here comes trouble

The separate patrols had been his idea. Daredevil and Spider-Man had been seen together too often lately, crossing the same rooftops, appearing at the same scenes, always somehow within reach of each other. Jameson had already started spinning increasingly ridiculous theories about them, and attention had a way of becoming dangerous eventually. So he'd insisted they split up more often. Different routes. Different neighborhoods. A few hours apart, then home. Simple.

Raised voices and breaking glass drew him farther east than he'd intended, away from the familiar sounds of Hell's Kitchen and toward the overwhelming chaos surrounding Times Square. He hated it here. Thousands of voices crashed together beneath music, horns, engines, and the electric hum of screens large enough to cover buildings. Somewhere beneath all of it, he'd followed the wrong sound straight into an ambush. Five men. A metal pipe driven hard into his ribs. A knife tearing through the suit along his arm. Another strike catching his temple hard enough to leave warm blood running beneath the edge of his cowl. He'd won, eventually, but there wasn't much satisfaction in standing alone afterward, struggling to drag enough air into aching lungs.

Getting home was the only thing on his mind when he fired the line from his billy club toward the neighboring building. It caught, held beneath a sharp test, and he stepped from the ledge. For a few seconds, everything worked exactly as it should.

Then metal screamed above him. The fixture tore free. A startled gasp escaped as he dropped several feet before the line caught violently around the framework of a billboard below. The sudden stop wrenched his shoulder and slammed him against the building hard enough to send fresh agony through his battered ribs. His fingers nearly opened on instinct before panic made them clamp tighter around the club. Suddenly he was hanging over Times Square with nothing beneath his boots, one arm taking nearly all of his weight while every breath came short and painful.

His heart hammered against his chest. Traffic moved far below. Tires crossed pavement, horns blared, conversations drifted up from people who had no idea someone was hanging several stories above them. His senses mapped every inch of empty space beneath him with merciless precision. He knew exactly how far he would fall. Exactly what waited at the bottom.

"Come on." His voice shakes despite his effort to control it. His free hand reaches upward and closes around the line, injured shoulder screaming as he tries to pull himself higher. "Come on, come on..."

A low groan of stressed metal stops him cold. The framework above is bending.

"No." Fear drops hard into his stomach. Both hands tighten around the line as he tries again, faster now, desperation overwhelming the pain. Just get higher. Find a foothold. Grab the ledge. Anything.

Another sharp crack echoes overhead.

"No, no—"

The metal gives. For one awful instant, all the tension disappears from the line. His stomach lurches as his body drops, a raw sound tearing from his throat before the wind steals it away.

Then there's nothing beneath him.

Nothing to grab.

And he falls.

Logistically it made sense. They'd been seen together too many times in too short a time, enough that suspicions were being raised in a way neither of them needed. So, back to going solo as a friendly neighborhood Spider-Man. He'd done it before, he could do it again.

Except he's distracted. Can't stop taking little moments between webbing bad guys to listen for... well anything. Something about Daredevil on a passing police scanner that maybe his own wasn't picking up, or maybe some goons talking trash and mentioning his favorite man in red. But he kept getting nothing. Nada, zilch, diddly squat. And honestly it was starting to make his skin itch.

He should've realized it was closer to his spidey sense that it was to paranoia.

At least there's enough crime and shenanigans to keep him busy, keep his mind busy enough to focus on his job and not be a worrywart over someone who can absolutely hold his own. That's one of the reasons they worked so well, in Peter's opinion. Matt had been doing this gig long enough to know how to stay alive, clearly, long before he had Spider-Man watching his back. They'd probably both be a little bruised, maybe a bit worse, but they could patch each other up when they got back to the apartment before sunrise.

It's sound logic. Up until he runs out of bad guys to pummel.

And then there's that nauseating feeling in his chest that makes the hairs on the back of his neck stand on end. And Peter can't hold it back anymore. He can get an earful of teasing later if the feeling is wrong but...

But if it's not?

Without a second more of waiting, Spider-Man swings through the city. Listening to the city, looking down every alley in search of Daredevil. He's about to turn east when he spots it. A flash of red, hanging from a quickly crumpling metal off an older building.

Gwen echoes in his vision; the sight of her falling, his hand reaching and his webs slinging out and then --

He's moving before he even realizes, shooting out several strands of his web to form a net, heart nearly beating out of his chest as he races forward with his arm outstretched.

Please, please, not again, not him! Please not him too!

For one sickening instant, the world seems to stand still. A freeze frame, The Creation of Adam, everything on the line and just out of reach.

Then -- contact. Peter's hand wraps around Matt's wrist. Another web shoots out, latching on to the roof and pulling them both up to safety. And even before both feet are on solid concrete, he's pulling Matt into his arms, a sob breaking free before he can stop it. A moment later he's pushing the other back by his shoulders, though he's still clinging to the red of his suit.