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The Lonely City

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Peter wasn't one to be called stupid, and he wasn't, but it happened when you were desperate, you happened to do stupid things. 

Calling Stephany was probably one of the most idiotic things he could have ever done. 

He still dreamt of Stephany. Only when he didn't dream of Teresa, and he started labeling the dreams he had of Stephany nightmares because they had him waking up in a panic and sweat, got him onto his knees, to get the bottles of whatever alcohol and cigarettes he had hidden under his bed hastily for a chance of distraction.

When he dreamt of his sister he woke up, but couldn't move. The mere thought of drinking or smoking brought shame, and he'd drink water only, once his bones started working again, and go on throughout his day unbearably sober, every one of his positive actions was only acted out, as he dissociated inside his body. 

The only thoughts that calmed him down, after a night of nightmares, were that of common sense: he no longer had to be associated with her. He no longer was associated with her. 

She wasn't apart of his life anymore, but after a lot of thinking, he wasn't sure why he didn't let her be. 

Okay. So, he has to look at it like this: before the entire "your dad is Tony Stark" thing, Peter was a celebrity. He was famous. People loved him. 

Because he was confident. 

Peter didn't care what people thought about him. If he was in a room full of strangers he'd adapt immediately. He owned the room when he entered it. And he still did. 

But here was the thing, this entire new family was nothing like his. He wouldn't call it stable, but it was more normal than the likes of his past families. It's easy to adapt to yes, but exhausting to be in.  

He can't stress this enough: he's exhausted. 


He's tired of the inside jokes he doesn't get. The realization that everything he had ever done because he was a "Parker" was a load of bullshit. Of Morgan Stark who reminded him so much of Teresa when she was younger that he avoided her at all costs. Of Harley Stark, who was as much of a snotty rich confident kid that everyone described him as. 

The home he now lived in was with a family, a family that had taken him in, him, a huge burden to Tony definitely who had wanted nothing to do with him, and for the first time in his life, Peter felt out of place. He never left his room, because being around the rest caused a pain in his chest that became unbearable after a while. He never had breakfast, lunch or dinner with them. He avoided their family and friends. 

There was nothing in the world that made him even want to be around them. So he invited friends over, had them stay in his room, and would only be around the others if he had someone of his own with him. Harry, Gwen, Liz, Cassidy, some models, billionaire/millionaire's children, etc. 

He didn't prioritize them, Harley, Tony, Morgan, or Pepper, any good excuse he had to not be around them he used, taking advantage of the fact he played too many sports, had school then night classes. 

No familiarity was there, he never let them predict him, never stayed happy for too long or content for too many days or serious or caring or mature. Never in a row, and he didn't make a pattern of it. 

The decorations in his room changed every day, and even though Teresa's books had been framed, Gwen's drawings, and the signed posters, he made sure they didn't believe he believed in sentiment. The look of surprise was always on their face when it came to him, and he was glad.  

So maybe there was Gwen and Harry there. Harry and Gwen who cared a lot about him, who he considered family, but they had lives of their own, as did he.  

Stephany was the only familiar face that had to do anything with a family that he had left.

She was also the only person he hated. And she was all he had left. 

That fact got tiresome aswell. 

So that night came. 

Her on top of him. Her beating him. Her drawing blood with her teeth. Her kissing him. 

Except. He'd run out of alcohol. 

And cigarettes. 

That never happened. 

After his nap, he woke up. Five thirty in the afternoon, he listened to the sounds of his family outside and looked at the window, one that had a long thick seat flush beside it, a comfortable mattress on it, where Harry was laying down, also asleep. It was weird how similar their lifestyles were. Harry was just as tired at Peter, he was sure of it now. 

Sitting up, he let his feet fall to the floor before he got on his knees and reached under his bed, pulling the wooden box that held all of his essentials. When he took off the lids he reached in and grabbed the first things on top.

He paused. 

Peter stared at his hand and the empty bottles, and the empty cigarette boxes scattered around the floor, then he saw red, as he clenched his fists around one bottle and it smashed like a glass window on his palm. 

He wasn't angry about the empty objects. More about the realization of how dependent he'd become on them. 

Leaving a note for Harry, Peter moved slowly, he stood back up, pulled on appropriate clothes for the weather outside, before he grabbed his wallet and strutted out his room, snatching a pair of sunglasses on his way out as an afterthought. 

It was late, he shouldn't be going out, but Peter had missed the night strolls through Queens.

Tony and Pepper agreed it was way too dangerous to be strolling around Queens late, so Peter wasn't to go out like that anymore but Harley was in his room, Morgan was occupying Pepper and Tony's attention as a newborn, so they wouldn't know. 

He should have gone walking, through the rain if he needed to, then he probably would have not taken out his phone and called her. With the traffic, he would have gotten to store in a quicker time if he'd gone walking, Queens was only a few blocks away after all, but Pete felt that day, it was best he took a cab. 

Of course, he got to thinking. 

He thought about Teresa, and how ashamed she would have been if she were there, and then those thoughts formed, morphed, sculpted, etc. into something else and somehow he got it in his head that the only way for Teresa to forgive him, is if he reconnected with Stephany.  

They used to be good friends, Stephany and Teresa. May once commented on how they could have been sisters with how well they got along. Peter tried to notice whether or not that was true, but when Stephany was around, he became too distracted. 

A coward, to best, put it. And when you fear everything, you tend to forget you're surroundings as well. 

(Calling her, Peter would later realize, seemed to be the first raindrop before the storm.) 

There were so many things that he could have done in that cab ride. Just read the damn book he bought on the kindle app, but there he was, holding his phone up to his ear instead, listening to the ring. 

He thought hoped that she'd changed her number. He hadn't, but he thought hoped that she'd deleted his. 

Stephany picked up on the third ring. The click was the sounds of the gates to hell opening and Peter sighed, forcing a smile as if Teresa were there to see it herself. 


She spoke so softly, so... timidly, it took him by surprise. 

He wondered what happened to her beauty. He still saw her in magazines, but he knew she changed, looked different under the coverup makeup. She must have aged like fine wine within the year of distress. 

Her voice did. 

"Peter? Love-" her voice cracked, and he heard rustling, as she stood from where she was sitting, lay, or leaning "it's been so long," she sobbed. 

"Yes, sorry, it has, I'm so sorry,"

"So long," she repeated as if she hadn't heard him. 

What happened to her? 

When he saw her last, at that damn funeral, that day, it turned officially a year since it all happened, since they died, he's been there to watch her dress. Her face was broken, the tears smearing her make-up as she put on her clothes, the blotchiness of her face, Peter handed her her coat, then left without another word. No one was there to tell him to wait for her. He never wanted to. 

She'd loved Ben. She loved him so much, too much. She could have cared less about Teresa, and how she had suffered when she found out Ben would no longer be there to kiss her, and that Ben would no longer be there to force Peter to kiss her, to pretend to love her. 

It was a split second desition. He made it so impulsively, he laughed to himself before he even made it. 

"I'm coming over, give me half an hour," then he hung up. 

Like he'd said, he was exhausted. 

Keeping up a front for his new family was hard. His mental health was damaged more than ever now, according to his researches, and he needed comfort. It was selfish that he'd phoned up Stephany, and decided to worry about his state than hers. 

When he got to her home, he knocked on the door five times and heard her say "I'm coming," twice as many times as he knocked and listened to her scramble around the room, putting things away and fluffing the pillows. 

When she opened the door Peter saw a woman who had aged a thousand years just by looking into her eyes but also saw a young woman in her late twenties, radiant, and now with a ring on her finger.

The entire affair happened a month after Ben's death. Stephany married a semi-famous actor, and when Peter walked in, his assumptions were made clear, as he laid eyes on the said actor on the floor, a syringe sticking from between his toes. 

He stepped inside, left the bottle and pack of cigarettes on the table, then turned and looked at Stephany.

She was modestly dressed. She must have just canceled plans for dinner. Her hair was styled in a bun, curls framing her face, long dangling earrings on, and she had a v-neck white silk dress on. Her heels were the ones she wore for nights out. Peter knew. He remembered her coming over when Ben was still alive, and always looking at her shoes to see whether or not she was planning on fucking or just going out in the city. 

"Let's have dinner," he insisted. It's not like she resisted, even a little bit. Her hand reached to her right, and she grabbed a coat, hastily slipping it on as well as her shoes. He watched her try to balance herself but also act neutral. It wasn't working.  

Finally, she was on both of her feet again. She stepped out and closed the door behind her. Peter turned and they silently walked down the hallways, the stairs, and sat in an uber together that would take them to a restaurant in the Bronx. 

Paparazzi were everywhere stationed in Manhattan, waiting for Peter or Tony to be seen together, even a year later, the world wasn't over the Stark Son scandal. There were greater things to worry about, but all the world wanted to know was the reason Peter didn't follow Tony, Pepper, or Harley Stark back on his social media sights. 

They sat directly under a chandelier, beside a window that had a great view, and finally, he met her gaze, as the waiter served them wine. Her favorite, chateau cheval blanc 1961 because Peter thought it was the only apology Peter could mean. 

"How are you," was the first thing she asked once the waiter had left, "I mean, with the entire reveal," 

Bringing the glass of wine up to his lips, he bobbed his head as he took a couple of gulps, "I've told you about my beliefs about Stark Industries and their history, but coming from the Starks isn't worse than growing up as a Parker," 

Her expression saddened, and she reached forward, placing her hand over his before he pulled it away. 

"And how are you then," he asked, motioning towards her ring, "married life is difficult," 

"It's always supposed to be," she mumbled, then started to slowly take her ring off, tucking it away in her coat pocket. 

He'd give it a few more months before they got a divorce. The press would love this. They'd love him if he told them about it, but the more of his wine that he drank the less he cared. 

Richard had never met Stephany, but he was sure, if he had, they would have been a perfect match. Stephany being so bold yet so compliant, and Richard being so silent and thirsty for sex and knowledge, they would have been perfect together. 

She was so pathetic, Peter decided, so very pathetic, but maybe she wasn't always this way. Maybe she wasn't always this pathetic or a sadist, or so willing to take off her wedding ring, to mary a man after only weeks of knowing him. 

Nothing changed. 

They had dinner, then stepped out, and he walked her back home, where her husband had left a note telling her he was going to San Fransico for a week, and her face was still as nonchalant as ever. 

When she slipped off her dress, his sixth sense blared immediately, but he already knew what was coming. 

But this time it was his choice. 

This time, she had no control over him, it was he who had control. There was nothing to tie him up with, his uncle was no longer around, and she could no longer beat him, or make him feel weak, or punish him. He went through years of torture and because of the pain; he learned. 

In a year she hadn't changed, not in her personality, not the way she looked, not her confidence, but what had changed was that he was no longer hers. 

He stepped away when she started to descend upon her, and he glared, rejecting her with just his body language. Because it was his choice now. 

"Who else?" he asked.

She looked bewildered and hurt as she pulled on a robe that was tossed on her couch. 

"What do you mean?" she asked, "Peter-" 

"You're sick Stephany," he spat, "sick, what other kid have you molested and raped, who else? Do I even want to know how many?" 

Her look was filled with fear, her eyes filled with realization. 

"You didn't like-"

He left, slamming the door behind him. 

Maybe he didn't like change, but she wasn't worth it. Teresa, wherever she was, would just have to deal with that. 


"Where were you?" Harry asked when Peter stepped into the room, "Tony came in, and for every subtle insult I threw his company's way, he always had a comeback, I needed backup, but you were somewhere else, doing god knows what," 

Peter smiled, and went back to his box, taking out the empty bottles and filling them with some soil he picked up along the way, dropping in a rose seed. 

"I was buying more alcohol and cigarettes, if you want some, they're in the brown bag," he said, motioning to said bag he placed next to the door when he stepped inside. Harry whooped and moved toward it. 

"Where do you even get this stuff?" he sighed dreamily as he took out the vodka that had become his favorite over time. It was one of the five bottles of alcohol he brought back with him. The rest being wine and whiskey only, because yeah Peter liked vodka but wine and whiskey were just always up there while vodka was a second reluctant choice Peter made when he was at the liquor store. 

Placing the bottle directly under the sun that shone through the window, he took the jug of water he kept on his desk and watered it before turning back and handing Harry a card. 

"Just tell them I sent you and they'll hand whatever you want right over," he said. 

Harry took the card and stuffed it in his pants pocket, then continued to uncap the vodka bottle, sniff the top, moan, then take a couple of sips. His antics were dramatic, to say the least, but they made Peter smile none the less. 

"Oh, you're dad also wanted to ask if you could babysit tonight or something because the nanny can't come until eight p.m and Tony and Pepper can't find a nanny on such short notice and have enough time to inform them of all of Morgan's needs or something," Harry informed him, "I can stay with too if you'd like," 

"Harley will be here indefinitely before some of his classmates come over for his birthday party," Peter said. 

"Oh yeah," Harry nodded, "Tony also implied that you'd also have to babysit them too," 

"He thinks I'm so mature," Peter said with every hint of sarcasm he could shove into his tone, "but here I am, letting you drink vodka," 

"Letting?" he said, arching a brow. 

"If I was mature," Peter explained, "then I would take it away, but I'm the one who brought you the vodka, seriously could you drink any quicker?" 

Harry continued to gulp down the liquid inside, rolling his eyes as a reply. Ruining his body, wonderful, Peter was never able to because of his quick healing and metabolism. 

You shouldn't wish for that

Peter ignored the voice instead. 

"Why do you have a stuffed animal on your desk?" Harry asked all of a sudden. 

"Hmm" Peter turned to look at what Harry was looking at "Oh that's Nemo, I keep him there to help my mental health," Peter said looking at the orange and white fish his dad brought back the day after his birthday because he'd missed Peter's actual birthday. 

"How does he help you?" Harry said, walking over and picking him up. 

"He helps keep me sane," Peter said wisely. 

A look of understanding came over Harry's face and he nodded. Which was kind of weird, cause when he told Mary Jane she gave him a weird look. This was understandable, again, he and Harry lived a pretty similar precarious childhood. He was pretty sure the brown pottery tea set on display in Harry's room was what kept him sane. It used to be his mother's. The set was ancient and needed to be used every day to be kept intact. 

Peter understood why it kept Harry sane. 


"God I hate America," Peter mumbled under his breathe. 

It's midnight by then. The nanny has arrived, the party is over, and Peter's reading an article about a thirteen-year-old boy who was shot by a male, white cop while he played basketball with a couple of friends. 

Of course, this wasn't entirely America's fault. But still. 

He took a quick shower, and as he was walking to his closet, he looked up, stopped and noticed just how much his room had changed, and how beautiful the view from his room was.  

The night sky was very pretty, he thought, though he was very upset about the light pollution. 

For a while, when Peter was younger, he dreamed of becoming a writer. Not a biologist, or an engineer, or an astronomer, which is what Richard suggested when Peter said he wanted to write about the stars, he wanted to be a writer, but that had been completely unacceptable. He couldn't be a writer. 

You're stupid to think writers are successful. They're foolish, idiotic sons and daughters of bitches. Read the books they write for you Peter but don't become a writer. 

It was a dream crushed, and Peter stopped wanting to be a writer after he became a soccer player, a trainy, a scatter, a singer, a football player, a genius, a physician, a chemist, the list went on, but with the number of dreams and paths Richard and Ben piled onto him grew, and after a long time, Peter forgot what he liked and disliked. 

Now, Peter gave less of a fuck about the things he was or would be.  

He forgot how to write novels. Forgot how to write poetry. No longer wondered about the stars because he knew all of the science behind them. 

Light pollution bothered him. So he turned off his phone. But the moment he turned it off, he started getting a call. 

An unknown number. 

He ignored it, sat down at his desk, opened his laptop, and opened a document. 

He'd write something, but keep it to himself. 

There was a click, then rapid breathing. 

Peter turned, stood up to grab his phone. 

"Peter?" Monica breathed.  

He recognized her voice instantly. 

It was Monica's voice. His friend he hadn't seen in years. 

His phone was old, crappy, and even though he'd wanted to hear from her for a long time, he was a little upset he hadn't updated his phone, or modified it, put Karen inside to block out these problems. 

"You sound unsure," Peter said, trying to act nonchalant, "how have you-" 

"They know," she said, cutting him off with her raspy voice," Hydra's revealed itself, Captain America exposed Hydra hiding inside of S.H.I.E.L.D, and the Black Widow is threatening to expose all info on secret hidden assets apart of Hydra. There's information about you Peter. About Richard's experiments, your training-" 

He went from being okay to dreading taking another breath.

Those phrases, the blood drained from their faces, his gut twisted inside his stomach, a stone-cold feeling set in the bit of her abdomen, it's what he felt. 

Every feeling in his face was replaced by a hard numbness, and suddenly Peter remembered why he gave a fuck about what people thought about him. 

He sat down, rapidly moving to his laptop again, opening up a tab then getting to work. It took twenty seconds to hack into S.H.I.E.L.D's database, even though there were walls up everywhere, he managed to get rid of the trace of the hacking too just in time, then hacking into the Hydra database hidden inside S.H.I.E.L.D's before searching up Parker. 

What she'd said was true. Everything was there. As well as separate test subjects connected to Peter. 

What he found was something worse than finding out how many children had endured the same pain caused by Stephany. At least, at that moment. 

Ben Reily. Jessica Drew. The most recent besides Peter. Kaine Parker. 

Teresa, Harley, and Morgan Stark weren't his only half-siblings, what he found made his run blood cold and every idea that his Richard had been even a little bit of a decent human being flushed out of his mind as he flitted through file after file on failed experiments on toddlers. His siblings. 

"The world will know. Everyone will be able to just search the truth up Peter, erase it." Monica demanded more than suggested," Get rid of it, now! Don't let this ruin your life, I left, so I wouldn't ruin my future, but in a while, the world will know everything I did for these sick fuckers, but that's okay, because I'll be dead, erase it, do it now before someone finds out. I need to go. They've found me. Erase it. Do as I suggest, you won't regret it," 

No, he probably wouldn't.

She'd hung up.

There was no time to try and contact her.  

He couldn't get rid of this.

Of the locations of Hydra bases around the world. Every Hydra agent in the world. Everything, experiments, assets, mission reports, everything associated with Hydra. Not before he made copies, not before he saved them. 

And that he did. 

He saved everything. The thousands of files, he saved, downloading them onto Karen's database to be protected. Then he erased all trace of his and Monica's conversation before he continued to erase all her history, but kept her life's work. 

Every bit of it was gone from the database, but he traced the call. 

Where was his friend now? 

Close. New Jersey. Paterson. 

It took a little over half an hour to get from Manhattan to Paterson in New Jersey. The base was hidden under the floor of a bridge. Once his suit had formed around him, he caved his way inside the base. Or what he thought was a base. 

The base turned out to be a safe house, and it took no time to get in. The door was wide open, but the fourteen Hydra agents made it kind of difficult, but it took mere moments to knock them out and enter Monica's compromised hideout. 

Whatever the Hydra agents on the computers were looking for, they wouldn't find it. Everything was gone and his, Karen was programmed to override anything that tried to override those files. 

"Hey guys, I'm sorry, but I'm gonna have to step on your moment here, all I need to know is where Monica is, then I'll be on my-" then they started shooting at him, like what the fuck guys? Tell me where my friend is, there was no need for this. 

They all hung from the ceiling at the end, the blood rushing to their head. Whatever. 

When they were all silent enough, when they were all out of his way, that's when he began to look. 

He observed his surroundings. Thought about how long Monica must have spent here while also still thinking about Ben, Jessica, Kaine, over and over again, he saw their little bodies that never got to grown. 

Then, as he walked down a hallway, a sudden realization came to him that maybe they weren't dead, that the 'failed experiment' label just meant they never received the powers. Maybe. 

He found a photo oh himself in a frame, picked it up, looked at it and remembered the day they took it. Her apartment, both of them laying back on the bed, then he put it down, and quickened his pace, looking for Monica. She'd missed him enough to keep a photo of him displayed, he needed to place those thoughts of his siblings aside because he was here on a mission and one mission only. 

To help his friend. To save his friend. 

But that little flicker of hope that Monica might have been gagged to be taken as hostage later went out when he found her. They probably had been planning on doing that. She knew it too, so the bullet through her head was probably her idea of an escape.  

Peter should have snapped out of the shock he'd been in as he spoke to her on the phone to tell her to be patient, to wait for him, to tell her he'd go to hell and back to find her and make sure she'd be safe again, except in a much better sturdier safe house. Somewhere in Alaska or London. In one of the many apartments, houses, estates that he had inherited from his mother', his father's, his uncle's, and his aunt's will. 

There was no denying her death. 

It was there, in the way her head lolled in a horrible angle because one of the agents that found her took out their frustrations by shaking her body. There were too many signs indicating that. It was most likely because of those actions that she was drained of all her flood. The angle she was placed in had all the blood flowing out like a waterfall. 

She looked the same, he realized, as he placed her body in the center of the bed, and wrapped the bedsheets around her body. 

Her hair was still black, her skin was still pale. 

He'd missed her. 

Though he only knew her for a little bit, she'd been a mentor. She'd taught him all about physics, calculus, introduced him to Jane Eyre, and Thai take out.  

He'd never talk about her. She was apart of a past she'd helped him get rid of before the world found out. 


He buried her in Queens. 

Somewhere to the side of the graveyard. No one would be buried there again. The Parker line was possibly dead, and he was sure if Kaine was alive, he wouldn't want to be associated with the Parkers. 

But it turned out when Peter got back home at four in the morning and dug a little deeper into whatever was inside the files, the fact they were 'failed experiments' meant they were disappointments. They were drugged. Each died at the age of three. 

Peter felt so stupid for loving Richard Parker once. And he felt so stupid for mourning Monica when it turned out, she'd been in on it since the beginning. NYU STEM field major my ass, twenty-two years old, my stupid ass, he thought, she died at the age of thirty-five after a lifetime of cruelty working for Hydra. 

When she made a mistake, accidentally killed a Head of Hydra with a failed experiment of her own, she'd gone into hiding. 

He thought she cared about him. 

What a load of bullshit. 

Peter moved. 

It was weird to state that because he was thirteen, but he had inherited a penthouse apartment in Massachusetts. Only a few months before college he decided he would just start to settle down there. 

He was studying law at Harvard for a year, majoring in Law, Business, History, Philosophy, and Art,(which wasn't even supposed to be allowed but Peter was very ahead with all the separate classes at NYU he took during high school). 

And Peter would be going to Standford in his second year of college, to Major in Biology, Chemistry, Economics, Human rights, and Sociology. For the two years, he would study at Standford in California he'd be staying in a house that used to belong to his mother's, but of course, he wouldn't be worrying about that until his year after Harvard. 

Then to Yale for a year to major in Mechanical Engineering, Psychology, Astrophysics, Political Science and Mathematics. There he'd be living in a large estate near the university, that used to be Richard's grandfather's house. 

In his final year, at MIT, he'd major in Computer science, Engineering, Physics, Biological Engineering, Electrical Engineering, and an extra class; which what the hell was the point, he'd probably be dead by then with stress; Chemical Engineering. There he'd be staying in a manor, that belonged to the late Genavine Parker, his great, great grandmother, Richard and Ben's mother, a place they were raised in. 

It was all very confusing, but Peter thought it would be much simpler if he just lived in those houses, instead of student dorms, and socialized with the Stark's only when necessary as not to ruin Tony's reputation as a good father. 

Though there was particular rage over Tony allowing his son to move. People felt bad for Peter and called Tony, a bitch for abandoning Peter then kicking him out to soon after taking him in, and even though Peter never wanted to cause that type of ruckus, he knew it would come, and knew how to calm it. 

Stark Industries stocks went back up and even higher than before and Peter managed to even make himself believe the lie he told the press. 

("Mr. Stark has been a great help to me the past year with coping on my recent family loss," Peter said and leaned on the pedestal, looking at everyone, "a pain, I'm sure, many know well, and though many consider Mr. Stark's actions wrongdoings when he decided to not acknowledge me the first twelve years of my life as his son to the word or press, simply is because at the time he had his problems to deal with, though not external but internal. 

He understood no part of him could consider fatherhood, and my mother had only consoled him when she conceived out of respect, and her idea that the father had a right to know about their child." 

They were quick. They seemed the seagulls or starved pigeons, and the reason they were so desperate to get information about this situation was that the entire time he'd been silent about it. Up until now. 

Casandra Maya, a reporter from The New York's Time was quick on her feet, her pen pointed in the air, she stood out, definitely, so he nodded in her direction. 

"Mr. Stark," she said, calling attention to herself, "how do you feel about the fact he'd take on another son a year later, then marry, and now has a newborn daughter, seemingly not caring for your wellbeing as if pushing you aside and proving a point that he has moved on from you, and merely wants to raise his own family, marking you as an intrusion on his hideous part," 

Peter sighs, smiling on his part. 

"Well, you see Miss Maya, I'm quite glad I was raised in a separate family, though grateful for Tony Stark's, because in the Parker family, I was raised to listen, not just to talk back, but to understand,"

He was passive-aggressively calling her a drama queen, and so that got him an applaud,") 

It did make him think though, and it turned just into another better reason to move. 

The thing is, Peter needed to take on a roommate. 

He wouldn't be able to handle living alone in a penthouse apartment, he admitted it pretty soon once he'd stepped into the apartment. It was large, of dark colors, and hollow. 

More people than not were more than willing to pay just rent for the cost of a room, but girls and boys wanted too much, wanted a little more than just living with him, they wanted to have parties there, Peter refused, they wanted to sleep in Peter's bed with him; though mostly the girls were bold enough to say that, and they obviously wanted other things out of Peter, and his fame. 

At the end of the day, there was no one worth taking on as a roommate, until he met Jessica Jones. 

Not very social, she was studying English, Film, History, Engineering, and Anthropology. The only deal she wanted was a larger TV. She loved the Netflix show Peaky Blinders, preferred a larger screen to see it on. And, she was fifteen. 

When he moved, he took the chance to change the style of his room. 

The walls in the room in his tower were white, but the room there was burgundy color, and he only brought dark mahogany shelves, to store his books and binders. The only instrument he brought was his violin. 

His shets were kept a navy blue, and he had a Harvard banner hanging over his bed. 

He left the rest to his interior designer. 

It was pretty similar to hers, maybe that's why they had pretty similar ideas for the living rooms. The couches were leather and the one on the first floor, were black, on the second red. The curtains were dark green and the walls were grey. 

They got along fine. 

She was secretive, and he didn't push her, and he was too, she didn't care. 

Even with everything going on, moving, Hydra all over the place, college, he still had a bunch of Spiderman business. 

One of many he had had to do with Hydra. 

First of all, he had no desire to work with S.H.I.E.L.D what so ever. Hydra, Peter was convinced, was nothing different from S.H.I.E.L.D, and obviously, Nick Fury had no idea who he was supposed to trust. 

When he contacted Peter he was taking a huge risk, because it took little time as he stayed longer and longer on the call, to figure out Fury had no idea Peter himself had been training to be a Hydra agent. 

Well, he more or so just contacted Spiderman. 

Or he more or so sent an agent to contact him. 

It was unexpected, to say the least. Jessica was going out, to have dinner with her sister or something, and Peter had a lead on a missing kid named James Shelby.  

He was seventeen and had been last seen with his friends on Coney Island, then he hitchhiked home but wasn't seen again. His parents wanted their son back, but Peter was beginning to fear, from where the leads were taking him, that he'd have to bring them back a dead body. 

His feet led him to an apartment complex. He'd tracked James' phone, in a car that was parked there in the building, found the owner of the car and raided the apartment. The phone was in a drawer, and as he'd dreaded, it was matted in blood. 

Quick, walking through the apartment one more time he found recipes online, of a plane ticket recently bought for a trip to San Diego. The mess of clothes in the grand room indicated panicked packing. 

Classic murder. 

Peter left the building, only James's phone in his backpack sealed inside of a plastic bag. 

Then, Maria Hill was pushing him up against a wall, shoving a taser against him. 

"Were you ever not working for S.H.I.E.L.D," Peter asked as he lightly shoved her off, grabbed her the taser and threw it into the street. 

Maria sighed, "we've contacted you multiple times, and you didn't respond once," 

Peter made a face under his mask and shrugged, throwing up his arms, "I'm busy trying to solve murder honey, potential serial killer, I have a deadline, so there's no time to waste," then he tried to move past her. 

She threw a punch, he deflected it obviously, but it startled him. 

"Dude," he said, pushing her away, "what do you want?" 

Reaching into her pocket she proceeded to retrieve her phone, tapped the screen a couple of times then showed it to him. 

"That's you isn't it?" she asked, scrolling past photos of him in his suit in that safe home that had belonged to Monica. Him knocking out the agents, they must have located the safe house and found them upside down. There was a short video of him picking Monica up, carrying her bridal style away. "You were infiltrated with a Hydra agent from the looks of it, why?" 

Looking harder at the photo, Peter just sighed. "Old mentor, or just a friend I guess. Said she was a college student, I believed her. When she went missing, I located her there following leads. It's what I do. A Hydra agent you say?" 

So suddenly, she found out overestimating him was a bad idea even though it was a good one, but still. Peter Parker and Spiderman were completely different people. 

Clearing her throat, she nodded, "understandable. We're offering you a position-" 

Leaning away he looked at her up and down, "are you one of them?" 

She instantly got what he was referring to, moving forward she rested her hand on his arm, "no, Spiderman, not in the least," she said firmly. He trusted no one, but still, she sounded genuine, "but here's the thing, you're an enhanced operative. We'll pay you full time for the work we need you to do. Raid Hydra bases. Find moles. " 

Clicking his tongue, he moved away, "Aren't those the jobs the Avengers handle? And how the hell do you know you can trust me?" 

Maria stepped away from him, "You find children for their parents for free. You've paid for rehabs, paid hospital bills. To many. You'll need this money, for what we're guessing, to pay even more. We don't know if we can trust you, but we know you're good at what you do. Right now, at this moment, we have very little allies that haven't turned against us already. We're willing to take blind shots,"

"That's a bad idea. You really shouldn't do that with most people," he advised. "I'd know," The look she gave him was calculating, but she couldn't see, his face was masked. He left without another word. 

This was the last missing child case he would be taking in a while. With college starting up, he wouldn't have the time. 

What he found in San Diego was worse than he thought. 

It ruined his day for sure, to see a boy, seventeen, naked, sprawled on a bed, only white sheets covering his lower body. Very much alive, though breathing slowly, his eyes staring into the distance, into the void that seeped back in. 

Hickeys. Bruises. He resisted from his assaulters. Looking at him, Peter wondered if his mother was right when she said he was seventeen. He was small, thin, pale, body feminine, but shoulders broad. Didn't play aggressive sports like football, soccer, or basketball, maybe tennis. 

Linda, his mother, described him as a kind, loving person. Stepping towards him, Peter placed a hand on the mattress, shifting the gloves of his hands so they disappeared and he placed his hand on the pulse of his neck. 

James shuddered, but otherwise, he didn't move. 

Putting pressure against the pulse, Peter began to rub it. Sometimes Peter used his Hydra training, especially in situations like these, but he hadn't had a rape yet, it worked all the same. He'd been approached aggressively every time, it seemed, his immediate reaction to gentle intimacy was to sob and curl into himself. 

"I'm gonna get you out of here," he said, wrapping his arms around his chest and bringing him up so he was in a sitting position. 

Slowly, they dressed him. It's not like Peter expected this, he certainly didn't want to dress the kid in his rapist's clothes. He had a change of clothes in his backpack. So he gave his boxers to the boy and then helped him pull on the sweats and the shirt, which hung on him, too big for his scrawny structure. 

There was no time to shop for other clothes, though he wished there were. 

He took him to the doctors to get a checkup. He was tested for STD's but thankfully came back negative for every single one. 

His mother was released to see him again, destressed to find out how he'd been found, where he was found, and the state he was in. 

Peter didn't need money, didn't waste it, James would need it, for therapy, college, because Peter insisted he couldn't let this ruin it. Columbia, a scholarship. The money was for books, supplies, etc. 

No, he didn't need money. 

Yet when she called her three hours later, on the old untrackable phone he kept, for a small mission, he took it. The money was transferred once he'd accepted the assignment.  

Siberia here we come. 


They threw a graduation party. 

Of all the foolish things to do, they threw him a graduation party, because of course, they didn't know any better. It was still very annoying because Peter had never had one before because his family knew him well. Or well, Ben knew he could have cared less for one. 

It was hosted there in the tower, a ball of some sort, and Peter was filled with anxiety the entire event, people coming up to congratulate him.

The only people he knew there, in a close way, not just models he'd slept with or male models he'd fooled around with, but people he knew and that was his adoptive family. Gwen was Arizona, visiting family, Mary Jane was in Colorado, and Harry was in Paris, modeling for something. 

Besides Harry, the entire rest of the people seemed to just be a stunt of some sort. Bring some type of good attention to Tony and his perfect family or whatever. 

He'd never felt so angry in his life, so upset, but also so aware of his ungratefulness. 

This was a party for the top layer he showed everyone, and he knew, this could have all been avoided if he'd just been less paranoid of everything.  

He played one of his most iconic cards. Out of desperation, he did something very stupid, but at the same time, he also found out some very valuable information. 

He flirted. 

But this time, it was with a boy. 

Henry Harper is fourteen, quiet, but charmingly shy. He's tall, two inches shorter than Peter, almost lean, but not exactly. His hair is brown, fluffy, and his face is chiseled, eyes hazel in the light, and then a chocolate brown in the dark. 

Some time in the middle of the night, he becomes a subject of Peter's attention, it's not like he rejects Peter either. He blushes when Peter compliments his eyes, his skin, the light look on his neck and when Peter says he'd just love to feel it under his lips. 

There is a reaction in his body when Peter brings a drink up to his lips, makes him drink it out of Peter's hand, and the look in Peter's eyes when he licks his lips. 

Instant attraction.

Peter likes him. There's no doubt about it. Everything about him he likes. The way he speaks so passionately about Edward Hopper, Andy Warhol, and The Bohemians. 

Jane Austen if her favorite author, but Jane Eyre is his favorite book, and Peter argues that that can't be possible, but Henry argues that he can. They talk about the future, about how Peter is going to Harvard and Henry aspires to join Oxford, surly to study Atmospheric, Oceanic, and Planetary Physics.  

It's new and exciting. Peter hasn't in a long time, thought back to his other thoughts about his sexuality. He knows now it can't be a cause. You're born this way. He knows there's an attraction to girls in him, but Henry is irresistible, he has to admit that. 

It's not his first time having sex, but it's his first time with a boy three hours later. He knows Henry is inexperienced, it's his first time with anyone. Peter's glad, unsure if he did it with some other boy they would know as much about safety when it comes to male and male sex as he does. 

Peter uses a condom, uses lube, makes it worth Henry's while. 

Two weeks later, when Henry is across the world, back in London where he came from for the party as his father's guest, Peter slides down the wall of his room and laughed. 

Reading the article again, Peter continues his giggles, continues his hyperventilating. 

When he posted the I'm Gay and stronger than any of you so don't try anything, the post attracted a lot of attention. 

It was his Instagram account that had over a hundred million followers, his Instagram account that was blank, not one post except the new one. Articles, posts, tweets, or whatever filled the internet in milliseconds. 

The "I'm sorry, I couldn't find one that said, 'I'm Bisexual and stronger than any of you so don't try anything' so this will do, under it was mentioned more than once in these. Harry, Gwen, and Mary Jane have called him too many times to count, texted him his congratulations for coming out.

Tony has called him more than all of his friend's calls and texts together. 

Tossing his phone to the side he snorted when Jessica walked into the room, balancing five short glasses, before plopping onto the ground and letting Peter arranged them on the ground to be filled with vodka, one that was cheap, because Jessica could afford only that, but Peter didn't care. Sure, he'd only ever had expensive vodka, but he never cared about the taste, because there was never really any effect. 

Jessica felt it immediately, her face scrunching up and eyes tearing up a little bit, as Peter laughed. 

"I'm older than you, but somehow you're more experienced than me, care to explain," she said, as picked the bottle up and refilled the glass. 

Sighing Peter shook his head, "Nah," he said, "I ain't saying shit," he replied, taking two shots at a time. 

Swallowing, Jessica nodded towards his phone, then kicked it towards Peter. 

"Answer, I'm bored, maybe something interesting will happen," 

Not checking to see who was calling, Peter picked up the phone and answered the call, holding it up to his ear as he drank his drink, looking pointedly at his roommate, smiling lazily and rolling his eyes. 

"What the fuck, Peter?" Tony's voice said, coming out angry, frustrated and irritated. 

"Hello love, what's up?" Peter replied, holding the phone away and putting it on speaker for Jessica to hear. If it got nasty, then it would get nasty. It would be interesting because to be true, Peter was also very bored. 

"You can't do this Peter, okay, you can't joke around like this-" Tony started but Peter made an offending sound, scoffing to cut Tony off. 

"Mr. Stark, you think so little of me," Peter sighed, "I'm not capable of joking around about that. It's inappropriate to do so. Unless it's true and in my defense it is. Do you happen to have a problem with that Stark?" he asked. 

"No. Peter, not at all," came a rushed reply, as Tony tried to reassure him. "It's just, the board isn't happy, they're afraid it'll affect the stocks,"

With one look her way, Jessica understood, nodding as Peter stood up and took the call off of the speaker, leaving the room, walking into the common area, coming to stand in front of the large windows, overlooking streets filled with traffic. 

"Right. The stocks," he mumbled, pulling the phone away, putting it back on the speaker as he went on another tab to check the stocks.

"Homophobia is on the down-low. It's 2019 for god's sake, but there are still people who believe it's all kinds of wrong. I don't care Peter. Love is love." What the hell did love have to do with this? The stocks changed, but only because they'd gone higher."Anyway, they're also afraid how it's going to affect you're future apart of the company and-" 

Peter blinked, then quickly left the tab, bringing his phone up to his ear. 

"My what?" he said. 

Tony didn't speak. 

He'd said something he wasn't supposed to, but Peter had learned, Tony never liked being silenced, he was confident and held too much pride. 

"As CEO," Tony said after only a brief moment, "Harley doesn't want to be the owner. He wants to be like me, design things for Stark Industries, but he doesn't want the burden of the company. We don't want that for Morgan either. You have the most experience, so we're leaving the company in your hands once you graduate college." 

His hands were still, because of the training he'd endured, but Peter had no idea how they weren't shaking. 

No. Peter wanted to say, no, I don't want this. Did you not think about how little I would want this. I've never wanted this. No. No. No!

His facade stays the same, as he blinks ahead, not sure if he's seeing anything ahead of him. Why should it matter to him, this entire situation, won't matter until later but it will hang over his head. 

We don't want this for her. 

Tony's words ring in his head, a reminder of just how little he cares about him. 

Of course, he would leave the burden to him. He'd raised Harley, there was no point trying to be his favorite because Peter understood Harley would always be superior to him. And Morgan was his child. His child with a woman he loved. It was obvious she would be placed above Peter in every situation. It was simple. There was no feeling bad about it. 

Still, he felt it, the small dent it made in his... heart? Mind. That part of his brain that was the fault for why he felt and had emotions. 

"Right. It's fine Mr. Stark," Peter said, comforting his dad because, in the end, the only thing that made Peter happy was the fact he was able to make other people feel better, it didn't matter who it was, though he'd rather it be Teresa. She'd deserve it no matter what. "I'll have it covered. Do an interview, meet up with some journalist I know I can trust. It'll wash over. Look, I need to go," he forced a chuckle, though it sounded so real it scared him. "I've been getting calls from friends. I need to take them off the list of people I need to explain things to. Have a nice day Mr. Stark." 

There's no pause. He's convinced his dad. "Alright, then Pete. Have a nice day." 

It's already dark out. Neither of them acknowledged it. 

Morgan is almost two years old when Peter comes home. When he steps into the room, she doesn't recognize him. It's not like he's ever tried to get to know her, Tony has never seen him get even within ten feet of her, willingly at least, because the few times they asked Peter to babysit for them, he always proved to be the superior babysitter, but otherwise, he steered clear. 

Harley and his two friends are there too. It's weird seeing him again. In all honesty, Tony didn't expect to, after all, Peter had been quick and haste to move out, coming back to visit had been a surprise but somehow Pepper had managed to convince Peter that they should spend thanksgiving together. 

Peter didn't look... upset about it, but Tony had never been able to read his face. It was content, pulled together, firm, set, but welcoming, as he'd always been, just distant in himself. 

One glance towards Morgan had Peter sort of recoiling. He didn't know if he could call it that, it was more like, Peter looked away, met Tony's gaze, then didn't let it waver. 

Tony moved forward first, to shake his son's hand, which was weird in itself but really what more could he want. It had taken over a year to get Peter to even look him in the eye, and even then, he was looking sideways when he pulled his hand away. 

"I'm in contact with a potential investor," was the first thing Peter said, "the one you lost after you dropped the weapons division," 

Ah, right. This entire business thing happened all of a sudden, and it was all Tony's fault. He'd slipped up when he told Peter, and then he decided, why not just go on with it, teach Peter some things, have him go to meetings with him, for him, sit in onboard meetings. It was working out, Peter was as prepared for it as he was with everything.

"Corona?" Tony said, surprised, his brow arching without control. 

Peter nodded, then without another word, walked away, towards his room, where he stayed for the next thirty minutes before Harley was ordered to retrieve him for lunch. 

Harley stared at Tony for a minute before he opened his mouth to begin his protest. 

"Peter's like that you know. He'll come out of his room, I'll tell him to come out to eat lunch, at the moment, with all of us, then find a way to twist everything around so he can stay in his room and avoid us like the plague," Harley sighed, "I hate to admit it, but my brother, you're son, doesn't really like us," he said, then shrugged, but moved towards the hallway anyway. 

To their utmost surprise, he came back with a nicely dressed Peter Stark, who sat down at the table right across of Harley, then dug into the began pasta Pepper had made for him. 

Michelle, Harley's best friend, (and possibly the scariest person right next to Natasha) watched Peter with interest, as he ate. 

In the middle of lunch, it seemed, the act Peter had been pulling where he didn't notice she was looking turned, and he looked right at her. 

"Are you studying my human behavior because you're some sociopath of some kind and I'm particularly normal enough to adapt as?" he asked kindly. 

The room goes silent. Ned, Harley's other friend who Tony likes a lot for a variety of reasons, curls into himself, a confused look on his face, but filled with new wonderment, and Tony remembers his utmost innocence of everything and laughs to himself at the thought Ned believes Peter. 

Michelle smiles, it's sweet but fake, "Yes. By the way, you have the greatest taste in books." 

"Ya," Peter smiles, "sad I know. What were you doing in my room?" 

"Harley wanted to see if you had porn," Michelle replied without missing a beat. 

Tony laughed out loud this time, didn't even notice Pepper's look and Harley's look, the former of shock and the latter of utter horror. 

Peter lets out a laugh too, the only one he's ever had around them, as he nods, understandingly. 

"God, learning sex from porn is like learning to drive from fast and the furious," he turns to look at Harley and managed to smile kindly, "a fucking terrible idea," 


Peter didn't patrol much in Massachusetts, but he found himself unable not to his first night back. 

Anyway, he had a lead, this time, though, it was a little personal, since it was his uncle's mob, or what was left of it, that he was chasing after in New York, in a place in Queens, where Peter followed a car with a driver, armed passengers and a trunk full of drugs, as well as a child, who had become a witness to the incident. 

Somehow, he followed them into Hell's Kitchen, before they finally stopped in a warehouse. 

The first to get out were the three armed passengers, one of them who went straight to the trunk, opening it as six men from inside the warehouse came with crates, then helped him stock them inside the crates. 

Mr. Man who likes to drive like he had nothing to love for is the one who forces the child out of the car. A child who's shaking with fear, but shivering from the ice-cold, after all, they shoved him in the car when he was in only his pajama pants and a t-shirt, which is how he left his house to investigate the crying coming from his neighbor's house. 

Contrary to popular belief, sometimes kids aren't being curious, just concerned, and the kid had been because the screaming coming from the house belonged to a woman, being beaten by her husband. 

Slipping inside of the warehouse quietly, he knocked out the men guarding the top floor of the warehouse, webbing them to the wall, then slipping slowly down to the first floor.

That's when he sees him. 

They call him Daredevil. He wears black clothes and black cloth which also covers his eyes. Enhanced hearing probably, or just skill in blind fighting. Peter looks around, waiting to catch a part of his plan, but it seems, Daredevil is as reckless as he's heard he is. When he launches at the armed men, they shoot as blindly as he moves. 

Sighing, Peter also jumps in, but he has a plan, one intervened by Daredevil yes, but still, it's gonna work out. 

He kicks the men in the legs, gets them on the floor, before moving towards Marcel, one of Ben's closest friends, who tries to shoot him twice, before he grabs the kids and decides all of a sudden, or more realizes how useful the kid it. The sight of the barrel of the gun pointed to a ten-year-olds head makes him stop in his tracks. 

Daredevil is there for the kid too. Suddenly, the gun is in his hand, and he's pointing it towards the man, and Peter knows he's not going to stop, so he runs, jumps, then grabs the kid's arm, pulling him towards him, as he kicks the man on his chest till he stumbled back, then when he's on the floor, groaning in pain, Peter webs his wrists to the ground.  

By then, Daredevil has noticed him there. 

It's only once all the men are either stuck to the floor or hanging from the ceiling that he really takes a look at Peter. His head tilts to the side, so Peter assumes the guy might actually be blind and has some enhanced senses that allow him to see his figure. He'd seen it before, studied people like him. It's obvious, but Peter's going to let the guy tell him himself. 

"You're on my turf," was all the guy said. 

Looking at the man on the floor and the greek sun on his wrist he shrugged, "you touched mine," 

"Parker's gang is your turf?" he asked, kicking the guy's head as if motioning to him that way. 

Peter nodded, "I know everything about them, from the first Parker who started this business to the last who died in vain,"

Daredevil hummed, "you know your Parkers," he said sarcastically, then he turned and started to walk away.

"Hey!" Peter shouted after him, and the guy turned, to watch Peter motion to the kid, "he's from around here, so he's yours. Bye!" 

Then Peter left. 


Peter finds Daredevil in the trashcan, just lying there at the very bottom of that empty large green recycling bin, looking sexy as hell in his black clothes, and Peter laughs when he thinks that. 

"God, Spidey, just help me out already," he groans. 

They've grown a little closer. They joke now. It's nice, and Peter loves to flirt with him because he sounds to punctual, too soft and strong to not be the best in... something, anything. 

He reaches in and pulls him out, letting the guy's arm come around his shoulders. He's been kicked around some obviously, and while he leans against him Peter remembered why they only just flirt and pretend to be interested in each other romantically. They're vigilantes. They've got their own secrets. 

They're only partners in this crime of helping other people and as Peter leans down, and just throws him over his shoulder, he finds the sound of Daredevil's groaning to be comforting. 

He feels a closeness that's nothing like Harry's or Gwen's. Because this person is weird just like him, not that Harry isn't weird, but he's just got a lot of secrets. Family ones, just daddy issues, but there are many like him. 

There's no one like Daredevil. Not exactly at least. 


Daredevil sighed, as he mended to Peter's wound. Maybe Peter should have told him that whenever he got shot, he had a scalpal on hand to cup his skin open and take the bullet out and then a bandage that would heal the wound pretty quickly, but... the guy told him to shut up. 

"Why the fuck did you do that you idiot," he said, as he pressed a towel or some really soft material to the wounds, to stop the bleeding.

Smiling under the mask, Peter kept his voice neutral when he replied but knew he'd hear the smile in his voice. 

"If I'm around, you won't even have a chance to kill anyone," Peter said. He watched at Daredevil's friend, Karen, came over, kneeling in front of him, taking tape bandaging then walking over to wrap it around his waist so the towel thing would be pressed to the wound. 

She was kind with her hands, as she took a different towel to clean the blood that had dried on his waist. She was pretty, and her smile was kind when she faced him. 

"It's an honor spiderman," she says, her voice soft, kind, but confident. 

His smile doesn't fade in a bad way but he just nods as it begins to go back to normal. 

"So you're not the killing type huh," Daredevil says. 

Peter looks at him, wondering how many people he'd killed, before nodding, "I grew up with it happening all around me. You kind of lose the taste for it," he replied, standing up. Daredevil and his friend stand up too. 

She placed her hand on his shoulder, as she wills him to sit down again but he shakes his head. 

"I have a doctor back home. He's on speed dial, I'm sure he'll fix this in just a moment. Thank you though, for your help.


Peter kind of wanted that to be the last time they saw each other.

So he likes Daredevil, but he's starting to care about him, and caring about someone who's past you have no idea about, it's a bad idea definitely, and Peter kind of preferred not having those. 

But, of course, it really just isn't how that works. The Universe tends to conspire against you at the worst points of your life, not that Peter thinks it's the worst point of his life, but it feels like it when classes begin to weigh on him, the crime rate goes up a little with him being gone so much, and his uncle's mob making reckless choices without their leader there to guide and instruct them. 

Apparently, Daredevil had been tracking Ben's mob boss interactions for a while now, but because when Ben had been alive, he'd had the best skills, knew the greatest ways to get away with all of his actions, but now that he was gone, the mob was getting sloppy and trackable. 

But then Daredevil began to trust him. He begins to ask for favors. He's got a life outside of being a vigilante, so he asks Peter to take care of some things for him. It starts happening all of a sudden, though sometimes Peter rejects. Sometimes, he's bored on a weekend, and none of the parties interest him, and Jessica is out, or decides for once to sleep early, he goes back to Queens to do some work. 

That day, Peter leans against the wall, contemplating what Daredevil had just asked him. 



"Will you do it?" 

"Why should I?" 

"I just spent an hour trying to make it clear why you should help me on this mission,"

"Not an hour, fifty-eight minutes, add the forty-two seconds where you caught your breath then started again to speak your 'conclusion' which lasted twelve minutes, where you just made a summary of your report. Now, I'd like to know why the likes of you would ask me for help, even though I've heard you've got a bit of pride to you," 

"Every man does,"

"I don't,"

Daredevil sighed. 

Besides the favors, they had been on many missions together too. 

This one wasn't. Daredevil just had a hunch and wanted Peter to help follow it. 

Some mind-controlling freak of some kind. Peter wasn't to keen on following this hunch, but Daredevil claimed the guy was doing damage of some kind, but he wouldn't tell him about it.  

The entire world wasn't focusing on a mind-controlling freak at the moment, with the whole, S.H.I.E.L.D being revealed as Hydra, and Peter still scrambling to hide any proof he was apart of that. This entire thing seemed a little bit silly. 

"Here's the deal," he said, "if I get any word on this. If I get a job, and the clues lead to this entire situation, I'll come to you, but until then, this case is closed,"

Daredevil stiffened. "What?" 

Peter arched a brow at him, though the guy couldn't see it because of his mask," I know you heard me," 

Then he turned and left. 

He knew the man behind the mask. Or more like he knew who the man behind the mask was. It didn't take too long to figure it out. The way he spoke. His entire reason for righting. His sensory overloads. They all followed back to one thing. 

Blind. A lawyer, not one out for money, just for justice, so one with morals, = Matt Murdock. 

Joking around became funny after some time definitely, and he wasn't going to stop then. 

He wasn't lying about what he said, if there was even a hint that any of his jobs led to this maniac Matt was telling him about, then he'd immediately call Matt and inform him as well as help with the leads, then capturing and finding the victims. 

Until then, he had other matters to attend to. Essays he had to write. Projects he had to work on. An internship at a company he would inherit the second he graduated from college. 

Also, he hadn't slept in a week. 

Peter knew it had to do with the serum. He wasn't tired either. It was all because of the new DNA he had, and it upset him but relieved him the same. 

His dreams were getting worse. His nightmares were becoming reality, and Peter was beginning to think he could tell the future.