Deep violets painted the sky, and the usual breeze was completely nonexistent at the top of the sky. Peter flew through the air, literally soaring above the highrises of New York. There was no sound. The cacophony of the city was absent, with not even the hum of white noise to keep Peter company.
It was totally, completely empty.
Peter dipped down, phasing through the top of the Chrysler building. His body moved effortlessly through the pounds of steel, concrete, and scaffolding, and he came out the other side to see the sky now saturated a dark, intense red.
Peter came to a stop in the air, stunned by the clouds hung in the sky. They were dark and pulsing, ropey tendrils tangled together within. They beat as one, and a thick, goopy liquid trickled in between the tendrils.
Indistinct hissing rose from the buildings, the entirety of New York City whispering to him. The sound of snakes surrounded him, and the arid hissing penetrated deep in his ear drums. Gradually, the clouds moved faster and faster, and the hissing twisted into words.
"…power…great…"
A heart-wrenching pain struck at his chest, and Peter was sucked underneath the barren streets with a silent yelp by heavy weights suddenly shackled to his red sky was replaced by a slate-grey, concrete parking garage. His knees crashed to the ground, and he couldn't tear his eyes from the sight in front of him.
A cold, massive statue of Daredevil glimmered through the garage, existing entirely outside the garage except for the thorns of his helmet and the void-black pits where his eyes should be.
Peter's gaze dropped downwards and the garage evaporated, and he was left kneeling on a steely gavel clutched in Daredevil's hand. His heart swooped with unfamiliar fear, terrified of falling off into the nothing beneath him, and he brought his hands down to the gavel for more stability.
But his hands simply passed through, and the shackles pulled him off the slippery smooth edge of the gavel.
He was left in a dark and damp prison visiting room, with two people sitting across from each other at the sole table in the room.
Dark hair tumbled down the back of the woman sitting directly in front of him, curling at the tips against a deep purple blouse. But the faces of both figures were obscured, because the woman's back turned to him, and her figure was covering the face of the broad man sitting across from her.
But a bald scalp gleamed above the the top of her head, and the wide shoulders struck a chord in Peter.
They were talking quietly, too quiet for him to pick up on even when he strained, and anxiety started to pull at his chest. The hushed tones were tense, almost frantic. A lull fell when the conversation finished, and the woman reached a hand out, gently resting it on the table separating the two, and Fisk reciprocated the gesture.
The room spun 90 degrees, and the faces of the two people came into focus, and Peter's heart dropped to his stomach.
Fisk's face stared warmly at May Parker's.
May bowed her head, hair falling in curtains over her face, and Fisk gently picked her hand up between the two of his. Fisk's head swiveled, sharp eyes piercing Peter's, a distorted grin spreading across his face as he boomed, "Are you ready, Spider-Man?"
Fisk yanked her arm towards him, bringing May up and over the table. Peter could only watch in horror, completely frozen as Fisk raised a glittering knife over her throat.
He snapped into motion and screamed, and Peter fought against the shackles, but they didn't even bend. He blinked, and blood rushed from May's throat, soaking Fisk's jumpsuit rust red. It flowed so fast the tips of his toes were already wet. The color drained from her face with her blood, and May's eyes pleaded with him, slowly losing focus.
Fear — grief — ripped through him, deeper than anything he'd ever known.
The shackles fell away from his feet, and Peter took a desperate, lunging step forward.
And plummeted through the ground — away from Fisk, away from May.
He jolted upright, eyes snapping open to be confronted with bright, piercing light, and they instantly fell shut again. He was trapped in an unfamiliar place, and sharp pain shot through his body as he thrashed, desperation saturating his every movement.
"May!" he shouted hoarsely, the sound coming out strangled and muffled. As soon as he did, hot liquid pooled in his mouth, choking him. "May!"
Thick muscled hands push his shoulders back into a soft cushion, pinning his weak body. He fought the whole time, his own hands vainly pushing against the ones glued to his shoulders. His bleary eyes tried to open, battling against puffy and aching eyelids.
He recognized the scarred and roughened face looking back at him, but the confused haze barely lifted.
"May," he muttered through the blood in his mouth. All the strength was slowly draining from his body, and he was fading quick.
Wade's face sunk out of his vision, only to be replaced by familiar warm brown eyes and gentle frown lines.
May's hand stroked down his cheek gently, and Peter could barely make out the words coming from her mouth, but he didn't even care. He sighed, so relieved to see her that tears rose to his eyes. They tracked warm trails down his cheeks as she gently cradled his head into her chest, and his eyes tugged shut as the seconds passed.
He fell back asleep warm and held.
Quiet murmurings gradually prodded Peter out of his rest. His face was sore as he blinked open again, taking in the bedroom he was tucked into. A familiar wooden sliding door was slightly cracked open, revealing an even more familiar living space beyond it.
Peter let his head fall back against Matt's pillow. Slowly, he worked his stiff and aching jaw open, testing how far he can get his tenderized mouth open and ignoring the shocks of pain. Next was his puff eyes, and he managed to get past the puffy crescents he'd been looking through.
"Hey there."
Peter jumped, immediately regretting it when a headache spiked through him. Matt was leaning back in a cushioned chair to his, holding a mug in his hand.
"You really don't do anything halfway, do you?" Matt said lightly.
Peter scoffed and rolled his eyes, pushing himself up on his elbows. His jaw was too sore to speak, so he waved his hand towards the mug Matt had.
"Oh, I don't know about that," Matt said, pulling the mug closer to his chest with a small grin.
Peter waved again and whined, persistent.
Matt pressed his lips into a line and he handed the mug over. Peter sucked the drink down, face twisting at the bitter black coffee, but the hot drink did its job. His jaw loosened up just a little, enough for him to open his mouth enough to speak.
"How long have I been asleep?" Peter rasped, wincing as he passed the mug back to Matt.
"You really shouldn't be talking right now," Matt said, obviously deflecting. "Remember what happened last time?"
"How long?"
Matt sighed. "It's been a couple of days, Pete," he finally muttered.
"What?" he sputters. The cry sent a bolt of pain all the way down his neck, and Peter relaxed against the pillows with a groan.
Matt let the realization sink in, staying silent as Peter thought it over.
"May's okay though, right?" Peter said after a minute. "I didn't just imagine that?"
"May's good," Matt reassured. "She's just getting some rest right now."
He nodded, relieved. Slowly, the pain awareness trickled back through him and he fought back a groan. His eyesight was still incredibly fuzzy, and he brought a hand up to gently prod at the swollen flesh surrounding his eyes. Every poke sent a hot wave of ache rolling through his face. Beneath the covers, his right knee ignited in a fiery ache with every twitch.
"You got beat pretty bad, kid," Matt joked.
Peter laughed a little and turned his head back towards Matt. But even though his vision is still swimming and blurry, he caught sight of a familiar silhouette passing behind the crack in Matt's bedroom door.
"Is that Tony Stark," he asked flatly.
Matt shushed, an indescribable emotion flashing across his face. "Be quiet or else he'll hear you—"
The door slammed open, bouncing off the edge of the rail and rebounding. Tony Stark stood in the opening, hands on his hips.
"—and come in," Matt finished, resigned.
"You keeping shit to yourself again, Daredevil?" Tony spat.
"No idea what you're even—"
"—We said no more secrets—"
"—I actually said to his aunt, not the intruder in my home—"
"—or else I'd have to force it out of you."
"Literally every part of this has been against my will—"
"So you listen up, Hornhead—"
"If you say that one more time," Matt roared, finally snapping, "I will call the police on you, have you arrested for breaking and entering, and you will not be able to buy your way out of it!"
"Stop it!" Peter shouted, throwing a pillow at the pair of them. "Both of you shut up. Matt, can you please go get me a cup of water?"
Chest heaving, Matt shot Tony one more dirty glare and stalked out of the bedroom.
Peter leveled a hard stare at Tony, twisting the blankets into his fists.
"How did you find me?" he asked thinly.
Tony crossed his arms at the foot of the bed. "Did some investigating. Figured you'd do the exact opposite of what I said, and I was right—"
"You don't get to tell me what to do," Peter interrupted. Hot fire ignited in his chest, his face flushing angrily. "You have never, ever , had the right to tell me what to do. Despite what you think or not."
Tony pulled back just a tad, the false light in his eyes disappearing like a puff of smoke. "Look, kid, I just want to talk for—"
"I don't want," Peter interrupted, groaning a little as he lifted himself up on his elbows, "to talk right now. especially not to you."
He was silent for a moment. "Okay. I deserved that."
"Yeah. You did."
Peter's tone left no room for conversation.
"Look." Tony folded his arms, shifting warily on his feet. "I just want to apologize. I feel pretty shitty about how the whole thing went down, and then you really had to go and make that guilt so much worse when you got yourself beat to crap."
"I don't—" Peter cut himself off with a deep inhale, forcing back the rage biting at his words. "You don't get to feel bad. You don't get to tell me you feel bad just to make yourself feel better."
Matt crossed behind the open door, his silhouette casting a light shadow over the bedsheets, and a complete other list of grievances scrolled through Peter's head.
"You know, the whole thing about you not wanting me to hang out with 'them,'" he made a halfhearted attempt at air quotes, "Matt and Jessica and Frank, the people like me, because they're dangerous? Because I'm not ready? Is total bullshit. I went into that fight unprepared because of you.
"And by the way, Mr. Stark," he spat, "destroying my shit won't stop me from helping people who are getting hurt."
The air settled uncomfortably. The only sound was the dishwater running in the kitchen.
Tony schooled his face, eye twitching. After a moment he turned on his heel, walking to the entryway of Matt's bedroom. He turns his head to look one more time at Peter. "I'll come back when you're feeling better."
"Or don't. Don't come back at all," Peter muttered, dropping back into the pillows.
Peter limped through the doorway of their apartment, May whistling cheerfully in front of him as she set her bag down on the dinner table. His knee was threatening to give out and he beelined towards the couch.
"I knew I should've helped you up those stairs, you stubborn fool," May chuckled as he flopped onto the cushions.
"It was only a couple of flights," he said, keeping his breathing steady.
"Mhm," May said drily.
Peter closed his eyes, breathing in the familiar smells of their home as May says, "I should've called the landlord again, anyways. The elevator's been out since the explosions, and I really think he's been using it as an excuse to keep it out."
Peter hummed in agreement. The plug-in Febreeze smelled like lavender, and their neighbors had the radio going on full blast. Peter huffed, shoving a throw pillow under his shoulder blades in the efforts of comfort.
The cushions sank next to his head, and Peter cracked open an eye to see May relaxing beside him. Without looking she put a hand over his eyes, blocking his sight, and she laughed quietly as he shoved the hand away.
"So what are you gonna do with all this new-found freedom, now that Matt finally released you from the thirty-foot radius he chained you to?" May asked.
Peter groaned at the question, twisting so his head rested on her lap. "I don't know," he mumbled. "Sleep. Build a rocket. Find Frankenstien's brain."
She flicked the back of his head. "Okay, smartass." The TV turned on, some medical drama playing. "Personally, I'm a fan of the first one, but whatever floats your boat, kiddo."
Peter rolled his eyes and stole the remote from May to switch the channel to Food Network.
Peter loaded more web fluid into his homemade shooters, shaking his head slightly at the gears inside. They were starting to rust up a little. He was going to have to find some more parts soon.
May knocked on his bedroom door, waiting for the okay before she cracked it open.
"You going out to meet Matt?" she asked, poking her head through the crack.
Peter nodded, readjusting the patchwork stitching of his suit. Apparently, it took quite a beating between the fight at the dock and the whole 'slightly life threatening injuries' thing. The threading still won't sit right.
May stepped through the door fully, a newspaper rolled up in her hands. Her mouth was pressed, lips flattening into a line.
"What," Peter asked, stomach sinking a little. "Is this about me going out? I'm fine, May, I swear, and even Claire said I—"
"No," May interrupted, holding the newspaper out. "This was, uh, dropped off at the door for you."
Peter took the newspaper, unrolling it to find a piece of paper stapled to the front page.
"Thanks," he muttered, scowling at the handwriting.
May hummed, closing the door behind her as she left, but then a quiet "Back before three o'clock!" floated from behind the wall.
Sorry. It wasn't my place to tell you what to do, or who to fight. I'm sorry about the web shooters. You're welcome anytime to come make some new ones. I don't even have to be there.
- Tony Stark
Peter frowned, mind trucking along at about eighty miles an hour. Ripping off the printer paper, he looked at the bold headline on the front page of the paper.
Wilson Fisk Convicted, 20 Years to Life.
With a grim smile, Peter dropped the newspaper and letter on his bed and pulled his mask over his head. Ignoring the pain peek-a-booing in his knee, Peter slid his window pane up.
A wonderful day to go out as Spider-Man, he thought to himself, with only a dash of sarcasm.
He clicked his web shooters into place, and leaped out over the fire escape and into the city sky.
The air was thick and balmy, with scattered rain clouds forming in the distance from all the humidity. The sun was half-hidden, and it was slowly sinking towards the edge of the horizon.
Peter swung fast away from his apartment, racing down Queens. He crossed into Hell's Kitchen in a record 15 minutes, and he enjoyed the way his muscles strained and stretched every second of the way. But it didn't stop him from making a quick pit stop at a hotdog stand somewhere in the East Village.
Fogwell's was closed on Sundays; some kind of religious thing, Peter assumed. Which made its roof the place for nondescript meeting with Daredevil, even if the partially sinking roof was just a tad inconvenient for Peter.
(Peter managed to talk Matt out of making a training session out of the night. All it took was one beaten to a pulp joke. Too easy, honestly.)
Matt was already waiting for him, lurking in the shadow of the access stairs entrance. The red glow from the sun made the maroon of his suit shine a bright, bright red.
"Hey, man," Peter greeted, stumbling just a little on his bad leg as he landed. "You hear the news about Fisk?"
Matt nodded, uncrossing his arms. A small smile crossed his lips, and he shrugged his shoulders.
"Don't suppose you had anything to do with it?" Peter asked wryly.
"No, actually," Matt said. "But a good friend? Possibly."
Peter tossed Matt one of the wrapped hotdogs and planted himself at the edge of the gym, rolling up his mask as he swung his legs into the air and he tore open his own hotdog. Matt sat down beside him, chewing on his own hotdog with significantly less enthusiasm.
"I got a note from Tony," Peter started conversationally, and took another bite. "I kinda wish I had some mustard or something."
"Mm. Some rellish would be nice. What was it about?"
"He apologized." Peter sucked his cheeks in. "And also… lured me with new web shooters?"
Matt didn't say anything and the hand with the hotdog stopped in front of his mouth. After a beat, he lowered the hotdog completely.
"And you're accepting that?" His tone was genuinely curious.
Peter was silent, peeling the wrapping around the hotdog off. He was thinking about it, actually. Or, half-accepting it.
"I'm not sure yet. Might be nice to have a rich guy in my corner," he joked, nudging Matt's shoulder with his own. "I don't see any, like, lawyer-types being too charitable."
Matt shook his head, huffing. "Become a client. Then we'll talk."
Peter finished off his hotdog with two more massive bites, chewing aggressively.
"I know a guy. For the web shooters," Matt said. "He should have all the parts. You don't have to go see Stark if you don't want to."
Peter swallowed and pursed his lips. "I dunno, I might stop by for a couple of minutes someday."
Matt hummed noncommittally, and Peter suppressed a frown.
"I know you disapprove, but—"
"I don't care, kid. And you shouldn't care what I think, either. Who you hang out with or who's places you 'stop by'—" Matt made air quotes, "— is frankly none of my business."
Peter grinned, balling the wrapper up into a ball as he rose back to his feet. Matt did the same, offering Peter the last half of his hotdog. Peter shook his head no , instead stretching out his shoulders.
"I should get going," Peter said lightly. "Places to go, people to see, cats to save."
Matt smirked, small but meaningful. "Good to be back?"
"Yeah," he replied with a smile on his face. He pulled the mask back down over his mouth and looked at the sprawling city in front of him. "Feels good, man. Really good."
Matt's goodbye echoed behind him as Peter dove off the building, relishing the wind tearing at his face, the free fall, and snapped himself up with a web at the very last possible second.
Good to be back, indeed.