"Mr. Murdock?" Peter called, cracking the door open and peeking his head into the office.
There was a clatter, then a bang, and the sound of hurried footsteps, Foggy staggering out from the next room over and coming to an abrupt stop upon seeing the teen.
"Peter?" he croaked, reaching a hand out to steady himself against the wall.
Peter waved sheepishly, opening the door further and taking a step inside. "Hey, Mr. Nelson," he greeted, fiddling with his hands for a moment before hesitantly continuing. "Do you… maybe know where Mr. Murdock is?" he asked.
Foggy squinted at him, but in less of a 'I'm suspicious of you' way and more of a 'I'm not awake enough to process anything right now' kind of way as he raked a hand through his hair, fingers snagging on a couple of knots as he pushed it backwards and out of his face. "Matt. Yeah. Uh, no. Hasn't been in the office yet," Foggy told him, wandering over to the coffee machine and clicking it on. He turned back to Peter. "Something I can help with?" he tried.
Peter shook his head, chewing on his lip. "I just need to talk to him about something, but he's not picking up the phone," he admitted.
Foggy frowned, and Peter could see the tinge of concern the man tried to hide behind a cough as he turned back to his coffee, pouring a fresh brew into his mug. "He's probably still asleep, Pete," he assured, taking a sip. "What time is it, anyways?"
Peter ducked his head slightly, giving an apologetic grin. "Six."
Foggy gasped loudly, pressing a hand to his chest in mock indignation. "You dare trespass on our grounds at such an hour?" he accused.
Peter's grin widened, and he gave a theatrical bow. "My apologies, good sir, for my untimely disturbance. I shall leave you to your devices," he avowed.
Foggy snorted, waving him off. "It's fine, kid. Probably for the best you came in now. That couch wasn't doing my back any favors; now I can get an early start so I can get to my lovely, comfy bed sooner too," he said jovially.
Peter nodded along. "I'll leave you to it," he paused, dithering with his palm against the door, "Just… could you get Mr. Murdock to give me a call if he comes in?" he asked.
Foggy gaze was understanding as he set down his mug, stepping up to Peter and placing a comforting hand on his shoulder. "You got it, kid," he smiled. "You'll see - he probably lost his phone again or set it on mute - he'll be fine. You sure I can't help instead?" he checked.
Peter smiled back, albeit somewhat more subdued, and gave a tiny shake of his head. Although his hearing wasn't anywhere close to Matt's, he could still listen in on how Foggy's heartbeat had picked up after Peter asked about Matt, and that his assurances were more of a hope than a belief. Even so, all he said was, "Thanks, Mr. Nelson," and, "I'll see you around."
Foggy gave an exaggerated huff. "It's Foggy to you, kid. Now get outta here," he shooed, making a small laugh bubble up from Peter's throat as he was corralled out the front, the door clicking shut behind him with a quiet snick and a playful scoff from the man.
Peter took a step to leave, but paused when he heard the prompt drone of a call being made from the other side.
He rocked on his heels for a moment, but decided to stay and listen in.
The first call rang all the way through without reply, and Foggy let out a frustrated breath, the phone beeping as he dialed a different number.
After a couple of rings, it clicked.
"Foggy?" a tinny, woman's voice questioned.
"Claire," Foggy greeted, sounding friendly with just an edge of nerves.
"Something wrong?" she asked, when he said nothing more.
Foggy puffed out a sigh. "Matt's not answering his phone," he admitted.
The phone crackled as she hummed. "He wasn't here last night," she told him apologetically. "Did you check his place yet?"
Foggy groaned. "No, I'll probably go if he doesn't come in or answer his phone in the next half hour or so," he told her.
"Alright," she said. "I'll let you know if I hear from him."
"That'd be great," Foggy replied tiredly.
"You take care of yourself, you hear?" she said.
There was a smile in his voice as Foggy replied, "You too."
They said their farewells, and there was a soft clack as Foggy set his phone down somewhere.
Peter quietly padded away.
.
He felt a bit apologetic for not explaining anything to Foggy, but he really didn't want to worry him over something that he probably couldn't do much against, at least in this situation.
He was aware that Foggy knew Matt was Daredevil, hence the worry at not having his calls picked up, but the current situation was even more skewed than usual, since the issue wasn't a Daredevil issue.
No, last night, Peter was doing his normal rounds, but ended up swinging closer to the outer edges of Midtown, bordering on Hell's Kitchen.
Nothing entirely unusual for him, and it wasn't like Matt would've been angry if Peter had dipped in his bounds just a bit - he was territorial, but not to the point of being ridiculous. It was more of a 'I've got this place, you got that place' kinda thing. There was plenty of crime everywhere, not just on D's home turf, so why try to overlap?
But the point was, Peter was on the outskirts of Midtown, when he picked up a conversation that immediately had him snapping to attention.
"-Murdock," a low voice finished.
"How do you suggest we go about it, then?" someone else replied.
Peter crept closer to the warehouse, specifically the high rise window that was cracked open and letting the men's words filter out.
"Doesn't matter, as long as he's gone," thug one said dismissively.
"And what if his partner takes up the case instead?" the second asked.
"It'll be too late by then. Period for court's up in two days, no chance for an extension or retrial," thug one told him.
"So if Murdock's out of the picture, the boss gets off scot free?" a third voice asked.
""S what I said, isn't it?" number one grunted.
Peter risked looking into the building, and saw that there was actually a substantial gathering of men and women cramped together inside. At least a few dozen people, all armed. Too many to take on.
"When do we head out?"
"Noon. Tomorrow."
Peter had stuck around for a short while thereafter, but they hadn't said anything more of interest on the topic, switching to more mundane issues irrelevant to it, so he slinged away.
He went to Matt's first, but the man wasn't there - probably still out on patrol. Peter had considered calling out loud for him, but he didn't want to risk distracting Matt into thinking Peter was in imminent danger in case the man was in the middle of a fight. Instead, he decided to come back first thing in the morning to explain what he overheard and help get Matt somewhere safe.
Sure, Matt was more than capable of defending himself, but it was pretty clear that an entire gang - or at least a faction of it - was going to be after his head tomorrow, so a little assistance wouldn't hurt. Not to mention Matt would be in his civies, which… wasn't really great if he planned on keeping his identity secret. Blind men don't tend to win fights very often, so it'd be mighty suspicious if that trend just so happened to be skewed by Matt.
So, Peter had gone home, took off his costume, set an alarm for five in the morning, and went to bed.
To his great exasperation and a bit of anxiety, Matt wasn't at home when he knocked on the door. He couldn't hear any traces of breath or the faint tha-thump of a heartbeat, so he knew the unit was empty.
And that's how he ended up leaving Matt and Foggy's office too, with no more information than before.
Which was fine. Great. Not like there was a plot to murder Matt today or anything.
Peter walked down the empty sidewalk, keeping his head ducked low. "Matt- Daredevil," he hissed under his breath. "We need to talk o' buddy o' pal o' mine," he sang, eyes skittering across the empty streets.
Sadly, there was no magic poof, nor did Matt appear with it.
Peter sighed, then almost jumped a foot in the air when his phone blared loudly, and he fumbled taking it out of his pocket, swiping right and seeing that - HA speak of the devil - it was Matt himself.
"Matt!" Peter cried out.
"Peter." Matt replied. "Foggy said you were looking for me?" he questioned.
"Yeah," he looked around, there still wasn't anybody close by, but. "Can we meet up to talk?"
"I'm at the coffee shop on second and fifth," Matt said, an offer.
Peter glanced up at the closest street sign. It was only a couple of blocks - easily manageable. "I'll be there soon," Peter promised, ending the call.
.
The little ceramic bell attached to the door jingled as he stepped inside the shop, spotting Matt almost immediately and barely refraining from waving to the man.
Instead, he walked over and slid into the seat across from him, Matt giving a small nod of greeting as he took a sip of his steaming brew.
"Did something happen?" Matt questioned lowly, circular red glasses glinting in the light.
Peter hummed, tapping his fingers against the tabletop. "That's putting it lightly," he winced, looking around the cafe.
There were only a couple of other patrons, but they were far off - tucked away in a corner booth and completely absorbed with each other.
There was just one worker, and they were currently seated behind the register, staring idly at their phone.
Peter turned back to Matt.
"You've got that case with Rostringer, right?" he asked.
Matt dipped his head in acknowledgement.
Peter nodded to himself. "Yeah. So, I was out near the Kitchen last night - over in Midtown - and I heard someone mentioning your name - Murdock, not the Devil - and they were talking about getting rid of you so that the case would fall through," he explained.
A low, growl-like sound pulsed from Matt's throat, the man grinding his teeth. "Fucking idiots," he cursed.
Peter shrugged. "I mean? Kind of? I'm guessing they're not completely wrong, though."
Matt let out a heavy exhale. "They're not. The trial's at four in the afternoon - today. It's been pushed back to the limit and it's rooted on an incident that took place nearly two decades ago. And when I say nearly, I mean that today's the last day before it is. At that point, it's considered that too much time has passed for the issue to be relevant. Which is a problem, since all our other matters stem from that first one. We can't go to trial without it."
"That's… a lot," Peter replied slowly.
Matt sighed again, rubbing a hand against his face tiredly. "Yeah," he exhaled.
"They said they'll be after you at around noon - I dunno if they're gonna stick with that or not, but, we should probably get ready or get somewhere safe until the trial," Peter suggested.
"We?" Matt echoed.
Peter made an indignant noise. "I'm not just gonna leave you on your own for this, D!" he exclaimed, quieting down when he realized he'd raised his voice. "Besides, there was a whole boatload of people at the meet - at least thirty or forty something, maybe more if there're outsiders too."
Matt tsked, taking another large swallow of coffee and setting the cup back down harshly. "You got any ideas?" he asked.
Peter took in a breath, parting his lips, and stuck there. He let it back out after a second, deflating like a sad balloon. "Not really, no," he muttered. "We could get that Castle guy?" he tried.
"Out of the question," Matt denied.
"You've said he's got safe houses, though, right?" Peter pointed out.
Matt shook his head resolutely. "Stay away from him, Pete," Matt ordered. "He's not good company, and if he were to get involved with this, it'd just mean more deaths. Besides, even if I had wanted his help, he's been out of contact for the past month - no word or sightings of him."
Peter nodded, albeit somewhat reluctantly. "You have any ideas, then?" he asked.
Matt tilted his head, a bit of a grimace on his lips. "I know a guy," he admitted.
"A guy?" Peter echoed.
"I know a few people, but his place is probably the safest. I was going to head over there soon anyways - have something to give back," Matt said.
"Who's the guy?" Peter pressed, leaning forward on the table, eyes bright with curiosity.
"Danny," Matt told him.
"Danny…" Peter trailed off expectantly, a bemused smile twitching on his lips.
"Rand," Matt said shortly.
Peter nodded for a second, and then processed what Matt said. "Danny Rand?" he repeated incredulously.
"Yes, Pete," Matt responded dryly.
"Isn't he, like, a billionaire?" Peter asked, still in disbelief.
"Somehow," Matt muttered under his breath.
"How d'you know him?" Peter asked excitedly.
"He's… a coworker of mine," Matt admitted reluctantly.
"A coworker, or a coworker," Peter questioned covertly.
Matt's lips twitched into a wry smile. "A bit of both." Peter made an excited noise, and Matt waved a dismissive hand at him. "I expected the two of you to meet sometime soon anyways. We'll talk more there."
"Is he a vigilante too?" Peter asked, rising to his feet as Matt stood and coming to walk by his side.
"I said we'll talk there," Matt pointed out dryly, "but… yes, of a sort."
Peter hummed. "What do you have to drop off?"
Matt huffed out a laugh. "His keys," he said, rolling his eyes behind his glasses. "Tried driving home after getting near black out drunk last night. I was the only one sober enough to be trusted with them," he explained.
"How responsible," Peter simpered, and Matt whacked him in the shin with his cane, getting a pained yelp and a glare back from Peter.
Then Matt tensed up and clutched Peter at the elbow, suddenly turning down a dingy alley instead of towards the main street where they could catch a cab.
"What's wrong?" Peter immediately questioned.
"I think our company's early," Matt replied tersely, and Peter tensed at his side, pace quickening.
"Where to, then?"
Matt didn't yet reply, instead further speeding up until they were just barely under a run, Matt's cane folding up into a small cylinder.
The exited the alley onto another street on the other side, lined with more of the same types of small shops and diners, and Matt swerved them to the left, forcing his pace to marginally slow so that they were at a brisk walk, not drawing much attention from fellow street goers.
"Shit," Matt cursed, coming to an abrupt stop and yanking Peter back when he stumbled forward another step.
And then he was turning onto the street, rushing across the road and dragging Peter along with him, who nervously sang a quiet, "jaywalking~" as they made it to the other side, going back in the direction they came from for a few feet before stopping short next to a shiny, red Porsche sitting parked at the curb.
Matt dropped his arm by the passenger side and quickly maneuvered himself over to the driver's seat, unlocking the car with a melodic chirp and swinging the door open. Peter stood, dumbfounded for a moment, until Matt barked a terse, "get in," which sent Peter back into motion.
He opened the passenger door and jumped in, slamming it shut behind him in sync with Matt. "Is this Mr. Rand's?" Peter asked nervously.
"Yes." Matt bit out.
Peter spotted a dark blur in the corner of his eye, and snapped to face up and to the left in time to see a figure - a man, dressed in black with his face shadowed under a low hood - positioning a rifle and taking aim right at them.
"Matt-"
"I know," Matt snarled sharply, fumbling for a moment before fitting the key in the ignition and turning it, the engine roaring to life.
A bullet pinged against the glass, but didn't crack it.
"Put it in drive," Matt ordered him, and Peter snapped into action, shifting the car into the proper gear without question.
Matt peeled the car off where it was parked next to the curb, and then there was a horrible, screeching sound of metal rending metal as the entire passenger side of the Porsche scraped against the right back bumper of the sedan that'd been parked in front of them.
"MATT what the frick, dude?!"
Matt didn't reply; his jaw was clenched tightly, hands clutching the steering wheel in a knuckle white grip as he pressed down on the acceleration.
Peter's head was pounding with a heady mixture of adrenaline and panic, and he stared wide eyed at the thankfully still empty side street in front of him as he tried to process his muddled thoughts. There was a loud vroom as they sped up, Peter's back being forcefully pressed into the seat, left hand clutching the arm of the chair and right hand snapping up to hang onto the roof handle for dear life as Matt swerved wildly around an elderly woman using the crosswalk.
"MATT," Peter screeched, shoulder slamming into the passenger side's door before he turned horror struck eyes on the absolute maniac currently manning the vehicle.
"What, Pete?" Matt bit out, straightening out the car and still not letting up on the gas. Through the center console's mirror, Peter spotted several SUVs and a couple of motorcycles behind them, but his panic, for the first time in the last handful of minutes, was no longer directed at the gang, as a sudden, Earth shattering recollection hit him.
"YOU'RE BLIND, MATT," Peter shrieked.
"I DIDN'T REALIZE!" Matt shouted back, tone veritably drenched in sarcasm, and he jerked the car into the left lane - which, since there was no left lane, meant that he was now on the wrong side of the road - to overtake a yellow buggy that'd been rolling along ahead of them.
He spun the wheel back to the right and into the proper lane, the buggy honking angrily behind them. Their unwanted following was catching up now too, the roaring engines more than audible.
Peter squeezed his eyes shut, a whimper crawling up past his throat. "Matt-"
Their tires screeched as Matt slammed down on the brakes and Peter's eyes shot wide open, seatbelt catching against his chest with a painful jolt to keep him from flying forward and slamming his head against the dash.
Ahead of them - by about a couple hundred meters - was another posse of menacing looking SUVs, so they were now blocked in from both sides.
Matt calmly reached the control panel on his left and pressed it to roll down all the windows. The smell of burnt rubber filled the air, making both of their noses scrunch.
Their company was quickly approaching, the ones behind only about a hundred meters back and the ones ahead around the same.
Matt pressed down on the gas again, still fast but somewhat more sedately.
Peter took a steadying breath.
They were nearing the SUVs up ahead.
A series of rapid fire bullets ricocheted off the windshield, making him flinch.
The glass held.
Matt rolled the windows up most of the way, leaving them parted just a crack.
More bullets fired. The glass still held.
Matt sped up.
Peter faced forward, but his gaze flickered over to Matt. The man was expressionless, but a bead of sweat trickled down past his temple.
Fifty meters between them.
Faster.
Peter forced himself to keep his eyes open and locked ahead of them.
Twenty.
The engine roared.
Leather and plastic gave under Peter's fingers, his grip well past being tight enough to crush it.
Ten.
Matt ripped the steering wheel to the right and a scream tore its way out of Peter's throat. The two left tires of the Porsche went momentarily airborne as the car tilted precariously to the right and skidded down the narrow alley a hairsbreadth before they would've slammed full force into the tank of an SUV that'd been leading the ranks ahead of them.
The car rightened itself with a shuddering bang, and the side mirrors snapped off, being too far out to fit in the tight back street.
There was a sickening crunch of metal on metal as cars collided behind them either in an attempt to make the same sharp turn or just being unable to brake fast enough to avoid a pile-up.
The SUVs had been too large to fit into the alley, but a few of the motorcyclists had already managed to slip in, the faint pings of bullets against reinforced glass signifying their presence.
Peter took a moment to realize he wasn't breathing, processed the fact, and took in a heavy gulp of air.
"Matt," Peter croaked, "think 'll just, get out here, bud," he told him, weakly trying at the door handle.
The lock clicked in place, and, still feeling faint, Peter slid his gaze over to Matt, seeing the man's finger pressed down on the passenger side lock.
"'M gonna be sick," Peter moaned.
Matt exhaled sharply. "You're fine, kid. You throw yourself off roofs for a living."
Peter slumped, putting his head in his hands with a piteous whine.
The motorcyclists behind them had caught up, but there wasn't much else the thugs could do except continue to more or less fruitlessly pelt the glass with bullets since there wasn't room to come up on the sides.
That is, until a loud thud sounded above them and Peter's head jolted up to the rearview mirror in time to watch one of the motorcycles crash into the alley wall, driverless.
"Shit," Matt cursed, revving the engine.
The sounds of city traffic became clearer, the end of the alley coming up as they headed towards a main road.
The butt of a rifle slammed down against the windshield, bouncing off awkwardly. It took a second, but it came down again, harder. A minute crack appeared in the center of the glass.
Matt's lips thinned. "Hold on," he said tersely.
Peter threw his hands back onto the arm of the chair and the roof handle and braced himself not a moment too soon, Matt slamming back on the brakes and sending their unwanted passenger sailing overhead, crashing and rolling to a messy stop.
Their car jerked forwards slightly as two of the motorcyclists slammed into the back, and then Matt was back on the accelerator, roaring towards the still downed cyclist lying spread eagle in the center of their path.
"Uh… Matt," Peter warned, reaching out to softly press a hand against the front of Matt's shoulder.
No reply.
"Matt!" Peter cried out, a strangled noise coming from the back of his throat at the mildly disturbing tha-thunk that sounded as they rolled right over the prone figure.
Peter's head whipped to the side to shoot a disbelieving look at Matt, who, likely sensing it, gave a blasé shrug and a dismissive, "He's fine."
"Dude," Peter hissed.
"Dude," Matt echoed back unrepentantly.
A car honk ahead reminded Peter of their more current predicament, and his eyes widened to the size of small moons as he saw just how much traffic they were about to go into.
"Matt, you gotta stop," he half commanded, half begged, going to clutch Matt's arm a bit too tightly.
Matt shook him off with a loose motion. "They've almost circled around the block. If we don't get out now, they'll cut us off," he told Peter.
"But-"
His rebuke was cut off by the roar of the engine as Matt slammed down on the accelerator once again, and Peter fought back the sudden urge to sob as they raced into oncoming traffic.
Peter made substantial use of his stickiness to stay steady and not slam into the side of the car again as Matt swerved and skidded between screeching and honking cars through the intersection, letting out a quick breath when they were back on the proper part of the road.
The three motorcyclists that remained had gotten stuck behind in the pandemonium Matt had left, and the SUVs that'd turned the corner were still relatively far off as they sped away.
Matt somewhat eased on the accelerator, keeping a good distance between the Porsche and the car in front of them, and Peter let his hiked up shoulders somewhat relax.
"You absolute heathen," Peter grit out.
"I'm Catholic," Matt replied, lips quirking.
"Was it your faithful Catholicism that put us through that?" Peter barbed testily.
"I'd rather say that it's what got us through that," Matt mused.
"You're a heathen, Matt. An absolute heathen," Peter hissed, eyes narrowed pointedly at him.
Matt shrugged glibly, giving a little jerk to the wheel and grinning all teeth when it made Peter yelp and slap his hand against the dash to steady himself.
Peter glared at Matt. "Are you serious right now?"
Matt seemed to genuinely contemplate the question for a moment, if not for the upwards twitch of his lips.
Peter shook his head resolutely. "You know what, Matt? No. I've had it up to here with you, alright? I - I cannot even begin to process the last however long it's been since I've been trapped in this torture chamber of a freaking car - not to say it's the cars fault, no, that's all you, Matt, I am well aware of that fact. Are you well aware of that fact, Matt? Because you definitely should be. I have been scarred. For life. This has been an absolutely terrible experience. I rate it zero out of ten. No gold stars for you, buckaroo. That ship has sailed. Like my soul. On the multiple occasions it has left my body while you have been doing whatever it is you have been doing," Peter ranted.
"Driving?" Matt suggested.
"NO!" Peter shouted. "You have been - doing something, driving adjacent, at best, Matt, at best. I - that was not driving. That was narrowly avoiding death by - by whatever it was that you were doing, repeatedly.
Matt huffed. "Well I'm doing fine now, aren't I?"
Peter rolled his eyes and glanced back at the road, only to do a double take. "Uh Matt, you gotta slow down soon-"
Matt's eyebrows furrowed, but he kept his speed up. "I'm heading away from incoming company," he pointed out, perplexed.
"Youuuu're gonna turn though, right?" Peter tried.
"No?" Matt replied, unconsciously pressing down a bit further on the accelerator, making Peter's eyes widen as Matt continued to head right on towards where the street ended and melded into a pedestrian pathway.
"Matt that's not a road-"
Matt frowned. "It's not?"
They were pretty close to coming upon it, people milling about all around and there being no logistical way to continue straight for long without getting stuck, caught, stranded, or just some other form of bad, and Peter told Matt as much.
Matt's head tilted. "It feels like a road, and it's all clear up ahead," he pointed out.
Peter chuckled nervously. "It's a pedestrian area, Matt. People road only."
Matt hummed dubiously, and Peter turned to stare incredulously at him, which in turn let him see the veritable avalanche of bicyclists racing towards the walkway. Which also meant they were racing to where Matt had seemingly decided was still a-okay to go even though Peter distinctly remembered repeatedly saying it wasn't not two seconds ago.
Peter clutched his seatbelt tightly, waiting, waiting, waiting for Matt to just turn the wheel as they got closer and closer - "Matt… Matt, MATT - TURN LEFT TURN LEFT TURN LEFT TURN LEFT-"
Matt wrenched the wheel hard to the left, swerving onto the side road with a piercing squeal of tires and narrowly avoiding what would've been a collision course with the cyclists, and Peter caught Matt's wince as the man had apparently noticed the same.
"Are you trying to give me a heart attack," Peter wheezed, still gripping his seatbelt tightly.
Matt's lips pursed. "I… that was my mistake," he admitted, probably as close to an apology as he was going to get.
"Ya think so?" Peter shot back sarcastically, blood pounding in his ears.
Matt huffed out a laugh and rolled the windows back down all the way. "Yes, I think so," he assured.
The street was blessedly empty, being in a more abandoned district than before, and Peter tilted his head slightly. "So, what're we gonna do now?" he asked.
"They're catching up again, so we just have to keep going, for now. Too risky to leave the car," Matt told him.
Peter's head dropped into his hands. "Matt, Matt no," he said quietly, voice muffled and sad.
"Matt yes," Matt replied automatically.
"Matt, you're great, really - I think you're amazing, both as a lawyer and as Daredevil, but, you're blind, " Peter stressed.
"And?" Matt questioned, jerking the Porsche around another parked car.
Peter's shoulder thudded into the side of the car with the movement. "And you are legally not allowed to drive, Matt. You know this - I know you know this," he pleaded.
"You can see in other ways," Matt replied. Very vaguely.
"Great, Matt. I'm so glad that you're seeing in other ways so that you can drive a car that tends to rely on seeing in the way of actually seeing," Peter stressed.
"I don't-" Matt swerved the car again, this time to the right, to avoid a passing car - "see what the issue is, kid."
Peter flung his arms straight out. "That, Matt! That is exactly my issue. The literal thing that just happened! There was one other car on the street and you yahooed our car around like it was gonna explode if they got within a five meter radius of us!" Peter exclaimed, then added, "And oh, yeah! The fact that you can't see at all!"
"You're exaggerating," Matt pointed out.
"Am not," Peter rebuked.
"I… am not having this conversation," Matt decided.
"Great," Peter replied, "You just keep on almost crashing the billionaire's car while I try to manage my blood pressure that is nowhere near normal teenage levels at this point."
Matt suddenly stiffened and let out a curse, and then there was the squeal of tires somewhere not too far behind them, a check in the back revealing another hoard of SUVs tailing them.
"Frick," Peter muttered, taking deep breaths and keeping himself steady as Matt stepped on the gas once more, tearing down the side street and screeching around any and all obstacles - including, but not limited to, curbs, more parked cars, actually driving cars, a small hoard of teeny bop looking kids, and even a wayward dog - in stomach turning maneuvers that, by some miracle, managed to not flip the car over or cause them to crash.
Matt let up on the gas a bit, and Peter turned to him in a wordless question, but Matt's attention was fully focused on the rather busy intersection up ahead.
"Lord help me," Peter moaned.
"Thought you were Jewish," Matt grunted, brows furrowed in concentration.
"I need all the gods right now," Peter whimpered in a strangled voice, pressing himself flat against his seat as if he could escape their imminent fate.
In front of them, the cars shooting past left and right didn't have a stop sign or anything since they had the right of way, and the road where Peter and Matt were coming up from was only a side street, which would normally mean they'd have to come to a stop until there was a large enough break in traffic.
Unfortunately for the mental - and increasingly likely the physical - health of Peter, Matt seemed to hold such concepts with a grain of salt.
As in, he tossed them to the wind.
"Matt-"
"Shut!" Matt barked, teeth gritting as he leaned forward and clenched harder on the wheel, and Peter snapped his mouth shut.
The SUVs - why were they more SUVs - were more or less on their tails again, and gunfire rang out as bullets fired against the back windshield of the car, diminutive little cracks beginning to appear here and there, and Peter sank lower in his seat.
Not a second later, they shot into the eight laned, two way traffic, and time seemed to slow to a crawl.
The first lane, they passed through without hindrance; it'd been blessedly empty.
The second, a car shot past not a moment before the front of their car entered the lane, and they missed the silver van's bumper by a hairsbreadth.
The third, there was a sizable enough gap that the pickup driver was able to slam on the brakes and avoid a collision, pressing down on the horn until they were out of the way.
Fourth was also clear, but the top of Peter's head nearly got smacked against the roof of the car as Matt sped straight over the cemented median - which was elevated by about four inches - drove across it, and then reentered oncoming traffic that was now coming from the other direction.
Also unfortunately, the 'bump' seemed to have skewed Matt's miraculous timing.
They nearly made it out of the fifth lane and into the clear sixth, but a Honda rammed into the left rear of the Porsche, sending them into a wild tailspin, the wheel jerking uncontrollably in Matt's grip as they did a completely disgraceful, vehicular rendition of a pirouette through the sixth and seventh lanes and ended up swerving them right in front of a massive eighteen wheeler barreling down the eighth.
Peter slapped a hand over his mouth to muffle a shrill scream, the other still desperately holding onto the mangled roof handle for dear life, as Matt lurched the wheel in a hard left, and, for the briefest of moments, Peter was absolutely certain that this time the car would flip, and it was only by some divine miracle that it instead managed to right itself into the lane, Matt's foot never leaving the accelerator.
The truck's horn blared behind them, the behemoth of a vehicle's speed still faster than theirs and carrying too much momentum to slow down, and it's grill smashed none too gently into their trunk, crumpling it with a grind of metal and jolting them forwards with a burst of force and a string of curses from Matt.
Peter managed to loosen his stiffened up neck enough to glance back at the alley they came from, and found the smallest smidgen of comfort in that they'd at least lost their tail.
Too small of a smidgen, though.
"You're gonna be the death of me," Peter decided hoarsely.
Matt's eyes narrowed behind his glasses.
"It's like you were giving a go at some fricked up version of Crossy Road, D. Just. No."
Matt huffed.
"No, really, Matt. How've you not bludgeoned this brilliant tomb of a contraption into something yet?" Peter pressed.
"Enhanced senses," Matt replied shortly.
Peter thunked his head against the dash. "So I've gathered."
He didn't even bother telling Matt that he wasn't actually driving in a lane.
Well, he wasn't off road or anything, he was just… driving directly over the white line, in between two lanes. Which was. Fine. It was fine. None of the other cars had honked at them over it yet - probably thinking the driver was either drunk or already had enough screws loose that it was better not to even bother - and Matt had at least moved out of the trucker's lane.
Just as the thought finished, though, some guy in a sport's car - a Mercedes? - pulled up next to them, rolling down his left window to shout at Matt, "Hey, Dickwad! What're you? Huh? Fuckin' blind? Watch the road, asshole!" he shouted, and then he was gone, sticking his hand out over the top of his car to flip them off as he sped off ahead of them.
It was silent in the car, just the whistling of the wind from outside.
Then Peter snickered, chortled, then howled out full on peals of laughter, throat aching and lungs squeezing with the uproarious force of it as he hunched forwards to clutch at his cramping stomach, tears forming at the corners of his eyes.
"You know, Pete, I never thought you'd be such an ableist," Matt said offhandedly.
Peter gasped. "The disrespect!" he cried out. "How dare you!"
"Says the kid laughing at a blind man," Matt deadpanned.
"You don't count," Peter spluttered, still coming down from the hysterical fit of laughs.
"I'm blind."
"But you can 'see in other ways,'" Peter retorted, adding air quotes and pitching his voice down so it came out exaggeratedly gravelly and low.
"We're getting off here," Matt said suddenly, and Peter jerked back upright.
"He-"
His question was cut off as Matt launched the car to the right, Peter letting out an unholy screech as Matt completely bypassed the curb and came to a grinding halt with half the car on the sidewalk and half of it properly behind the next parked car, bumper to bumper - less than an inch apart.
"Yes, here," Matt said, clicking his seatbelt off and smoothly stepping out of the vehicle.
The car inched forward marginally, and, in a daze, Peter put it in park, took off his own seatbelt, and staggered out on shaky legs. "Matt," he gasped. "Matt, we lived."
Matt sighed, grabbing his elbow and dragging him into a dark and narrow alley.
"You know," Peter started conversationally, head tilted as he let Matt pull down a fire escape ladder and then proceeding to follow the man as he began to climb up. "If I live to see them," he dryly prerequisited. "When my sweet, innocent little grandchildren ask what the most terrifying experience in my life has ever been, now I know it's not even gonna be about Spider-Man," Peter mused. "Oh ho ho nooooo~" he drawled, each of their steps ringing out with a heavy metallic clunk and the creak of rusted metal. "It's gonna be about how I was trapped in a car with a freaking crazy blind man at the wheel," Peter raved, flinging his arms up and shaking his hands wildly in the air as they reached the roof.
"Glad to know you'll hold me close to heart," Matt deadpanned.
Peter stared at him. "I'm telling Foggy," he decided, a shark-like grin spreading across his lips at Matt's sudden panicked expression that he failed to fully hide.
"You wouldn't," Matt refuted, stalking over to the edge of the roof, head tilting this way and that.
Peter pretended to admire his nails, lips pursing in exaggerated thought. "No, I think I would," he settled.
"Then I'll tell your Aunt why you were in the car in the first place," Matt shot back.
"Uhuh," Peter replied dubiously. "And how, exactly, are you going to explain the part about you being behind the wheel?" he questioned lightly.
Matt's brows creased, and he didn't reply. Instead, he took a running leap off the lip of the roof, doing a neat tuck and roll and popping to his feet on the building over.
Peter followed with an easy, wide jump, landing in a crouch at Matt's side. "That's what I thought," Peter snubbed.
But then his spidey sense flared, his eyes widened impossibly so, and he dove in front of Matt, who'd just started to turn around - too little, too late.
A sharp pain tore through his stomach, and Peter grunted as he collapsed to the ground, dragging Matt down with him as he fell, jerking against his shirt, hand fisted in the material over the man's chest.
"Fuck, Peter," Matt cursed on a breath, quickly dragging the teen behind a large ventilation shaft, keeping himself hunched over and out of the line of sight of another shot.
"'m aaaaall good," Peter replied, following it up with a strained, high pitched titter that cut off into a whine and voice sounding like he was balancing on the fine line between staying calm and going a bit hysterical.
Matt grabbed one of his hands and forcefully pressed it against the wound, making Peter groan and tip his head back against the cool metal behind him.
The sounds of orders being shouted echoed in the alley below.
Matt ripped his phone out of his pocket and pressed a button on it, barking out, "Call Frank," and holding more solidly against Peter's stomach with his other hand as another gush of blood seeped past both of their fingers.
It dialed twice, then picked up. "Red?"
"Are you in town?" Matt bit out.
"Yeah-"
Matt cut him off, snarling, "Bowler's - how far out are you from it."
"I can be there in five."
"Two."
"Two." The line clicked off.
"W's that M'ster Cas'le?" Peter slurred, blinking up at Matt with bleary eyes.
"Yeah, kid," Matt said shortly, nudging him a bit further in towards the other vent, forming a little alcove that couldn't be scoped out from the other roofs.
"Thouh' you said 'e wasn' 'ere," Peter replied, sliding downwards a bit before Matt hiked him back into an upright position.
"Wasn't sure," Matt told him, pressing harder against Peter's hand when he felt the teen's grip slacken. "You got those web shooters on, right?"
"Mm," Peter agreed, eyes closing for a moment too long.
Matt jostled him, and he blinked again, sluggishly, squinting a bit to look at the man. Matt grabbed his wrist, a bit floppy. "Can you shoot some over it for me?" he asked.
Peter smiled dopily, "'s wha' I do!" he cheered weakly, letting Matt shift both their other hands off the wound, whimpering at the sensation and the fresh fountain of blood that poured out of the now unstoppered bullet hole.
Matt aimed Peter's wrist at it and helped the teen press down on the button when his fingers refused to curl in with enough force, together managing to spray a web right over the wound. It immediately turned a faint pink in the center, but thankfully seemed to hold.
Peter's eyes blinked wide, and he stared at Matt like he'd just had an epiphany. "D," he said. Then waited for Matt to respond.
"Yeah, Pete?"
"Guess wh't?"
Matt exhaled through his nose. "What, Pete."
"'m-" he slapped a hand loosely against his own chest "-'m P.B.P, cuz, cuz, m' n'me," he started seriously. "'n - n' y're-" he let out a little laugh "y're mmmmmmmm cuz y're n'me," he continued, reaching out to boop Matt on the face, skewing it a bit but succeeding in smearing blood over the man's nose. Then he frowned, suddenly upset. "Buh' I w'nna b' P.B. J . so 'm p'nut b'tt'r j'lly 'n y're mmmmmmm cuz 's t'sty," he announced decidedly.
Matt, for the life of him, could not come up with a viable response.
Peter snorted loudly, staring up at Matt's face. "R'dlph," he said.
Matt closed his eyes, letting out a quick prayer.
An angry voice filtered in from below. "How the hell're we gonna get up there?"
"You tell me, man. I sure as hell ain't makin' that jump," someone else replied.
"Well, figure something out!" a third voice ordered.
Peter moaned, head lolling to the side and arms weakly struggling to push himself up further. Matt gripped him under the shoulder and helped tug him up, teeth clenched.
He exhaled sharply, and called Frank back.
"Yeah I'm here-"
"Don't kill them," Matt ordered.
"Excuse me?" Frank growled.
"Pl'se?" Peter slurred.
"Who the fuck was that? " Frank demanded.
"Not now, Frank," Matt grit out. "Just don't fucking kill them, alright? I'll explain later."
"Fine," Frank spat, hanging up.
Not a second later, the sound of a gun rapidly firing lit up the alley, followed by a cacophony of shouts and pained grunts as well as returning fire.
"Oh fuck oh fuck when the fuck did The Punisher get back-"
"Shit man please-"
"Screw this I'm outta here-"
"Aw heeeell naw-"
And then it ended. The sounds of gunshots halted, and only whimpers and cries of pain remained.
"You up there?" Frank called out.
"Yeah," Matt shouted back.
There was some scuffing, the sound of the same rusty fire escape being climbed, and then Frank landed on the roof, appearing a moment later from around the corner and coming to an abrupt stop at the sight he was met with - Matt, hands covered in blood and hunched over a kid with blood coating his hoodie and the ground beneath him.
"What the hell is this, Red?" Frank snapped, tucking a pistol into his waistband.
"'m Pe'er," Peter mumbled, shooting a lazy smile in Frank's direction.
Frank stared incredulously at him, lips parted as if to speak, then alternated from staring at Matt and the kid, like the picture that was being painted would somehow become clearer.
"He's shot," Matt pointlessly told him.
"No shit," Frank fired back, gesturing at the bloody mess and finally rushing forward to crouch beside the kid. "Why's he here?"
"'m Sbid'rm'n," Peter told him seriously, eyes drooping.
Frank pursed his lips, turning slowly to Matt. "He better not've just said what I think he said," he warned lowly.
Matt clenched his jaw and let out a frustrated breath through his nose. "You heard what he said, Frank. Now isn't the time for this. He's shot, and he's already lost enough blood."
Frank glowered at him for a moment longer, then tched, reaching behind the kid's back and below his knees and easily scooping him up. "Fuckin' light as shit," Frank muttered, trekking back over to the roof's edge.
Matt hummed, then grimaced. "That's not going to be an easy landing," he noted, gesturing to the wide gap between their building and back to the next.
Peter stirred in Frank's arms, head flopping out to face the ground. "Dumpst'r," he slurred happily.
Frank looked down, four stories below, where - sure enough - there was a dumpster full of black bags of trash.
"No," Matt immediately shot down.
"Yesssss," Peter replied, sagging further into Frank's hold.
"Maybe…" Frank started with a wince.
Peter shifted again, gesturing vaguely at one of his arms with the other. "'ve got -" he jabbed uncoordinatedly at his wrist "-webs," he finished.
"Webs?" Frank questioned.
"Webs," Peter blearily echoed back, falling slack again.
Matt shifted impatiently. "Can you make the jump, Frank?"
Frank grimaced. "Can't say for sure with the skewed weight distribution. And even if I did, there's no way of telling how we'd land, and it'd probably end up messing him up more than he already is," he pointed out grimly.
Matt scrubbed at his face roughly from behind his glasses. "Fuck. You know what. Alright." He shook Peter gently by the shoulder, gaining the kid's attention. "Pete, you think you can lower yourself down with a web?" he asked quietly.
Peter tilted his head. Hummed. "Mhmm," he agreed, then began wriggling in Frank's grip.
Frank set him down on the ground, but held him steady by the shoulders so he wouldn't tip. The webbing over his stomach had darkened, but had yet to bleed through.
Peter's brows furrowed, and his shoulders set. He shook himself slightly, face scrunching at the jolt of pain the move sent arcing up him, but he was starting to feel more awake than earlier, at least. The blood he'd lost was likely already beginning to replenish, as was was the norm with the perks of super healing. With that, this time he had the strength to thwip out a web on his own, catching on the roof right next to his feet. He didn't bother trying to attach it to the next roof over - he still wasn't in any condition to try swinging, and he'd probably just end up slamming into the brick wall.
Hence, web rappelling.
Keeping his hands sticky, Peter lowered himself over the edge of the roof, grabbing onto the web with both hands and pressing down on the button over his wrist to slowly release more webbing without snapping it, lowering himself down.
Frank and Matt both hovered above until he was out of reach, only then taking running jumps back to the other building and quickly scaling down the fire escape.
About three feet before he reached the dumpster, Peter's grip went slack and the web snapped, sending him into a short plummet onto the trash with a wind-knocked-out-of-his-chest 'oof' and a wheeze.
"Peter!" Matt called out, rushing over to the dump with Frank, who helped tug him out.
"I'm good," Peter told them with a dry cough, waving Frank off and managing to stand on his own, if somewhat shakily.
"You're good?" Frank questioned dubiously.
"Super-healing," Peter told him dismissively, ignoring the look he got for it and asking, "Sooo where to?"
"Well…" Matt started slowly. "Who usually patches you up?"
Peter stared blankly at him. Squinted. Gestured at himself.
"What the fuck," Frank muttered, pinching the bridge of his nose and squeezing his eyes shut.
"Hey! I've managed!" Peter retorted defensively, going to cross his arms but immediately stopping when it pulled at something over his wound.
"You've 'managed?'" Matt grit out, clenching his teeth. He turned on his heel abruptly. "Claire's. Yeah, I'll call Claire," he decided.
"Who's Claire?" Peter asked, moving to follow and making a sound of protest when Frank hoisted him back up in his arms. "I'm good dude," he told him, struggling weakly.
"Fuck that," Frank shot down, not even bothering to glance at Peter as he started up a steady pace at Matt's side.
Matt's phone droned as he called Claire.
"Matt?" she asked. "Foggy said you called him back, what's up?"
"Are you at home right now?" he asked.
"Yeah - you know I have Saturdays off," she replied, tone getting wary.
"Anyone there with you?" he asked.
"Matt-"
"It's not for me, Claire," Matt told her.
"Then why can't they go to the hospital?" she shot back.
Matt didn't answer straight away, and Peter shrugged his shoulders loosely, wincing. "If you trust her, so do I," he told the man.
Matt still hesitated for a moment, but acquiesced. "It's Spider-Man. He got shot," he told her, terse.
There was a brief moment of silence on the other end. Then a distorted sigh. "Spider-Man and Daredevil en route, got it," she said, already sounding world weary.
"And Frank," Matt added.
"Frank? - oh - oh Matt you gotta be shitting me," she hissed. "What, now I'm gonna patch up The Punisher too?"
"No, he's carrying Spider-Man," Matt told her.
Claire made a sound somewhere in between a laugh and a cry. "Of course he is. What even is my life at this point."
"I'll see you soon, Claire," Matt said.
"Yeah, yeah. See you," she dismissed, ending the call with a put upon sigh.
They all fell into a still sort of silence, Matt and Frank's paces even yet quick as they headed deeper into the Kitchen, sticking to back alleys and side streets.
Peter fiddled with his fingers, then let his head tip back so he could look up at Frank and meet the man's eyes.
"So," Peter drawled. "Ya like jazz?"