Villains Are Such Tourists

Back in high school Flash never would have thought that Peter ‘Puny’ Parker would be the last person he’d want to see before leaving for war. Hell, he never would have thought he could break away from the violent vicious cycle that was the relationship to his dad, but here he was, making decisions for himself. Truth was, in all those years of reacting violently towards the guy that he could now call his best friend, there hadn’t been many occasions in which the attacks, the bullying, had been personal. Violence was as normal to him as white bread in the morning, and after all he bottled up at home, there was one place for him left where he could vent; school. Mad at himself, his father, and the way he man was impossible to please, he had to find that pat on the back with other people. Turns out kids loved seeing a bully beat up some poor geek, adults did too.

Now, years later, Flash was done chasing the approval of other people. His father was dead to him, it was time to start making his own decisions, do what he wanted to do himself, despite what would make the old man proud. If that meant spending possibly his last day in the U.S. with the geek he used to beat up every other day, so be it. This is what he wanted. Last week, the gang had thrown him a party, this week, he could use the rest. Of course, ‘rest’ in Flash Thompson’s book still meant working out as frequently as he could get away with, but he was sure the movies and takeout plan could pass for ‘rest’.

Something about leaving for at least a year felt surreal. He’d never been out of New York for longer than a month, and never before had he been overseas. He also never had to worry about not ever coming back before, but more often than not it were his friends that worried about this more than he did. After all, he was in good hands; good equipment, a fantastic team of soldiers beside him, and the months of training hadn’t been for nothing either. Everything would be fine, he knew what he had signed up for the moment he volunteered.

With the big leave having come closer and closer with every day, Flash had started to feel at least a little nervous. He’d been properly prepared, physically, emotionally, they had made sure to cover all the horrors he might be faced with on the battlefield, but not those on his home front. There had been no bootcamp for the fear that all your friends might forget about you, or how everyone’s lives seemed to go on and he was stuck in some ‘-stan’ with a rifle in his hands. This was the price he’d have to pay for doing the right thing.

Of course he could have used his athletic abilities for things he used to dream of as a kid, like going professional. Instead of choosing for an easier, more entertaining career choice, Flash Thompson had made the very conscious decision of putting all that muscle to good use, and do the right thing. A lot had changed since he was sixteen, and if anything a good role model had taught him that no matter his reputation he could stand and fight the good fight, even if it put himself in danger.

Flash easily found his way to Peter’s dorm on the ESU campus. He had only stayed in those dorms for a short amount of time, but the way to Parker’s dorm was one he wouldn’t soon forget. Finally arriving at the door, he wasted no time before knocking on the door. 

Being greeted with a salute, Flash grinned easily. Ever since he and Peter buried the hatchet and had become good friends, he had always felt really at ease in the other’s presence. “As you were, Private Parker.” There was a playfully mocking tone to his voice as he stepped into the familiar room, that seemed neater than usual. Feeling as at home here as he did in his own apartment, he let himself fall back on Peter’s bed, sitting up near the head end of the bed. “Well, honey, what’s for dinner?” Curious eyes were drawn to the stack of dvds on the pillow beside him, picking them up to flip through the plastic cases to get a good look at the titles and covers. A couple of movies listed in this stack had been ones he’d really wanted to watch but never found the time to, others he may not have heard of before but they seemed right up his alley. “And now these—” He idly held up the short pile before returning them to the pillow. “Look amazing.”

From the moment Flash grinned, Peter felt the previous sweep of concern and hypotheticals take an immediate back seat. The exchange was so easy. Now, there was a comfort in simply sharing the same space as Flash, and after all they had been through, he wasn’t sure he might ever really get used to that.

“Well, sweetie,” he replied in kind, punctuating the endearment and biting back a laugh. “I got takeout from the place on 36th. Figured you might like it befo— uh. Um.” Abruptly, he cut himself off, but hardly missed a beat before brushing it off and offering Flash a smile instead. Later. There would be time for that later. Probably. “The line was pretty brutal, though. I’m lucky we go often enough that they sort of like me.”

Bumping the door shut with his hip, Peter reached out for the bag of food sitting on his desk. It felt as natural as anything to see Flash make himself at home in his room, all muscles and wide smiles, stretched out on Pete’s bed. An answering grin pulled at the corners of his own mouth, and with plenty of concern for the food, he moved to drop the bag at the foot of the bed.

He watched as Flash took hold of the dvd cases, and couldn’t help when laughter bubbled at his friend’s approval. Of course Flash liked them; there were explosions on the covers of two out of three options, so really, he couldn’t have gone wrong there. If it was dumb and unnecessarily violent, Flash was into it. And, right now, that meant Peter was into it, too. Still, he tried to roll his eyes at the word choice, any effect lost in the lopsided smile he couldn’t seem to tone down.

Shaking his head, Peter reached over and plucked a random dvd from Flash’s hands. “You’re ridiculous. Those,” he pointed at the cases. “Are trash.” He stepped away from the bed and bent over the open laptop on his desk, opening the disk drive to pop the disk inside. Out of the corner of his eye, he caught his friend's gaze and shot him a teasing smile. “It’s all good, though—I won’t tell anyone that you don’t know what good movies are. Your secret’s safe with me, Thompson.”

A low whir started up as he closed the drive, window opening on the screen after a pause. Peter plucked the laptop from the desk with deft hands and moved back to the bed. Settling for an elbow, he nudged Flash’s shoulder a few times, signaling for him to move over. Distantly, he marveled at the reality of that. If he could have told his high school self that he might want nothing more than to spend a night watching Hollywood’s biggest embarrassments with the one and only Flash Thompson, he’d have gone into cardiac arrest. But there was something warm in his chest, now, familiar and nice. And he could lose that, in the blink of an eye, if something happened to Flash. And—no, not now. Later, later, he chided himself, climbing up to settle in beside his friend.

“C’mon, scoot. You don’t get the whole bed to yourself.”

@thatpeterpvrker

So. Thus far Darcy had consumed, eight mini kiev’s, three garlic mushrooms, four smoked salmon bites and six crab toasts. She’d made a dent in the mains and got through two glasses of champagne as well. Safe to say it was time she moved onto the puddings. Now, where were those waiters? They usually hung around near the kitchen door in case some of the more fragile puddings started looking a bit droopy and needed a touch up, tricks of the trade were coming in handy for her. With a grin Darcy set off in that direction.

She waved to Jane as she passed, surprised when she got a response. This was the third wave she’d sent to her friend but to be fair the brilliant scientist was rather occupied. Dancing with a Thor could do that to a girl. She chuckled, both pleased and a little sad that no one had asked her to dance yet. Pleased since in these stilettos she could cause serious damage, but c’mon, she was never gonna get this opportunity again and she wanted a memory to go home with. Just a memory, she wasn’t aiming too high.

Reaching the first of the many dessert trays she’d be assaulting she plucked a mini-strawberry tart and let loose a pleased moan at the taste. Sending the waiter scurrying away with a blush, “Oops.” she muttered. Feeling herself get a little embarrassed. Damn her lack of filter. She headed back a little towards the wall and… Right into the back of someone, which sent her sprawling with a less than elegant squawk. Her arms whirled until she found something to grab onto. Sighing in relief she looked down at her dress, no rips and her boobs were still covered, hurrah!

Then she looked up… Double oops, she grabbed the guy she’d bumped! Looking at his she chuckled nervously, “Well… At least I’ve ben swept almost off my feet now… Just didn’t think I’d be the one doing the sweeping.” she chuckled, “So now I’m gonna settle for saying sorry and follow it up with thanks for not letting me fall on my ass.”

For a party with as much food as the gala offered, Peter had, disappointingly, only tried a few of the hor d'oeuvres. Well, three, if he counted that thing which he still couldn’t confidently admit was food. Unidentified Food Object’s name had sounded reasonably fancy, though, so he had smiled through the awful taste and kept any and all whining internal. His Aunt May might not have ever fed him whatever cat food the gala had thrown on that platter, but she had taught him manners.

Still, there was a regrettable lack of time for snacking. In between trying his hand at photographing the event and tracking down friends, seeking out the kitchens had been downgraded in priority. It felt a little tragic, considering how rarely he actually found himself at an event with the caliber of the esteemed mayor’s party, but he very much intended to remedy the situation before the night came to a close. 

Right now, for instance, felt like the perfect time. 

Just a quick detour, and he could ease himself back into the crowd for a few final pictures. He bit at his lip in concentration, trying to fight a grin at the sheer ridiculousness of a secret trip to the kitchens. It felt a little childish, all things considered, but until someone said something, he hadn’t found a reason to talk himself out of it. No one bothered to pay him any mind, and even if they did, it was only to glance witheringly at the camera hanging around his neck. And even then, it took surprisingly little effort to slip past the throngs of people and down to the spread of food. And - oh my god. Good call, Parker.

The litany of dishes was almost laughable. There wasn’t a chance the people attending would eat all of that, right? Wow. He laughed, still lingering by the entrance, eyes not entirely sure where to settle just yet. Why, in the name of all things good, had he neglected to bring someone with him? Flash would have had a field day. Eating competitions, he thought with no small amount of both glee and terror, would be a riot here.

He was aware of someone before they closed in, his spine going a little rigid in the moments before. An instant later, and someone full-body stumbled into his back. On reflex, he spun on his heel and reached out, eyes wide. When she scrambled for hold on his forearms instead, he stilled, arms poised awkwardly in front of him as the woman righted herself. Peter made a small sound, mouth opening to say...something, while she caught her breath and took in her surroundings. 

Peter stared. A beat, as she stumbled through a sort of apology, and his mouth crooked upwards into a sheepish smile. “Uh - yeah. Yeah. No problem? I didn’t really do anything, though. Just kinda...stood here.” He laughed, hands hovering for a moment before he awkwardly tucked them into his pockets. Pockets were always a safe bet. 

“Kudos on sweeping yourself off your own feet, though.” He added as an afterthought, smile light as he lifted a shoulder. “I think that’s the highest level of self acceptance, right? Good for you.”

O Dee Dee

He shook his head, tilting his chin up slightly with his eyes on the ceiling like he was looking for salvation. “You know I would if it was just moral support, but wow, do I not want to be held responsible for the nose-dive that could take for some unfortunate sucker in the future.” Even though he’d put on an exasperated tone, the slight smile on his face was shamelessly fond. 

With every easy quip exchanged between the two, Harry was realising how he hadn’t actually been close to a conversation like this since… since the last time he talked to Peter, probably. Communication had been strictly through techonology when it came to his friends, and most of those chats were short and  uncomfortably stilted. The rest were between him and professors or business partners, neither of which responded well to humor. Not that he had been inspired to test that theory. So logically, he should be rusty, but – God knows it was easier to fall back into this pattern with Pete than speak anything that had actually been on his mind since they last talked. 

The original excitement that had given him a convenient kick of confidence now seemed to wane back into the less convenient nervous, under-lying energy. Which, with Peter’s next response, was anything but helpful. Where he’d been grinning in amusement moments before, the end of the statement made something lurch in his gut… except this time, it wasn’t a bad feeling. You’ve got me now. Was it that easy? An indescribable amount of hope soared through him, fighting desperately through the doubt that had festered so thoroughly. He was tired to the bone, and there was little he could do from turning a completely defenseless gaze to Peter. “I can’t wait,” he murmured. 

His conscious caught up too late with the display of vulnerability, and all he could do was put in a valiant effort at smoothing that glimpse of a mess over. He blinked, lightly cleared his throat, readjusted the strap over his shoulder – hell, he knew anyone, and Peter especially, could see straight through him. But what was he supposed to do? Dive directly into that wound they had both covered up for so long, right off the bat? He hadn’t even meant to poke at it. Not consciously, anyway. While it physically hurt not to reach out for his best friend at this point, Harry knew that was another way to so much easier open that taboo can of worms.

He should say something, follow up the slip with something to ease its intention. The attempt would be practically meaningless, though. It was out there, and both of them already knew exactly what he’d meant. His solace was that Peter hadn’t seemed dishonest, either. Who was he kidding? He’d grown up with him; there wasn’t one deceiving bone in that body. Harry’s gaze fell to the ground, reminiscing, an affectionate smile on his lips. They were so close. He could have him back.

That hope rose again when he looked back up at Pete’s response, fumbling and eager and so familiar, and there was nothing stopping the reciprocating grin. “Well, good,” he wasn’t often at a loss for words, but the sudden intense spark of joy had him reeling just a little. “That– that’s great. I figure it won’t hurt if we put off the school stuff just… just for a little while.” Not too much, anyway, he added mentally. His eyes idly tracked Pete’s hand, basking in that old gesture. Sometimes – most times – Harry suspected Peter encouraged that messy excuse of a hairstyle. That, or he’d simply given up at, like, age six.

They’d arrived at the end of the hallway by now, and Harry pushed open one of the double doors for them while he listened. He ignored how the effort made his chemically beaten muscles ache. His place. Harry realised he hadn’t actually been there. More like ‘vaguely aware that he’d moved out at all’, a pang of guilt supplied helpfully. At the moment, with this fragile and slowly mending thread between them, it felt like too much for comfort. But he also knew that if he had to keep up appearances for the public’s sake, he wouldn’t be standing tall for much longer. Just Peter was… or used to be… a comfortably lower standard.

  “Here’s a wild idea – pick up pizza on the way?” He peered at the other with an easy smile and raised brow. “Call it morbid curiosity, but now you’ve got me wondering what state a room of yours is without May the Mighty around to save the day.” He’d have worried about intruding if Peter’s first instinct hadn’t been inviting him. Glancing up against the merciless summer sun, Harry wrinkled his nose lightly to the nearly palpable humidity they’d come to wade through. In reality, he wasn’t hungry, but the fact that he hadn’t been so for days luckily spoke louder than his treacherous state of mind. Besides, that was the last thing that was gonna stop him today.

A laugh bubbled at the back of his throat, short and surprised – a helpless sound, when Harry caught him off guard. Again, he thought, somewhat dizzy. Because that had been the sum of their conversation thus far; Peter silently scoured through a number of awful scenarios that would bring this to an end, and Harry brought exactly none of them to a reality. No, it wasn’t awful at all. It was...something. Too much, but not in a bad way; at least, not yet. The teasing was nice. Hell, the teasing was great, and so so achingly familiar. As long as it meant Harry could keep smiling, Peter would try to make it last. So he lifted a hand to rest over his heart, eyes wider in feigned hurt.

“Aw, Harry. That stings.” His mouth pulled further into a smile, more relieved than anything. He tried to keep the eagerness from his tone, and failed instantly. Maybe, just maybe, he didn’t mind that so much. “What d’you mean, ‘unfortunate sucker’? My advice can’t be that bad. Its decent, like, seven-ish times out of ten. That’s a safe number by IMDB standards.”

When Harry looked up – looked away, Peter couldn’t bring himself to do the same. He spared a brief thought for anyone or anything he might bump into, but it had all more or less faded into the background. Instead, he let his gaze linger on Harry. He looked...different. Older, maybe? Tired, he thought with a pang of guilt. Peter’s pulse tripped over itself, eyebrows drawing closer when concern fought for purchase on his face. He wanted so badly to ask after him. When was the last time he had slept? Was he even on speaking terms with his pillow? But...that ventured away from the gentle atmosphere they had built a conversation in. No, that wasn’t as safe, so he worried his bottom lip between his teeth instead.

Was that selfish? God, it certainly felt like it. But he wanted to keep things from crumbling for as long as he feasibly could, and a shift in topic felt too much like a one way ticket to the gritty, guilt-ridden conversation they both kept skirting around. Yeah, avoiding it was selfish, but right now, there wasn’t a bone in his body that argued against it. He wanted to be here, with Harry, and feel a little less like the world didn’t want to crush him for a moment. Let them have this, please.

Then Harry spoke again, finally looking back at him, and oh godohgod – he grinned, and Peter wasn’t sure if he wanted to smile or cry. He settled for the former, a slow, lopsided grin pulling at his mouth. It was almost impossible not to reach out for his friend, then. They were close enough for a hug, without a doubt, but it still felt like he would have to reach across a chasm to touch him. So he resisted the urge, again, and hated himself just as much as before. Maybe more, but for a beat, the smile on Harry’s face overshadowed the stab of guilt.

“Sure – yeah, yeah of course.” Quick to agree and thrilled with the small victory that didn’t really feel small by any means, Peter nodded. “That test is weeks out, right? We’ve got time. Besides,” He flourished a hand in the general direction of the city. “There’s always time for pizza. That’s a rule, somewhere – I’m eighty percent sure.”

Back to rambling, again, but he couldn’t bring himself to stop. Peter’s stomach felt like it might be trying to float out of his rib cage. He felt happy – a tentative, nervous sort of flutter that pulled his gut his five different directions. Still, an encroaching sense of dread was still settled right beside it, and Peter didn’t even know how to begin balancing those feelings. It was all raw, ready to twist and curl and tug his composure down in the blink of an eye. Fragile, he thought among the mess of nerves; it was all so fragile. But maybe, they could find a way to keep it from breaking. Years of living in each other’s pockets had taught him that, maybe, if anyone could do that, it would be them.

Harry’s proposition drew him out of his head again, and his eyes lit up. “Hey,” Peter clicked his tongue, biting back another laugh. “Whatever you’re imagining – its not that bad. Probably.” And really, he struggled to remember how bad it actually was. Which, okay, felt admittedly like a red flag. In his defense, schoolwork and Spider-Man left approximately no time for tidying up, but at least he could safely guess that it wasn’t a total disaster. “But, on the off-chance that it could use a little work, I’m gonna casually beg you not to tell May? Even though I’m sure she knows these things, we need to play it safe. I’m not willing to let good ol’ Jameson outlive me. Not a chance.”

A couple of students hurried past them and Peter drifted out of their way, and in turn a little closer to Harry. He told himself it wasn’t on purpose, but when he finally gave in and bumped their shoulders together, gentle and a little playful, that was no accident. It should have felt more pathetic, how aware he was of the small press of limbs, but god, he wasn’t anything but grateful. “Alright, pizza to go, it is. I’m close to campus, so we can swing by the place just down the road.” Was his voice unsteady? He coughed lightly, eyes flickering to the space in front of him, then automatically back to Harry. He couldn’t help it – after a year, he almost needed to keep checking, to make sure that his friend wasn’t some sort of sleep-addled daydream. 

“Oh.” Belatedly, he remembered the only current decorative feature of his small apartment, and pushed a somewhat-nervous laugh past his lips. “And – uh, there are pictures? On the walls. Like, everywhere. Just so that you...know. So you’ve, uh, been warned, I guess? This has been a psa?”

terriblymcd :

The Queen turned crimson with fury, and, after glaring at her for a moment like a wild beast, screamed `Off with their heads! Off–’

The work of Supervillainry meant naturally that one would have to become acclimated to all the places society forgot about. Abandoned hospitals and orphanages, old underground sewers, secret laboratories. Haunted houses on the ends of quiet neighborhood streets. Jervis had made a living inhabiting these dark and eerie places, but he was quite pleased with himself on the renovations he’d made to an abandoned warehouse in Hell’s Kitchen. 

The debris had been swept out and replaced with antique furniture: dark cherry wardrobes and dressers; nightstands with delicate lace clothes draped over them, wrought iron lamps with grey and blue lampshades. On the walls was pale yellow wallpaper with only a few stains left in them. Above them were chandeliers that held the finest white candles, and just below that was the table. Every square inch was covered with tea and cakes, cakes that tasted like tea and even tea that reminded one of cakes. There were teapots of every size with mismatched cups, platters of butter and jam and honey. And at the head of the table was his beloved Alice. 

“My dear, my darling, it is time for a clean cup!” Jervis cried, tossing Alice’s porcelain teacup over his shoulder. It shattered against the floor. He removed a new one from his coat pocket and placed it in front of her with great flourish, filling it with tea. “Now, this is not our permanent abode you must understand. When this is all over and Batman is dead I have a mind to relocate to England, somewhere with plenty of tea. How about a spring wedding, my love? I’ve already designed a hat just for the occasion!” 

“…And hast thou slain the Jabberwock?” replied Alice, staring straight ahead. Her voice was a droning monotone. “Come to my arms my beaming boy!” 

Jervis just chuckled and patted her head, brushing a finger over the microchip attached to her right temple. “You are very singleminded this evening. Very well. Soon we’ll be able to––” he stopped midsentence, and slowly used a spoon to add sugar to Alice’s tea. 

“It appears we’re to have visitors Alice,” he said softly. “Unexpected too, like a hookah with a caterpillar. Or was it, a caterpillar with a hookah? Come out then,” he said, turning around swiftly and narrowing his eyes. He removed the gun from his coat, jostling several other hidden teacups in the process. “You’re late, for shame. It’s time for tea!” he began to fire into the darkness, each shot making the teacups on the table shake. 

It ain’t how you hit the mat, it’s how you get back up. The old mantra rang in his head as the only solid sound for what had felt like hours. His mouth was dry, hanging open and drawing in scents as one of the few things he could rely on. Touch was another, but with his balance embarrassingly off-center ( Stick would’ve had a field day with that ), that too was incomplete. With those two senses left to him, Matt knew the blood at the back of his head had long dried under the cracked helmet, but any such development didn’t seem to extend to his hearing. 

Another source of orientation down hadn’t stopped him. It had certainly freaked him out, once Spider-Man had swept him out of ( further ) harm’s way and given him the room to breathe and take in what he’d just been robbed of. He could feel the air on his skin but he couldn’t hear them moving. It wasn’t like the blind man wasn’t criticially aware of how important his hearing was to him, but apparently the powers that be thought a brutal reminder was due.  Yet like any other set-back, Daredevil worked around it, even if that included stumbling and near-accidents and concerned guiding hands on him more often than not. He hadn’t given Peter the choice of leaving him behind – though a liability, he still knew where Alice was better than anyone, and Murdocks did not back down.

Still, he wasn’t sure he’d have made it in time without his help.

The vigilante had recognised the Hatter’s hide-out by ambient sounds alone, but now that the duo was here, the older unable to make out the old signs, he was certain in the new ones. Warehouses rarely stood out in terms of smell, but this one had a long and rare history of fish trade that stained its untouched dust. And then, of course, there were the ones out of place. If Matt hadn’t known where he was, he’d assumed he’d walked into an exuberantly furnitured café. Enough sugary ingredients to make any man gag, mixed with rich wood and heated fabric - lampshades - and higher still, melting wax. – And then there was gunpowder.

His partner must’ve sensed it, too, in his own way, as Matt felt the air shift around him. The arachnid hero was glued to the wall above him, likely having peeked in so one of them had an overview. There were sudden and harsh vibrations in the floorboards beside him, and what reeked off them quickly informed him of the used bullets. The Devil let another few moments pass in which he inhaled, locating the victim as best he could through all the distractions, then reached a hand upwards. Peter’s fingers alligned with his in something close to second-nature by now, and Matt’s ungloved fingertip traced letters into the other’s covered palm. I W-I-L-L G-E-T A-L-I-C-E. D-I-S-T-R-A-C-T.

More than that, the impatient risk-taker didn’t have time for, barely waiting for his counterpart to act out the first step of the plan. There was a small mercy to be found in that his radar sense remained with him most of the time. He’d experienced losing the radioactive-induced impressions before, and that one inexplicable power was perhaps the one he relied most upon – now more than ever. The air moved around him, that chemical fluid joining it once again as his radar shaped around webbing. That was all the confirmation Daredevil needed to spur him forward, three and a half out of five senses alert, a feminine figure appearing at the far end of the cake-covered table.

Something told him the owner of the toneless voice from the recording wouldn’t be simple to save.

Somewhere along the line, Peter had actually started to worry. They could save Alice – they would. They had to, so they would find a way, no question about it. But their list of problems had only been stacked higher, between Daredevil’s injury and the last ditch escape from the crowd. Which, of the two, the former had left him more concerned. At the very least, Matt hadn’t been able to hear his diatribe of panicked nonsense in the moments leading up to their escape. Hell, Peter wasn’t even sure what he had said, too wrapped up in spiking worry for his company to keep his mouth from running.

But they had removed themselves from the chaos, even if for a minute, and somehow, Daredevil had talked his way out of a hospital visit and back into the fray. If it turned out that Matt didn’t have a deathwish, he might actually be a little surprised. Which – yeah, okay, that deserved some further thought later on, when someone’s life wasn’t on the line and they weren’t watching a storm sweep the city off it’s feet. So, helplessly, Peter had guided the two of them through the warehouse, relying on the severely wounded vigilante to move them in the right direction. 

And if he had thought New York’s newest problem was bizarre before, then that feeling only solidified when they drew to a stop outside of the warehouse door. He felt the gun fire before he heard it, trusty early warning system pulling his focus inside of the room. Quick and almost on instinct, he jumped, drawing himself into a crouch against the ceiling to peer through the doorway. A quick makeshift message from his partner, traced with a fingertip against his palm, and Daredevil was off, slipping past him and past their cover among the shadows. Peter bit the inside of his cheek, swallowing any objection and crossing his fingers that this was the right call. If Matt died because he hadn’t stood by the urge to send him to a hospital, then –

No, no. He didn’t have time to think about that, and it didn’t matter, because of course Matt would live. And even if his stomach flipped, he pushed the thought away and forced himself to move.

 “You know, I’m not an expert on tea, but something tells me you’re doing it wrong." He raised his voice to be heard among the sharp ring of gunfire, body twisting to avoid being made a target. “Didn’t your mother tell you not to keep guns at the table? Bad etiquette.” He crawled faster across the ceiling, eyes darting around the room to gauge the scene. Lamps, night tables, copious amounts of lace – did he do his own interior decorating? God, it could have been a movie set. The fact that it was real made his skin crawl. Peter clicked his tongue against the roof of his mouth, craning his neck to look deliberately at the man holding the gun. “Aw man, you’re letting a raw talent go to waste, here. Too bad – the industry probably could have used you. Tim Burton might have hired you for life.”

Mindful to keep in motion, he neglected to weigh options and dropped from the ceiling and down onto the table below. He landed in a crouch, something sharp cracking beneath one foot – a china teacup, or a plate. Oops. Lifting both hands, he touched fingertips to palms and aimed for the man now standing so close. He fired streams of webbing, gaze flicking to several key locations as he followed up with another shot – the hand holding the gun, his eyes, his ankles, that stupid hat.

“So, tell me about yourself.” The masked hero raised an eyebrow underneath his mask, tone veering from casual enough to sound clipped.  Still taking as he moved, he launched himself forward, pushing off the table in the man’s direction. He swung, fist connecting with a sharp crack against the side of the Hatter’s head. “What’s your damage? Not enough anime cons to cosplay at, so you had to take it a step further?” With more strength than necessary ( didn’t he deserve that, though? ) Peter dove straight into the man, dragging the two of them down to the ground. In the rush of movement, he half-aimed webs for whatever limbs he could reach, with hope, pinning the Hatter to the ground.

Taking it upon himself to go up against street crime, originally in an outfit patchworked off of eBay, Matt had learnt quickly to dodge bullets. Recognising the scent of gun-oil through fabric, locating the weapon’s whereabouts through the nearly inaudible shifts of a metal weight – it was all awareness, being prepared for the shot before it was aimed. In a crowd full of gunmen, that was a harder trick to pull off, but they weren’t quite many enough to overwhelm him yet. The hero  was subconsciously aware of the web fluid added to the mix around him, but his focus was dead-set on the firearm that had just shot at him. Apparently unfazed that they’d missed, he heard the reload’s mechanics, but he was already moving. Jumping to the side and gaining momentum, he spun around and released the billy-club from his grip with practiced precision, its end knocking into the gun owner’s now nerveless fingers before bouncing back at a perfect angle to its owner. 

  “Well, I think they were falsely advertised on my hospitality,” the devil admitted, swinging his elbow to connect swiftly and soundly with a young woman’s temple. One light concussion in exchange for giving their only hope a bit more time should be fair, in the end. Still, the confidence behind his statement didn’t feel right when the ‘intruders’ were the people he tried so hard to protect every day. The masked man swallowed around the discomfort, and was ultimately grateful when the other vigilante posed the question of the day. At least they both agreed finding the answer was the current way to go, and definitely a welcome distraction. 

Between the Spider’s and the Devil’s opposition, they were eventually given a moment of respite as the crowd recollected themselves. Matt debated his options only briefly, before turning his head to his unexpected ally. “Give me a minute – make sure they don’t hurt themselves.” The last part was an afterthought, wringing past the conflict in his chest and coming out surprisingly toneless. As the ones who had only been temporarily knocked down found their feet again, Matt ran and leapt, one foot tapping a man’s wide shoulders as he rose, serving as an improvised spring-board for the crimson-clad vigilante. One end of the billy-clubs shot silently through the air, and soon enough Daredevil pulled himself up on a wide windowsill.

Apparently, the demand for a red suit had no issue with a decoy.

The older man grimaced, but though his ego hated to admit it, he knew full well that Peter was the more powerful one out of the two of them. He would manage. Up here, his enhanced senses were free to focus without being constantly on the alert for imminent danger. Drawing steady breaths, Matt willed himself to ignore the confused hurt building inside him, putting all his attention into the crowd’s technicalities. At first he found nothing out of the ordinary, which was the quality that had landed him in this trap to begin with. Counting heartbeats formed a frown underneath the horned helm. Belatedly he realised there was an abnormal amount of stress considering the number of people – even for the people of Hell’s Kitchen. It was lingering, sourced in some event far away. Their current fighting was apparently emotionally effortless, which made no sense for civilians. They had to have been exposed to something. Quickly, Matt focused on finding anything else in abundance. Seconds ticked by. It was subtle, oh so very subtle, but–

Daredevil inhaled, short, quiet, and let himself back down into the fray.

Avoiding the webbing making up odd shapes around him, Matt dodged around bodies and deflected various weapons until he was practically back-to-back with Peter again. “Thanks,” he breathed, then cleared his throat so he was sure to be heard over the assaults. “There are electric sources on all of them – not phones or watches.” Pausing to sweep a man off his feet with a knock to his shoulder and club underneath his knee, he continued, “They’re incredibly small, and traced with sweat. I think… I think it’s stuck to their skin.” The Devil hesitated, not feeling any more at peace with the situation now that he’d found out his neighbors’ “motivation". He was no tech genius by any stretch of the term, but there weren’t many conclusions to derive from all of this. Wrestling another person away from himself, he exhaled sharply through his nose as he straightened. “We can’t just shock them all.”

They weren’t guilty of their crimes, and that made this all the much harder.

Just once, Peter might have liked to fight someone that made sense. Just once, could it not be nine levels of weird? Surely, somewhere along the way, he had pushed through enough bad luck to deserve a villain that didn’t feel like something out of Tim Burton’s edgy leather bound journal of discarded movie ideas. The mob of civilians was complicated, messy. There was a certain moral ambiguity that came along with innocent people pointing guns with intent to kill, and he really didn’t know what to do with that. They could be zombies, and with his track record, that wouldn’t even get him to bat an eye. Having a friend among the crowd was the most relief he figured he would get, so Peter let himself have some semblance of hope in that. With two, they could move past this quicker, and hopefully without leaving any critical injuries in their wake.

“Aw, well, that’s kind of embarrassing for them, then.” He raised his voice in order to be heard over various unintelligible shouts, only realizing belatedly that it might not have been necessary. Right, super-hearing. Something like an amused smile started to tug at the corner of his mouth, but it slipped away more quickly than it had appeared when a stranger to his right pushed past another to charge Peter. A sharp inhale, a silent wish for the mob to avoid destroying the Thai place off of 9th, and Peter moved. With easy movements – like breathing, or missing deadlines, he sidestepped the first approaching figure, only to bring down an elbow against the small of the man’s back, hard. 

Daredevil’s voice pulled his attention from the woman beside him, but he didn’t look over. “Uh – yeah, yeah okay. Sure thing, buddy! You just – ,” A pause, as he reached out to web another’s legs together. “ – do your thing! I’ll be here.” He kicked out, the heel of his foot making forceful contact right between the woman’s eyes. Maybe a little too forceful, he thought a little apologetically, when the man was knocked from his feet, sprawling in a heap of flailing limbs several meters back. Oops?

He whirled, hearing a shout. Two people stood where Daredevil had been just moments ago, eyes unfocused and baffled until they settled on him, and then the shouts picked up again. They couldn’t have been older than him, if the over-sized basketball shorts on one and the brand new ESU tank top on the other meant anything: so, students. Well, in some ways, he supposed this still had the opportunity to be less dangerous than whatever party they had probably been headed to, before. Before this...thing. Disaster. Episode of the Twilight Zone, maybe? That could be it, actually. 

( Twilight Zone Theory - 1 ; Zombie Theory - 0 )

"You know, if we stop focusing on the first part of 'go big or go home', will you guys pack it up and leave this alone?" Fingertips touching to the small devices resting against his palms, he aimed another string of webbing. It caught someone by the wrist, clinging to the skin there, and with a quick tug their gun dropped to clatter against the sidewalk. Grappling with quick thinking, Peter broke into a quick sprint, weaving a small circle around the nearest cluster of people, webs working like a lasso to tie them together. The, what – civilians? Enemies? Frenemies? A knife cut the air past the side of his head, just a hare short as he easily ducked away, and Peter figured that a tentative frenemies would do the trick for now.

From there, even in the chaos, it was easy to slip into a rhythm; a web to the legs, an elbow to someone’s gut, webs to cover the eyes. He weaved through the crowd, immediate familiar relief settling a knot in his stomach when he caught sight of Daredevil, easing closer. A beat as he listened, and he flicked curious eyes up to his only friendly company, forehead creasing. “Electric sources,” he echoed, only turning in order to swing a leg into someone's back, sending them stumbling into the unforgiving ground. “Wow, okay, that – that’s great.” He huffed, stomach flipping as he took in the implications of that revelation, and stepped a little closer to Matt. “So like, mind control. Ugh, Twilight Zone Theory was totally closer.”