might chance the sidewalks when he returns to Hell's Kitchen.