It takes thirty-six hours after the first StarkWatch for Frank to really start thinking on how to pierce his iron hide.

Smarter, richer men than him have tried to weed out Stark before, but none of them had the sense to pull out the roots and all of them had the gall to act surprised when he comes back angrier. Frank doubts he could get his hands on anything that could dent Stark's armor and the kid's the only bait he can come up with that could get the man to step out of it. A well-placed shot through the eye with the right rifle might get him somewhere, and if it just ends up cracking his lenses, Frank can work with that, too. Even the best bullet-proof glass can only take so much fire.

But it's all just thinking; no action behind it, just an idea to screw around with while he stakes out his marks. The whole fucking city would be keeping their eyes peeled for him if he managed to put Stark down, and the last thing he needs is what's left of the Avenger's posse on his ass. Not much good could come from taking Stark out of the picture beyond the short-lived satisfaction. Wouldn't make much of a difference to Peter if he traded out Iron Man for Iron Patriot—War Machine? Whatever the fuck he's calling himself these days—hunting him down when the government decides that they want him even more now that they have a puppet they need to replace.

Red's smart when he wants to be, but he's gonna have to pull some serious legal jargon out of his ass if he wants to get the kid back to any semblance of his normal life. It all boils his fucking blood. Frank can't put a bullet in Stark to end this, and Stark's made sure that he can't end it on Gargan's front either. Out of the twenty-some guys he's tracked down since that call, only five of them weren't sporting a Stark-patented free pass. All five of them only had bullshit and sputtered pleas to give him, but at least Frank got to pull the trigger.

Make that six.

Six is smart enough to keep himself within shouting range of passersby, yet stupid enough to have his back to the opposite end of the alleyway while tapping away on his phone. His mug rings familiar enough that Frank can place it among the ones David had shown him early on. The way he casts glances around the corner for a good ten minutes and the way his hand keeps moving in and out of his hoodie's front pocket as if he's trying to decide the least suspicious place to keep it pegs him as a dealer, and Frank doesn't have to guess at who he answers to if he's dealing here.

The phone flies out of his hands when he catches a glimpse of Frank out of the corner of his eye. He only makes it a few feet before Frank has his chest against the wall and a Ka-Bar to his throat.

"Shit. Shit, shit shit-"

A nick under his chin shuts him up quick. "Mac Gargan," Frank begins. It's practically a script by now. "Wanna tell me where he is?"

Six seems to know his lines, too. "No, no- I don't know, I swear I don't know anything."

For a guy who doesn't know anything, Six sure knows the name. Frank flits the edge of the blade against Six's throat. "Yeah? You sure about that?"

"Yes!" he hisses out. "Please, I don't- I don't know."

The script says that this is where Frank gets Six on the ground, makes sure he understands where bullshitting gets him, and Six will keep pleading and stammering until Frank realizes he's wasting his time.

The script hasn't done Frank any favors. He drives the Ka-Bar home and steps back to avoid the spray. Six totters back, clutches at his neck and tries to stop the lifeblood from flowing between his fingers, then slides against the wall to meet the pavement. His eyes are wide and glassy by the time he hits the ground.

Frank squats down and wipes the Ka-Bar clean on Six's hoodie before returning it to its sheath. After a moment of consideration, he snags Six's now cracked smartphone on the way back up. Not a Stark brand. He tests the power button and swipes at the lock screen, hoping for a fingerprint scanner that so many lowlifes were stupid enough to be fond of. He doesn't expect to be taken straight to the home screen.

None of the recent calls have names attached to them. Gallery doesn't offer much, either. But in the texts, top of the list, are none other than the initials MG.

Shit. Six was a better liar than he gave him credit for. Frank falls back, presses his spine against the wall and glances down both sides of the alley, then shifts his attention to the phone. He taps at the name and remembers last second to cast a final look above him while keeping an ear out for the whine of repulsors. When nothing happens, Frank rests his hand over the grip of his gun and focuses back on the screen.

Sent: [Randy says he wants to meet. Says he found a heavy supplier who wants in]
 8:14 AM

MG: [Got a name?]
 8:20 AM

Sent: [He'll go over the details in person]
 8:32 AM

MG: [Tomorrow. Melton Hotel, 2nd floor, corner of Jackson and 42nd in LIC. 430pm]
 8:51 AM

Sent: [I'll pass it along]
 8:54 AM

Goddamn.

Tomorrow. A whole day to plan ahead for exactly where and when Gargan's gonna be. All packaged up to look like a lucky break.

Gargan would have to be a fucking idiot to share info like this with a guy who doesn't know how to work a lock screen. Come to think of it… Frank nudges Six supine with his boot and takes note of how the hoodie's pocket is flat against his stomach. No bulges in his jean pockets, either, and Frank can't help but wonder what he was doing playing drug dealer if he doesn't have anything to deal. Six spent an awful lot of time typing at his phone considering his most recent texts were hours old. Too bad the bastard's show didn't play out—probably meant to drop the phone and bolt as soon as he got Frank in his sights. All that aside, second floor is all the info Frank needs to know it's a trap.

Second floor is too low to get a good shot from a neighboring roof and too crowded to risk a firefight. Not that Gargan would give a shit about that. What matters is if Gargan gives a shit about offing Frank himself.

Frank commits the address to memory and pries the case off the phone. He drops the battery in the growing pool of blood and snaps the SIM card in two before tossing it a good distance away. Gargan showed up to kill the kid back in the parking garage, but he'd known that Spider-Man didn't have it in him to make that mutual. Still, all the kid did was put some cronies behind bars and fuck up his face. Pissed him off, sure, but Frank's body count of his men is somewhere in the twenties.

He'll show. Trap or not, Frank'll be there to meet him.

But a bunch of StarkWatches all in one place that flatline at the same time is a trap Gargan doesn't even realize he's setting. If Frank doesn't play his cards just right, he won't even see it coming before it bites him in the ass.

Frank zips his jacket up to cover the bullet-proof vest—can't afford the skull on the down-low—as he makes his way back on the sidewalk. Tomorrow. Red can hear about it on the news, because the last thing Frank's in the mood for is his holier-than-thou bitching about killing and he's not gonna give Red the chance to do something about it. He'll find a phone booth and call once Gargan stops breathing and check how Red's managing the Stark front. He doesn't anticipate liking what he hears.

Frank's step falters for a beat before he can get back in rhythm.

Good news was always supposed to mean that some legal footnote says that the Accords don't apply to Peter and he can go back to Spider-Man to keep at least half his life how it used to be. It's what the kid wants, it's the thing the kid found to fix himself, and it wasn't Frank's prerogative to get in the way. But shit, he never stopped to think about what back to normal means.

Peter stops people like him. Hell, Frank barely dodged getting webbed up when they first met before he ducked behind that column. If it weren't for his aunt and the children down the stairs, the kid would've seen fit to web him up with Gargan's scum and Frank would've seen fit to put a cap in his shoulder for it. Maybe that's not changed on Peter's front if the way he tackled Frank and webbed his foot in the parking garage is anything to go by.

If the kid's able to go back to Spider-Man, Frank would be an idiot if he ruled out the possibility of running into him on the job. The kid might not turn him in, but if he doesn't want Frank putting down his aunt's murderer, then there's no one he wouldn't try to keep him from putting in the ground. A flashbang to throw off enhanced senses followed by a leg shot would have Peter down for the count. He'd walk it off quickly enough. But even if Frank can make himself squeeze the trigger, he doesn't know how he can make himself walk away when the kid cries out.

Shouldn't have pulled my gun on you, kid, Frank had told him. If you thought for a second that I was gonna use it on you, then that's my own damn fault.

Shit, the reason Frank even knows to accommodate for the danger sense isn't that he applied the proper interrogation tactics or put the right pieces together, but that the kid trusted him enough to tell him about it. The mask does fuck all when Frank can already see how the surprise would turn into betrayal in his eyes, how he'd clutch at the wound Frank put in him and the brave face he'd put on when he tries to haul himself away before the cops place him at the scene.

It was bad enough back in the parking garage when Frank's bullet only grazed him, when he and Gargan had tumbled to the ground and for a moment Frank hadn't been sure which one he'd hit. For a split second it was just the kid on the pavement, blood and brain matter making up the visible half of his face as he struggled for a breath with the goddamn carousel music blaring in his ears- Fuck.

Frank clears his throat and his mind so that the only picture in it is the street in front of him. It's easy with Red; the devil only comes out at night and he always throws the first punch. Maybe someday he'll even stop pretending that he doesn't want to. But the kid's not there yet, and Frank's not going to be the one that pushes him. Lucky for him, school ensures that Spider-Man only shows after three and can't stay out too late. Frank's never had a problem rising early. The weekends are a different story, but there are four other boroughs in the city that are chock-full of gang activity and Frank's got no reason to stick to this one. If the news is the only place the kid ever sees him again, then that's the way it is. It's miles better than the alternative.

Or, hell, maybe they'll end up having a run-in at the grocery store like normal fucking people.

Frank's huff forms mist in the air. With a shake of his head, he turns his focus back to Gargan and away from the funny pang in his chest.

"Mahoney, Mahoney, Mahoney-"

The ringing is cut off almost as soon as it begins, yet still a second too late. It barges into Peter's brain and drags him up through the throes of sleep to deposit him none too gently on a mattress that's too soft to be his. He feels his grunt more than he intends it, and it takes his mind a second to conflate routine with reality when he cracks open an eye to yellow light and brick walls.

It all comes flooding back when a low voice drifts in from beyond the door. "… client privilege. He's safe… Yeah?… No, I haven't seen him since-"

No- no. He shouldn't listen in. Not after… no. Peter swallows and turns his head into the pillow, shifting his focus toward sorting through the mounting cacophony in his mind.

Tony Stark is looking for you. Peter snags the thought and mulls it over, waiting for it to spark a resounding duh, of course he would, why didn't I realize that sooner, but nothing happens.

Mr. Stark is looking for me, he tries again, and the void doesn't respond. No matter how many times he runs it over in his head, it still doesn't set in. Mr. Stark hasn't spoken to him in months. Which… probably isn't something he should take personally. It'd be selfish of him to think he has any right to be Iron Man's priority when he's trying to prevent alien invasions and terrorist attacks all while juggling UN meetings. He's under no obligation to respond to Peter's texts. Peter had given up on his daily messages to Happy after DC, and while Spider-Man's been gone long enough for people online to take note, they have yet to express any worry about it.

So what tipped Mr. Stark off? If Mr. Castle had known by the time he contacted Matt, that means… Peter squints into the window. Ned had helped him remove the suit's tracker back in DC. He hadn't thought to check if Mr. Stark put it back in.

Maybe it wasn't Gargan's men who took David's computer and Peter's suit from the warehouse. What was it that Mr. Castle had said? Something about them using "high-tech shit" to break in, if memory serves. It'd been vague enough that he hadn't thought to question it, and the explanation that it was an "asshole that thinks knowing a few computer tricks means he's clever" who made the ensuing phone call was reasonable enough to him. If he's got everything lined up correctly, Mr. Castle didn't find out about Mr. Stark until the parking garage incident. Which means… The guys after you think you're with me, kid. You're safe as long as they're wrong.

He hadn't been talking about Gargan.

God. Peter scrunches his eyes shut. He should've told him. He should've said it the moment Mr. Castle tossed him the phone and pressed about his parents, just spit out something along the lines of 'I don't remember the number, but if you could drive me upstate and drop me outside the Avenger's facility, that'd be swell.' But hindsight can't help him now, and Mr. Castle still had that skull on his chest and telling the Punisher who he's associated with felt like something that could bite him in the ass later. Not to mention that at the time, May's- what happened to May hadn't been real either. All that considered, Mr. Stark's done little to indicate that he'd even open the facility gate for him.

Mr. Stark had pointed to the upgraded Spider Suit and asked Last chance: yes or no? and Peter made his choice. Last chance. Not a 'Get back to me later' or an 'I'll keep a slot open in case you change your mind.' Peter's got no guarantee that the quarters Mr. Stark had set aside for him are still available, no guarantee that his response would be anything other than a pat on the back and a 'Tough luck, kid. Happy'll find a good social worker for you. Maybe I'll give you the suit back once you're eighteen.'

But that can't be it, can it? If you die, I feel like that's on me, Peter recalls. I don't need that on my conscience. He wouldn't just say that. Finally, the 'Tony Stark is looking for you' clicks into place. Mr. Stark didn't bat an eye when he tried to take Spider-Man away that first time, didn't answer any of the texts, but as long as Peter's heart is beating his conscience can remain clear.

Peter blinks at the bitter thought and pushes himself up. Mr. Stark's not… He wouldn't have given the suit back if he didn't care. Then again, that could be chalked up to the fact that his Stark-made suit has a better chance of keeping him alive. But Mr. Stark did call at the ferry to praise him for DC, which… meant something, right? Or was that just Mr. Stark's way of just getting the door for him?

That's not a hug. We're not there yet. He's known Mr. Stark for months and he still doesn't know if they were ever there.

Peter grabs Mr. Castle's jacket from the bedpost and pulls it back on.

His burner tells him that it's almost noon, and the part of him that still cares about his screwed-over sleep schedule dies a little as he slides open the bedroom door.

He hadn't been expecting Matt to still be in his Daredevil get-up, so he's not entirely sure why he feels off-kilter when he sees him back in the suit and tie. His hair is combed and he's standing at the end of the counter, listening to something on his laptop with a single earbud and a concentrated expression. His glasses are set off to the side, and Peter's having trouble deciding if that's a deliberate choice or not. Come to think of it, he doesn't remember Matt entering to retrieve the suit from his room. The silence from his Spider Sense might explain that, yet there's still a tension in the air that he desperately wants to break.

Matt's voice cuts through the silence before Peter can settle on a quip. "How's your hand?"

"My—?" Right. The glass. Peter grabs a hold of the gauze and unravels it around his palm to find a scratch where a gash used to be. He clenches his fist experimentally, wincing more from anticipation of the pain than the pain itself. "Uh, yeah. Fine. Hey, um-"

Peter draws a blank as Matt removes the earbud and turns to face him. There are lines under his eyes that weren't there yesterday and Peter's hit with the realization that Matt's probably only running on the empty coffee pot by the sink. If he'd spent the morning working on Peter's case while letting Peter rest in his bed… The anger feels distant now, muffled by layers of guilt and the exhaustion that comes from the effort it takes to hold onto it.

Matt raises his eyebrows expectantly, and Peter should probably say something to get the ball rolling. "You going somewhere?" he asks with a nod at Matt's suit and the confidence of someone who totally intended on asking that question.

"Gone somewhere," Matt corrects. He takes a sip from a paper coffee cup that'd been hidden behind the screen. "Sunday Mass. There's a muffin on the table for you, if you want it."

There's a joke to be made about the Devil of Hell's Kitchen being Catholic, though Peter's too relieved by the olive branch to risk it. The muffin smells good, too, so he takes hold of the brown paper bag on the table with a mumbled "thanks." As Peter deliberates on how to mold the guilt into an apology, Matt quietly clears his throat before he gets the chance.

"That was Detective Mahoney," Matt says with a nod to his phone. It takes Peter a moment to tear his thoughts away from how Matt knew that he was awake for that. "He was assigned the Punisher case for the past few years. Mahoney and Foggy go way back, and Foggy remembered Mahoney mentioning to him that Stark gave him his number when he took over the case."

"You talked to Foggy?" Peter asks, then the implications register and the ground does a small lurch. "Wait, you—" Peter finds his voice dropping to a whisper "—you got Mr. Stark's number?"

The corner of Matt's mouth twitches upward in a fleeting smirk. "Once Mahoney sends it to me, yeah. Foggy went to explain everything else to him in person. He called me to ask if you knew anything about Castle's whereabouts, and no, he doesn't know about Spider-Man," he adds the second Peter takes a breath.

Peter pulls out the chair and takes a seat to lean against the back. Logically, he knows that this is good news, that the sooner that they can clear everything up with Mr. Stark, the better. He should be feeling alleviated right now, so he's not sure why something in his gut twists tighter.

"I'm reaching out to him tonight," Matt continues, but his words sound distant. "I'll set up a meeting in our office for tomorrow morning. I'd have it earlier, but I need to make a few arrangements before I put myself on Stark's radar." He tips his head toward the closet and the chest inside.

Set up a meeting. Something about that feels off to him. When they first met, Mr. Stark had been sitting on Peter's couch with no forewarning and all that I'm Tony Stark swagger that Peter sees in the news. The second time had been after the impromptu swim he took courtesy of Toomes, followed by the surprise call during the ferry fiasco. The last time was when Happy picked him up from school to take him upstate for that Avenger's offer, and that was the only time he ever had longer than a minute of forethought to figure out what he wanted to say to the man. The idea that he has a whole day to decide what he needs to get out leaves his mind oddly blank. What if all Mr. Stark needed was proof that Peter was alive and out of danger before flying off with a Mr. Stark is no longer connected?

"You don't have to speak with him if you don't want to, Peter," Matt says softly, which is probably Peter's cue that he's been quiet for too long.

"Can I ask you something?" The words slip out of Peter's mouth before he can pick the answer he wants to hear.

Matt pushes the laptop closed. The way he tilts his head is just as much Daredevil as it is the blind lawyer who asked Peter to guide him down the street.

"Last night—if you hadn't known I was Spider-Man…" He has to muster up the courage to continue when Matt's brow tightens. "What would you think?"

"You're asking what I would think if I found a masked kid jumping between buildings past midnight?" Matt's smile doesn't reach his eyes.

Peter grips tight onto the cuffs of the jacket. "I… I'm asking what you'd think if you found Spider-Man jumping between buildings past midnight."

Matt's expression falls back into a mask that wouldn't tell Peter anything more than if he were wearing the real thing. He grabs his coffee and moves around to the table, throwing Peter off a bit when he reaches for the chair opposite of him without fumbling with it first. He rests his forearms on the table once he takes a seat, proceeding to clasp his hands together and flick his tongue between his lips. "You have good instincts," he says after a beat. "You're quick. You know how to keep your center of balance."

That's just a list of facts, yet at the same time, it might be the best answer Peter's going to get. Mr. Stark's pragmatic; maybe that bullet-pointed list was all that was going through his head when he decided to take Peter to Germany. Quick. Shoots webs. Great for binding Captain America and great for dodging Captain America. Neither of which ended up working out in the long run, but in Peter's defense, it was Captain America. And after tomorrow morning, maybe that bullet-pointed list will be what Mr. Stark uses to determine if his suit goes back in his hands or sealed in a vault.

"And you have enhanced senses that you don't know how to use."

Peter snaps his head up.

Matt's tapping his thumbs with his jaw locked tight, leaving him to use his nose when he lets out a small breath.

"I… used them to find you," Peter says slowly.

It's treading far too close to their earlier conflict for Peter's comfort, a feeling Matt seems to echo if his swallow is anything to go by. But when he leans back into the chair, there's nothing but an air of casualness that makes Peter wonder if he'd imagined it. "Sure. After the second time you heard me."

What?

"The first time—you stopped, looked around, and when your sight didn't corroborate your hearing, you moved on. Your senses should work together to create… a picture of your surroundings. They can't help you if you don't listen to them."

That… isn't something Peter has considered before. His solution to the assault of sensory input on his brain after the spider bite had been goggles to help blur the picture to ensure he didn't get lost in the details. The city's sirens got louder, too, but the easiest answer to that problem was to head for whichever one his Spider Sense tugged him towards as opposed to trying to puzzle out what they all meant. He'd tried sorting through it all early on, but it was like staring at an I Spy book. All the wrong details stood out. Besides, once he'd figured out Reconnaissance Mode, stretching out his own senses felt less and less like a necessity. "I guess I'm used to my suit helping with that."

"I didn't think Stark knew about your senses," he says lightly, but there's an undertone in his voice that Peter's not sure what to make of. "It couldn't have been easy when he took the suit away."

He's not wrong, but something about the way Matt says it makes Peter supplant the agreement rising in his throat with a shrug last second. He draws in a slow breath. "So… What's the best way to create the picture?"

Something flickers across Matt's face. "Practice."

"Oh." Peter drops his gaze to the table. "I guess I was hoping there'd be a secret ninja shortcut or something."

Matt lets out a short huff. "Is that what Stark put in your suit?" he asks in that same moderated tone. "Shortcuts?"

Despite his laid back posture, Matt says the word through his teeth. He chases it down with coffee as if it'd left an unpleasant taste in his mouth. But when Peter tries to suss out what he means, Matt's already giving a dismissive shake of his head. His lips are pressed in a thin line as he taps his thumb against the side of his cup, a tension in his jaw that only disappears after he lets out a long sigh.

"You're not going to stop." His voice is quiet, but that doesn't change how the words make Peter's heart pound against his ribs. "You're not going to stop because I didn't stop. And if you keep this up, you can't keep relying on shortcuts."

Peter's breath catches in his throat. No way. He's not… is he? "Are you—?"

"And if I was?" Matt's eyebrows raise the slightest amount.

Holy crap. He's actually- Peter presses his lips together to keep them from falling open. He'd felt something similar to this, the excited hammering in his chest back when he successfully disarmed Mr. Castle in that motel room, and he almost let himself get carried away with the possibilities before Mr. Castle told him to pull the trigger. Looking back, it was his own fault for forgetting about the disparity between what he and the Punisher thinks he should know. But Daredevil-

-is in the middle of saying something. "… before. It won't be smooth right away. There will be times you'll want to quit. But I think I know how to help you. I don't expect an answer now-"

"I won't quit."

Matt looks caught off guard.

It's enough to give Peter pause, but only for a moment. He wouldn't have hesitated at the offer a year ago, though not for the same reason he's not hesitating now. The childish giddiness at the fact that Daredevil wants to teach him is still bubbling in his chest, but only on the surface of something else. Matt wants to teach him. After the lies, after their conflict—something Matt anticipates more of—he still wants to teach him.

Peter raises his head and meets Matt's eyes. "I won't quit."