Hail races away from the grey clouds above, meeting their mark they feel like freezing bullets when they hit Peter's suit. There's an actual bullet heading towards him right now, slicing through the air as a knife would butter. Appearing in the form of a prickle of apprehension his spidey sense warns him of it, giving him enough time to flip out of the way before splashing back onto the gravel. Within minutes of sneaking out of the apartment his suit had been drenched, the colour darkened to navy and blood red. The hail is a hallmark of New York winters right along with freezing breezes and angry people, summers might bring forth warmth, but winters bring a blistering hot derived from the anger of New York's citizens.
Spiderman had been on his way back home when he heard the commotion, the reason for the noise became quickly apparent as he leaned over the edge of the rooftop. A man was stood there, in one hand he was waved a gun threateningly in the air, in the other he was clutching the coat of a young woman. Despite his words being slurred and the stench of alcohol he was steady on his feet when he demanded her purse. He didn't seem like the type of guy to use an authentic weapon but Peter was unwilling to take that chance. She hadn't yet had a chance to react when spiderman leapt from the roof. He braced himself against the impact of the kick that made the assailant stumble backwards. Before he had the chance to regain his footing the woman took the opportunity to escape, heels clicking on the ground mark her departure. The moments distraction provided the criminal with ample time adjust his stance and pull the trigger.
Now there's a bullet lodged in the brick wall, cracks spiralling from where it imploded, having sailed through the air where Peter had been standing only seconds earlier. Irritated at the murder attempt Peter flicks his wrist, he can just about hear the click of the web shooter mechanism firing before the criminal is secured to the wall.
''Hey, hey, hey, this is a new suit.'' The guy just shouts obscenities at him from his place on the wall, eyes red around the edges, his scowl turning the lines on his face into deep crevices. Peter's too busy looking at the newly formed hole in the wall, to pay any notice. In his mind's eye he can see what would have happened if the bullet hadn't missed, metal slicing through spandex and skin before ripping through muscle. Turning his insides into a bloody smoothie. Damp gravel crunching under his weigh as blood loss causes him to crumple. He'd never been shot before, and he's not adding it to his bucket list any time soon.
Inserting a new canister into his suit, his finger quick to fire. He hoists himself upwards, as soon as the web is secured onto a nearby lamppost, before sending a second. The rain has let up slightly as he swings through the city, no longer feeling like violent needles sticking into his skin.
Peter can hear him before he can see him, super senses allowing him to detect the suit's inner engines from streets away. Why Ironman is hovering over the city at 11pm on a Tuesday is anyone's guess. Racking his mind for answers Peter theorises that he was after some criminal trading black market Stark tech. This area was halfway to home and a rough area of the city, infamous for its active drug gangs and weapons dealings. Yeah, that made sense.
Still, Spiderman slips into the alley, between two apartment blocks, hoping he'd either fly overhead or spontaneously change direction. He wasn't hiding exactly, just temporarily avoiding. Ironman ignores Peter's inner prayer and continues onward. Just a couple of blocks away now, Peter can hear another accompanying voice.
''Do you have eyes on?'' The question has a tinny quality about it, undetectable to most, making Peter think there must be a radio installed in his suit relaying the words.
Fortunately, he can't recognise the voice, meaning Captain America or Thor are unlikely to drop in on him at any moment. Letting curiosity get the better of him he strains to hear more, hoping in this scenario curiosity doesn't kill the cat- or the spider in this case.
''No, not yet. Police reports confirm he's been in this area recently.''
''Maybe he's already gone.''
Peter's stomach tumbles uncomfortably listening to the conversation unfold. They could be talking about someone else. They probably are. They have no reason to be hunting him. Though with Parker's luck there's a good chance they are.
Still, there's nothing to confirm this until, ''No, the web-slinger might be quick, but he doesn't have super speed.'' Unless his brand image has been stolen and there's another web-slinging hero flinging himself around New York then it's probably him.
Can I sue if there is? Peter wonders.
To be fair, hunting gangs is more of a Daredevil rather than an avenger thing. Ironman is practically on top of him now, a few more metres and he could look down and see him hanging from the wall uselessly. Futilely Peter shuffles down, wondering if it was better to be discovered or reveal himself. ''Hold on. I installed heat detecting sensors last week.''
The flight part of fight or flight should kick in now, but at this moment, it evades Peter. Leaving him frozen as thin metal panels slide into place in Stark's suit. ''See anything?''
Ironman ignores the question in favour of hovering a little closer. So, he can glance directly into the mouth of the alleyway. Without the barriers of cloth and metal, Peter is sure they would be making awkward, uncomfortable eye contact right now.
When the silence continues for a beat too long Peter fills it, ''Err, Hi? I'm a big fan.''
Chapter Management
Chapter 2: Never meet your heroes
Summary:
After being a vigilante for three years Spiderman finally gets to meet his hero, the great Ironman. It doesn't go exactly as go exactly as planned...
Notes:
I've started reading comics in between writing this story. And I've decided to write some comic elements into my fanfic. Its still understandable if you've not read the marvel civil war comics. I'll add little notes explaining things if I have to.
I've decided to change the Sokovia Accords into the Superhuman registration act. (So, I'm probably going to change the name at some point.) Its basically the same thing. Superhumans now have to register with the goverment.
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
''I've got eyes on him, Barton.''
Peter racks his mind but comes up empty, he's got absolutely no idea who Barton is. Fear uncoils inside his stomach, facing an unknown more daunting than the thought the Hulk might be skulking around the corner. The silence deafens as they size each other up, neither willing to give away their hand.
Ironman breaks first. His helmet retracts back into his suit, and even in these circumstances Peter can't help but gawp at the display. The line between magic and science seems blurred at first glance these days, he is living proof of that.
Peter's mask stays on but it's clear Stark knew that would be the case. With the metal barrier gone, Peter can get a better look at the older man. Streaks of grey run through the brown waves of his hair and the lines in his face seem deeper since he was last on TV, albeit most of his recent TV appearances are videos of him saving the world in his suit. Or sitting on the plump couch of a presenter's studio, on the type of shows where they can edit away the effects of stress with a few clicks. Privately Peter wonders at the cause, was it the Avengers or the deterioration of his marriage?
''So you coming up or?''
Trying to save face Spiderman scales back up the brick to stand on the edge, face to face with Ironman. ''You're looking for me?'' He'd lost his resolve mid-way through the sentence, turning the statement into a question, one that Stark doesn't bother to answer.
''You heard about the Superhuman Registration Act, right?''
Peter swallowed ''I heard about it.''
''Good, good. So I assume you're planning on making a pitstop to the tower tonight. Make sure you're registered since you clearly plan on keeping going with the whole 'Spidey' thing.''
Peter's stomach sinks to his feet, he'd heard of the Accords of course. For the first couple of weeks they had come into play he didn't go on patrol. It was only when he realised the government were only hunting heroes like Captain America and the Hulk did he risk going out. Evidently, they had moved onto smaller fish now. Still hoping there was a way to weasel himself out of this crisis Peter opens his mouth, ''You know I'd love to. I really would but it's a work night and I should really be getting back home.''
''Look you've just got to return to the tower with us. And you'll be right back down here in no time.'' With no opportunity to talk his way out presenting itself, Peter moves on to plan B. Running. Glancing behind, Peter shuffles backwards. Ironman hones in on the movement, the second it happens, ''Hey Webs you really don't want to do that.''
Ignoring him Peter takes a final step back, the air is frosty as he cuts through it before sending out his first web.
The chase begins.
...
His muscles scream out as he swings around another corner, with his feet skimming the opposing wall. His spidey sense only gives him a moment's notice of the next danger. Ricocheting off the next wall, a sonic blast grazes his side, sending him spinning in circles before catching himself on an old fire escape, the mental groaning under his weight. Despite its fiery appearance, the blast feels more like a punch to the gut rather than a burn, leaving him gasping for breath as he stumbles to his feet.
Leaping off the railing the next web he sends out is a moment too late, his stomach drops as he plummets down. Time slows, he lives every inch of descent as the concrete races toward him. Yanking hard on the white rope, he skims the floor before ascending once more, heart jumping as he hears a familiar voice behind him. An X-ray isn't necessary for him to realize he's damaged his arm, the pain lacing through it tells him all he needs to know.
Blasts of energy fire at spontaneous intervals, throughout the chase. Peter narrowly avoids each one, behind him brick walls crack before fragments crumble to the ground. Making his way through a myriad of alleyways and quiet streets Ironman's voice muffles till it's a hum in his ear, like the quiet buzz of an insect flying past. The pain intensifies each time Peter raises his arm, white spots dancing across his vision.
After a couple of minutes without hearing anything, other than the hum of cars and neighbourhood drunks, Peter decides he's finally lost them. The next alleyway he ducks into is narrow, the width only a few metres apart. Ahead of him, there's a dead end, to anyone else this would be the end of the road, but not to him. Narrowly avoiding collision with the wall, he swings to the ground, the gravel crunching below his feet. Scaling the brickwork like an arachnid, he's a stone's throw from the top when it happens.
A quiet whistling sneaks up on him, the type you get when a fierce breeze creeps through the door, the ghoulish sound making your hair stand on edge. Apparently, an arrow gliding past makes a similar sound too. He didn't detect the danger until the tip of it meets the wall and the world bursts into flames.
Black clouds swirling around are the only thing Peter can see when he comes back into the world, bursts of colour tainting the darkness. His body feels like it's floating, yet he can still feel the cold seeping in from below and gravel embedding itself in his back. Without looking he can tell the flames had licked him, the area around his collarbone throbbing. His eyelids feel heavy when he forces them open, the way his vision swims in and out of focus makes him want to close them again and let the world fade out of existence.
When a black silhouette melts into his sight, he flinches back. ''I've got him Stark.''
Reality hits him like a steam train when he hears that name, the past half hour rushing back. He was being hunted. He was being hunted by Ironman of all the people in the world. Squinting at the figure before him, the world loses its blur and the face becomes familiar. ``````````````````````
''Hawkeye?''
The archer ignores him, with one hand pressed to his ear Peter assumes he's talking over a radio but can't find the concentration to listen in. Hawkeye had never been at the forefront of the media's obsession, at least compared to the war heroes and Gods in his team. Therefore, when the Sokovia Accords were introduced and passed Hawkeye hadn't been on the front of any papers. In fact, Peter couldn't remember the last time he'd seen the man grace the TV screen. Clearly, he'd chosen Stark's side of the Avenger's Civil War.
The obnoxious whirling of Stark's suit marks his unwelcome arrival. The suit clanging onto the ground makes Peter wince, the sound ricocheting around his skull. There's been a violent pounding in his head since he regained consciousness, probably due to being blasted across an alley. Though Peter's a vigilante, not a doctor.
Stark's looking at Peter critically, the metal mask retreating into the suit, ''This feels like it was a little excessive,'' gesturing in Peter's direction.
''He wouldn't slow down.'' Hawkeye's tone is conversational, nothing bordering on apologetic in his words. Peter's lead limbs don't want to cooperate when he tries to scramble to his feet, he ends up resting back on his one good arm, having not moved more than a few inches, with sweat dripping down his neck despite the fact his body is being racked with shivers.
Bending down Hawkeye grips Peter's arms, careful to avoid where the flame had damaged the suit, and heaves him back onto his feet, clipping handcuffs on him before he could even think about swinging away. When they start walking towards the mouth of the alley Peter knows it's his last chance to break free of the situation but with his body still trembling from the ground's impact and panic settling in his chest he starts to talk instead, ''So you're going to let me go? After we get to the tower, right?'' His mind is already swirling with a half-baked idea involving lying about his identity and somehow avoiding being found out.
''Oh no. You see that deal was only for the well-behaved heroes. The ones who don't attack other people with webs and resist arrest.'' With those words, Stark ignites a slight feeling of hysteria in Peter's chest. Ironman's mask re-emerges, clearly signalling the conversation was over.
Seeing an overflowing dumpster sitting just before they reach the street another idea pings into his head. Hawkeye's grip was still tight, enough that it was surely embedding bruises but still Hawkeye was only human. Peter thinks so at least. When Ironman passes the dumpster, Hawkeye and Peter closely flanking behind, he makes his move. Suddenly digging his heels into the ground, he flings his head back. When he hears a resounding crunch he knows he's hit his target. Still, Hawkeye keeps his vice-like grip on his shoulders, refraining from trying to stop the warm blood spurting from his nose, truly a professional.
Peter spins around, knocking Hawkeye off-balanced, before sending him reeling backwards with a well-aimed kick to the stomach. It almost felt too easy, one second Hawkeye had him in his grasp, the next he didn't. An energy blast rockets overhead and Peter is reminded it's not over yet. ''Hold it there.'' Stark's stood there, poised with one arm out ready to attack. The line of his mouth tilted down in a grim smile. Peter freezes, leaving them locked in a static game of chicken.
When the next flash comes Peter's already leapt into the air, leaving it to brush past before hitting the wall beside Hawkeye. Landing on the ball of his feet, Peter twists his arms in opposite directions, ignoring the way the metal bites into his flesh, until the clink of metal snapping can be heard. Wasting no time Peter sprints at Ironman, diving under his arm whilst simultaneously rotating around and webbing him to the ground.
Hawkeye has stumbled back onto his feet, his dark vest stained crimson but Spiderman is already scuttling up the wall, tears welling up from the pain. Both avengers are still incapacitated when he looks down from above. With his chest heaving he sets off across the roofs, his destination clear in his mind's eye. He's half expecting Thor to drop down from above, to hammer him into the ground like a newspaper would a spider.
Notes:
Hi people hope you enjoyed the chapter. xx
Chapter Management Edit Chapter
Chapter 3: Rogue Marauders
Notes:
Ok they won't be a big part of it but I thought I'd write in a new mutant superhero team into it so get ready to meet telepath Candace and the Rogue Marauders.
Also I've been reading the civil war comics and I'm going to change the Sokovia Accords to the Superhuman Registration Act (same thing, but a different name).
Last thing I switch scenes a couple of time in this chapter. I think it's ok but let me know if it's a little disjointed/confusing.
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
The images are grainy, but the costumes are obnoxious enough to recognise purely by a few flashes of vivid colour and glimpses of logos. Red and blue swipe across the screen, pulled along by pale webs. Spiderman ricochets from wall to wall, the reason for his haste becomes apparent as it flies right behind him, gold and red suit glinting in the distance. The video had been swiped off a deli's CCTV cameras and posted online. It only lasts thirty or so seconds. What exactly happened in the end the public doesn't yet know.
The video plays on phone hovering above a young women's chest, an orange hue emitting from it. A spiralling crack separates the screen, and the cover's packed with cards, each one for a different alias. She's lazed on an old sofa, avoiding the bare springs that have erupted from the stuffing, with one foot skimming the shabby red carpet. A mesh of mismatch furniture and mismatch mutants fill the safe house. The Rogue Marauders built the house shortly after their beginning, a bolt hole for any members attempting to bring mutants to safety. With the passing of the Mutant Registration Act hanging over their head it's a welcome refuge. Right now, there seven children in the house waiting to be taken to a better future.
With the video's release there comes an inevitable end to the secret. The feral cat has been yanked from the metaphorical bag. When the Superhero Registration Act was passed, the superhero world was divided down the middle, teams like the avengers ripped apart. Now the government is finally hunting down the unregistered, neighbourhood heroes. It made sense for the first victim to be Spiderman. He was the archetype of what a hero should be. Hunting him sent a message to every other cape, 'fall in line or suffer the consequences.'
Red light fills the gap beneath the door, spilling into her room in the process. ''Dinners ready, Candace.'' The glow fades only to flash again, signalling the speaker's departure. Antony had come to her room, he was a child teleporter, appearing suddenly and leaving those around him with blue spots dancing in front of their eyes. Eyes still glued to the grainy footage Candace doesn't see the figure at the window as she gets up. He's wearing all black, night vision googles over his eyes and a radio strapped to his vest. Shield's logo stitched proudly onto his arm.
Miles away the same video plays on a sleek iPhone, it's paused just at the moment before Spiderman creeps out of the shot. Stark had been the one to revamp the images, zooming in and reconstructing each piece of it until the obscure image turned sharp. If he was interested, he could zoom in and see each microfibre of his red and blue suit. But Stark's too engrossed in the small metal mechanism strapped to his wrist, a web shooter. Before this the general consensus was that he produced the webs himself, now they know that's not the case and Clint owes him fifty.
Speaking of Clint, he's waiting by the lift to the top floor on the helicarrier , back leaning against the banal wall; sunglasses on in an attempt to cover the bruises blooming next to his eye. His posture's stiff probably as a result of being kicked across an alleyway. Stark can only imagine he's a kaleidoscopic of purple and blue under his vest. Flashing his phone at Clint, Starks says, ''You've heard about the video, right? The one I emailed you.'' He doesn't wait for his answer, pressing the lift's button, the words continue to flow, ''It's got half a million views already. There's no taking that back. The press is going to have a field day.'' A small ding signals the lift's return, walking in Hawkeye finally replies, ''Hill showed me. I don't check my email.''
''Course you don't.''
''Has the Mutant Registration Act been passed.''
''Just this morning. The press were meant to be releasing the news today, but this has grabbed their attention instead. I've got an interview with Sally Floyd tonight.''
The lift doors opens onto a empty hallway. There's no windows to break up the monotony of grey steel panels lining the walls. The floor is made of similar material, only the Sheild emblem is stamped across it. Straight ahead of them black double doors sit, the nametag just visible at that distance: Director Hill.
They came through the bedroom windows first. Shards of glass are sprinkled across the carpet as they swing in on ropes, like special force agents in an action movie. Making their way downstairs they pick off the mutants one by one, moving in sync. The guns shoot blue tranquilizers, a recent invention of Sheild Technology, rather than real bullets. So, the soldiers are planning on taking them to either prison 42 or the raft. Both outcomes feel worse than death.
Candace ran to the stairway when she heard glass shattering, glancing up the barrel of a gun greets her. In the possession of an agent, his face contorted into an animalistic snarl, he's got a white knuckled grip on the machine when he jabs it toward her, the unspoken threat clear. With the weapon aimed at her chest, Candace uses her power.
Creeping into someone's mind is as difficult as it is rewarding, especially when the individual isn't looking for a mental visitor. Really, it's like opening up a stubborn jar of jam, only banging their heads against a counter top doesn't have the same success rate. It's a delicate process. Whenever she can get inside, the brain always feels overflowing, humming with electric. In her mind Candace pictures a computer stuffed with different coloured wires, each ensuring a process is carried out; breathing, talking, pointing a gun.
Sometimes she imagines what she could do with practise. Pull on the metaphorical wire that regulates breathing and watch how they crumble before her. Maybe it's an overactive imagination but she could swear the cross around her neck burns in the rare times she has those thoughts. And even if she wanted to, she was no Professor X. Instead, she yanks an orange one, the soldier's hands go slack, the gun dropping. Concentrating again, sweat begins to gather at Candace's temple, the gun moves around the butt of it now facing her. The man drops when she fires, blue veins visible in his face, the tranquilizer taking immediate effect.
His anonymity was secured with the visor covering his eyes, flicking her wrist Candace rips it off. Diving into his head once more, she routes around for his most recent memories, trying the find their plan of action. Instead, the imagery of grey men in grey suits, sat a grey long table, greets her. She sees the moment from the side, like a guard on watch. Papers are pushed around the table, from the high angle she can see the words boldly printed, the typeface understated and as bleak as its meaning. The Mutant Registration Act.
When they sign the papers, she tries to rush forward, only to find herself frozen in place, stranded in a foreign body, seeing the world from a stranger's eyes. She's not recalling the memories, she's living them. She can feel everything from the chill in the room's air to the hollowness in the man's chest, an empty cavern where emotion should live.
The visions rush toward her, the movements within them become frantic, like a tape on rewind. Somehow she knows this memory is in the past, though old memories usually feel stale and hazy this is as clear as glass. But there's something artificial about it.
In the background an instinctual piece of her brain tells her to let go, reminding her physically she's in a house of intruders. But the memories dig their claws in when she tries to break free, she's trapped in his mind. A white room appears next, like all colour has bled from it. Men stand at attention within in, their uniforms dark and pristine.
She sees this room from a stage before them. And when she focuses on their faces she can tell these are not normal men. They have the same sloping noses, olive skin tone, their ebony hair is cut to the scalp, each one was clean shaven. Finally, the same eyes watch her, unnatural, pure white eyes. The men were frightenliy the same. Clones is the only word that comes to mind when she sees them.
Then their connection is cut. In the physical world a blue dart strikes between her shoulder blades. Behind her stands a man, his sloping nose and olive complexion lost behind black fabric. He made his move in a critical moment. Had Candace had the chance to glance behind her in the last vision she would have seen the great genius himself observing his creation, Tony Stark. A man determined to win the war. At any cost.
Dear Sir/Madame,
Operational Black Bird commenced at 03:00 AM ( time) on June 24th. Following the asignment's directions, Shadow Unit 06 breached the north side of the building at exactly 03:07 AM.
After the breach nine to eleven suspects were spotted fleeing the scene. Five enhanced individuals have been apprehended by our agents using minimal combative force, the group including four enhanced minors. (Further profile information is attached.)
In accordance with the Sokovia Accords, paragraph nine, the adult enhanced ( :73928) has been transferred from the regional shield holding facility to the Project Control building where they are currently waiting for evaluation before they stand trial. The minors have been transferred to New York's Government Sanctuary, as stated in the Mutant Registration Act, where they are awaiting assessment. Currently, the received intel indicates there were minor injuries and no fatalities obtained during the process.
Furthermore, as of this email being sent, there have been no official sightings of the known resistance members, their whereabouts remain unknown. Though unconfirmed sightings have been reported from Brooklyn.
Sincerely,
Agent Ward
Notes:
You know that feeling when you wrote another chapter of your Spiderman fanfiction but then you realise you forgot to put Spiderman in it...
Comments are always greatly appreciated xx
Chapter Management Edit Chapter
Chapter 4: Injuries
Summary:
Peter deals with his injuries after his run in with the Avengers.
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
The first rays of sunlight reach the city, turning the sky a kaleidoscope of colours, a soft pink that merges into a warm orange, pushing away the deep blue that the night brought. Overhead pigeons are beginning to emerge, screeching black specks in the blue sky. From their vantage point, the city is a labyrinth beneath them, a wild urban maze of brick apartments, shiny skyscrapers, and shops. Streets and alleyways separate them.
Amongst it, there's a small alley, a rusting fire escape nailed to one wall, and a stark bloody handprint stamped across the highest window, crimson contrasting against white. Peter had crawled through the window in the earliest hours of the morning, face wet from pained tears. Wincing as he crumples onto the wooden floorboards, half expecting the familiar sound of May racing to his door. Two months ago, she'd discovered his suit hanging in the wardrobe. After three years you would think I'd have found a better spot to hide it. Both of them were yet to settle into a life where his secret was out.
Lead legs manage to get him across his room, to where a red box pokes out from under his bed. His fingers tremble when he grips the handle, yanking it out into the open and ripping its lid off in a swift movement. There's a couple of greying bandages, his old glasses, one lens chipped, and little packets of various tablets. The content of the box was more for bruises and scrapes than serious injuries but it would have to do. At least he's never had to dig out a bullet. Knock on wood.
His medical knowledge was at best limited, which wasn't ideal for a vigilante like him. Most of the things he's picked up came from car crash shows involving road accidents and ten-minute YouTube clips. Fortunately, he was blessed with a sped-up healing factor. It's not as effective as impenetrable skin, cough cough Luke Cage, but he makes it work. Digging through the supplies he finds a couple of scrap pieces of paper buried beneath, smudged sketches of suit ideas. For a while he had been debating adding extra robotic legs to the suit, even got to designing the schematics before he remembered he was a broke high school student.
Eventually, he finds some burn cream, the off the shelf type from the local shop but anything was better than nothing. As he found it the smell of burnt latex had begun to clog his synesis, the stench made worse with his heightened senses. Clearly, some of the suit had begun to melt away during the conflict, leaving his skin visible and vulnerable. Salt pricks at his eyes once more as he wriggles out of what remains of it cursing his idea to make it from skin-tight latex. When his hand brushes against the burn he can't hold back the pained cry that echoes around his room. Aunt May can't be heard so it was safe to assume she'd picked up some more late shifts. Just as well as the situation was bound to get worse before it could get better.
Finally, with the suit peeled off laying in a blue and red heap on the floor he can assess his injuries. Spinning around quickly, he tries to look over his appearance in one go, like how a band aide is ripped off. Instead, he reels back at his reflection. Whilst his chest is a mirage of purples and his left cheek prods out of his face, smushing his left eye in the process, it's the burns that turn his stomach. Blisters already formed at the sharp edge of his collar, red and angry. They're painful to see, agonizing to touch.
Stumbling over to the bathroom he manages to shuffle out of the rest of his clothes without incident. Dizziness grips him for a moment as he steps into the bathtub, one outstretched hand fumbling for the tap. He stumbles backwards when the first blast hits it, scorching his white skin a light pink and sending dark spots across his vision as it grazes his burns. He scrambles to twist the tap the other way, sighing when the waves of pain turn to relief.
He doesn't bother with soap or shampoo, simply allowing plain water to strip away the filth and pain. Both arms braced against chipped tiling, his knuckles turn white as his hands form tight fists. Casting his eyes down, the water disappearing down the drain is tinged brown. His muscles begin to tremble under the frigid water but he stays until his burnt skin turns numb. Only then does he stumble out, feet skating across the wet flooring, droplets cascading down his back, leaving goosebumps in their wake.
Having wrapped a towel around his waist, he squeezes a dollop of burn cream on his finger, massaging it into his reddened skin before he can hesitate, hissing as it makes contact. Leaving his phone perched on the sink he limps back into his room, bandages tucked under one arm. Still damp he collapses on his bed, wincing as something sharp prods his bruised ribs. Digging under the cover he yanks out the remote, clicking the on button in the process. Shielding his eyes from the onslaught of light, he spares a fleeting glance at the TV.
Blips of movement and dashes of colour flash across the small screen, vivid through the dust. As the imagery comes together Peter's brain sluggishly catches up. There's a man on the screen, his vast form squeezed behind a small desk. Rounded glasses perching halfway down a pig-like nose, they bounce up and down as each spittle-saturated word fires out of his mouth. Opposite him sits another man, goatee and hair cleanly cut, he's grinning but in a way that says he's uncomfortable with the company and trying to hide it. The other man is Tony Stark, decked out in a charcoal suit and tie rather than in red and gold.
Comparing the polished version against the ragged man he'd seen a few hours earlier, Peter misses the words they're saying. Fortunately, there's a banner below them, the words written boldly.
BREAKING NEWS- SHIELD INTERVIEWS KEY EYEWITNESSES IN THE HUNT FOR ILLEGAL VIGILANTE SPIDERMAN.
Notes:
Hi people sorry for the wait. Kudos and comments are always greatly appreciated. xx
Chapter Management Edit Chapter
Chapter 5: Deadpool (that's right I'm here readers)
Notes:
It's 2am chapter notes can be tomorrow's thing. Just enjoy the chaos.
9AM update : hope you enjoy. I was excited to write this one. X
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
The bruising has faded to a murky yellow when he wakes up the next morning. The burns are still raw but white spots don't dance across his vision when he moves his arm anymore. Small mercies. Fortunately, he's not due in work for a couple of days, his co-workers are surely bored of hearing about him tumbling downstairs and running into open cupboard doors.
A full week passes before he patrols next, partially because he was waiting for his injuries to heal and partially because calls for Spiderman's arrest hadn't quietened yet. It's a strange feeling being public enemy number one again, it had been a couple of years. Swinging through New York's streets even though his spidey sense stays quiet, he's still half expecting Ms Marvel or Ironman to be hiding around each corner he turns.
But the night stays calm. Or at least it does until a bullet wizzes past, flying so close that Peter's not sure if it was meant to kill him or get his undivided attention. It worked if it was meant to do the latter. Spinning around, he sees a figure clad in red and black leather jump down to the street. A resounding crunch makes Peter wince as the other man lands like a bag of potatoes. He nearly loses his lunch when the figure stands up, one blood sodden bone poking out. It's made worse when the man pauses it shove it back in place, before finally speaking, ''My name is Wade Wilson aka Deadpool aka The Merc with a mouth aka This Guy's worst nightmare.''
''Can I help you with something Mr Wilson'' Peter knows the name Deadpool well despite, never previously having met him. He was a gun for hire, a certifiable lunatic, and a long time thorn in the side of the X-men. If the rumours about him prove to be true, Spiderman is in serious trouble.
''Weird... How does he know my name? Word must be getting around about me.''
''You're talking out loud.''
''I am?''
''Errr yes.''
''Sorry I was meant to be breaking the fourth wall. I'll have to get that looked at.'' He looks genuinely puzzled, at least as far as Peter can tell behind the red leather mask. ''Anyhow, now the Superhuman Registration Act has been passed all heroes, vigilantes and generally any guy who can glow or shoot lasers out of their nipples needs to sign up with the ol' United States Government or people like me are going to bring them to justice. That's right readers I'm now working for the man. Or at least I will be as soon as I bring in this renegade.''
Without further ado he strikes. One hand rises to grab a blade before he slashes down, right as Peter makes his own move. Dropping to one knee he rolls forward, his shoulder digging painfully into the gravel before he leaps to his feet again. The metal continues streamlining through the air in a perfect arch, cutting through the air where Peter's head had been thirty seconds earlier. ''They told me you had good reflexes, which is just great. I like a challenge.''
His Spidey sense is blaring like a car alarm, loud and obnoxious as he stares at the man in front of him, half aware of the warmth sluggishly running down the side of his face. Numbly he reaches up, feeling where his mask has been ripped by his ear, his fingers come away crimson.
''Alright, you're a white male, around five foot seven. Is that a bit of brunette hair I see.'' He's lowered his blade as he rattles on and Peter suddenly feel like he's a mouse being played with by a cat. It's a distressing thought that blocks out the realisation that a stone cold killer knows more about Spiderman's identity in two minutes than all of New York has learnt in three years. ''I'll have to put all of that into the system when I bring you in.'' Whilst no one is trying to lob his head off Peter takes a moment to look over the weapon, still poised between them but having been lowered till it skims the floor. Shining dimly in the night it looks like something out of a movie, his stomach sinks when he notices his blood coating the tip. ''Can I ask how old are you?''
That question snaps him out of his panicked haze. ''None of your goddamn business.''
''Have you not been listening this entire time, Spideyboy? This is my business. In fact, it's my entire job. I guess it doesn't matter. I'll find out who you are as soon as I unmask you. ''
''Unmask me? You- You just tried to kill me.''
''Technically all I really did was nick your ear. But lethal force is allowed so long as the men in black suits or the media never find out.'' Once again Deadpool swings, moving as Peter ducks out of range. Only this time there's no let-up, the blade swings up and down like Deadpool's dicing onions. Peter winces as he lands on his feet and left arm, suddenly remembering the pulled muscle not yet fixed from his fight with Ironman. He's forced to move again before he can dwell on it.
Since Deadpool has abandoned conversation, the only sounds are the whistle of swords swinging through the air half drowned out by the hum of faraway traffic and Peter's own ragged breathing. Each move he makes is a resulting mixture of fast reflexes and his spidey sense, with no time for strategic planning. Automatically he throws out a web, once there's a metres width between him and his assailant, when he feels it connect to the nearby lamp post he yanks hard.
As his feet lift off the ground, Peter can see a flash of red out of the corner of his eye. Before two small knives skim past, the first hacks into his hip, tearing into soft tissue. Whilst the other flies past, slicing through the web like a knife through butter.
The remaining web drifts to the ground. Peter falls too, but his landing is less delicate as he tumbles out of the air. Bracing for impact, he can feel his lip burst as he hits the floor, leaving a metallic taste in his mouth. A shadow is cast over him as he struggles to get air back into his bruised lungs. Groaning he looks up, only to see a red mask and white eyes staring back. 'Well that was extremely embarrassing. For you I mean, not me.''
''Wait if you wanted it bring me in shouldn't I be given a chance to surrender.''
''Oh shit. I totally forgot that part. Ok Spiderman do you take the US Government as your lawfully wedded. Wait. Sorry wrong lines. I'm getting married this weekend you see. Spiderman I'm placing you under arrest for breaching The Superhuman Registration Act. You have the right to remain silent. Everything you say... Yada yada.you get the gist. I'm going to need you to stand up with your arms out. Do you accept this arrest?''
''Yeah.'' Peter breaths out as he gingerly rises to his feet, one arm is held out whilst the other is clamped tightly on his thigh, blood leaking through his fingers.
''Wow that was easy. And I'm going to allow you to do that, just because I can imagine the bounty is higher when the captive hasn't bled out.'' Deadpool's tone has turned conversational, almost cheerful, like he's discussing a bout of sunny weather. When he reaches behind him Peter flinches, expecting a knife to be jutting out of his ribs any second. Catching sight of that Deadpool raises his arms placatingly ''Just reaching into my fanny pack. No need to be so jumpy.'' Only then does Peter notice he does indeed have a fanny pack, tied around his waist. Digging through it he turns his back, away from Peter. Anticipation grips his muscles as Peter lowers his good arm, blindly feeling for the web shooters on his other wrist. Finding them, he pushes a fresh web canister into place, wincing at the clinking sound it makes.
His arms are back in place by the time, Deadpool turns around again clutching a pair of high-tech cuffs. ''Wait you said there's a bounty for me?''
''Yep. Stark has personally offered money to whoever can bring you in. And let me tell you it's a lot. I mean you fought off two avengers. You're going to make me a very happy man tonight. That sounded a little weird. Especially whilst I'm holding the cuffs...''
Bracing his feet apart he watches each step the mercenary takes, ''What are they planning on doing to me exactly?''
''Minister Fantastic himself has cooked up a prison for guys like you. It's in the negative zone, which is by the way the shittiest place you can go. Don't tell anyone I told you though. They're still being very hush hush about it. I guess the writer wanted the readers to be shocked by the reveal or something.''
Deadpool is nearly in place, he's so close that Peter doesn't even bother to pay attention to whatever non-sense he's saying when he replies, ''Writer?''
''You wouldn't understand.''
''I guess I wouldn't.'' Without warning he launches himself toward the other man, leaping into the air and twisting. He bends as his feet meet the chest plate of Deadpool's suit. With everything he has he pushes, his leg screaming as the muscles under the open wound strain. He flips himself into a graceful crouch whilst Deadpool lurches backward, sprawling out onto the road. In the background he can hear Deadpool swearing to himself.
With no hesitation Peter starts to scale up the nearest wall to escape, déjà vu hitting him as he realises this was the second time in a week he'd run with his tail between his legs. A sigh of relief escapes when he reaches the rooftop without anymore blades or bullets flying. Flicking the button on his wrist, he cries out as the polyester hits the wound. It's not what a doctor who wanted to keep their licence would suggest but at least he wouldn't be trailing blood, for a murderous Gretal.
He sets off into a sprint, once the wounds fully covered in the makeshift bandage. Leaping off the roof into the next alley, ice cold air whips past his face as he swings. He keeps it up for three blocks, swinging roof to roof. Eventually, he stops, crumpling down beside a grimy chimney. His chest heaves with each breath, blood and adrenaline coursing through his body as his heart threatens to beat out of his chest.
There's bitter metallic tang lingering in his mouth but the blood dripping from his ear finally stopped. Resting his head against the wall, his eyes drop closed.
''Suprise.'' Before he can move Peter's head is smacked back into the wall, his vision fades to black before a hand roughly slaps him back to full consciousness. ''Did you really think I'd just let you get away like that. '' Scrunching up the back of his mask, Deadpool yanks his head up. ''At the start this wasn't anything personal. Just business. Now it's personal.'' As he talks blood saturated fingers dip below his chin, and struggle to grasp at the edge of Peter's mask.
Faintly Peter thinks he hears a clang in the distance. But Deadpool pulling his mask above his chin distracts him. Frantically, he manages to get one arm up, scratching at the offending hand but it's quickly subdued, before being crushed to the floor by Deadpool's boot, his web shooters contort before they pierce his skin. The world around him spins, the mercenary's hold the only thing keeping him upright. Cold air rushes into his lungs as the mask is pulled above his nose. Deadpool suddenly pauses like he's waiting to give a big reveal, ''Finally, the world gets to meet Spiderman.''
Notes:
*suspenseful music*
Comments and kudos are always appreciated. Xx
Chapter Management Edit Chapter
Chapter 6: Still Deadpool
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
Blood pools on his tongue, flowing from a cut in his mouth. Peter thinks his teeth had impaled the inside skin of his cheek when his skull was bounced off the chimney by Deadpool. Peter can only struggle as he's manipulated by the mercenary, held aloft only by the harsh grip on his head. His struggle intensifies as his mask is grappled with. But he's quickly subdued, his hand pinned painfully to the ground by a heavy boot, rendering him completely immobile.
As his mask is dragged up inch by inch, he hears a resounding clang in the background. Deadpool doesn't react, probably just a stray cat. It's hard to confirm the source of any noises with one ear clogged with blood. Speaking of blood there's some dribbling down his chin, escaping now the mask is over his chin. Peter thinks he can hear it splash against the gravel, but his senses are haywire. Bouts of loud sound assault him before disappearing. Then noises are faded like he's being held underwater, it's hard to tell which direction they're coming from.
From his left another clang rings out, this time loud enough that Deadpool must have heard it. It's probably a partner in crime of his. Someone else privy to Peter's untimely exposure. With another tug his face is half revealed, the mercenary leans toward Peter's ear, ''Finally, the world gets to meet Spiderman.''
Peter re-evaluates his idea Deadpool might have a partner when the mercenary is ripped away from him by a figure in red. As both figures tumble away in a blur of crimson, Peter crumbles to the ground the force keeping him up gone.
Wrenching his eyes open he watches them move across the ground, the edges of their red suits melting into the dark sky. After grappling and tumbling for a few too many moments Spiderman's apparent saviour gains the upper hand. No, not a saviour. Just someone who happens to hate Deadpool even more than Peter did. The enemy of my enemy is my friend might sound good in movies but that doesn't make it true.
As a leg pins Deadpool to the ground, the newcomer's arms take turns thundering down on his mask. Anyone one of those hits enough to have Peter unconscious. Even as punches rain down Deadpool keeps talking, garbling nonsense coming as naturally to him as breathing comes to the rest of society, ''Look, clearly this new friendship of ours isn't off to a great start.'' The next words are cut off by a particularly nasty right hook across his jaw. The movement is punctuated by sound, a mix between an egg cracking and a vase shattering. When Deadpool comes back into Peter's eyeline his jaw hangs down in an unnatural angle.
The favour is returned when his arm pulls back brushing across the ground, Peter doesn't have the chance to shout out a warning, before it's back, a jagged piece of brick in hand. It's cracked off the assailant's face, sending him sprawling back into the glow of a nearby street light, a pair of horns becoming visible. Daredevil.
He was a hero that Peter had heard about, known for leaving gun runners and gangs beaten within an inch of their lives. He'd been invited to join the Avengers a few times but he was even more of a loner than Spiderman was. Or at least that's what the Human Torch had told Peter on one of their occasional team-ups. Like many heroes he also had a rigid anti-murder agenda. So Peter would have at least survived the night had Daredevil been the one taking him to S.H.I.E.L.D., even if he ended up a little maimed.
Not that it mattered now with Daredevil sprawled out and Deadpool rising to his feet, his jaw having been cracked back into place. ''I really didn't have time for this you know. Straight after this I'm meant to be apprehending some girl who dresses up as a squirrel.'' He advances slowly, assured the threat has been subdued. He stretches as he walks, like someone who's awoken from a mid-day nap, rolling his shoulder back and twisting his arms, Peter can hear muscles stitching themselves back together and bones clicking into place. ''We could have all worked together you know. We could have been Team Red.''
''Not sure Daredevil would have gone for that.''
''Trust me. He'll be begging to join after an hour in Prison 42. Well, the night has worked out for me. I've got two heroes for the price of one.''
His gloating stops as suddenly as it began. The picture in front of him comes to Peter in shattered fragments. The gleaming red spurting out, splattering against the floor, speckles of it hitting Peter. The dull white eyes of the mask widening. The silver blade glints in the lamplight as it's embedded in Deadpool's skull. Peter squashes down the scream that threatens to rise up, as Deadpool crumbles to the floor, having been killed by his own blade.
As the culprit stumbles to his feet, Peter feels his own stomach churning as panic and disgust boils in his gut. In a single violent convulsion, he starts to retch, the bitter tang of bile assaulting his throat as he braces his arms against the floor. At least his mask was pulled out of the way. Thanks, Deadpool.
He flinches when a hand rubs at his back and a voice murmurs ''You're alright. You're going to be alright.'' Belatedly Peter realises the hand must belong to Daredevil, who's moved across the roof a little too fast and too quietly for a man who was just beaten by a highly trained mercenary for hire.
The retching pauses for a few moments, long enough to stutter out, ''You just killed him.'' before it starts again. Each tremor putting a greater strain on his webbed-up wound.
Daredevil looks at him in confusion, like he just told a well-known joke and Peter hasn't the punchline. ''I just wedged the knife through the motor area of his brain.''
Peter hopes Daredevil can hear the incredulousness in his voice if he can't already see it in the lower part of his face, ''People don't tend to survive that.''
''Deadpool has a strong healing factor. He'll be up in an hour. Once he's managed to get the knife out at least.'' Peter looks in time to see Deadpool beginning to jerk on the floor, his limbs moving in no particular direction. A red puddle has already formed by his head, ripples wash across it as he twitches.
The retching has stopped, his breath ragged in the aftermath, but the sight of Deadpool reminds Peter of the flecks of blood painted across his own face. As one uncoordinated hand rubs at his face, Daredevil's own hand hovers over him as if to prod at the webbing, before he thinks better of it.
''There's still some blood leaking out of the wound. But it's fixable.''
''How can you tell behind the webbing.''
''I can smell copper in the air.'' Peter decides against asking any of the million questions that statement brings forward. Seeing his struggle Daredevil tries to wipe away the blood on his face instead and Peter surprises himself by letting him. He's unconsciously decided to trust the other vigilante to, at the very least, not to beat him to death on the rooftop of an old apartment block. ''Were you out on your own?''
''Everyone who's sane is at home sleeping. By the way, I'm implying we're completely insane to be out here.'' Daredevil smiles at him, with his face shrouded in shadow and covered by red leather it looks creepy rather than reassuring. Maybe he can tell because he stops it quickly. ''Plus I'm not a team-up sort of guy. Now you've saved me from Deadpool. Is this the part where you throw me off the roof or take me to Stark's tower?''
''Why would I save you only to throw you off the roof.''
''No idea why you'd want to throw me off the roof. I'm a really nice guy.''
''I'm not going to do either. We're the good guys.''
''We? Who else is here? '' Peter asks.
''The falcon's just got here.'' The words are accompanied by a heavy pair of boots hitting the gravel behind them. ''Just in time to miss all the fun.''
''Sorry, got caught up stopping a mugging.'' Walking into Peter's eye line he's wearing his classic costume, a pristine white body and crimson wings. Tinted googles shield his eyes, and his thoughts from Peter.
''You're Captain America's-''
Cutting Peter off the Falon says, ''Spiderman, call me his side kick and we're leaving you here.''
''Don't mind him. He has sidekick syndrome. I'm going to get you up now, alright?'' Daredevil bypasses the part where he pulls Peter to his feet and they both nobly stumble into the sunset like they're the heroes in an action movie, Peter leaning on him for support. Instead, he scoops Peter up in what can only be considered a princess carry, kindly not commenting when Peter chokes down a sob. Fortunately, he's in agony, otherwise, he'd be mortified at the situation.
''It'll be faster if I take him by air.''
''Too risky. If you're seen, we can't fight off Ironman's goons whilst protecting him.''
Content to let someone else deal with his latest disaster Peter's head lolls against Daredevil's shoulder, trying to ignore the throbbing in his leg. Listening to their murmuring, he hopes he's not going to wake up in an empty cell, cut off from his Aunt and the world. When they start to move he stifles a whimper as they leap over to the next rooftop, his leg being jolted in the process. With the pain rising he doesn't fight the darkness when it comes for him.
Notes:
This feels like it took forever to write.
I was re-reading this before I posted and realised it's basically 9,000 plus words of Peter being beaten up or Peter recovering from being beaten up. I swear he's actually very good at doing the superhero thing... most of the time.