Chapter Text
Spider-Man raised his hands in mock surrender as the bank robber aimed his gun at him. "Oh no, I'm so terrified!"
In the moment of distraction, he webbed the gun up, and pulled it, with its attached robber, down. They landed with a sharp yelp and a painful thud.
"Next thing you know, you'll be running with knives," he remarked, leaping over them as a blade whizzed by him. He slung a couple more webs and before the robbers were even aware of it, they were tucked away safely in a cocoon hanging from the ceiling. Bills fluttered around them, falling from the bags the robbers were holding. "Yikes, honestly, who even uses cash anymore?"
The tell-tale sign of sirens came to a halt in front of the entrance to the bank, and Spider-Man gave a little salute to the tellers, who were peeking cautiously from behind the counter. "I trust you fine people have the rest of this handled?"
"Thank you, Spider-Man!" One woman nearly cried in relief.
He leapt up and out a high window and swung away and out of view. Weighing heavily in his pocket was a $20 bill he swiped from the air as he swung away.
Anyway, it wasn't as if he stole it from civilians or stole thousands of dollars, like the robbers were intending. This was a bank. They could handle a $20 loss. It was a rounding error. Probably less than one.
You know what, in fact, he probably earned this 20 bucks, considering how much he saved the bank.
He shoved it out of his mind and focused on swinging over to where he had left a shirt and jeans and changed back into them, under a rooftop awning and away from prying eyes. He'd have to stop by a laundromat soon, he thought. The 20 would help there.
He shoveled everything back into his backpack and webbed it to the side of the building and looked over again, making sure the rooftop looked suitably deserted. He pushed gently on the door to the stairs, making sure the coast was clear, and crept past the floors of offices and out onto the street.
It didn't take too long to get to Sister Margaret's. Weasel was sitting at a corner table, sorting through the new jobs, as the earlier drinkers were getting started, or finishing up, depending on how you looked at it. A couple customers were sharing stories boisterously as they took swigs from pints. People were in and out at all hours of the day so it was always bustling, and Peter felt a little safer and kept to himself for the most part. It didn't help the gnawing feeling in his stomach when he thought too much about why they were really at this bar.
He greeted Weasel, who nodded in return, and went back to the kitchen and started prepping for the afternoon. As he washed dishes, he intentionally did not note the irony of the TV playing Spider-Man's heroics at the bank. Spider-Man may be the gleaming hero of New York, but Peter Parker was hiding in its filth.
Spider-Man swung his legs as he sat down at the ledge of a building. It was a pretty quiet night, the brisk early winter air swooping people back into their homes. He bit into the sandwich Weasel had shoved into his hands as he left work, muttering something about him being too damn skinny and needing some more meat on his bones if he was going to keep working at St. Marg's. Peter had flushed but thanked him while cramming it into his pocket. It was still warm in his hands. He picked out a pepper to chew as he looked over the city.
"All quiet on the Queens front tonight?" Deadpool said lightly, flopping down beside Spider-Man, who jolted slightly in surprise. He pulled at the front of his suit and rubbed at a bright red, wet mark, smearing it further.
Spider-Man mumbled into his sandwich, too preoccupied with the task at hand. But he squawked when Deadpool wrapped his arms around him, "Ack!"
Deadpool ignored him and peered at the sandwich, pressing their faces together. "Is that a Weasel special? My goodness, Spidey, what are you doing hanging around a," he dropped his voice low, "murder bar?"
Spider-man froze, almost dropping the sandwich in surprise. "Uh."
"What would your young impressionable fans think? Don't worry, I won't tell anyone your secret," Deadpool gave an obvious wink from behind the mask, in response to Spider-Man's strangled protests. Spider-Man was still trying to come up with something to say before Deadpool moved on though, "You should get a chimichanga next time. And then tell him how much it sucks. Weasel tries his best, but he needs a new goddamn recipe."
Spider-Man pushed Deadpool's arms away with a little more force than he intended, and finally croaked out a laugh, "I have no idea what you're talking about."
Deadpool nodded conspiratorially, and tapped his nose, "I gotchu, Spidey. Anyway, I was thinking of heading down to Midtown later. Daredevil's getting a bit bored by himself in Hell's Kitchen, if you'd like to join us. You can always tell when it's been quiet, because he hasn't woken up in a dumpster in almost a month."
"I think I'm good for the night," Spider-Man said, shoving the last of the incriminating sandwich into his mouth before standing up. "I'm just going to do one more circuit and go to bed soon."
"Oh, maybe I'll join you then. The nights are getting so cold," Deadpool crooned. "Wouldn't it be nice to have a warm body with you?"
"I'm not convinced you're not a lizard person. You've regrown too many limbs," Spider-Man pushed Deadpool away amicably, laughing. "Have fun with Daredevil, and don't let him un-alive you too many times."
Deadpool pouted, but waved him bye as he jumped a roof and made his way to Hell's Kitchen.
Spider-Man swung off, too, after dusting any last crumbs off. He went on patrol, slowly making his way through the city, checking dark alleys and rougher areas for any ne'er-do-wells. it didn't take long to come across a mugger aiming a gun at a frightened man. The latter was crumpled on the floor, and there was a growing dark stain under his dress shirt. His hands were raised and shaking, from blood loss or fear, Spider-Man didn't know. He swung down to kick the gun out of the mugger's hands.
"Hey, buddy, you doing okay?" Spider-Man looked over the man, who's looking better than the somewhat alarming amount of blood draining out of him implied.
"Behind you!" and his Spidey-sense went off at the same time. He whipped around just in time to see the gun in face, and he acted reflexively, shooting a couple webs to straitjacket the mugger.
There was a beat as Spider-Man confirmed the bullet didn't land in his head, and everyone was still alive.
By the time he turned back around though, the victim has already stumbled away and around the corner. Spider-Man considered just swinging him to the Emergency Room, but there's something warm running down his leg and he's mostly sure he didn't pee on himself.
He looks down at his red suit and just sees red, which is its normal color, so it takes him a moment. Things click as his legs start to weaken.
"Oh. Shit."
And he passes out.
It wouldn't be the first time that he's woken up in a dumpster. It started happening more when he started spending time with Daredevil, but he's pretty sure he turned down Deadpool's offer of bothering the devil last night. In any case, he kind of wanted to just sleep a bit more, because this is the most comfortable dumpster he's ever slept in.
There was a gentle beeping, and it's so much nicer than his phone alarm. He reached a hand over to shut it off when he realizes he's not in a dumpster.
He's in a bed.
It wouldn't be so alarming, if for not for the fact that he doesn't have a bed.
He sat up suddenly and was rewarded with a sharp pain at his side. It takes a few moments and a few extra blinks, before he recognizes Manhattan's skyline. And there's really only one person he knows who can afford rent here. Well, he owns the building, but same idea.
He made sure his mask is still tucked on securely, and flopped back into bed. He groaned in pain at the impact. Mr. Stark must have been monitoring him because it's not even a minute later that he walks into the medical bay with a smug look on his face.
"Morning, Underoos," Mr. Stark said, taking a quick look at the monitors. "Your heartrate just went up. Doing okay there, bud?"
Spider-Man grumbled under his breath, "Peachy, if you ignore the stabbing pain."
Mostly satisfied, Mr. Stark rolled into the chair next to the bed, offering Spider-Man a little bowl of blueberries. Spider-Man paused before reluctantly taking one of them.
"Just gonna check your dressing," Mr. Stark said as he moved the blankets and lifted Spider-Man's gown. Spider-Man tensed, but didn't stop him. "Congrats on not ripping open your stitches. Congrats on getting shot badly enough to even need stiches in the first place, by the way."
"What happened?"
"You stopped a mugger. He shot you. Lucky for you that Barton's a terrible dog owner and was looking for his runaway. Fun fact: dog's name is Lucky, even though he has the worst luck in owners," Mr. Stark hummed. He washed his hands, and picked out another blueberry. "You managed to save the guy his wallet and cost us a couple thousand to save your life."
He ignored Spider-Man's middle finger, "I would've survived that. And blame the cost on the American healthcare system."
"Yeah, maybe," Mr. Stark conceded. "For the healthcare system. Not for surviving that wound, because that's," he pointed at the hole in Spider-Man's torso, "still a gaping wound. Here's a thought: consider not being so reckless next time."
"I'm fine," Spider-Man insisted.
Mr. Stark rolled his eyes, "He's fine, says the man with the, quote, stabbing pain. Ignoring the fact that you would've been passed out in the middle of the street with only a mask to protect your identity. Oh, don't get your pajamas in a twist. Barton saw enough to know there weren't any other injuries. I'd like to remind you though, if you joined the Avengers, I can give you a bullet-proof suit. You know, to block all the many bullets you've got coming your way. Saw you at the bank on TV yesterday."
"I had everything taken care of," Spider-Man guiltily traced his fingers along the bed sheets. "You know how I feel about it."
"Yeah," Mr. Stark frowned. "And as I've told you, all identities are stored on an isolated database that is behind security protocol I designed myself. It's Tony Stark approved, which is the highest approval any tech system can get."
Spider-Man looked away. Recognizing a lost cause, Mr. Stark shrugged. "Well, if you're not going to get a bulletproof suit, you should at least tell your boyfriend to be gentler. Those bruises on your hips looked nasty."
Peter's finger stops moving and he can hear the heart monitor speed up.
He can't see Mr. Stark's face but there's concern coloring his voice, "Oh hey, that was a joke. Are you okay?"
Peter tries to ignore the way he feels his lungs tighten within his chest and laughs an awkward hollow laugh that sounds false even to him. "I'm fine. It was just Deadpool. We were hanging from some rafters above a pit a couple days ago. You know how it goes," Peter says in a too loud, shaky voice. "Just gripped me a bit too hard."
Mr. Stark looks like he wants to say something, but he mercifully limits it to just frowning with a tight knit at his eyebrows. He's staring suspiciously at the heart monitor which is still beeping a little too fast. Peter rips monitor off his finger. The beeping stops, but the silence in the room is even worse.
"Are you okay?" Mr. Stark finally asks in a gentle voice. "Are you safe? Is Deadpool hurting you?"
"What?" Peter croaks out a laugh at the absurdity of that statement. "Deadpool is not-- Why would you think he's hurting me? I told you it was an accident."
Mr. Stark doesn’t look like he wants to, but nods. "Let me know if you need any help. Superhero stuff or not." As he reaches the door, he adds, "And if you're going to leave, try not to break the window again."
Peter lets out a strangled yelp of a laugh. He calms himself down before pushing back the sheets. He hadn't looked at the bruises Deadpool had left. They did look a lot like the ones that used to perpetually live there. He feels bile rising up in his throat and looks away. It takes a few deep breaths to settle his stomach.
He's feeling steadier, more grounded, so he gets up and considers his blood-soaked suit, before bundling it in his arms. It's a lost-cause, but it's better than leaving more blood samples for them to test. It's a moot point, honestly, because if they wanted to, they could've taken a million samples from him last night, but he's still doing his due diligence. He pulls on the plain t-shirt and sweats that Mr. Stark left. He carefully opens the window and disappears.
He shouldn't be going to work in this condition. His wound isn’t fully healed yet, but he needs the money.
His healing factor is frustratingly slow, but he shouldn't be too surprised. The past year had been excessively stressful. He used to be able to walk off bullet wounds in a matter of hours, and heal even the worst bruises in minutes. His healing has taken the edge off the bullet wound, but it's been plaguing him for at least half a day, and the mottled green bruises on his hips were from three nights ago.
He wondered if Mr. Stark had noticed that he hadn't been healing. He shouldn't have said so much.
Peter pushed the door into Sister Marg's. Wade's already there today, sipping a milkshake, and prattling some story to a very bored Weasel. Peter returned his greeting with a tired little wave, and grimaced as he bumped his right side into the bar as he walked back to the kitchen.
Wade must have seen it, because he sits up and asked, "You okay there, Ned?"
Peter gave him a thumbs-up, "Just hit the same spot yesterday."
That answer seems to satisfy Wade, and Peter breathed a sigh of relief. When he'd first started working here, he was worried that Wade would put together the vigilante Spider-Man with the kid Weasel hired under the obviously fake name Nedward Umbar (he panics under pressure, okay?). Weasel had raised an eyebrow and Peter shrugged helplessly.
He washed the dishes, and bussed some of the tables trying to ignore the stabbing pain at his side. It was burning, but he just had to get through another hour of this, and then he could go and lay down on a rooftop and not move at all. God, that sounded nice.
He made it to half an hour before his shift was scheduled to end, before he asked Weasel if he could leave early. Weasel waved him off, and he was out the door as soon as he could. He walked back to the building whose roof he called his home these days, and ducked in, anonymous against the workers letting out for the evening. He swung up the staircase and when he was finally in the safety of the rooftop, he checked the dressing of his wound.
Blood hadn't soaked through the gauze yet, but it was nearly there. It'd probably heal up more through the night and it shouldn't hurt too much tomorrow. He hoped. He laid down for a bit, relishing how good not moving felt.
He closed his eyes and was about to doze off when a bird squawked. It was picking at some leftover crumbs, right next to where his blood-soaked suit lay. Right. He needed to get a replacement if he wanted to keep hiding out as Spider-Man. He groaned as he sat up.
He pulled on his spare uniform, and swung to Midtown Sewphisticated Fabrics, with $20 he may or may not have pilfered during yesterday's bank heist in his pocket.
He was in line when he saw Deadpool waving from outside the window, face smashed against the window. Spider-Man held up a hand to indicate that he'd be out in 5 minutes, and turned back to the starstruck cashier and fumbled with his cash. Deadpool had apparently taken that to mean "come in", and the bell at the door jangled.
"Nice suit upgrade," Deadpool sniggered. Spider-Man had his normal mask on, but was wearing a knock-off Spider-Man t-shirt that got the spider design all wrong. Apparently not everyone knew that spiders had eight legs. Or, wait…maybe this was actually a very bad Ant-Man costume. He'd have to get that checked out.
"I need a new suit. I got shot yesterday, and needed something to tide me over. It's just my spare," Spider-Man grumbled. He turned back to the cashier and scrawled an autograph on the back of the receipt she just handed him, even dotting the "i" with a little heart. He said congenially, "Thank you! Here, you can keep the receipt."
He looked at Deadpool's head, tilted like it was in thought. "What? I do get shot sometimes."
"Nothing," Deadpool dismissed quickly. "You should get shot more often if it means you get to wear that out."
He sighed woefully, "I can't buy this amount of red and blue fabric anymore without getting flagged down if I'm in my civilian clothes."
He shoved it into his backpack and walked back out with Deadpool, flushing as he heard the girl gush to her co-workers. As he raised his hand to swing up, Deadpool latched onto his back like a great big Deadpool backpack, saying, "It's so much more efficient this way."
Spider-Man rolled his eyes but smiled underneath his mask. "I need to get the name of Daredevil's suit guy."
Deadpool pouted as they navigated the streets of New York. "What's wrong with my suit guy?"
"He’s Canadian. Isn't that enough? Also, his name starts with a Dead and ends in Pool," Spider-Man said. "And you won't let me pay you for a suit."
Deadpool opened his mouth and shut it again. Spider-Man frowned when Deadpool didn't take the obvious bait to slip in an innuendo. Instead, he said, "Just let me do it for you."
"Maybe next time."
They landed on suitable roof overlooking Queens. Deadpool held out his takeout chimichangas. "Let me take a look at the wound. Make sure it's healing properly. You don't wanna end up looking like me."
Spider-Man lifted his mask to take a bite of his chimichanga and yelped when Deadpool lifted his shirt. It took a moment before it finally clicked for him.
"I never said where I got shot."
Deadpool froze, finger halfway to poking the wound. "Okay, so Ned— wait, fuck—."
Peter pushed him away and ignored the squelch when he stepped into the chimichanga that fell on the floor. Raising a shaking hand, he tried to aim a web at a nearby building, but Deadpool tackled him and he watched the webbing fall away uselessly. Deadpool pinned him down, "Look, I'm really sorry I didn't tell you I suspected, but I also just confirmed it, like, literally right n—"
Deadpool looked at the trembling ball beneath him.
"Hey, hey, uh, Spider-Man?" Deadpool tried. He climbed off Peter, "Are you okay? I didn't mean to hurt you."
"Please, please," Peter's eyes were screwed shut. "Don't tell anyone."
"Of course I wouldn't!" Deadpool tried desperately, not quite expecting the intensity of this response. It didn't seem to matter, because it looked like Peter didn't even hear what he was saying.
"I'll do anything, please, just don't—" Peter stuttered. Deadpool had been flirting with him since the moment they met. His head spun wildly. Maybe he could use that. He licked his lips, "Let me—"
His fingers fumbled out and reached to Deadpool's belt, fingers fumbling as they tried to undo the buckle.
"Whoa, whoa, wait right there," Deadpool yelped, pushing the boy's hands away. "I think you've got the wrong idea here."
They paused right there, Deadpool holding Peter's hands together, away from himself. Everything slotted in place in his Peter's head, and he realized what he was doing. "Oh my god. I'm so sorry."
He wrenched his hands out of Deadpool's grip and stumbled as he swung away. Deadpool didn’t stop him.
"What," Deadpool asked himself, "the fuck was that?"
"I'm sure we can come to an agreement, Peter," Mr. Beck had said. Peter had stood rooted to the ground, watching the video of him taking off his mask. It had been playing and replaying on his phone. His had gone Spidey-sense haywire, as his worst fear was coming true. He had let his guard down. He had trusted Mr. Beck.
He was silent, suddenly feeling trapped in the hotel room. Mr. Beck had approached Spider-Man about a possible drug ring that was operating out of the warehouse of his charity. But, they were just rumors and he hadn't wanted to accuse or panic his workers until he knew they were real. Spider-Man had been more than happy to help. Peter had thought it would be a good stepping stone up from muggers and bank robbers. It wasn’t too popular yet, and the bigger players were still waiting to see how profitable it'd be.
Turns out, Mr. Beck was the one running the drug ring. Spider-Man had come to confront Mr. Beck about the truth, and came to their rendezvous location, this hotel room, only to see Mr. Beck watching a video clip.
Mr. Beck had put a tiny hidden camera in that alley.
The stupidest thing was that his Spidey-sense had gone off, but he'd thought it was just nerves. That it was a by-product of the fumes he'd been breathing in, which led him to pull of his mask to clear his head.
Mr. Beck's hand rested on Peter's shoulder, and he started. Mr. Beck smiled and leaned in until his mouth was right at Peter's ear. His hand slid down to rest on Peter's hip. "It'd be incredibly unfortunate if anyone were to see this, wouldn't it?"
Mr. Beck's grip tightened painfully and Peter realized how trapped he was.
"No, please," he whimpered out softly. His head was spinning and maybe he could push Mr. Beck away right now or shoot a web to destroy the computer or..or… His thoughts flitted wildly in and out of his mind.
"Oh look, you already beg so well," Mr. Beck said, stepping back, and eyes grazing over Peter. "The Sokovia Accords were signed just a few months ago, and yet Spider-Man is still running around Queens without so much a care in the world."
Peter didn't say anything, but could hear his heart thumping in his chest. He swallowed thickly. He could run, or he could turn Mr. Beck in to Mr. Stark, or—
"Sit," Mr. Beck said. Peter didn't move.
"I wonder if the police would come after you while you're at home. Well, it wouldn't be the police would it? Maybe the Avengers blasting through your house in the middle of the night. Imagine what dear, old Mr. Stark would think when he finds out Spider-Man is just a high schooler. And imagine what that would do to your darling Aunt May of course. I suppose she has no idea what you do," Mr. Beck tutted, and Peter felt a lump in his throat at the mention of Aunt May, "And on school nights too!"
Peter jerked his head roughly, and pulled himself out of his grip. "Leave her out of this."
"Oh, I intend to. Aunt May deserves so much more, and it's really up to you whether she gets involved or not. Could you imagine her face? How humiliating it would be to have a superhero nephew when he couldn't even save his dear Uncle Ben," Mr. Beck purred.
Peter couldn't control the look on his face, and Mr. Beck smiled devilishly. Peter could feel Mr. Beck's hot breath on his neck, and he felt the hair there rise as Mr. Beck hand slid down his waist.
"I could kill you right now," Peter said, trying to sound a lot more menacing than he felt. He shoved the older man off of him and webbed him to the couch.
"You could," Mr. Beck agreed, not at all frightened like how Peter had wanted him to be. He picked at the webbing on his suit. "But you're smart. You need to know if I have any insurance. If anything happens to me, my men know to send that video out. Maybe I'll be dead, maybe I won't, but no matter what, your life will be ruined. And I know your care about your identity more than anything else."
Peter didn't respond. "And, I've made sure that it'll be sent to some very interested parties. You've only been around for a few months haven't you? New York's darling, but you've also made a fair number of enemies." With that line, Mr. Beck had him, but he continued on, voicing Peter's thoughts, "I'm sure someone like Wilson Fisk would have some very interesting ideas after watching that video. He knows exactly how to hurt someone like you. So why don't you sit down?"
Peter didn't say anything. And hands shaking, fury brewing in his belly, frustration at himself for being so stupid, he sat down.