Chapter Text
Peter is swinging through Midtown, just on the border of Hell’s Kitchen, when his Spider-Sense pings. Now’s as good a time as any to catch up to the Burger King guy. Hm. Whopper Guy is catchier. Big Whopp.
…Never mind.
The man in question is playing Candy Crush inside a laundromat.
Can Spider-Man swing inside and just grab the guy? He technically isn’t doing anything wrong, besides laundry. Laundry must’ve been invented by sadists. Peter should create disposable clothes or something.
Fuck it.
The man doesn’t make so much as a surprised gasp when Spider-Man swings into the laundromat, grabs him around the middle and swings back out in one swift move.
They land on top of a neighbouring building. Technically, this is Daredevil and Jessica’s mark, but Matt is staying at Foggy’s, and Peter doesn’t know where that is.
Whopper Guy is trying to covertly eye the fire escape to his right.
Sure enough, a moment later, he makes a frantic dart towards it.
Peter webs his ankles, and he falls to the ground with an oomph. Peter uses another web to snatch the phone out of his hand. The candy crush has been replaced with a phone call to 911.
Peter pockets the phone; he’ll give it back later. “I guess we’re meeting Jessica Jones.” He webs the guy's wrists for good measure and swings Whopper Guy over his shoulder.
The guy put up such a pathetic fight, Peter starts to feel a little bad. It’s fine, Matt and Jessica were staking him out for a reason. He’s probably planning world domination between his Candy Crush breaks.
*
Peter is only about fifty-one percent sure he’s at the right building.
Four eighty‑five West Forty‑Sixth is an old apartment block: faded red brick walls, murky windows. Budget Beaux-Arts. An equally old man walks out.
“Hey man, is this where—”
“Jessica Jones?” The man looks him up and down, raising an eyebrow at the probably-criminal. “Second floor.”
Peter gives him a high five.
Jessica Jones lives at the end of the floor, and Peter knows she’s home because he can literally see her through the reeded glass, but she still tries to hide behind her desk, and it takes sixteen knocks for her to let them in.
“You’re scaring away my customers.” She says, opening the door.
The entire floor is deserted.
Inside is a garish, bright yellow couch. The kind that makes Peter envy Matt a little. He nudges the Whopper Guy onto it and throws his phone in his lap. He’s Jessica’s problem now.
Jessica watches them silently, her hand inching towards the bottle of Gutterfire No.7 on her desk, “Why?”
“The Whopper Guy. At least I think he is.” Peter says.
Jessica stares.
“Whoppenator, the Whopfather, Whoppmaster?” Peter tries, “Look, I don’t know what his name is. It’s your own fault, really. You and Matt just called him ‘the mark’ all the time.”
“His name,” Jessica says slowly, “is Mark.” Her hands close around the neck of the bottle, and she takes a long drink.
Mark makes a sound halfway between a cough and a snort. Peter glares at him.
“I actually forgot about this guy. That stakeout was really just an excuse to waste time.” Jessica says, wiping her mouth.
“Cool.” Peter’s attention has been stolen by the desk to his left. It’s covered in neon post-it notes that say things like ‘remember to smile :)’ and ‘You look good queen!’ Peter picks up a small bottle of pink body glitter, turning it over in his hands. “No offence, but I can’t imagine you dousing yourself in fuchsia body glitter.” He says.
My secretary’s. She’s off for the weekend. Tropical margarita retreat.” Jessica says.
She skulks away to her kitchen.
“Why did you need this guy anyway?” Peter asks.
Mark is reclining on the ugly couch, making no attempt to escape. Overall, looking nothing like a man who’s just been kidnapped. Heartface was weird like that, too. What is it with criminals nowadays?
“He owes me five dollars. You want half a KitKat?” She tosses the chocolate vaguely in Peter’s direction without waiting for a reply.
Who refrigerates chocolate bars? Peter takes a bite. “Wait a minute. You want this guy because he owes you five dollars?”
Jessica shuts the fridge and shrugs, taking a bite of her own half of the KitKat. “Money doesn’t grow on trees.”
“She’s crazy! Can you tell her she’s crazy?” Mark exclaims at Peter.
“Don’t look at me, man. You’re the one who can’t pay her back five dollars.” Peter says.
*
It is absurdly early in the morning when Peter wakes up to Matt Murdock at his door. Again.
And he’s holding a weapon.
“An air purifier.” Matt walks in and dumps it beside the door with a bang. It’s one of those expensive-looking floor ones.
Peter’s probably going to wake up tomorrow to his downstairs neighbours drilling holes in the ceiling or something. Because filing noise complaints was too mainstream now, apparently.
“Do you just not sleep or something?” Peter asks.
Matt is fiddling with the cord. He doesn’t look like he’s planning to leave in the next five minutes, so Peter gives up and closes the door.
“I sleep sometimes, but so does Foggy, and he snores,” Matt says.
“Are you nocturnal? Because if you are, my boss wants pictures of some guy called Moon Knight. He’s nocturnal as well. Well, you’d think so, based on the name at least. Do you know where to find him?” Peter asks.
Matt is running his hands along the walls to look for an outlet, and there is no way Peter is going to help him. The only person who has a problem with the mould here is him.
“I’ve met him,” Matt says.
“You have?”
Matt’s hands pause by a light switch that’s just really close to the ground. It means Peter has to kick the lights on when he comes home. It’s actually quite convenient when his hands are full.
“So have you. It was something to do with Maggia. Is this a light switch?”
Huh, he has met Moon Knight. Sometimes it’s hard to keep track of all the superheroing he's done over the years.
Matt finds a socket and unplugs Peter’s phone charger for the air purifier. That guy seriously has to get his priorities in check.
“I hear he cut a man’s face off,” Matt smirks evilly like he always does whenever they speak about anything remotely violent.
“What?”
“And kept it.”
Now, that would make a good story, but Peter isn’t going to encourage Matt by saying it aloud. “That’s disgusting. Is my air breathable enough for you now?” He says instead.
Matt completely disregards Peter’s question and instead says, “Have you had breakfast?”
“No! Because it's like three am. Seriously, what’s wrong with your internal body clock, dude?” There have been times when Peter hasn’t even eaten dinner by 3 am, let alone breakfast.
“There’s a twenty-four-hour diner around here. You want pancakes?” Matt asks.
In retrospect, it didn’t take much to convince Peter. He should’ve negotiated more. Or at least questioned why Matt told him to bring his suit, ‘just in case’.
“I’m still not calling this breakfast,” Peter says as they walk inside the diner. Unsurprisingly, it’s empty.
They sit at a corner table, and Peter picks up the menu. It’s a choice between regular or buttermilk pancakes. “We should’ve gone to IHOP, they have monstrosities like those cheesecake flavoured pancakes.”
Matt wrinkles his nose, “That sounds disgusting. Anyway, I wanted something a little more inconspicuous.”
Peter snorts, “Is that why you chose a diner called Inconspicuous Diner?”
“What?”
“That’s the actual name. In big, fat, neon letters outside.” Peter says.
Matt sighs and asks for more coffee in the same manner an alcoholic might at a bar.
In retrospect, Peter should have been suspicious when Matt ordered for Peter unasked. He even tells the waitress to draw a smiley face on the pancakes for him. After Peter asks him, but still.
As soon as the waitress walks back to the kitchen, Matt pulls out a stack of papers and smacks them on the table.
“What do all these have in common?” he says.
Peter groans loudly. “You called me here for free labour! Missing people aren’t even your thing.” Probably because it’s not violent enough.
He hadn’t even bothered to print out braille copies.
“Recent changes in circumstances mean times have changed,” Matt says cryptically. “And it’s common courtesy to help poor, helpless blind men. Especially when they pay you. In pancakes.” He taps the papers impatiently.
A familiar photo catches Peter’s eye. “Is that Jun?” Why is this guy everywhere?
“Yes. And this is one of Reyes’ men.” Matt pushes another group of papers forward. It’s Barney.
“Wait, Heartface’s name is Reyes?” Why does no one ever tell him these things?
Matt asks for more coffee.
The papers are files describing seventeen different men who’ve all gone missing within six weeks of each other. They all live in the city and are between the ages of twenty-three and thirty-seven with suspected involvement in the Lighthouse Gambling Ring.
They spend the next couple of hours triangulating every single one of their last known positions and marking out the most suspicious buildings in that area. The waitress decides to just dump the entire jug of coffee at their table somewhere around Matt’s eighth refill. There’s a considerable pile of creamer balanced precariously in the corner of their table.
“Isn’t all that bad for your heart or something?” Peter asks. He’s sure Aunt May sent him an article about the dark side of coffee creamer once.
Matt shrugs, “My heart can’t be worse than Foggy’s.” He uncurls himself out of his seat, stretching in a way that reminds Peter of a very spoilt ginger cat. “I’m going to go check these places out. Shouldn’t you be revising for your midterms?”
“I’ve decided to take a more laissez-faire approach to midterms. Like, reverse carpe diem. You know how you should never show a horse if you’re scared? I’m doing that, but with exam papers.” Peter says.
*
They change in the dingy toilet and leave through the back door. Peter shivers. It’s unreasonably cold for March. He’s pretty sure it had snowed more days than not.
“Did you know spiders can’t thermoregulate?” Peter says.
“I don’t think that’s relevant to you. Can you check the map again?” Matt says.
“I’m declaring myself resident expert on arachnids, and as resident expert, I say it’s relevant.” Peter grumbles, “And we’ve checked the map four times, you’re acting like a tourist.”
“Check it one last time, and I’ll buy you a hot chocolate.”
*
The coordinates lead them to the weird no man’s land between Brooklyn and Queens.
They decide to try each building, starting from the most suspicious. They reach the first place, and Peter figures it would probably be stupid to just knock on the front door, but it’s six am on the weekend, and he’s Spider-Man. He can beat up a guy.
He drains the last of his hot chocolate and throws the cup away. It bounces against one of the windows and lands in an open dumpster. Peter raises his hands to the door, but before he can knock, Daredevil grabs his wrist.
“Wait, I don’t think this is—”
The door swings open outwards, whacking Peter in the nose.
“Spider-Man?”
It’s Wade Wilson. This is another guy who’s just everywhere. He’s dressed casually in a hoodie and grey sweats. Peter doesn’t know what he expected, maybe a few more rhinestones.
Wade turns around; the back of his hoodie is covered in sequins. Phew, Peter was really questioning his sanity for a moment there.
Wade turns back, holding a sheet of stickers.
“I don’t have any bandaids here,” he explains, sticking one on Peter’s mask over the nose. Before Peter can stop him, he sticks two more over Peter’s eyes, blinding him.
“Hey!” Peter scratches at the stickers. By the time he unsticks them, a fully dressed Deadpool is standing in front of him.
“How did you change so—” Peter starts.
“Ooh, DD is here as well! Why didn’t you say anything, you sly old dog? Here, have a sticker.” Deadpool skips past Peter and presses an angry face sticker on Daredevil’s chest.
It’s fine. He doesn’t think he wants to know anyway.
“You live here?” Matt asks. He doesn’t even try to pick the sticker off.
“Nah, this is just one of my crash pads. Do you live here?” Wade says.
“We’re looking for a kidnapper, but for adults. A man-napper.” Peter says, ”Or woman-napper.”
“Sorry to disappoint
But this ain't the joint.” Wade rhymes.
Matt starts to turn away, “Come on, Spider-Man.”
“Wait! If you’re listening out for criminals, I can show you where to escuche.” Deadpool says.
*
The building Deadpool takes them to is only number six on their list of suspiciousness. In retrospect, its unsuspiciousness was suspicious.
“Hey, Pool, do you know where to find Moon Knight?” Peter asks while they wait for DD to find a more covert entrance this time.
“Is he the one that sliced a guy’s face off? I hear he’s totally insane, like, crazy levels of crazy. Total psych ward material, I bet psychiatrists pop boners just at the thought of him.” Wade replies.
Peter thinks that’s slightly hypocritical, coming from Deadpool of all people, but he definitely isn’t going to say that to his face. “Do you know where to find him?”
Wade scratches his head in contemplation, “Isn’t he in LA?”
Peter groans. He thinks back to simpler days when he could just swap a few selfies with Jameson for a check. Now he actually has to work. “What about Hellcat?” he asks.
“I have no idea, baby boy, but if you do, make sure you really talk me up. Describe my muscles in extreme detail and give her my address. There’s a sticker in it for you.” Wade says.
And he is most certainly not getting involved in any of Wade’s crushes, Peter thinks as he climbs in through a broken, boarded-up window in a back alley Matt leads them through.
Deadpool’s lead is a dud.
The entire building is deserted. It’s probably condemned. Should they even be in here?
It’s fine, he’s Spider-Man, he can survive a collapsing building.
Matt turns to Wade, “There’s no one here.”
“Chillax, Red, do you honestly expect any sort of respectable goon
to rise before noon?
Matt exhales loudly through his nose and turns to leave. His breath condenses in the air in front of him, and the overall effect reminds Peter of those dragon puppets they pull out on Chinese New Year.
He must’ve laughed because Matt shoots him a withering glare.
But before he can step out, he bumps into Jessica Jones.
“Since when do you wake up in time to experience the morning?” Matt asks without missing a beat.
“Or maybe,” Jessica steps over the broken glass, “I just stayed up really, really late. It’s a matter of perspective.” She looks past Matt at Peter and Wade, then back at Matt, “Why are you three here?” she asks suspiciously.
“…Missing people,” Matt says after a long pause. He almost looks sheepish.
Jessica explodes, “Over five dollars? I can’t believe you, Murdock.” She shakes her head in disgust
Peter looked to Wade for context. He shrugs.
“Well, you should’ve thought about it when you took Mark from Spider-Man!” Matt yells back.
“Wait, wait, wait, is this about the Whopper Guy? For the record, I didn’t even know why you guys wanted him in the first place, and you,” Peter points at Jessica, “definitely told me the mark owed you five dollars.” There’s no way Peter is getting roped into a feud between Jessica Jones and Matt Murdock.
Jessica drags a hand down her face, “For the last time, Spider-Man, his name is Mark, he isn’t ‘the mark’.”
“And he chews weirdly, have you noticed?” Matt adds.
Yes, Matt, they have all noticed.
“Hey Spidey, do a flip,” Deadpool says.
Peter does a flip.
“Why?” Peter asks.
“Want a strawberry Twizzler?” Deadpool says, holding one out.
“Sure.” Peter does a flip and takes the Twizzler.
Jessica checks her phone, “These guys are going to turn up any minute; they know we’re on their tails now, and they’re planning to skip town.”
She scans the room, shoving a couple of crates around before she pauses in front of a pile of tarp. Lifting it singlehandedly, Jessica pulls out a dusty duffel bag, then another and another.
Before she can stop him, Deadpool grabs the closest one and rips it open.
He pulls out a big gun.
“Not just a ‘big gun’, Spidey. An M82,” Wade says in awe. He digs through the bag and, with a triumphant noise, emerges with a box of ammo.
Before Wade can go any further, Peter webs the ammo out of his hands. Isn’t he armed enough already?
“Were they seriously planning to use those in the middle of the city?” Peter asks, slightly horrified.
“They were probably planning on using these.” Matt nudges the second duffel. Jessica opens it. It’s stuffed full of pistols.
Deadpool throws the empty rifle away. It clatters on the floor and skids to a stop near Jessica. “How come your super super senses didn’t sense these sweet things anyway, Mattie?” he says.
Matt shrugs.
Jessica answers for him, “Maybe it’s because he hasn’t slept in thirty-seven hours?” She glares at Matt like his disregard for his own health is a personal slight against her. “Right, Mattie?”
Matt straightens, “Thirty-seven hours is a gross exaggeration—”
“Hey Spidey-webs,” Wade calls, “Do a flip.”
This time, Peter peered suspiciously at Wade, “…Why?”
“There’s a sticker in it for you,” Wade says.
Peter doesn’t do a flip.
“A Twizzler?”
Peter flips. Wade gives him a strawberry Twizzler.
Jessica busies herself with the third duffel bag, struggling with the zipper.
Matt sniffs the air. Just as she manages to yank the bag open, Matt yells out a warning. Too late.
Jessica takes one look at whatever’s inside and stiffly closes the zipper, and then gently picks up the bag and hides it under the tarp.
She’s moving slowly, as if she were carrying a bagful of bombs. Hold on. “Please don’t tell me that bag is full of bombs,” Peter says.
Jessica wipes her hands on her jeans and grimaces. “I’ll keep my mouth shut then.”
Matt yawns, “You said these guys were coming any moment.” He accuses Jessica, then he tilts his head, “Never mind, they’re here.”
Matt rolled his shoulders, “There’s fourteen. I’ll take eight, Spider-Man three, Jessica two, Deadpool one.”
Everybody decides to ignore him.
These guys are slightly more prepared than Heartface’s ‘crew’, Peter thinks, dodging a bruiser’s heavy punch. But in a I’ve-maybe-witnessed-a-street-brawl-once kinda way.
The bruiser takes a step closer. He has a habit of putting his entire body weight into his punches, which means he stumbles every single time Peter dodges them.
“Quick question: are your knuckle tats a misguided fashion statement or are you giving people something to read while they wait for your punches?” he asks.
The bruiser stumbles, and Peter webs him up against the wall.
Peter takes two more crooks down in quick succession when he feels something sharp graze his side. He groans and spins around to slap the knife out of the brute's hand, then he pauses.
“Where the hell did you find a dagger?” he asks the (now webbed up) brute.
“Let me see,” Jessica snatches the thing from Peter and turns it in her hands. Its hilt is lined with pink, heart-shaped rhinestones. Why is that familiar?
Deadpool comes to peer over her shoulder, “Whoopsies. That’s mine, I dropped it about two minutes ago.” He turns to the brute, “Sticky fingers, did your mummy never tell you not to touch other people’s things?” he scolds.
Peter webs his cut before he gets blood all over his suit. It’s shallow, but he hates laundry. He glances around. Thirteen men are all webbed down or knocked out. Deadpool hasn’t even scalped anyone. Peter is weirdly proud.
“Hold on, DD, didn’t you say there were fourteen?”
"Fourteen's waiting in the car outside, apparently." Jessica says, dropping the guy she’d been shaking around, then addresses Matt, “That’s my guy. As in my case that Mrs Lang is paying me for. Get your own five dollars, Red.”
“I’ll come,” Peter says, “but we need to make a stop.”
*
They find Jun sitting in the backseat of a battered silver car. The first thing he says to Jessica when she sees them is, “Hey, you’re that freak girl who can jump high, right?” So, Peter isn’t sure how much of an accident it is when Jessica pulls him out of the car by his collar, and he thumps his head on the roof on the way out.
They decide to walk since Mrs Lang’s isn’t too far. Jessica grumbles the entire way while she jostles and drags Jun along. He must’ve hit his head harder than they thought. Peter offers to hold Jun twice. Jessica refuses twice. He’s starting to suspect she secretly enjoys shoving him around like a Bobo Doll.
Peter stops them in front of a thrift store and turns to Jun, “You owe your mother a vase; there’s no way you can show up without one. Maybe she won’t ground you for as long that way, too.”
“I’m twenty-three,” Jun replies.
Peter brings them inside.
“You’re weirdly hung up about the vase,” Jessica says while Peter browses the store's medley collection of vases. She keeps a two-step distance between him while she follows him around with Jun.
He decides to go with something glass, like Mrs Lang’s old one. There’s one with a long, thin neck and a round bottom that’s painted with lots of little goldfish. It’s four ninety-nine.
“Do you have five dollars?” Peter asks her. In retrospect, it’s a stupid thing to ask.
They decide to shake down Jun. It’s supposed to be his gift anyway. Jun has four dollars and fifty cents.
Peter dumps the coins in the cashier's hand, “You’re missing forty-nine cents.” She says.
“How about a selfie with Spider-Man, Jessica Jones and Jun, not John?” Peter offers.
*
Jessica hasn’t even knocked on Mrs Lang’s front door when she bursts out and slaps Jun across the face, then wraps him into a tight embrace. She’s speaking to him in soft Mandarin. Peter figures it’s a fifty-fifty toss-up whether they’re heartwarming declarations of love or death threats. Jun hugs her back as best he can with a glass vase in one hand.
Mrs Lang finally releases Jun and turns to Jessica and Peter. “I can’t thank you enough,” she says breathlessly.
And maybe, just maybe, it’s times like this Peter remembers exactly why he puts the mask on in the first place. “You might wanna get him checked out for a concussion, later.” He says.
Once she’s gotten Jun settled on the couch, Mrs Lang digs around her purse for Jessica’s payment. She offers to pay Peter as well.
Peter shakes his head. But he makes her promise never to make Daredevil Kung Pao Chicken again.
Finally, they leave, “Why were you so insistent on delivering Jun. And I don’t believe your story about how it was just the vase.” Jessica says.
Peter shrugs, “Matt and Wade are going to have to call someone to deal with the bombs, and it’s going to be this whole thing.” There’s a beat of silence, “I heard you know Hellcat.” He adds.
“No,” Jessica says.
“Is that a ‘No, I don’t know her’ or ‘No, I refuse to share my friends’?”
“You are disturbingly similar to Matt,” Jessica says randomly.
“But with better hair and less Catholic guilt, right?”
“I haven’t seen your hair, Spider-Man. I couldn’t say.” Jessica jaywalks without looking, and it’s bad for Peter’s blood pressure.
“Well, you do know I’m not Catholic, so…”
“You don’t need to be Catholic to be guilty.” A car honks loudly at them as it drives past.
“Okay, but—“
“Just take the compliment and shut up.” Jessica snaps.
Peter’s pretty sure he missed the compliment part of Jessica’s compliment, but he decides not to look a gift horse in the mouth.
*
Back at his apartment, Peter finds Matt Murdock and Wade Wilson draft-proofing his windows—well, window. Peter has two windows, one in his bathroom and another in his ‘open plan’ kitchen-living-diner-bedroom, but apparently Matt needs to build up the courage to go in there, so they’re leaving that for later. The air purifier is on at full blast.
“Ever heard of the term ‘home invasion’?” Peter asks, dodging a bowl of salt that’s on the floor for some reason. “How did you even get in?”
“Willing to take me to court on it?” Matt asks from where he’s perched on Peter's windowsill. He’s wearing every piece of PPE short of a full hazmat suit imaginable. Peter isn’t sure if Matt knows there are googly eyes on his goggles, but he sure as hell isn’t going to tell him. All lawyers were sharks anyway.
Matt doesn’t look like he’ll be done any time soon, so Peter sinks into his couch in defeat.
Wade is putting ocean-themed stickers on his AC because it’s leaking.
“I know a guy. He can come around to fix it later.” Matt says, “He owes me a favour.”
“What was with the sad little textbook shrine, Webs?” Wade asks.
“What do you mean—” Peter looks over at Wade and is met with the sight of total destruction. “What did you do to my desk?” He yelps.
These two monsters have taken apart his desk and chair. Now, all that’s left are a dozen leaning towers of textbooks and a folded-up tablecloth. Wade has decorated with Halloween stickers. Peter doesn’t even know where the cushion has gone.
He morosely wonders whether Aunt May would notice the twerking skeletons all over her tablecloth if he ever decides to return them.
“What desk? I do not remember coming across any desk, Petey. These are books.” Wade shakes his head, “What do they even teach you in school nowadays? Sigh.”
“It used to be my desk,” Peter said, emphasis on ‘used’. Although by the end of its short life, midterms had forced Peter to dismantle part of it, so it hadn’t really worked as a desk for a long time, but that’s besides the point. “There aren’t any concrete rules about what does and doesn’t count as a desk. It’s an abstract thing, really.” Peter feels weirdly defensive about it.
“Whatever it was, it had bad ventilation, so it needed to go,” Matt says.
Peter spots The Leech Handbook sitting among the ruins. Stealthily as he can, he snatches it away and stuffs it in his couch.
There’s one rule.
Matt finishes whatever he was doing with Peter’s window.
He watches as Wade hauls out another massive air purifier from the bathroom. “Why are there two air purifiers now? Was one not enough?” Peter asks.
“This one isn’t an air purifier, it’s a dehumidifier,” Matt says.
“Matt, but I don’t have dehumidifier space.”
It’s hard to discern Matt’s expression under all the protective gear, but his voice sounds frowny, “The legal limit in New York City for a rented apartment is eighty square feet per occupant.”
And… Wow, that’s ridiculously low.
“Listen, my landlord is definitely breaking a couple laws, but I’m pretty sure I have at least eighty square feet,” Peter assures him.
In all honesty, Peter hadn’t checked the apartment out too closely before he bought it. All he knows is that it’s relatively close to NYU and he can afford it without a roommate, which is enough for him to bother scraping together a deposit.
He’d tried roommates. Roommates are ridiculously overrated. Peter can be friends with Flash Thompson, but he can’t deal with his habit of leaving weights outside Peter’s bedroom door for him to trip over and the constant sneaking around to be Spider-Man.
Then there was Johnny Storm, who knows he’s Spider-Man but bought pretentious appliances and had a really loud, really annoying alarm that he always set fifteen minutes before Peter’s. He’s really glad he didn’t have to wake up to the chorus of Barns Courtney’s Fire every morning anymore.
Speaking of roommates, “Aren’t you still staying with Foggy? Shouldn’t you be sorting out your own apartment?”
“My apartment’s ceiling caved in. The leak was worse than we thought.” Matt’s pouring something that looks and smells suspiciously like vinegar into two spray bottles.
He hands one bottle to Wade, and they start spraying it absolutely everywhere. Wade isn’t trying to keep it inside the bathroom. The goggles make a little more sense now.
When Wade somehow manages to spray a mouthful of the liquid into Peter’s mouth, he discovers it is white vinegar.
Peter takes that as a sign to retreat. He grabs the Handbook before he leaves.
*
The roof is thankfully empty. Peter flicks through his Handbook.
Jessica Jones: half a refrigerated KitKat.
And no wonder she’s grumpy all the time if all the chocolate she consumes is of the refrigerated variety. It’s another reason why Peter was right to unplug his own fridge. He can’t risk his confectionery accidentally ending up in there.
Hot Dog Guy: 2 hot dogs with extra pickles
Wade Wilson: 2 unsolicited Strawberry Twizzler distributions, occurring at irregular intervals. Underlying behavioural mechanisms remain inconclusive. Further observations required.
*
Peter has been camping on the roof for half an hour, but Matt and Wade still aren’t done. He’s staring at his phone screen, deliberating. He’d stolen the number the first time he’d stayed at the firm. Just in case.
A light breeze carries a couple raindrops that settle in Peter’s hair and make him shiver.
Fuck it. It’s March, it’s cold, and he wants to go inside and sleep in an apartment that isn’t swimming in vinegar.
Foggy picks up after three and a half rings.
“Franklin Nelson speaking.”
“Foggy! Hey, it's—”
“Peter?” Foggy sounds confused.
“Yeah—uhh. No, I mean...” Would it make more sense for Peter Parker or for Spider-Man to be calling? What if Matt told Foggy that he’s going to Spider-Man’s house, and then Peter Parker starts ringing him, saying Matt Murdock won’t leave his apartment? What if it’s the other way around?
“I assume you're calling me about the apartment?” Foggy prompts. He must’ve gotten tired of waiting for Peter to respond.
“Oh. Yes, actually.” That was easy. No identity-revealing misunderstandings at all.
“Well, Matt’s a great roommate as long as you don’t use too much cologne. He’s very tidy, and I’d be totally happy to let him stay at mine, but I think he’s been averaging about three hours of sleep a night,” Foggy says.
“What?”
Foggy is silent for a moment. “You are Peter Parker, right? I thought you were calling me to ask about becoming Matt’s roommate. Isn’t he there with you right now?” There’s a scuffling sound in the background.
“No, no, he’s here, but that’s the problem. He won’t leave, and now my apartment smells like pickles, I have no desk, and there are bowls of salt all over the place.”
Foggy sighs loudly.
A fat raindrop lands on Peter’s cheek, then another. “The outdoors are uninhabitable, Foggy. I gotta go.”
*
On the way back inside, he trips over a bowl of salt. “What’s with all the salt everywhere? Are you casting out evil spirits, because I know there’s mould, but I am not prepared for ghosts.”
“Nah, the salt to catch the water, Websy it slurps it all up like,” Wade makes a loud slurping sound. He sticks a smiley face sticker on Peter’s forehead.
Matt is hacking at Peter’s bathroom extraction fan with a screwdriver while Wade watches an Australian man on YouTube describe how to fix them.
“Now unscrew the top,” Wade says.
“Top of what?” Matt asks, wrench between his teeth.
“The top of the fan, dumbass.”
And if Matt would rather deep clean Peter’s apartment on three hours of sleep than live with him for a while, that’s his funeral. Peter doesn’t care. He has his Midterms in two days anyway.
*
Like the hypocrite he is, Peter completely renounces his new laissez-faire, reverse carpe diem lifestyle and spends the next two days consuming his textbooks.
On the other hand, completely true to his word, Matt’s guy comes over and fixes the leaks in his AC, not that Peter’s going to be able to make much use of it. It’s perpetually freezing and raining lately. Peter is starting to suspect that some sort of supernatural force is at play here. He should contact Thor.
The day after his last exam, Wade messages him.
W: Spidye!! 2 floor toleit at TRAINWRECK
W: 10pm (gmbling ring))
W: tmrw !
Peter looks TRAINWRECK up. Scrolling past the movie, Netflix documentary and pictures of crashes, he finds out it’s some type of building for a business in Hell’s Kitchen. What type of business it’s supposed to be is unclear. TRAINWRECK doesn’t have a proper website. But it does have five stars on Trustpilot based on twenty-three reviews.
★ ★ ★ ★ ★
Just as advertised. Great service. Glad to join the crew.
★ ★ ★ ★ ★
Effcient green caterpillar
Whatever that means.
*
Spider-Man walks into TRAINWRECK’s abandoned second-floor toilet at ten forty-seven at night. There’s an OUT OF SERVICE sign on the door, and one stall is slightly flooded. Lazy graffiti decorates the walls. A couple of tags, dicks and someone’s Snapchat.
“You’re late,” Daredevil growls. He’s crouched behind a sink.
“Daylight savings,” Peter explains. He peers over Matt’s shoulder.
“How did your midterms go?” Matt asks.
“Are we really going to talk about my exams while you’re over there petting the snake?” Gerald is curled up next to the sink. He flicks his tongue contentedly.
Peter snaps a picture on his phone.
“Forced proximity does wonders for the constitution.” A voice growls from behind, making Peter jump onto the ceiling. He looks down to see Deadpool manspreading on a closed toilet lid.
“I don’t think you know what constitution means,” Peter tells him.
Matt lightly drags a single gloved finger down Gerald's spine. He seems reluctant to sacrifice another. “Karen said she’s a banana.” He says, “And for the record, I wasn’t scared of her. She just sounds weird. I know her heartbeat now, and her weird cold blood. And the scales.” Gerald brushes past his boot, and he shudders.
Sure, buddy.
Well, Peter is perfectly fine on the ceiling. Arachnids and amphibians are natural enemies in the wild. Probably.
“Hey Spidey, can you do an upside-down flip from up there?” Deadpool says, pulling out a bag of Twizzlers.
Peter does an upside-down flip on the ceiling and automatically holds out a hand. Wade gives him two Twizzlers.
Matt watches the two intently. The angry face sticker is still on his chest, it’s peeling slightly on the edges.
“Y’know,” Wade says, “I’ve been training Gerald. Watch.” Wade crouches down beside Gerald, and Matt quickly steps away. “Die, you fucking bitch!” Wade yells, making Peter jump again and bang his head on the ceiling.
Gerald flicks her tongue and rolls over, belly up.
After a moment, Wade says, “Arise.” Gerald rolls over again. He holds out a Twizzler, and she flicks her tongue on it.
No wonder she’s so fat.
Wade lifts Gerald and wraps her around his shoulders. “Here’s the plan,” he says. “Mains electricity is behind this wall,” he pats the wall beside the sinks, “So I’ll blow a hole right here, and then we all go down and rush those bastards in the basement.”
Wade pulls out a grenade, and Matt grimaces.
Peter is fairly certain Matt had little to no input on this plan.
“Assuming everyone is actually in the basement, shouldn’t me and Matt go downstairs before you set off the bomb so we can jump these guys before they can escape?” Peter says, definitely not because he doesn’t want his eardrums blown out.
Wade scratches his head in deliberation, “Probably.” He shrugs and waves them away.
Having not met anyone on the way to the toilets earlier, Peter had assumed the entire building was abandoned, but apparently, everyone’s just holed up in the basement. Loud rap music shakes the walls. Peter and Matt decide to hide in a supply closet among ancient cleaning supplies and a broken mop while they wait for Wade to cut the power. They figured that, of all the rooms, they’re least likely to be discovered here.
Peter turns the light on, so they know when the power goes off. He doubts they’ll be able to hear much of anything over the music.
“According to those guys we took down in Brooklyn, they’re having a meeting with only the biggest scumbags at the moment. Remember that power play at High Class restaurant?”
“No...”
Matt sighed, “I think you called him Crumpet guy.”
“Ohh! I know exactly who you’re talking about. We had that atrocious Greek monstrosity afterwards. Is it seriously called ‘High Class’ restaurant?” Peter wrinkles his nose.
Instead of replying, Matt clamps his hands firmly on his ears.
A muffled explosion vibrates through the building, and the mop falls over. The lights flicker off along with the music, and Peter’s ears ring slightly in the silence. They only have a few moments to catch the guys in the basement off guard. But before he can let them out of the closet, Matt grabs his shoulder.
“How’s your apartment?” he asks.
“My bathroom mirror doesn’t fog up when I take showers anymore.” Peter answers automatically, “Are you seriously asking me this now?” Peter can definitely hear lots of angry voices in the other room.
Matt shakes his head, “Forget that. We read your Handbook. What the fuck is a Leech Diet?”
One rule. One rule. One rule. One rule.
“Um.”
Matt takes a deep breath, “And do you want to move in with me? I’m still staying at Foggy’s, but I’ve been looking at apartments. There’s one. Quiet street, roof access, two bedrooms. We can split the rent.”
“Um.”
Someone stomps past. Peter hears the unmistakable sound of katanas being unsheathed, followed by several screams.
“Do you realise Deadpool’s classically conditioning you?” Matt asks.
And like, Peter thought Wade was the one who was supposed to be dropping bombs here. He gestures towards the door, “We should probably… People might get scalped.”
*
Orange streetlights reflect off the wet pavement, and brown snow is piled in the gutters. It’s cold but not unbearable. They’re sitting on the curb outside TRAINWRECK, making sure none of the guys can make a run for it before the cops show up. The biggest joke is that Peter is eighty-nine percent sure Matt’s already planning to defend half these guys in court.
Now that he thinks about it, it’s a pretty tight business model, actually.
By the time Peter and Matt got to the basement, the fighting was mostly over. Deadpool is scarily efficient sometimes. Peter only managed to get a single punch in, which was… inconvenient. He really feels like blowing off some steam right now.
“Phew,” Deadpool wipes his forehead. “There were way more of them than you said,
Hornhead.
I must’ve K.O’d at least twenty of ‘em and now I need to be fed.” He pulls out a bag of strawberry Twizzlers.
Matt grunts.
“You sound hangry, Red. Was it all the fighting? Here, have a Twizzler. No? Websie?” Wade dangles the Twizzler in Peter’s face.
Peter flinches away from the Twizzler just as something clicks in his brain. “Wade,” he says slowly, “Have you been using your Twizzlers to train me to backflip? Like Gerald?”
Wade lifts his mask and stuffs the entire Twizzler in his own mouth before pulling it back down and chewing. “Gerald can’t backflip on account of her lack of opposable thumbs.” He says.
“I mostly meant the classical conditioning bit.”
Wade is silent for a moment. “Is it working?”
He is Pavlov’s spider.
*
The Leech Diet™ is a bust. Peter’s still broke; he can’t remember the last time he’s eaten a fresh vegetable. Instead, he’s just been conditioned to associate strawberry Twizzlers with gymnastics and rhymes.
Only having to take care of half the rent doesn’t sound dreadful, though. Even if he does have to move to Hell’s Kitchen. And all of Matt and Wade’s cleaning means that Peter actually has a real chance of getting his deposit back. That makes his decision.
Peter goes to Nelson, Murdock & Page. Karen automatically directs him to Matt, who’s unsurprisingly in his office, fingers gliding over the paperwork.
“I can’t stand it when people leave their dumbbells outside my bedroom door for me to trip over, or when they have really loud, annoying alarms fifteen minutes before my alarm. Do you have pretentious appliances? Because I hate those too.” Peter says. He’s still standing by the door.
Matt’s hands pause. “What counts as a pretentious appliance?”
“Toasters with different settings for different types of bread or fridges you can tweet from,” Peter says.
“I’m not active on social media,” Matt says. He was smiling slightly; he probably doesn’t even notice he’s doing it. Traitor.
Peter releases a breath, “Well, what I’m trying to say is: Yes. I’ll be your roommate.”
He leaves.
While waiting for the lift, Peter hears Karen’s voice, “That was weirdly heartwarming.”
Peter gives his landlord notice that same evening.
Gosh, roommates were such hard work.
*
The next thing he knows, it’s almost a month later, and Peter’s demolishing his leaning towers of textbooks to pack them into boxes.
He wraps his web shooters in his thickest socks, rolls his Spider-Man suit up so he can stuff it into a hoodie. Matt knows he’s Spider-Man, but at this point, he just can’t help it. Secrecy is second nature to him.
The air purifier and dehumidifier are too big for the cardboard boxes Peter saved from when he moved in, so he has to get the suit back out and swing to their apartment in the Kitchen with one under each arm.
*
Matt doesn’t leave dumbbells by Peter’s door, but he does have expensive silk sheets that have to be washed on their own and a fancy coffee machine that Peter would personally consider slightly pretentious, but he gives Matt a pass anyway.
But Matt also keeps his alarm on vibrate, buys organic produce and free-range eggs, and he always puts everything back in the same place like he’s trying to erase any evidence of his own existence. Sometimes it’s like living with a ghost.
“I bought blueberries,” Matt says.
Peter jumps, knocking over the air purifier that Matt insists they keep even though there’s no mould. He’s been categorising his socks into piles of With and Without Holes in the living room, because there’s more floor space. He was hoping to be done before Matt got home. Matt doesn’t say anything, though.
“Oh. That’s nice,” Peter says.
Matt also bought sourdough bread, halloumi cheese and ghee. Every single time, he comes home and shows Peter, and Peter can’t understand why. Is Matt trying to show up Peter’s microwave meals with his healthy, pesticide-free stuff? Or maybe he’s making sure Peter knows whose stuff is whose.
Like it isn’t obvious enough already.
Matt frowns. “Do you want some?” he asks.
“Sure.” Peter sticks his hand out. Aunt May would be happy to see that he’s consuming something that didn’t originate as gloop in a factory.
Matt drops a few blueberries into Peter’s hand, but instead of walking away, he hovers nervously behind him.
“They’re… nice?” Peter tried. Does he want a gold star or what, because Peter has socks to sort.
Matt doesn’t leave. “The sourdough bread is going stale,” he says. “And you bought your own butter. You know you can substitute ghee for butter in just about anything? It’s got more antioxidants.”
Peter blinks. “I thought that stuff was all for you.”
“Well, I figured that since you were on that Leech Diet…” Matt drops the blueberries on the coffee table. Because Peter lived in a house where they had one of those now. “I still don’t know what it is, but Deadpool and I read your diary, and I connected the dots. Some of them.”
“Oh.” The Leech Diet™ was a total bust. Peter had one rule, and he couldn’t even keep that, and now he’s stuck in this situation, “I stopped leeching ages ago. It was a complete and utter bust.” The micronaps were getting inconvenient as well.
“Oh.” Matt says, “Well, the food’s still there if you want it. I’ve heard people have gotten a little tired of seeing Spider-Man in the papers. I know I have.”
“Unrelated question, but how much do you care about Daredevil’s reputation on a scale of one to twelve?”
*
The next week, the Bugle publishes a story.
DAREDEVIL DISPLAYS DISTURBING SERPENT SYMPATHY: MORE SATANIC THAN WE SUSPECTED?
There’s something about alliteration that Jameson just can’t resist. Much to Peter’s dismay.
Below the headline is a picture of Daredevil crouched over a bright, yellow, chubby ball python, petting it with a single finger.
Peter cuts the article out and sticks it on their fridge while he waits for their toaster to spit out his fancy sourdough toast.
*
It’s taking an embarrassingly long time for Peter to unpack all his stuff. He’s emptying a box cryptically labelled ‘Biosynthesis’ that is actually full of old phone chargers and spare tech parts. At the bottom is a notebook. The Leech Handbook. Peter sits at his desk. It’s wooden and has good ventilation, but that doesn’t matter. There aren’t any concrete rules about what does and doesn’t count as a desk anyway. It’s an abstract thing, really.
He flips to a blank page and writes.
Sourdough bread contains folate, potassium, magnesium, zinc and selenium, which means it’s superior to white bread, apparently.
Personally, Peter just sees bread as a source of carbs, but whatever.
He’d also eaten a chimichanga from Deadpool, a piece of watermelon-flavoured gum from Jessica, hot dogs from that street vendor, a slice of pizza, a glass of fresh lemonade and—
Ever since he’s moved to the Kitchen with Matt, something doesn’t feel the same about the Leech Diet™. Peter isn’t sure how to articulate that in the Leech Manuscript. It feels relevant, though. Maybe it’s because Wade and Matt know?
Study compromised. Participants possibly displaying demand characteristics, confounding results?
It doesn’t matter. He’s probably not going to write in this thing again.
*