Disclaimer: "You can smell a man on the third floor?" "You'll smell him soon enough. He really likes that cologne."
So...yeah. Sorry for not posting in like...months. In my defense though, I've been so busy it's actually kind of hysterical. I'll sum it up: 18th birthday (crap I'm an adult), Homecoming, Ed Sheeran concert, Fear the Walking Dead, varsity basketball, 4 Ap classes, job, degenerative disc disease (apparently I have it lol I just found out like 3 weeks ago and now I have to go to physical therapy 3 times a week...yaaaaay), taking photos for yearbook, & hanging with bae and homies, etc. (yes, I have a life outside of this...most of the time ;) )...so there. My excuses. Now read the chapter that I managed to piece together through all of that craziness. I think you all know where this one is going...hope some of you out there love the show as much as I do... :D
Chapter 14
"I can't believe this. What the hell were you thinking?"
"That a kid was being tortured and needed my help. What would you have done?"
"Certainly not have blown up the building he was being tortured in! Half his body is fried to a crisp!"
"I didn't have any other options. The entire warehouse was surrounded by Fisk's men. I needed a distraction. I could smell gunpowder inside, so I threw a flare into the wall and was going to sneak in on the opposite flank. But I guess there was a bit more gunpowder than I anticipated, because the whole place went kablooey. My bad, alright? At least I got him out alive."
"Your definition of alive has always been a wide stretch. I mean, look at this guy! Do you really think I'm equipped to save someone in this bad of shape? I barely manage to keep you breathing when you come stumbling in here half-dead and drenched in blood. Why—why do you keep putting me in this position?"
The man bent down to kneel beside her. He slipped off his mask and laid his hand on her shoulder.
"Claire, please," he said softly, rubbing at her back. "I need you to do this. I know you can do this. You're the only person I trust that can help him."
Moaning quietly, Claire buried her face in her hands. A bloody towel laid on the floor beside her, along with a pair of gloves and some scissors. Her brow was creased deeply. She sat bent over her lap for a moment, shaking her head slowly back and forth. Then, with a long sigh, she let her hands slide defeatedly to the ground.
"Get my kit, you stupid prick."
He hinted a smile. "Thank you, Claire."
The first time Peter regained consciousness, he didn't open his eyes. He didn't even move. He simply lied in a mindless daze, sluggish and silent. Then the feeling of hands pressing into the stab wounds on his arms became tangible, and he cringed internally.
Stop...it hurts...
The fingers dug deeply into the damaged flesh, and ten more began prodding against his broken ribs. It felt as though they were looking his entire body over for injuries—although he was pretty sure his entire body was one big injury. He could hardly stand it. He had to make it stop.
Oh gosh...please don't...
He couldn't even form the words to protest, nor make his broken, lifeless body move. It felt like there was something in his mouth. The pain began to grow dull, and reality spiraled into a void.
P-please...stop. Please... Peter begged in his head. Then his mind slipped back into darkness.
When he stirred a second time, he actually woke up. His eyes fluttered open, and he found himself staring at a low black ceiling. Everything was hazy and fuzzy, and it felt like he was floating on a cloud. He lied motionless for a moment, blinking deliriously and cycling slow, heavy breaths through his lungs. Nothing made sense. His scrambled mind refused to conjure a reasonable thought. He was trapped in a lucid stupor.
"Angle the light a little lower. I think the hemorrhage is from his liver, but it's too dark in there for me to be sure."
"Um, I can't really—just move my hand where you need it to be pointing."
"Oh my gosh. This is like something out of a bad dream. Operating on a dying superhero with crappy surgical equipment and a blind assistant."
Voices, Peter managed to pinpoint. His glazed eyes slid shut. Whose...are they? And what are they talking about...? Operating, surgery...?
"Don't think about it. Just do your thing, Claire. You're totally capable of—" The male voice, which sounded somewhat familiar, suddenly faltered. "Wait. His heartbeat's increased. He's awake."
"What? He can't be awake. That anesthesia is supposed to keep him out for at least three and a half—"
"H-hey..." Peter finally croaked, reopening his eyes and trying to lift his head. His bleary vision was having trouble focusing. "Who's...talking...?"
He heard a woman gasp, followed by someone quickly jumping to their feet. Numb and confused, Peter sat upright, blinking his eyes repeatedly. Then a pair of hands seized him by the shoulders and tried to shove him back down.
"Stop moving. You're critically injured."
Peter lifted his gaze up to the person standing over him. He recognized the unnerving black mask covering the man's eyes from when he'd been pulled from blazing rubble of the warehouse. His brow knitted together.
"Hey...y-you're..." He blinked slowly. "Who...who are you...?"
"Doesn't matter. Someone who's trying to help you. My friend and I are doing everything we can, but you need to stay down if you don't want to die."
Puzzled, Peter glanced around the man's shoulder. A fuzzy image of a woman with her mouth slightly agape and fear clouding her irises was sitting on a stool behind him. A plate with a bloody scalpel and bits of glass and wood sat on her lap, and she held a pair of thick tweezers between her gloved fingers. Peter's breathing began to accelerate.
"W-what are you doing?"
"Spider-Man, lay back down." Her voice was stiff and edgy.
The man holding him was trying to block his view, but Peter lazily shouldered him aside, eyes locked on the woman's face. Then his gaze dropped down to his abdomen, and he inhaled sharply.
His stomach was cut open. He could see his insides. Raw, red, oozing, pulsing. There were splinters of debris stuck in the flesh. He wheezed out a breath, eyes wide and face colorless. Terror began swallowing his soul. He couldn't look away from his gaping body. He started hyperventilating, and the masked man gently pushed him back against the cushions.
"I tried to warn you," he muttered.
"What—what are you doing t-to me?"
"Hook this tube to the mask. He needs to go back under."
"W-why I am c-cut open?"
The man in black secured the pipe to the end of the mask and clicked on the machine, which began making a strange buzzing noise. Peter was seized with panic as he lied rigidly on his back.
"Why c-can't I feel anything?"
The stranger wrapped a strap around the back of his head and laid the face mask over his mouth and nose. One of his hands was holding his uninjured shoulder down, while the other was holding the mask firmly in place.
"Relax, kid. Slow down. Take big, deep breaths."
Peter's eyes were wet with tears. "S-somebody answer me!"
"He's losing too much blood. I've got to patch up his liver before removing the rest of the fragments."
"How long will it be until the gas takes effect?"
"We don't have that kind of time." She grabbed a syringe and the bag it was attached to out of crate and hurried to Peter's side, taking hold of his hand. It sat limply in her own. "Spider-Man, listen to me," she said assertively, trying to calm him down. He was gasping for breath and staring desolately at the ceiling. He couldn't keep the tears from slipping down his pallid cheeks. She held tightly to his wrist. "Just sit still and breathe normally. I'm going to inject some more sedative into your hand to knock you out again."
"P-please," he choked, his voice breaking with fear. "Please, just...t-tell me what's going on."
"I will once all of this is over," she promised. He didn't feel the needle sliding into his vein, but he shivered as the icy liquid entered his bloodstream. The medicine swimming through his system along with the cold gas flowing into his lungs made his whole body feel chilly, frozen. His rapid breathing began to slow, and his frenzied mind began to settle. The woman's calm face leaning over his own faded out of focus, and black fuzz crept in on the edges of his vision. A hand laid against his forehead as his eyelids started to sink.
"Until then, rest. We'll do everything we can to save you."
Seconds later, his eyes slipped shut, and sleep claimed him once again.
It was around 9 p.m. when history finally decided to repeat itself. To be honest, only one of the three people in the house had expected a positive outcome after the long, grueling day. But for once, it looked like the third time was actually the charm for the weary teenage superhero.
He found himself in the same position he'd been in before: flat on his back, staring up at the same black ceiling sitting low above his head. He was terribly groggy, disoriented, and woozy, but his body wasn't numb the way it'd been last time—which unfortunately meant he could feel the pain radiating from all of his horrible injuries. But for some reason, that comforted him; it at least validated the fact he was indeed alive. And he felt less like a ghost trapped in a empty, senseless body and more like a human being stuck in a body that really freaking hurt everywhere.
Groaning in agony, he fumbled with the mask on his face until it fell off his mouth and grappled for the headrest of the couch he was on to try to lift himself upright. The moment the muscles in his core kicked in, however, pain like a knife stabbing into his gut afflicted him, and he bent over his stomach with a quiet yelp. He squeezed his eyes shut and clenched his teeth together, whimpering feebly as pain coursed through his body like blood in his veins. It seemed every inch of his flesh was branded with its own special way to torment him, whether burned, sliced, bruised, broken, or a fun combination of all the above. No matter how he moved, something ached. Even simply sitting still was awful. Panting exhaustedly, he took a moment just to breathe. His chest rose and fell unevenly against his fingertips, and he ran his tongue across his lips. Then his eyes slowly opened again, and with as little movement as possible, he stared around the room he was in.
It was unsettlingly dark. What looked to him like a standard single-person apartment in New York was hardly illuminated by eerie yellow lights. There was a small kitchen on his right, a couple of doors sitting ajar just behind him, and a short hallway leading to the front entrance past his feet. A fan spun lazily overhead. He was hot, sweaty, and extremely uncomfortable. The I.V. needle was no longer in his hand. Moaning, he slid a foot off the couch and placed it carefully on the floor, one arm coiled around his burning stomach and shaky breaths heaving from his throat.
"I wouldn't do that if I were you."
Peter went rigid. His spidey sense wasn't go off, but after everything that had happened over the past couple days, you couldn't exactly blame the guy for being easily spooked. He just sat there staring at the ground, waiting for whatever was to come.
"My friend just finished sewing you back together about an hour ago. Moving around at all at the moment is probably not in your best interest."
The voice was coming from behind him. It had a smooth and matter-of-fact coolness to it. Peter had grown to connect it with the man in the black mask. His assumption was verified when he heard a person get up and stroll around the couch, followed by the familiar figure kneeling down in front of him. One hand rested on the ground, while the other was sprawled over his knee. He was an incredibly unfriendly looking person, like a serial killer or a ninja you could rent from a hit-man website, yet his casual body language spoke differently on the matter. The corners of the man's lips were gently torqued into a small smile.
"Of course, if I were you, I probably wouldn't be listening to me. I probably would've made a break for the door by now, only to collapse in a puddle of blood two seconds later. From personal experience, I highly suggest against it, but I guess you can try if you want."
Peter eyed the man apprehensively. He was dressed in a skin-tight, long-sleeve shirt and a pair of padded cargo pants, all black. He had a belt strung loosely around his waist and thick gloves over his hands. He drummed his fingers against one of his military boots. The finishing touch to his sinister look was the mask he had over the top half of his head. The black material covered everything from his nose up, leaving only his scruffy lips, chin, and jawline visible. A tail trailed off the end of the mask at the back of his head, adding to his getup's ninja-esk feel. Something about not being able to see the man's eyes made Peter very uneasy in his presence. He wondered if that was one of the reasons why so many people didn't trust Spider-Man.
"Who...are you?" Peter finally asked, fingers curled around his burning stomach gingerly. He could feel sickly warmth beginning to gather against his palm.
"I'm the guy who's trying to keep you from tearing open more of your injuries than you already have," he retorted, pressing his hand against Peter's chest. "You seriously need to quit moving. You're ripping yourself up all over again."
Swallowing painfully, Peter blinked his heavy eyes. "You're the guy who...saved me," he said. "From the fire."
The man in black shrugged. "Sure, that's another way to put it. I'm also the guy who's been awake for nearly fifteen hours now making sure you haven't kicked the bucket in your sleep." He raised his hands up innocently. "But hey, who's keeping score?"
Hands shivering, Peter reached up and touched his face. His gloves were missing, as was his mask. The cold tips of his fingers caressed feverish, sweaty skin, and he exhaled in dismay.
"You've...seen my face?"
The masked man let out a small chuckle. "Uh, sure. Something like that."
Peter's arms fell to his sides. "Great. As if this day wasn't...perfect enough."
"We needed to give you oxygen after all the smoke you inhaled. And give you sedatives to put you back to sleep after you randomly decided to pop awake. It wasn't like we ripped it off just out of curiosity to see your face. I more than anyone have a certain respect for that kind of thing."
Halfway through poser Batman's monologue, Peter sluggishly began to lift himself off the couch. "I've got to go...find that bastard," he hissed under his breath. "Gotta help Wanda...gotta make him pay for—"
"Whoa, whoa, slow down, kid," he said, pushing him back down defiantly. "Bad idea. You know you're in no condition to go stumbling off looking for a fight."
"But my friend...she's in trouble," he protested, then winced as pain blossomed in his shoulder. The man in black flinched at the exact same moment.
"Well right now, you're the one who's in trouble. You just opened the knife wound on your shoulder and your stomach has been bleeding for a couple minutes. And that's only the big stuff." He rubbed at the back of his head with a snort. "Huh. Weird being on the opposite side of this for a change."
Peter glanced up at him sleepily. "How did...how do you know that?"
"Intuition," was his only response. Then he rose to his feet. "I've got some questions to ask you, but that can wait until later. I'll go get the doctor."
The masked man walked off to somewhere else in the apartment, leaving Peter sitting alone in the small living room. Breathing coarsely, he carefully ran his fingers across his skin. His body was completely covered in stitches—as if they were the only things keeping him from falling apart at the seams. He felt like Frankenstein's monster. Every movement induced threatening pain. Then his hand dragged along the bloody sutures underneath the bandages around his upper belly. The sensation made him remember waking up to see his stomach split open like a dissected pig's, and a shudder rippled through him. Had that been real, or just another horrible nightmare? He wanted to believe the latter, but he knew where the truth lied. The tray scattered with bloody debris sat on the floor beside his feet, now heaping with a heavier load than when he saw it last. Feeling himself flush with nausea, he looked away from the disgusting sight and sucked in a shaky breath, hugging himself around the middle.
Dull footsteps treaded along the wood in front of him, followed by one brisk stomp that made the lamp on the kitchen counter totter.
"Why the hell are you not lying down?"
Peter glanced up at the woman glaring at him from across the room. She was wearing a robe and had heavy bags hanging under her eyes. Her hands rested loosely against her hips. She looked like she was in her mid to late twenties. Peter frowned a little as she marched right up to him.
"I...I'm just trying to figure out—"
"Damn, it's like you idiots want to die," she growled, pushing him back against the cushions. Grimacing, Peter grabbed on to her wrist.
"H-hey, what are you trying to—?"
"Stop moving." She dragged the coffee table up beside the couch and sat down on it, hand still pressed against his chest. Peter watched her movements discernibly, then slowly released his grip.
"You're the one...you cut me open."
The woman grabbed a flashlight off the floor and shined it on his abdomen. Her forehead was creased in concentration.
"W-where am I?" he asked with sudden panic, glancing around the apartment. "Who are you people? Why are you—ah!"
Her fingers pressed against the thick bandage over his stomach, causing pain to flare across his skin. She scoffed crossly, watching the white material saturate with red, and grabbed a needle and suture thread off the glass table. As Peter moaned between his teeth, the woman unravelled a strand of the rubbery string then tore it loose with her teeth.
"Just calm down. You're in my apartment."
"Who—who are you? And...who is he?"
"I'm a doctor. He's a lunatic. We're trying to help you."
"Hey," the man in black protested as he leaned against the wall with his arms crossed over his chest. She ignored him.
"Move your hand so I can take that bandage off your stomach," she demanded. Peter stared up at her with fearful confusion in his eyes.
"W-why did you cut me open?"
The woman huffed impatiently. "Do you always ask this many questions? I still don't even understand how you're awake right now."
"You said...you would tell me. Afterwards."
Pursing her lips together, she reached beside her feet and lifted up the tray full of blood-soaked debris. "You see that?" she said, holding it close to his face. "That was all inside you. I had to dig them out of your flesh, as well as patch up your liver which was leaking blood into your abdominal cavity." She placed it back on the floor as Peter's cheeks hinted green. "Happy now?"
"You did...surgery on me?" he murmured in horror. "On your couch?"
"Wouldn't necessarily be the first time," she muttered, glancing over her shoulder. "In fact, this is all seeming a bit too familiar. Wouldn't you agree?"
The masked man smiled shyly. "At least now you're prepared to deal with this kind of stuff. You've had more than enough experience."
"A little too much, if you ask me," the woman grumbled. "How am I the one who always ends up with you people dying in my living room?" Irritably, she pushed his hand aside and curled her fingers around the edges of the large bandage. With careful movements, she began peeling it off his skin, making his muscles tense in agony. Peter groaned as she pulled it past his wounded stomach, and the doctor frowned nervously.
"Damn. It's bleeding pretty bad again. I'm going to have to reinforce the patchwork a bit." She shot a look behind her. "Give me a hand with this?"
"W-with what? What're you doing?"
The masked man walked up beside her, looming over his broken form like a demon preparing to reap his soul.
"Hold him down for me."
Peter's eyes went wide. "H-hold me down? Why—why do you need to hold me down?"
Two dark hands pressed firmly against his shoulders, making panic rise into his throat.
"I have to stitch up a few parts of the incision that you tore through," the doctor explained out of his view. "It's going to hurt, but you have to be still."
"It'll only take her a few seconds," ninja man assured him. "Just grit through it. I'll cover your mouth if you need to scream."
Seized with terror, Peter began struggling hysterically beneath the man's hold, nearly knocking him off even with his abnormal strength. Mask man was very surprised at how powerful this mangled, cadaverous kid was as he wrestled to keep him still, but managed to stay dominant. Peter felt a cold hand lie against his ribcage, and he gasped fearfully. Realizing there was no way out of this and knowing they were only doing it to keep him alive, Peter stopped fighting.
"W-wait! I won't move! I...I promise I won't move. I'll sit still and...let you do it. Just get off me. Please."
The doctor sighed exasperatedly. "That's patient language for 'as soon as you release me, I'm hauling ass out of here.' Trust me kid, I know all the tricks."
Peter shook his head fervently. "No. I promise. I just...I don't want to be held down. I'm n-not an animal."
The woman eyed him uncertainly, clearly not buying a word he said, but after a few moments, Peter felt the weight on his chest suddenly lift away. He stared up at the masked man in surprise.
"He's telling the truth. Go ahead. He'll be still."
Peter wondered how the hell he could possibly know that, but the doctor didn't seem at all fazed by his statement, like mind-reading was just a regular thing for this guy. Her gaze switched between the two of them a couple times, then dropped back to his bleeding abdomen.
"Alright, if you insist. Here we go."
As she steadied her hand against his stomach, Peter knew he had to think about something else. Something, anything. He had to distract himself. His mind grappled frantically for an image to cling on to, anything to occupy him through his misery. To his surprise, the faces of the people he'd saved over the last year suddenly began to materialize before his eyes. People he didn't even know the names of appeared in his head, yet their thankful tears—the relief glowing in their eyes—brought him comfort. A shivery sigh escape his lips, his eyes slipped shut, and he swallowed laboriously before offering the pair a quick nod.
The pain was more tedious than anything—almost muted in contrast to the excruciating torment the rest of his body was dealing with. The worst part was when she had to stick the needle through the next section of raw flesh; it was clear the needle the doctor was using was dull, making the process much more difficult to endure. But Peter dug his fingers into the couch and kept himself still, reeling back to the grateful faces of those he'd rescued as motivation. If they had survived the hell thrown their way because of Spider-Man's strength, so could he.
After what felt like years of agony, she pulled the needle through the last flap of skin, knotted off the end, then stretched the bandage back over his stomach and resealed it with a few strips of medical tape. Heaving heavy breaths of relief, Peter pressed his head deep into the pillows stacked beneath his shoulders, sweat tinted red slithering off his face. A cold cloth laid against his forehead, and a soft sigh ghosted beside him.
"You can sure take a lot pain, Spider-Man."
The masked man stood over him with his arms crossed. "You're tough, I'll give you that. Maybe too much for your own good."
As Peter fought to steady his breathing while sprawled on the couch of this weird house surrounded by these two weird people, it began to dawn on him how bizarre all of this was. However long ago, he had been trapped in a warehouse with a mean fat guy when the building had exploded, a stranger in a black mask had pulled him from the rubble, and now he was lying half-dead in some lady's apartment who was friends with said mask man, neither of whom he knew anything about. This was all too much to process at once. He licked at his dry lips uneasily.
"Who...are you guys?" he asked again, his weak voice assertive. He was sick of all this uncertainty. "Why am I here? Why are you...h-helping me?"
A little taken back by his words, the woman glanced up at the masked man, then quickly looked away. To his surprise, a sad smile formed along her lips, and the doctor shook her head as she gazed at the floor. "Damn. He's like a smaller, more adorable version of you." She ran her hand over her slick forehead and puffed out her cheeks, then laid a comforting palm against his chest as it rose and fell unsteadily. "Alright. My name's Claire. I work at a hospital on the other side of town."
"Claire..." The man in black said disapprovingly, as if they had agreed to not to tell him anything beforehand, but she paid him no attention. Peter stared up at her as pain flowed throughout his body.
"Claire?" he repeated, looking over her face curiously. "I think...I heard that name. Before you knocked me out."
"I'm surprised you're able to remember," she exclaimed softly. "Although, you did wake up way before you were supposed to. Guess you're just full of surprises."'
Peter assumed that was because of his ramped-up metabolism; while it was usually an asset to his hazardous occupations, it had some weird side effects. He stared up at Claire's stern but gentle expression, glad to finally put a name to the face that had been slicing and stabbing and poking him this whole time. She ran her fingers along his bloody shoulder, making him grimace a little.
"I'm helping you because that's what I do. And because the moron standing beside me decided I was the best person to come to with a mortally injured superhero. Either you two are the most durable bastards in the world, or I'm a damn miracle worker, because I've somehow managed to keep both of you mutilated, half-dead freaks from biting the big one in my home. So far, anyway."
Claire unwrapped another large bandage and laid it over his shoulder so the wound would be protected while it healed. She mopped up the blood surrounding the injury as well and tossed the stained towels into a bucket underneath the table. Peter watched her work with quiet interest, then turned his head towards the man towering over him with the mask hiding his eyes, narrowing his brow a bit.
"And you?" he inquired suspiciously. "'The moron'. Who are you...really? Why'd you decide to save me?"
What was visible of his face remained steely. "I heard someone screaming. A kid being hurt. I wanted to help. Simple as that. I didn't expect said kid to be some famous spider hero, or the person hurting him to be one of my enemies. Someone that powerful."
Spider-Man flinched as Claire dabbed at a cut on the side of his head, then eyed the man in black in shock. "W-wait. You mean...you're talking about The King—about Fisk? You know him?"
"I wanna know how you know him," he countered, walking around to the back of the couch and leaning over the headrest. "It sounded to me like he was torturing you. Was he trying to get you to tell him something?"
Peter scoffed offendedly. "Pardon me, Assassin's Creed, but...I have no idea who the hell you are. You could be...one of his men, for all I know. I'm not telling you anything."
"I'm an enemy of Fisk's. I've been trying to stop his tyranny over this city for a long time now, even before he got involved with Hydra. Considering what he's done to you, I'd assume that's a cause you equally support."
"Well, you've c-clearly been doing...a marvelous job," he murmured, wincing violently as Claire applied some cold ointment to the half-charred stab wounds on his arm. "At this point, Fatboy's basically got everyone...on his payroll. What exactly have you done...to try and stop him?"
"For starters, I saved your weeping ass from being murdered. That certainly put a dent in his plans. I've also been obstructing his drug business and human trafficking operation, as well as gathering intel about him from his cronies. He's not exactly the easiest person to find dirt on—solid, factual dirt—and I need dirt to take him down in his entirety. Half the people who work for him don't even know whether he actually exists."
Peter snorted. "Wow, great. You've been hugging instead of drugging and digging for juicy gossip...all while dressed like a rapist in training. Productivity...at its finest."
The masked man's lips curled into an amused smile. He strolled back to the end of the couch and kneeled down behind Peter's head, fingers interlaced against the armrest.
"I know it's difficult for you to understand. You're young—way too young to be in this sort of predicament. But we share a common enemy. Whether we like it or not, we're on the same team. We've got the same goal in mind: taking down Fisk. Why don't we try to focus on that instead of squabbling over our different methods of approach to the situation?"
"H-how about we address the fact that...I still have no freaking clue...who the hell you are?" he hissed menacingly. "You saving me could've been staged. All the crap you're throwing my way...could be lies." A mocking chuckle bubbled in his throat. "And you seriously think we're on the 'same team'? Well, thanks for all your help fighting the Sinister Six. You know, Fisk's little boy band of souped-up supervillains...that attacked the city yesterday that I had to fight...all by myself? I don't recall your ugly masked face bothering to show up to help me fight them...or to help me save all the people who died because I couldn't—aaagh!"
At that moment, Claire gave his broken leg a sharp jerk, cutting him off and making him cry in pain. Peter rolled on to his side and gripped tightly to the pillows, whimpering piteously as she unravelled some gauze.
"Stop talking to him like that," she snapped harshly, wrapping up his crippled leg with a scowl on her face. "I know you don't know this man very well, but I do. And as hard as it is to believe, he's one of the good guys. He's been in your shape countless times after battling Fisk's men. He's been tackling this bastard and his entire monopoly long before you got involved. He's saved hundreds of my patients' lives, including yours. Why don't you show some gratitude and stop being a little dick?"
Peter moaned into the cushions with his eyes squeezed shut, excruciating pain radiating from his leg and muscles coiled in agony. The masked man stood and curled his hand around Claire's shoulder, a tiny smirk on his face.
"It's okay, Claire. He has a right to be pissed off. He's young and hurt and scared. Cut the kid some slack."
"I'd cut him some more if he wasn't such a smartass," she murmured with a grin. Claire ran her hand along the purple flesh and bloody puncture of his shin. "I managed to somewhat reset the bone, but his tibia is totally shattered, and the bullet's still lodged in there somewhere. I have no idea how to get that out without the right tools. The best I can do is make him a splint and hope his freaky healing abilities can somehow take care of the rest." She rose upright. "I'm going to go work on that. Make sure he stays still, and let him rest as much as possible. But make sure he doesn't...y'know."
Mask man nodded knowingly, and Claire strolled around the couch. She gave Peter's messy hair a rough tousle as his face remained buried in the pillows, offered him a quiet "hang in there, kid", then vanished into one of the back rooms. Exhaling quietly, the man in black sat down on the glass table, elbows resting on his knees and hands dangling near the floor. A small laugh escaped him.
"Sorry. I think dealing with me has worn out her patience with injured heroes occupying her living room. In her defense, you're obnoxious as hell."
"D-damn you...jerks," Peter groaned through his teeth. "Damn...you both..."
"Continuing our pleasant conversation, let me reiterate my earlier statement." The masked man reached across the couch and turned Peter on to his back, making him grimace meekly. Peter's hands were balled against the plush cushions. Then, all of a sudden, the man's voice turned icy. "Wilson Fisk. He's not the type of guy who beats around the bush with his enemies. If he gets an opportunity to eliminate them, he does it. As quickly and efficiently as possible. He doesn't offer them the pleasantry of a slow, articulate martyrdom. So I'm going to ask you again." He overshadowed his broken form like a sinister ghost. "Why was Fisk torturing you? What was he after?"
Spider-Man swallowed the lump in his throat, suddenly afraid. Despite the fact that he couldn't see the man's eyes, it felt like his gaze was drilling through his skull. Peter glanced away as sweat began dripping off his forehead.
"I...I don't know. I think he just...really hates spiders. But even if I knew, I wouldn't go blabbing to some ninja prick who thinks he can—mmph!"
The man in black slapped his hand over Peter's mouth. Peter winced in surprise and squirmed a little, his weak protests muffled through the thick gloves.
"Lying to me?" he inquired darkly, watching him struggle to escape his hold. "Never a good idea. I know when you're not telling the truth. And when people don't tell me the truth, I hurt them. I've hurt a lot of people to get the information I need, Spider-Man. And I'm not above hurting a bratty kid to get what I need to know now. So I'm going to ask you again. Think about your answer." He slowly lifted his hand off his lips. Peter gasped quietly as air flowed back into his lungs, palms lying flat against the couch. He lifted his gaze to the masked man standing above him. "Why was Fisk torturing you, and what was he after?"
Spider-Man's chest rose and fell rapidly. His skin felt hot, and his stomach felt cold. He blinked his fearful eyes as the man loomed over him with his unbroken, invisible glare. Then he sighed shakily.
"I wasn't lying. I think he...r-really does hate me. He wanted to see me in pain."
"Maybe. But there's something else you're not telling me."
Peter frowned. "How...do you know that? Do you have...mind reading powers or something? Q-quick, what number am I thinking of?"
"Your heartbeat. It's faster when you're lying."
Peter glanced at his chest. "You can...read my heartbeat? Gross." His head dropped back against the pillow. "And by the way, it was a trick question. I was thinking of the...square root of negative one. D-didn't think I'd go for imaginaries, did you? Sike."
"Answer my questions, or I'm going to dig my thumb into the bullet hole on your leg."
Peter grimaced a little at the thought of that, then shook his head. "N-no, you won't. I know you won't."
"How's that? You really want to test me?"
"I have a sort of built-in lie detector...of my own."
"And what might that be?"
Peter gingerly raised his arm and tapped a finger against his temple. "My spidey sense."
"Your...'spidey sense'?"
"It warns me...when there's danger. When someone intends to hurt me. And right now, it's silent. Meaning you w-won't hurt me to get answers. You're lying."
The man in black stared down at him in silence. For a moment, Peter thought his spidey sense might actually be malfunctioning or something and that he was about to pounce on him and put him in a chokehold until he screamed "uncle". But a few moments later, a smile cracked along his lips, and he chuckled softly.
"Huh. I can't say I'm not impressed. Irritated, but impressed." He reclined back on to the table with a slow sigh, rubbing at the nape of his neck. "Well Spider-Man, it appears you and I have reached a stalemate."
Shocked that this devious-looking man had never actually planned on hurting him, but also very much relieved, Peter blinked in surprise, then huffed amusedly. "W-wow. Who's the liar now, dickwad?"
"Here's my deal," the man continued sternly, voice not hinting the slightest embarrassment for his little facade being disclosed. "You answer one of my questions, as truthfully and honestly as you can, and in exchange, I'll answer one of your questions in the same manner. I think that fairly satisfies both sides of the equation. What do you say?"
Peter stared him in silence, wondering what exactly this guy's play was. He couldn't get a good read on him. He looked like a murderer and had the voice of a serial killer, yet he had saved his life and refused to hurt him to get him to talk. He had brought him to this lady so she could heal him. He hated Fisk just as much as he did. And he appeared to have some kind of supernatural abilities: hearing his heartbeat, knowing when and where he had opened his injuries instantaneously, and having enough muscle power to hold him with all his spider-strength still. None of it added up. Peter needed answers. And really, if all that he was saying was true, what was the hurt in exposing Fisk's evil to another person? Peter lifted his gaze to the ceiling.
"Fine. One question. What would...the great Jackie Chan...like to know?"
"What scares you more than anything?"
Peter's brow furled together. "Um...what?"
"Did I stutter?"
"That...has nothing to do with Fisk. That wasn't even one of the questions you asked earlier."
"I never said I was going to ask one of those questions. You agreed to answer any single question that I asked—whether or not it applies to Fisk is irrelevant, although in this case, it does, and is."
Peter scoffed in disbelief. "You...you sly little jerk. Did you plan out that whole charade...just so you could undercut me with that?"
"Don't sound so surprised. I've had quite a lot of experience in the field of interrogation. I know how to get people to tell me what I want." He clasped his palms together in front of his face. "Your turn."
Shaking his head back and forth, Peter threw up his hands defeatedly. "I—I seriously have no clue. I don't know."
"Really? Nothing?" The masked man crossed his arms over his chest and lifted his chin up a bit. "Well, why don't I rephrase the question. What did Fisk do to you that scared you so much you now have the habit of screaming bloody murder in your sleep?"
Peter stiffened a little, causing terrible pain to pulse through his body. His jaw was clenched tight, and his fingers lied motionless against the cushions. He glanced at the man in black for moment, then let his eyes slip shut, a slow sigh escaping his lips.
"That bad, huh?"
"You wouldn't wake up. And worse, you wouldn't shut up. The first hour you were here, before Claire did any major procedures. I ended up shoving a rag in your mouth just to try and muffle it."
So that's still happening, Peter thought dismally. He couldn't remember what the nightmare had been about this time though. He didn't even remember it happening. Perhaps his mind had repressed it. Biting the inside of his cheek, Spider-Man avoided his gaze.
"I, um..." he stammered hesitantly. "He...well, I was hurt really bad. From the fight. And he...shocked me. Beat me up on top of...my already bad injuries. Stabbed me."
"Yeah, I get that," the man assured him. "He was hurting you big time. That's never fun for anyone." He rested his chin on his knuckles. "But you're like me. You can take a beating, and you can bounce back from it. That kind of thing doesn't get to you as it would others. Physical torture is something guys like us are dealt on a regular basis. We can deal with it." Leaning forwards a bit, his voice remained edgy, yet somehow still soft. "This was something different. Something psychological. What the hell did he do to you?"
Peter sighed heavily, watching the ceiling fan twirl overhead. He was having trouble recalling all that had happened. Everything was dull and hazy. "Well...he was hurting my friend. He wanted her to tell him who I was, but...she wouldn't do it. So he kicked her and dragged her away. Then he started...spitting all this gibberish about some plan...'killing the Avengers', or whatever. And then...th-then he..."
His eyes suddenly widened. He remembered now. He remembered everything from that night. It all came rushing back to him. He remembered the cause of the nightmares. It was something he thought wasn't real, something he thought was just some freakish figment of his poisoned imagination, until Fisk had unveiled the little glass box hidden beneath his coat and had lifted it up to his face and then—
"Spider-Man," the masked man spoke, his voice gentle and calm, "your heart rate has doubled over the last few seconds."
Inky blackness had begun to consume the world around him, but the sharp interjection managed to snap him back into reality. Peter gasped fearfully, digging his fingers into the couch as sweat crawled down his neck. He stared around at the now normal room, blinking rapidly, then slowly settled back into the pillows, fresh pain throbbing through his system. A shaky hand fell across his face. His skin felt hot and feverish.
"I...I'm sorry. D-dammit...it's been...this k-keeps happening. But I don't...I don't know what's—"
Fingers slipped underneath his head and lifted him up a bit, catching him off guard. "Here," the masked man said, and held a cup of water to his lips. Still somewhat disoriented, Peter stared down at it for a second, watching the dark liquid sway and shimmer against the glass. His heart was hammering against his chest, his breaths were quick and raspy. But, after taking a moment longer to regather himself, he took the cup in his shivery fingers and ventured a few small sips. The water was cool and soothing as slipped down his parched throat. When he was satisfied, he reclined back slowly with his eyes closed. He felt absolutely horrible all of a sudden. His whole body was screaming in agony. It was as if reality hadn't truly settled upon him until now.
"Okay. I think that's enough of that," the masked man said as he placed the glass on the table. He dabbed the cloth in the remaining water, wrung it out a bit, then replaced it on Peter's forehead. "I suppose it's fair to say you did your part. So now I'll go."
Swallowing lethargically, Peter pressed the cold towel against his head. "W-what...are you...talking about?"
"Our deal. A question for a question."
He was surprised that he was actually following through on his promise. He hadn't even really answered his question, and Peter assumed there might be more strings attached to the agreement that he'd been too exhausted to catch. This man was the strangest combination of character traits.
"You'll...really answer? Any...question?"
"I don't go back on any indentures I agree to. I'm Catholic."
A tiny smile pulled at Peter's lips. Releasing a fractured breath, he opened his eyes.
"Alright. What's...your name?"
Although he couldn't tell for sure, Peter was pretty certain the man was raising his eyebrows. "That's your question? My name?"
"Yep."
"You're awfully forthright."
"You said...any question."
"I did."
"So answer it."
Smirking slightly, the masked man crossed his arms. "Can I ask why the curiosity?"
"You're a dude in a mask and a ninja costume...who has lie-detector powers. Need I say more?"
"Really? That surprises you? You're a teenager who swings around the city fighting bad guys and scaling walls. I would think you of all people would have other reasons besides blunt interest."
Thinking for a moment with frown, he reached up and touched his forehead, rubbing at the perspiration gathered along his brow. "Well, y-you've already seen my face. You know who I am now. So...this will help level the playing field. Both of us will know each other's identity, so...neither of us will say anything. It's only common hero courtesy."
The man watched him silently, as if pondering something. Then he exhaled quietly and shook his head.
"I haven't seen your face, kid."
"You haven't..." Peter blinked. "W-wait, what?"
He sat up straight with his invisible glare still trained on Peter. His hands rested on his legs, and his lips were drawn into a thin, expressionless line. Again, his head shook back and forth.
"I haven't seen your face."
Peter looked at him confusedly, brow creased just above his nose. "I...I don't understand. You're staring at me right now."
"No. I'm not."
He scratched the side of his head. "Is this...some kind of riddle? Like the thirty white horses on a red hill thing? I still don't get...how that correlates with teeth."
"It's not a riddle. I'm just stating the truth."
Peter huffed irritably. "Oh my freaking—you know what? Whatever. You don't make any damn sense. Would you just...answer my question already?"
The man in black opened his mouth to respond, then all of a sudden froze. His body went rigid as a statue, and his jaw hung open slightly. He jerked his head around in a way that reminded Peter of an animal sensing danger, and Peter sat up a little.
"Um...hello? W-what are you—?"
"Shh," he hissed, rising cautiously to his feet. He stood sturdily with his hands at his sides and angled his ear towards the door. "There's...someone out there. Running up the stairs. Not stopping. Headed this way."
Peter stared at him dazedly. "How...? I don't hear anything."
"Shut up," he whispered harshly. He ran across the room and grabbed a pair of short sticks out of the corner, holding one in each hand. Peter watched him with a mixture of confusion and panic.
"Who's coming? W-what is it?"
The masked man snatched a blanket off a chair and threw it on top of him. "Whoever he is, he's on our floor now. Stay out of sight. I'll handle him."
Peter wrestled from underneath the fabric. "W-what? Is it one of Fisk's men? What the hell is—?"
Pounding footsteps suddenly became audible to his sensitive ears. Peter sucked in his breath as they grew louder and louder. The man in black positioned himself just in front of the couch, ready to attack whoever was coming for them. The air was still with anxious tension.
Then, just as quickly, the masked man's body went lax. "Wait a minute. I recognize that clumsy walking pattern. That lengthy breathing, that thrift store laundry detergent." His hands fell to his sides. "Oh no. Oh crap. K-kid, hurry, you gotta—"
Two knocks sounded, followed by the door swinging open. Peter was startled at first, until the person behind it stepped into the room. He was not at all what he'd been expecting. Their intruder was revealed to be a cheerful-looking man in a soft gray suit with shoulder-length blonde hair and a rather babyish face. On top of that, Peter was surprised to discover that he was singing—well, if the horribly out-of-tune howl wailing from his throat could be considered such. He finished his carol and bumped the door shut with his hip, then cupped a hand around his mouth.
"Hey, Matty, Matty! I know you're here! You and Claire better not be having sex right now, because I'm coming in!"
He took few steps into the apartment, glanced around the living room, then jumped with a start. The familiar outline of a tall, dark figure stood in the dim light, and he sighed slowly.
"Dammit, Matty, don't scare me like that. I'm still trying to get used to the whole 'my blind friend is a super-powered ninja vigilante' situation."
"Foggy, what are you doing here?"
He held up a colorful box delightedly. "Donuts! I brought Claire some to thank her for always helping your dumb ass, since I knew you wouldn't." He tossed the box at the masked man, and he caught it with flustered movements. "Also, you haven't been answering your phone all day, which meant you were either here being fixed up, or here being screwed over. Or both at the same time. Does that ever happen?"
"N-no," he murmured, clearly embarrassed. He placed the donuts on the coffee table. "How do you even know where she lives?"
"We get coffee sometimes to chat and complain about dealing with you. The more prevailing question is, why are you here? You don't look like you've been punching bad people, and you're not in a good enough mood to have been fonduing recently."
What the actual hell is going on? Peter thought as he hid beneath the blanket like a little kid playing hide-and-seek. It didn't seem as though this guy was a threat—in fact, he and mask man sounded like pals. Peter even found himself struggling not to bust out laughing at some of the things he was saying, but that didn't change the fact that he was in no mood to have someone else know his secret. At the moment, it seemed their visitor was distracted, so Peter carefully began to turn beneath the blanket and crawl towards a more formidable hiding spot, wincing as the movement sent pain rippling through his body.
"I had some wounds from this morning that I needed her to look at before heading to work. That's all."
"So you dressed up in your sexy black pajamas just to get her going a bit? Smooth, my friend, very smooth. And by the way, 'work' ended over two hours ago. Karen's the only one up at the office right now. I doubt there'll be any clients salivating at our doorstep any time soon, but you never know. We gotta be there just in case."
The man in black snorted amusedly. "I know. Sorry, Foggy."
"Where is Claire, by the way? Recovering from the Murdock triple play?"
Before he could reply, the doctor walked in as if on cue. She had a weird contraption in her hands, and she marched into the living room without looking up.
"This'll have to do for now, Spider-Man. I'll tweak it a bit after putting it on, but this is probably the best I can—" She lifted her gaze, then froze with her foot out in front of her, glancing between the two men standing in her apartment.
"Hey, there you are," Foggy smiled, then frowned. "Wait, what did you say? Spider-Man?"
Unconsciously, her gaze drifted to the left, where she spotted the injured teen balancing on the armrest with a blanket on top of him. All eyes followed, and Peter found himself beneath yet another unwanted stare. He gasped in surprise and tried to scramble behind the couch, but terrible pain blossomed in his leg as he put pressure on it, and he tumbled off the armrest with a yelp. He hit the floor hard, grunting and tangling himself in the blanket like a fish in a net. His whole body throbbed from the impact, and he sprawled defeatedly across the wood, moaning with his face flat against the ground.
"Holy shhh—" Foggy hissed, leaping about a foot in the air. The young man on the ground whimpered feebly, and Claire sped past the two with the splint in her arms. His wide eyes blinked in disbelief, then shifted back to the masked man. "Is that—is that—?"
His friend cocked his head to the side. "Um...well..."
"What the hell is your problem?" Claire hissed in Peter's ear, wrapping her arms around his chest and carefully dragging him upright. With effort, she hauled him back on the couch, and he lied down with a miserable groan. "Do you just enjoy being in pain or something?"
"N-no. I just...don't want...m-more people...seeing."
"Is that—is that him? Is that actually him?"
"Well, too bad. Your health is more important than your privacy." She glared over her shoulder. "Foggy, why are you here? We're kinda in the middle of something at the moment."
"Claire, is that that dude? That guy off of TV? Holy crap!"
"I found him last night, being hurt by Fisk," the man in black explained. "He's badly injured. We're just trying to help him out a bit."
"Oh my gosh! So that really is him?"
"Yes, Foggy. Quiet down a bit."
"No freaking way! Oh my gosh!"
Scowling from a mixture of pain and irritation, Peter lifted up his finger and twirled it weakly in the air. "You know...I'm right here, guys. You're all being...awfully rude."
The man in the suit laughed loudly and walked up beside the couch. "I'm sorry, I just—wow! Do you know how famous this guy is? I mean—you are?"
Despite how much pain he was in and how pissed he was that his secret identity was basically trashed, Peter couldn't keep himself from chuckling. "Uh...I guess?"
"So—so wait a minute. All this time, you and Matty have been running a secret hero hospital behind my back? How many other super people have you helped?"
"This isn't a regular thing," Claire insisted as she secured the splint to his leg. "This is the first person outside of the hospital that I've helped besides him, and hopefully the last."
"Awesomeness!" the gleeful intruder exclaimed, then held out his hand to a grimacing Peter Parker. "Pleased to actually meet you, famous Spider-Man sir. You're a lot smaller than I thought you'd be, and you look like you've taken a serious ass-kicking. Not in a bad way—I mean, just an observation. Wow, I suck. Just ignore all that. I'm Foggy Nelson."
Peter forced a nervous grin on to his face and gripped his hand limply. "Uh...hi. Foggy. That's an interesting name. Not in a bad way—I mean, just an observation."
Foggy laughed out loud. "Oh man, you're awesome! Way cooler than my failing business partner/superhero bro over there. I mean, you're on the Avengers!" He glanced at the masked man sheepishly. "No offense, Matty. But I mean, come on, the Avengers! Are you guys going to have a super hero team-up battle or something? Have you two been buds for a long time and just haven't told me? Exactly how many of the Avengers have you met? Confess, Murdock!"
"Matty?" Peter repeated, slowly staring up at the man in black. "That's...your name?"
He sighed dejectedly. "Matthew, technically. It's clear I'm still struggling to educate Foggy on how to keep his mouth shut. I hope I can trust you to do a better job than him."
Knowing well the weight of the knowledge he now held along with the trouble of keeping his own friends from revealing his secret, Peter hinted a smile and nodded earnestly. Hm. Matty. Way less intimidating than I anticipated.
"Oh, wait. Crap. I wasn't supposed to say your name, was I? Dammit! My bad. I won't do it anymore, Matty. I promise." He turned to Peter. "And I won't tell anyone that I've seen your face and all, even if it's, you know, the most exciting thing that's ever happened in my entire life."
Spider-Man chuckled quietly. "Thanks." Yup. I'm screwed.
Claire finished pulling all four bands of velcro tightly around his leg and foot, making him cringe a little, then gave his knee a soft pat. "All right. That should hold up for now. This is what you get when you depend on poor unfortunate souls like me instead of going to a real doctor at a real hospital."
Sighing exhaustedly, Peter sunk into the plush cushions. "I don't exactly...have that luxury. I'm lucky you guys found me. That I'm alive after all of that." It still shocked him that his body could endure as much punishment as it had and still function. He was a mess of a person at the moment—nothing more than a bundle of ragged flesh held together by testy stitches. But he was breathing, and that was because of the strangers standing around him. Despite the fact that he was still hopelessly confused about who these people were, he trusted them enough to know they were trying to help him. He licked at his busted lip, then lifted his eyes sleepily. "Thank you. B-both of you. For helping me. Seriously."
Claire and Matthew hinted tiny smiles. For a moment, they reminded him of another pair of individuals that had aided him in the past, but he couldn't pinpoint exactly why. Then Claire laid her hand on his arm. "Okay, enough chatter. We'll leave you with some peace and quiet. Try and rest for a while."
Although he was absolutely drained of energy, Peter shook his head weakly. "No. Not yet. I gotta...get home. My family's waiting for me. I'll rest there." Part of him wanted to stay and learn more about these strange characters, but that would have to wait until later, when he could actually focus on his surroundings and his people weren't worried sick over him. It wasn't like this was the first time he'd gone missing after a fight, but seeing how he'd been thrashed to pieces for the entire city's entertainment by six of the worst supervillains he'd ever faced, this instance more than ever probably prompted greater reason for concern. Plus, he really missed them.
The doctor's smile immediately fell. "Do you honestly think I'm going to let you go in the shape you're in? Uh-uh, mister. I've spent the last six hours struggling to get you as stable as you are now, and I'm not about to let you spoil all my hard work. You need rest and constant medical attention."
"My aunt," he said. "She's...a nurse. She'll watch me. Probably'll...badger me more than you."
"And how exactly do you plan on getting there when you can barely stand on your own?"
Peter grinned sheepishly. "Would it be too much to ask...for a quick ride across town?"
Claire crossed her arms firmly against her chest and huffed angrily. "What is with you people and your insistence on being as difficult as possible? Why can't you just sit still and be normal patients for five minutes?"
"I have a healing factor. I can take a hit. Or...a lot of hits. And I recover a lot quicker than any normal patient. You've helped me more than enough. I'll be fine from here. I just...I really want to be home."
He thought for a second that Claire might grab him by the wrist and inject some more sleepy juice in his body to force him to stay and rest, but thankfully, she only sighed. "You're one stubborn little bastard, aren't you?"
"If that's what he really wants, I can run him over. Having him here for this long has already been a little too risky for my taste. I don't want anyone seeing you with a famous superhero. We can't have any of this tracing back here."
"I won't say anything...about either of you. I promise. Can that be a...round deal?"
Claire shook her head disapprovingly, but the masked man nodded. "Sounds good to me," he agreed. Then Matthew walked up to the couch and wrapped his arm around Spider-Man's back. With effort, Peter slowly sat upright, dragging his legs off the cushions and placing his feet carefully on the floor. Every inch of him was brittle with pain, and he wasn't sure if he'd be able to stand for long without growing faint, but before he could find out, the masked man turned around and scooped him up like a damn baby getting a piggyback ride.
"Uh...I don't think is necessary," he insisted somewhat embarrassedly, trying to push off his shoulder blades. Matthew chuckled.
"Don't be so arrogant. You've got a broken leg and one hell of a concussion on top of a million other problems. Walking is not an option for you right now, but I'll try and be fast for your dignity's sake. Now, where am I heading?"
Peter slumped defeatedly. "W-whatever. Um...Queens. Forest Hills."
"We'll have to stay in the shadows. It'll take longer, but the last thing either of us need is more publicity."
With Peter set comfortably on his back, Matthew began walking towards the door. Foggy, however, caught him by the arm.
"Wait, what? What the hell, guys? You're leaving already? But the party just started! And I have so many questions! And I brought donuts!"
Matty shrugged apologetically. "Sorry, Foggy. I've got to get him out of here before it gets too late. Plus, I think he's had enough excitement for one day. Including noisy fanboy service."
Foggy sulked. "Aw, turd. You two always get to have all the fun with the cool super people, and I'm always the awkward third wheel who shows up right as the party bus is leaving the station." With a sigh, he placed his hand against his forehead and swept it back down in a sad salute. "But if that's how it has to be, so long, Spider-dude-guy. Get well soon, drink some soup, and send my regards to your peeps. Hope you're back to your ol' booty-whooping self soon. Maybe you could stop by another time and make me look really cool in front of all the dicks from Landman and Zack? Oh, and make sure to tell all the Avengers 'hi' for me."
Peter laughed authentically. "I'll see what I can do. Although...I don't think you need me around...to be cool."
Foggy pumped his fist in the air. "Yah see? What'd I tell you guys? Awesomest superhero e-ver! You could learn a thing or two from the pro here, Matty my man."
Rolling her eyes, Claire shouldered a starstruck Foggy aside. "Seriously, Spider-Man, promise me you'll let yourself heal. No matter how well you can take a beating, you're obviously not immortal. You need to take some time to rest, and have someone change your bandages and keep an eye on you at all times. If any urgent complications flare up, which I suspect will since you won't freaking stay still, don't hesitate to come back here. Covertly. "
Peter nodded slowly, although he hadn't heard much of what she'd said. He could feel himself beginning to fade. Matthew snatched a wad of red fabric off a nightstand and held it up in front of his face.
"Here's your mask—or what's left of it." Peter accepted it from him groggily and pulled it over his head. One of the eye pieces was shattered and the fabric was riddled with tears and frays, but it was better than nothing. They made it to the door, and after a quick survey of the of the air temperature, Matthew found the stairwell to be empty.
"Both of you make sure to lie low until I figure this thing out. I don't want either of you popping up on Fisk's radar and ending up like him."
The door shut behind them before either responded. Peter felt he was being a bit rude—running out so fast on these good Samaritans that had saved his life—but he had his own people to worry about. He had to make sure they hadn't somehow gotten caught up in this either. And, if they bothered to show their dumb faces, he had to tell the Avengers what the hell was going on right under all of their noses.
What a strange series of events had befell him over the last week. He tried to run through everything that had happened as he clung to the masked man's back like a monkey, but his mind was blanketed in a weary fog. The rush of cool air and familiar sounds soon materialized around him. They were outside now. Matthew was sprinting and stopping frequently, his breathing level. The world around them was dark and dreary, and it quickly dawned on Peter how utterly exhausted he truly was. Too tired to resist any longer, his worries dissolved away, and he rested his head on the masked man's shoulder and didn't look up for the rest of the trip through Hell's Kitchen.
A knock on the door startled Gwen from where she sat on a chair in the living room. She lifted her chin from her palm and blinked sleepily through the thick darkness. What...the hell? she thought hazily. A weathered woman lied on the couch beside her. She and Aunt May must've dozed off by accident. She rubbed at her eyes before squinting at her phone's brilliant screen. 11:05? Who's knocking on an old lady's door at this hour?
Three knocks rapped against the wood once again. This time, Gwen scrambled to her feet, heart fluttering in her chest. She glanced at a still-sleeping Aunt May, then back at the door, swallowing the lump in her throat. Without thinking, she grabbed a screwdriver out of a drawer in the kitchen and held it behind her back. Stepping cautiously, she walked up to the door, curled her fingers around the handle, then quickly jerked it open.
What she found on the other side just about gave her a heart attack. A tall man dressed in all black with a mask on his face was standing on the porch. He stood back a few paces from the doormat. Gwen gasped in terror and jumped backwards, holding the screwdriver out in front of her chest.
"Ah! W-what? Who are you? What are you doing here?"
The man stared at her silently for a moment, expression cold and flat. A shiver rippled across the young girl's flesh as she gazed up at him fearfully. The small tool quaked in her hand. Then the man reached around his arm and gave the lump on his shoulder a nudge.
"Hey, wake up, we're here," he said gently. A few seconds later, the thing clinging to his back began to stir, lifting its head a little. Gwen realized it was a person. Lowering her weapon a bit, she reached over to the wall and clicked on the hall light.
"What is...?"
The man scooped the person off his back and carefully placed them on the ground. The person tottered on their feet, appearing ill and unsteady. When Gwen recognized the red and blue costume despite it being ripped to shreds and hanging off his body like the flesh of a zombie, she gasped in shock.
"Peter?" she gawked, the screwdriver dropping to the floor. The swaying, broken boy standing in front of her slowly lifted his gaze, then smiled when it fell upon her beautiful face.
"H-hey...Gwen.." he croaked out weakly, voice raw and ragged. He looked worse than she had ever seen him before in her life. He took one step toward her, hands dangling uselessly at his sides, then suddenly tipped forward. Startled, Gwen caught him just before he collapsed to the ground, cradling his limp form in her arms and scouring over his marred flesh in horror.
"W-what...what happened...?"
"I'm sure you saw on the news. All those freaks attacked him. I found him and brought him to a friend who managed to patch him up a bit, but he's still in pretty critical condition. Make him rest, and have his aunt look him over."
Gwen blinked in disbelief, glancing between the two masked men. Balling his fists at his sides, the man in black turned back to the road, and she shook her head.
"W-wait!" she cried. He stood facing away from her, unmoving. Gwen hoisted Peter closer to her body. "Who...who are you? Why'd you do this? How'd you know where to come?"
The man stared aimlessly across the black neighborhood. His voice was demanding, yet somehow still soft. "Tell the kid that whenever he's better, we're going to work together to defeat our common enemy. Tell him that whenever he's ready to take down Fisk, as well as Hydra, I'll be there to fight by his side."
Then, just as quickly as he'd arrived, the masked man took off into the darkness and vanished into the night. Gwen watched him leave with her mouth agape and hair dangling around her face in a frizzy mess. Then her wide eyes dropped back down to the boy she loved, who was lying frailly against her chest. She was at a loss for words, but she obviously didn't have time to dawdle. With a shaky breath, she cleared her frazzled mind and kicked the door shut, then turned back around to the silent apartment.
"Aunt May! Wake up! I need your help!"
Just outside the house, from the drain along the curb, an inky, black mass slithered up on to the street. It moved sluggishly, flinching as a car darted by, yet writhed with fresh excitement as the scent grew stronger. A pair of hollow, white eyes bubbled from the goop and stared up at the small home squatting along the line of apartments. A long tongue flickered out, tasting the cool night's air, then slipped back into the sludgy maw. Instantly, a hideous grin broke across its oily form.
"Peter...Parker..."
The black monstrosity began crawling towards the innocuous home.
I love Daredevil so much. I've watched the show like 5 times and can't WAIT for the 2nd season. Matthew Murdock is so adorable :3 and Foggy. And Claire. And Karen. And Mrs. Cardenas :,( Also, Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D. just started a new season today, although I didn't have time to watch it. Hopefully I can catch a rerun, cuz I love that show too! Crap, so much crap, I can't-I just-crap. Too many priorities. This chapter was a choppy crazy mess. Oh well. I hope ya'll liked my attempts to characterize all those lovely characters. Until next time :D review maybe?