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When Peter Parker is fourteen years old, four weeks fresh from being bitten by a radioactive spider and two weeks fresh from the death of his Uncle, he jumps off a 34 story high building.
He doesn't die.
It's possibly one of the worst things he's ever done, but he lives–he heals in just under a week and only bears three new scars, so he considers that a win.
He wasn't trying to die, but then again, maybe he was.
He tests the limits of his body. How much heat it can bear. How quickly wounds scar over. How fast he can get over being poisoned with Tide pods.
He catalogs these in a little green book that hides at the bottom of his backpack, the limits he can go to.
The list grows.
Pages are filled.
He can lose this much blood before passing out.
This is how much force needs to be applied to all of his different bones to get them to snap (some of those findings were courtesys of Flash’s goons).
He is an unstoppable force against innumerable immovable objects.
He isn't stupid, either–sure, he's naive and isn't quite sure of the horrors that the world may present him with, but he isn't stupid. He knows he needs training.
There are vigilante hubs everywhere, that mostly reek of blood and gun powder and alcohol.
Peter is not stupid, so he walks into Sister Margaret's School for Wayward Girls (which, by technicality, is a mercenary bar, not a vigilante hub) dressed as himself in a soft sweater and loose jeans, his sneakers untied as the laces twist up around his ankles.
Peter was never one for boldness. He was never one for shows of power or strength, or showing just how scary he could be because well–he just wasn't those things.
But now he is, and holding Ben as he died had changed him, because Ben’s death was not glorious. He was not a burning supernova as he died. Ben's death was not pretty or kind or melancholy–it was terrible and horrifying.
A switch had been flipped. Buttons pressed.
The hands that change you and the ways you change yourself.
So when everything goes quiet, as mercenaries and the more ruthless vigilantes turn to stare at this little kid who has just walked in, all scruffy and bright eyed–they don't move. Glasses of whiskey and vodka hover near lips, scarred fingers tapping against chipped tables.
Peter lifts a hand in greeting, seeming completely undisturbed by the multiple people dripping from gore and the general air of…aversion the place presented.
“I need someone to train me so I can be a vigilante.” He states simply, thumbs hooking into the loops of his jeans, rocking back and forth on his heels.
The room explodes in laughter, which–yeah, okay, expected.
Peter keeps smiling.
When the general air of hilarity has subsided, as regulars wipe their eyes, heads shaking, it takes them a moment to realize the kid is still there, standing in their fray as though he was not practically getting kicked out because–come on, the kid is like thirteen.
“Go on, run home to your parents, I'm sure it's past your bedtime.” One of the women says, brushing her hair behind her mangled ear softly, offering him an out.
“Well I’m pretty sure the graveyard closes their gates at like, what, nine? So that's a hard no, but it is past my bedtime, so can we hurry this up?” The room quiets again, sad looks exchanged between patrons.
“Okay,” A man leans forwards from one of the side tables, lips crooked as he gives a derisive chuckle. “What makes you think you’re even capable of becoming a vigilante?” He snorts, lifts his glass contemplatively, running his stubby forefinger over the rim.
So Peter casually, ever so casually walks over, the gaze of the establishment watching him. He can feel the bartender and the people who have just walked in watching, can feel the electricity in the air–it puts ash in his mouth and ozone in his veins and he has never felt more powerful.
Peter had been hacking into police reports–new suspects and video logs and things they didn't post on the streets because the criminals were all buddy-buddy with the police station. So he knows this face–the heavily lidded eyes, the thin scar rippling across his lips, the murkiness in his eyes.
He knows.
He grips the man's hand, watches the brief flash of panic on his lumpy face, then the cooling relaxation of someone who expects nothing.
Peter pushes.
He pushes at where he knows it hurts because he's spent years buried in textbooks the size of him, knows which pressure points to hit, which bones to grind against each other.
The man lets out a gasp, Peter’s fingers clenched tightly around his, a whimper, and the room quiets even more, if possible. The buzzing of the dim lights stops. The clinking of washing dishes, of cats outside.
Everything is completely silent as they watch a mercenary–one with an exceptionally bad reputation–start to cry as Peter pushes farther, harder, looking as though this is the most boring thing he could do.
Then he snaps the man's hand, crushes it in his own grip, and smiles.
The bar is charged, the kind of charge you find right before a lightning storm but then–whispers, whispers of things that will spread into rumors and wildfires, sparks catching against cigarette tails.
It isn't the sheer display of power that makes them deem Peter worthy. It isn't the way his muscles had bulged through his sweater. Its when he leans down, close to the sweating man's face and says, “You should be more careful the next time you come from trafficking little kids.”
There are three things that happen then–the residents of Sister Margaret’s School for Wayward Girls rise to their feet, because none of them like traffickers or any sort of rings, especially ones involving children. The man leaps up, ready to take off and then. Peter grabs his arm and promptly slams him into the wall, knocking him out cold.
Because Peter used to be sweet, Peter used to be kind and soft and smart.
But Ben died because of senseless cruelty. But then he could hear people getting raped and people getting shot and he couldnt do anything about it, and no one else was doing anything about it.
He's not exactly nice anymore, but he also isn't stupid.
Peter is the center of the show for a while–people regale him with their stories, try to dissuade him, assure him there are plenty of vigilantes doing enough. He shuts them down because–no. The streets of his home are not safe, the blocks and burrows that scream with crime and are painted in the blood of people who will never call those sidewalks home again.
It isn't enough.
He detaches himself away from conversations because–no one is helping him. They offer him advice but they offer him nothing, tidbits of experience when he isn't. Not yet.
He ends up seated at the bar, his sneaker clad feet barely brushing the ground, orders a glass of water from a long haired dude who introduces himself as Weasel.
“Can't say I’ve seen too many kids here before, and I own the place.” Peter shrugs casually, sipping delicately from his (most likely unsanitary) glass. Weasel raises an eyebrow, but doesnt say anything else, just wipes down the counter despite it not being dirty.
“Probably wouldn't give you a great rep, having kids in here.” Peter responds, crunching an ice cube between his molars. Weasel snorts, nods his head.
“I don't think kids want to come here, really.” He stacks a set of shot glasses, refills a glass of tequila for someone who most certainly doesn't need it.
“I can't imagine why.” Peter says drily, fingers connecting the droplets of condensation on his glass to each other. Weasel gives an amused smile, though it quickly disappears when the sound of somebody retching comes from one of the far tables.
Peter smiles into his glass, observing the dead pool on the wall, the various amounts of money placed on mercenaries–though there are none with more bets listed than Deadpool. Peter smirks, bites against the edges of his teeth and–exists. Takes in the dark lighting, accented with dark blue neon. Listens to the scraping of chairs and dogs barking a few blocks away.
Eventually, customers start to filter out, though not before a few lively bar fights where Peter just rolls out of the way of breaking glass. It's around maybe two in the morning, and Peter can't help the pit of disappointment that opens in his chest, slides his long empty glass against the melted puddle of water under it.
Weasel comes back as Peter stands up, starts to tidy up the place, and puts glasses through a dishwasher.
“Here.” A card is set on the wood in front of Peter, who blinks in surprise, staring up at Weasel. “An associate–he’ll definitely get you the training you need. Oh, and if you ever wanna come back–doors always open, though I’m not giving you anything alcoholic.” Weasel’s grin is wide and crooked as he throws a rag over his shoulder, rolling up his sleeves as he disappears around the back of the bar.
Peter can't keep the dopey grin off of his face, tucking the card into his pocket.
Matt Murdock can be found tomorrow.
Matt Murdock isn't usually surprised.
With his incredible senses he's not usually snuck up on, taken advantage of–he knows what's happening and where and how to stop it.
He groans as he leans back in his chair, rubbing at the bruised knuckles of his left hand–some people just don't give up. He straightens the papers on his desk, drags out one of the drawers of his desk, slips files into it after stapling them together.
It's been a long day.
A long day of clients, of sorting out different issues his more…super clients had, of making many frustrated phone calls to the AC repair company that had just. Talked nonsense about cooling and heating and overworking it when that definitely wasn't the problem-
It's been a very long, very boring day.
“Weasel sent me.” A voice–timid, small–perks up and Matt just about throws something, leaping up out of his chair and whirling to the direction the sound had come from.
It takes longer than it probably should for him to comprehend that yes, this little child said Weasel sent him and that yes, he was there.
“Weasel? Don't know who that is.” He counters, composing himself as he takes a sip from a glass of water on his desk, hoping his hands are trembling too much. The voice hums, placing a card on the table.
“So you aren't Daredevil?” He asks, calm and calculated.
Matt flinches, recoils away as though he has been struck because–
“Ah–did Weasel say that?” He questions, fixing his facial expression and hoping–hoping–his flinch went unnoticed. If Weasel had told he is going to wring that man's neck, shove a glass so far up his–
“No, I figured it out.” This makes Matt pause, hands stopping their aborted movements. He tilts his head, an amused smile on his face.
“Oh really? And what makes you think that I am Daredevil ?” He questions, though his heart seems to be pounding wildly.
It’s been a long day.
“Well, I mean, for one Daredevil has two D’s and Matt Murdock has two M’s which–okay, could just be a silly coincidence. However–Daredevil is often seen around here, which, okay, another silly little coincidence? Not really likely if you look at the statistics of silly coincidences. Oh god that sounds so fucking stupid, what am I even saying…” The kid trails off, Matt’s fingers twitching from their spot on the desk, listening to the kid's hands run aggressively through his hair.
“Why do you need Daredevil, assuming that I am, in fact, him?” Matt questions, knowing full well that he isn't going to get out of this because–come on, a teenager knows who he is, what's the harm in asking him why? The kid takes a deep breath, shuffling his feet as though suddenly unsure as to why he's here.
“I need to be trained to become a vigilante.” He states, voice small but confident and Matt–freezes. He freezes and holds his breath against the pounding in his ears and prays that he didn't hear that correctly, prays that his hearing is acting up because it's been a long day–
“A vigilante?” He receives a nod. “How old are you? And I’ll know if you lie.” Matt threatens, the fingers of his right hand curling against his palm, scratching his nails at the skin there. The kid lets out a deep sigh, rubs his hands over his face as though he is suddenly impossibly tired.
“Fourteen.” The kid breathes out, head turning as he looks to one side.
Matt Murdock is known for being level headed. He's known for being clean and calculated and cruel in the courtroom. He doesnt know how to deal with…delusional teenagers that think they can just…be a vigilante when they’re fucking fourteen, he doesnt know what to do so–
“There are cruelties out there you could never imagine.” Matt starts, hoping to dissuade the kid because god–
“No, I know that–'' Matt holds up a hand, cutting him off, because the kid doesn't understand.
“Indulge me.” Matt takes a deep breath, waiting for the nod that comes a few seconds later, the muted ‘ yes sir’ . “There are horrors out there you can't fathom–people who don't care who they kill, who will shoot a child for a bag of chips and a few pennies. There are people who will traffic around innocent people for sex rings, people who run cartels that make money off of the amount of blood spilled.
There are people that rape kids just for the fun of it, just because they can. You can't do anything until you understand that.” Matt finishes, voice impossibly soft, impossibly smooth but also impossibly terrifying.
“I know that. I know that, I can hear that which is why I need to do something. As someone whose uncle bled out in his arms a few weeks ago because of senseless violence, I know that. I can hear every fucking ring, every fucking drug transaction to a teenager, every fucking person getting raped and killed and I have to do something. ” The kid is breathing heavily, hands clenched at his side. Matt hears the skin tear, hears the nails slide into the meat of his palms.
He isn't lying. Matt knows when people are lying, and this kid is not.
Matt leans back, trying to process what he just heard.
“You’re enhanced? A mutant?” He questions, hands steepling under his chin. The kid nods, kicking his ratty laces against Matt’s clean ground.
“What are your powers? And for god's sake, pull up a chair.” He demands, tired of the endless fidgeting–it's been a long day. The kid does pull up a chair, setting it down lightly and depositing himself in it as though he hasn't slept for days. Maybe he hasn't.
“Superhearing like–I can hear ants crawling along the ground four blocks away, that kind.” Matt’s eyebrows raise up as he forgets how to breathe, realizing just how horrible that must be. “Super Strength, too. I don't know how much I can lift, but it's at least more than a car but…I feel like it's a lot more. I have a really strong sense of smell and I got a lot faster. I got…bendy? And I have this sixth sense that tells me when there's danger, and I have webs.” The kid shifts in his seat, pulls his sweater down over his hands.
“Webs?” Matt questions, rubbing at a ball of tension at the base of his neck.
“Webs.” The kid confirms, something shooting out from near his wrist and attaching to a pen on his desk, pulling it towards him.
“Oh! And fangs, and they have venom in them. Also superhealing.” The kid tacks on as an afterthought, and Matt thumps his head on his desk, the kid jumping back.
“Fuck me.” He whispers, already knowing that somehow this kid is his responsibility.
“What's your name, kid?” He asks once he's finally regained himself enough to sit up again, heel clicking against the ground as he bounces his knee.
“Peter Parker.” He whispers, voice confused. Matt nods, holds out his hand.
“Meet me here at six tomorrow night and we’ll start training.” Matt already regrets saying that, already regrets everything that has just happened but–
Peter shakes his hand and lets out a relieved sigh, putting his chair back before he leaves.
It takes Matt a few minutes to realize that Peter still has his pen.
Peter shows up the next night covered in blood.
He has a split lip, a broken nose, a cut above his eyebrow and scrapes up and down his sides and arms.
Matt doesn't see this (obviously), but Foggy does. Foggy has his hair tied back and reading glasses perched on his nose when the door opens, when Peter comes in and adjusts the straps on his backpack, wipes away blood clouding on his chin.
Foggy doesn't know what to do.
“What the hell happened to you, kid?” He questions, dropping the last paper into its correct file. Peter shrugs, grimaces as he puts weight on his right ankle and–yeah, that isn't going to do.
Foggy sets him down and pulls out the first aid kit they keep in one of the desk drawers, pulls out the wipes and the bandaids and the gauze.
“How was your day, kid?” He asks, rolling up his sleeves. Peter shrugs, picking at the skin around his nails which Foggy passively notices are absolutely ragged.
“Not really noteworthy.” He responds, moving his hands down to instead pick at the frays in his jeans. Foggy raises an eyebrow as he tears open a packet of antibacterial wipes, inclines his head as he pulls one out.
“No? This might sting by the way.” Peter shrugs again, nodding to show that he heard the second part. Foggy works methodically, softly–god knows how many times he’s had to patch up Matt.
As he cleans away the blood on his face, it reveals hand-knuckle-finger shaped bruises under it, all purple and painful looking, and if he hadn't had to deal with Matt’s escapades he would probably gasp but as it were–he doesn't.
He inspects the cut above Peter’s eyebrow, pokes at the edges of it and watches the blood bead up in the wound, determining it would probably just need a bandaid. He can't do much for the split lip, and he determines the nose is almost certainly broken as Matt walks in.
“Ah, good to know you’re on time Peter. What's wrong?” Matt asks and Foggy whips his head around, because Matt seems positively worried. Peter shrugs again, seems to remember that Matt is blind, then whispers ‘ I’m fine’. Matt snorts, though his hands curl protectively around the book he carries.
“I told you I know when people lie.” Peter flinches away at the words but otherwise doesn't do anything.
“Well, his nose is definitely broken, and he hurt his ankle. There are scrapes up and down his left side and on his arms and–bruises, bruises everywhere.” Foggy doesn't miss the heated glare sent his way, tries not to wince when that glare turns to something more icy, something more scared and vulnerable–something worried.
Matt takes in a sharp breath, setting his book down with practiced calm as Peter picks at his knees.
“You didn't start trying to do vigilante stuff already, right?” Matt asks. Peter’s wide eyes flick to Foggy for a moment but quickly go back to the ground as he mumbles out a ‘ no’, Matt relaxing. Foggy lifts up Peter’s shirt, who flinches away, holding his hands to his chest as though he is trying to make himself as small as possible.
Foggy frowns.
Opts to instead peel bandage covers off and lay them across the worst scrapes on the teens arms, those ones that bleed slowly down his arm when he looks away.
“It's just bullies, it's fine.” Peter says in the loudest voice Foggy has heard out of him so far. Matt raises an eyebrow, lips twitching downwards.
“Just bullies? Just bullies that broke your nose and what–did they break your ankle, too?” Foggy accuses, hands stilling as he looks up into Peter’s eyes, hidden under his fringe, though the teen doesnt look back at him.
“They’ve only broken a few bones.” Which–fuck–Matt fists one hand into his hair and groans, tries to ignore the nausea, the absolute horror that dawns on him at Peter’s blatant acceptance of this cruelty. Peter sits up quickly, eyes wide as he rushes to defend himself.
“Before you say anything, I’m not going to fight back. I can break someone's hand without even trying, I can jump off a thirty four story high building and still survive, getting pushed around a little isnt that bad. Flash just needs somewhere to expand his…pent up emotions, and better me than some freshmen that won't heal easily.” Peter crosses his arms over his chest, stance defiant as he looks this close to bolting.
But Matt is still, Foggy is still.
They are both completely still, both completely silent, eyes wide and lips pressed into thin lines.
“Peter…How do you know that?” Matt asks because there's–something, there's something he doesn't want to address here, something that makes his stomach turn and his nostrils flare and that sick feeling in his chest comes back.
“Know what?” Peter asks, nose crinkled, which he immediately deems a mistake as he hisses in pain.
“That you can survive jumping off a building.” Matt says, direct and unflinching, even as Peter does.
There is a moment where Peter, too, stills. A moment where he stops, his eyes wide and looks as though he has just had every tooth ripped out, one by one.
His hands are against his knees, his breathing quiet, his fingers or eye twitching whenever he hears a new noise.
There is a moment where time stops–where there are just three people in only one room and they are the only things to exist. Where there is one teen and two men and hearts beating so fast that they seem as if they are going to explode.
“Because I tried it.” Peter whispers, voice constricted as his throat collapses and folds in on itself. “And it didn't work.” Foggy looks away, slowly starts to wrap Peter’s ankle that is swollen and bruised and–
“We’re going to have to snap your nose back into place, okay?” Foggy wades through the tension in the room, diverts the conversation back to what it had originally been as Matt silently stews and presses his tongue to the roof of his mouth and tries not to cry.
Peter’s hands dart up quick, grab the sides of his nose and wrenches. Foggy flinches at the snapping sound of bone, at the new stream of blood that spurts out of Peter’s nose, silently hands him a box of tissues.
Foggy stands up, packs away the things in the first aid kit, head and thoughts swirling. He staggers as he gets Peter an ice pack for–everywhere–and Matt has to grab onto his elbow, rubs the joint until he can breathe normally.
Sometimes Foggy wishes he couldn't see either.
Matt trains Peter.
He takes him through pulling his punches and his stance and they go through tests of his endurance and flexibility and holy shit he can lift ten tons–
They work on his reflexes, how to not be constantly overwhelmed by his senses.
His fighting–his kicks and his punches and his dodges, then how to work with any kind of weapon imaginable–
Peter soaks it all up, works harder than he ever has for anything. He gets beat up by Matt and then he gets up and tries again, focusing on finding and exploiting weaknesses.
Matt takes him on a day trip (after ensuring his Aunt is, in fact, at work) to a small cartel that's been operating in the slums. It's Peter’s first mission and he's dressed in all black, and he's ordered to lag back and–just in case–to be the backup.
Matt needs him.
The group was bigger than they had thought.
Matt comes home with a completely bruised face, two missing teeth and a broken hand, Peter hopping excitedly under him even as he supports the man's body weight.
Matt smiles at him and tells him he's ready.
Spider Man is well known within two weeks.
He is known as the Queen’s vigilante, known as the Menace and the Wraith. He is known as himself and known as the things people think he is. The streets of New York adore him because–they are safer than they have ever been because Spider Man is saving lives and walking women home and they–
Spider Man is known for getting cats out of trees, for helping old ladies across the street. He is known for helping lost kids find their parents, for rescuing families from fires. He is known, one month in, for being a hero.
But Spider Man is a vigilante.
He doesn't abide by the general laws, he doesn't need to worry about bad PR–they pretty much all have it.
So he hits harder against the people who really deserve it.
He loses himself in swallowing gasoline and baseball bats and the thrill of gunfire.
He feels himself burning and he lets it happen–he lets his matchbox teeth scrape against his sandpaper tongue and he sets himself on fire. He sets himself on fire so as he swings he is a comet of righteous fury, of justice and oaths bound between the lips of tragedy. He sets himself on fire so that he can be a beacon of light, a safe harbor for shivering, sobbing people.
Spider Man is a vigilante–he is not a superhero, he is not a “samaritan”.
He trains with Daredevil and Foggy Nelson.
He hangs out at a mercenary bar and sips glasses of water as he spins around in his stool, betting on whos going to die because–
When Ben died. When Skip killed Peter, when his parents plane was shot down with dozens of other people in it.
That rage, that had accumulated. It didn't start like that. It started as fear, it started as loneliness and empty pill bottles and names he couldn't read.
Everybody in New York knows that you are safer with a vigilante than with a Superhero, because the vigilantes–they care about the invisibles. They care about the little guys and they care about lost dogs and people that never thought they would be saved.
Spider Man is a vigilante.
And every vigilante has a schtick. A place they go to most often. The people they are more compassionate to.
The people they hurt more.
For Spider Man that is rapists, especially child ones.
He hits them harder, gives them concussions, breaks a few bones.
Because there is a child in him, a child in him that reaches out its hands into his throat, tries to escape when it can't. There is a child in him that only wanted to be saved and only wanted to live and he didn't get that.
So he gives that child a gun, lets it shoot those rapists square in the face and laughs as they go down.
Because Spider Man is a vigilante.
A fire burns in his chest that he smokes out on rooftops, letting himself turn to ash against stone and cement. Spider Man swings around the city and takes down bad guys that have decided tonight they are going for the kill, that have sentenced themselves to a fate they always thought about but thought they were smart enough to avoid.
Spider Man is a vigilante.
And vigilante’s don't play by the rules.
Deadpool is many things–he is a mercenary. He is an immortal. He is a dad. He is a little bit insane.
But he has never been a coward.
When new vigilante’s or mercenaries show up, Deadpool is the one to scope them out–it's an unspoken rule that Deadpool is the one to evaluate them, see how scared they become in his presence.
Spider Man has been on Deadpool’s radar for awhile, he just hasn't…gotten around to the vigilante yet. It's not like he's done anything bad, so he's been mostly content to leave him to his own devices.
But when Deadpool sees him on a roof, well, that's just ample opportunity!
Spider Man knows Deadpool is there–he's known that for awhile, but he's content to let it be, to just continue existing and listening for sounds of distance.
“Well hello baby boy! What's a fine thing like yourself doing here?” Deadpool pipes up, hands waving at Peter wildly as he comes into view.
“I’m a minor, you can't say that.” Peter responds, swishing his legs over the edge so that he can jump down to the other roof.
Deadpools eyes widen, an aborted movement making his hands rush forwards and he–fuck what is he supposed to do about that?
Peter smiles as he lands lightly on the roof, arching his feet to stretch them out.
Deadpool splutters as he, too, drops down onto the lower roof, though with a bit less grace.
“You’re a fucking minor? I–oh my god, I need to shoot something.” Deadpool mutters, hands going to his hips as he spins around, staring upwards. “What the fuck.” He growls again.
Peter smiles, though Deadpool can't see it.
“Yeah, this is completely unrelated, but I noticed you have a pretty hefty bet on your name at Sister Margaret’s, right?” Peter responds, cracking his knuckles idly as Deadpool whirls around to stare at him again.
“You’ve been there?” He asks, all bravado gone. Peter shrugs, flick out a web that attaches to a guy on the street, drags him towards himself. He sends out another web, attaches it to the man's ankles and heaves him up, spins him around and wraps him in webbing, grabbing the bomb he had concealed in his pocket.
“We don't like bombs here, buckaroo.” Peter admonishes, deftly ripping open the metal covering and pulling out the bomb's guts, carefully dismantling it.
Deadpool watches all of this in a haze, Spider Man crushing the bomb shell under his heel.
It's a testament to how shocked he is that Deadpool doesn't make a witty remark or otherwise act at all.
“Wanna get tacos? Then you can tell me why there’s so much stock in you dying.” Spider Man asks, wiping his hands as he reaches down to grab onto the man, holding him as though he weighs no more than a sack of apples.
This is the beginning of a great friendship.
Peter hasn't slept in three days.
He hasnt slept because there are still people getting hurt and getting killed and he is not doing enough and why the fuck doesnt he just go and die–
He's found himself at roof edges a concerning number of times.
Wade usually finds him and takes him to a new trafficking ring he found and they bust it and it makes him feel a little better but there are still people screaming everywhere-
So he doesn't sleep.
He spends his nights out on the streets and stumbles into his room at sunrise, nursing bruises and closing his eyes against his swirling exhaustion.
Matt tells him that hes going to fall asleep midswing and get himself killed and Peter–like a fucking idiot –says “I hope that happens.” Which makes Matt take him away from fighting for a week which makes him want to fucking die and–
Spider Man is ruthless.
He is an unstoppable force with steel for bones and iron for skin just like the foundations he was set in when he was born into the storm that was the drowning world.
Spider Man is not a force to be reckoned with–he is stronger than he has ever been, smarter than everyone else and he is the kind of righteousness, the kind of curling hatred and fury and loathing that you need.
Spider Man is the Vigilante-Who-Never-Sleeps. He is the Wraith of Nightmares and he is dressed in a red and blue suit because he has split knuckles that bleed and bruises on nose bridges. Because he is all storm fire and lightning sun and the drenching night that covers your hands with its impenetrable stars.
Spider Man is the kind of vigilante that everyone knows.
If you live in New York you know about the vigilante who is ruthless and kind and sleepless, powerful and strong and silent. You are told of the vigilante who swallows bullets like they are pills, that picks his teeth with knives like they are toothpicks and you–
You are the safest in the presence of him, the safest because to everyone else he means death.
Because Spider Man is a vigilante–he has never called himself a hero. He is a vigilante that helps where he can, in quilts of bruises and symphonies of breaking bones.
Because Spider Man doesn't sleep and because Spider Man refuses to die.
There exactly five things known about Spider Man:
- He is trained by Daredevil and Foggy Nelson.
- His best friend (at least when he’a a vigilante) is Deadpool.
- His favorite hangout is Sister Margaret’s School for Wayward Girls.
- He is both the kindest and cruelest vigilante.
- And he is the kind of person who would crumble the world under his hands just for fun.
Eventually, Spider Man was going to get on the Avengers’ radar–you don't swing around and drop New York’s crime rate by 15% in two months for you not to.
He's harder to catch than they thought.
He's fast and silent and knows New York’s streets better than they ever will.
They chase him for two weeks until he shows up to the Tower at two in the morning and asks them what they want from him.
So it starts.
Steve rubs his eyes as he leads Spider Man to the living room, gestures to the couches and says he can sit.
Peter doesn't.
He folds his arms across his chest and snorts, stares through the lenses of his mask and lets the Avengers fidget, scrabble for words they hadn't been prepared to say.
“Why do you do what you do? Why go out and fight crime when you could have a normal, happy life?” Natasha is the first one to ask anything, leaning over the top of one of the couches, hair pulled into a loose ponytail. Peter doesn't say anything for a bit, sucking at his teeth. God, this is so boring.
“Because everyone else doesn't have a happy life. Because there are people getting trafficked and people getting murdered for three cents. Because there are people hoping–praying–that someone will save them. Because those little guys–they don't mean nothing. They aren't just numbers. They are people with families and lives and they just hope that it doesn't get taken away from them.” Peter takes a deep breath, looks out the window.
“Because they have been ignored. Because they have been hurt and because they need someone to believe in–you care about saving the world. The vigilanties? They care about saving the people who live in it. It doesn't matter what it is–sometimes you stop jumpers, sometimes you stop murders.
Everyone needs help. And if you can do the things that I can do, and bad things happen? They happen because of you.” Peter finishes, turning back to face the Avengers who have their mouths open, molars on display. Tony straightens himself out first, running a tired hand through his hair. He goes to speak but Steve cuts him off, arms crossed over his chest.
“And when someone dies? When you get shot and you don't have a support group? When there's danger you can't stop? What do you do then?” Steve questions, looking as though he's done something.
Peter growls, opens his mouth in silent fury, forces himself to take a deep breath–anger doesn't solve anything.
“I’m not as stupid as you think I am.” He grinds out. “I have a support group. I have Daredevil and Deadpool and all the mercenaries at Sister Margaret’s. And I have been shot plenty of times. Shot and stabbed and electrocuted and impaled–it's in the job description. People die all the time, but if I can prevent some of that? Then that's worth it. And if I die on the job? Then whatever, I'm a little fish in a big lake.” Bruce’s eyebrows jump, Sam clearing his throat as his eyes fill with a kind of devastation Peter never expected.
“You're going to get yourself killed.” Clint stresses, face pulled into a crumpled paper of worry.
Peter shrugs.
“Maybe.”
And with that, he webs the window up and jumps out, careening through the skyscrapers he calls home.
Spider man is the kind of vigilante that will punch in the face of your attacker and then walk you home.
He is the kind of vigilante that throws himself into deadly situations.
That hangs out at mercenary bars because those places are fun.
Spider Man is separate from Peter Parker, because Peter is soft and bubbly and a genius. He is calm and bullied and he is sleepless. Spider Man is brutal and mocking but–there are snippets of them in each other.
Spider Man is kind to the victims.
Peter Parker burns up violence in his throat and spits it out when he is wronged.
Spider Man takes down drug and trafficking rings. Peter Parker takes down a bully harassing other kids and takes care of neighbors dogs.
They are both burning, they are both covered in blood and scars, they both take shots of kerosene in flaming rooms just to see if they can, if they are strong enough.
They are.