Chapter Text
Peter had been Spiderman since he was seventeen. Which was quite a while ago. And during that time he had learnt that being Spiderman sometimes meant spending your entire night — even when you have a paper due the next day for college — following a group of ninjas through the boroughs of New York. From Queens all the way to Hell's Kitchen, Manhattan.
He followed them to some warehouse near the docks. Fairly regular place for shady business. Except he wasn't even sure what that business was in this case, because... well because he didn't know what ninjas did. And when he said ninjas he meant ninjas. They had the whole ninja get-up, the throwing stars and swords. Everything.
After Peter climbed up the walls of the warehouse and climbed in through a window he settled on a beam going across the ceiling and peered down.
"What on earth are they even doing...?" he muttered.
The people below him stood in some weird circle around a weird box. Like they were trying to summon something? Wait no. They were just trying to open it. But, overall, quite weird evening activities if one were to ask Peter.
He felt the hairs on the back of his neck rise eve-so-slightly as his spider-sense alerted him of something. On a beam somewhat lower than his, before one of the dingy, now almost colored yellow windows there was another man. He didn't really look like a ninja, but he also didn't not look like a ninja. The everyday looking black shirt and jeans didn't really fit the MO of everyone else below him, but the black bandana-like thing on his head did. The guy tilted his head a bit, looking in Peter's direction, and now he could see that the mask wasn't on the top of his head like it would make sense, no. The fabric stretched all the way from his nose to the top of his head. He wasn't even sure the guy could see. Still he laid out flat against the beam until he felt the maybe-ninja's gaze drop from him back to the creepy circle of definitely-ninjas.
There was something in that box that they weren't supposed to have. Surely. The bad guys were banging on the wall of it during, well whatever this ritual that surrounded opening a crate was. Whatever was inside must've been important to them. At least he hoped it was only something inside and not someone. But whatever. He'd seen these guys smuggle suspicious crates into the harbours all around New York in the past, so it was safer to assume they weren't up to anything good this time either.
Peter stood up on the beam, wondered whether jumping onto the box would be a bad idea and ultimately decided to just web himself to the beam he was standing on and swing down from there in a nice, circle-like curve and knock as many people in the head as he could. Six if he counted right. And eight, if he counted the swords aimed at his throat. Which actually wasn't that bad. Because, the thing about fighting people that stood around you in a circle was that it was quite easy to redirect their hits onto each other instead of him. One guy stepped forward to stab him from the front and Peter swiftly stepped to the side, the sword aimed at him finding its target in the other man that tried to stab Peter from the back. And the same went for the throwing stars that were thrown his way. His spider-sense alerted him of them just fast enough for him to jump over the box. This way the blades ran into a dead end. The downside of the circle was that when he jumped over the box he landed on the other side of it and he came face to face with another sword. It almost stabbed into his side, he closed his eyes, ready to take the pain and then beat this guy up, but to his surprise the stabbing feeling never came. Just the sound of someone hitting the ground, then a pained groan and the clanking of metal.
Peter opened his eyes back up. The man he saw earlier now stood just before him, beating up the ninjas with nothing, but his bare hands. Deciding that this guy was handling this half quite well Peter shot a web up at the ceiling and launched himself back over the box, knocking out some more guys.
It was going well. Truly. Up until Peter was busy keeping a sword from slicing his throat and someone came up behind. From then on as if it happened in a second he was thrown up into the air and went flying towards one of the support beams. He tried to turn around so he could stop himself with his hands, but to no avail. He crashed into the column with his back.
He felt pain run through his spine and his head as the warehouse blurred out. The last thing he heard was shouting and the sounds of bones cracking.
Not the nicest sounds to die to, he thought before he went out.
×~×~×
Matt had been a vigilante for the past... month or so. He had done some vigilante business a bit before that, but it's been about a month since he started going out regularly. It had started with muggings, kidnapping, petty thefts, but as he dug deeper and deeper into what went on in Hell's Kitchen he realized how much tougher this was going to be. But he didn't mind. He couldn't ignore all the things he heard. He just couldn't, not anymore.
And that led him to this warehouse full of the men of some guy named Nobu. And the weird box of these men. He wasn't sure what was inside. All he could sense was another, more durable metal box. These people — though mostly dressed a lot less like stereotypical ninjas — smuggled weapons into New York. Matt had sunken one of their crates full of them last week, but it seemed one package remained. The crate was found by the police later and the weapons were taken care of, so he planned on doing the same with this one. Take it from Nobu's men and then leave it for the police to find.
Only twenty men stood in the warehouse. That should be easy for him. Twenty, spaced around a box, which he could use as a defense. Yeah. This should be easy. He should be able to get out of it with minimal damage. Foggy won't even raise a single eyebrow tomorrow.
Twenty-one. Someone else entered. They moved slowly and without making a sound. Matt almost didn't notice them. Almost. They still gave out the one noise everyone did: their heartbeat. It was fast and loud. Different from all the men down below. Their breathing, their heartbeats, they were controlled. This new person wasn't. Could this new arrival be one of them? Seemed unlikely, considering they were hiding. They lay low on the beam, as if trying to become one with it.
A second passed and the person stood on the beam. Some rope-like thing appeared and they swung down. No, not rope like stuff. Something different. It felt different. Stickier. Like... like a spider's web. Spider. Of course. Matt wasn't the first to take on the protection of New York. But from what he heard Spiderman worked in Queens, not here. Whatever he was doing here he was interfering with Matt's business.
And he wasn't even doing it well! It's been only minutes and he would've already taken a sword to the side had Matt not jumped down from his hiding spot and decked the guy in the face. Well, at least the fun part could now begin.
This. This anger that he could let out every night when he would go out, this was worth it. Foggy could only believe the "I walked into a wall" and the "I fell down the stairs" excuses for so long, but he would've lied if he said this didn't feel good. Doing something about all of the things going on in the word. He had been given these powers for a purpose and for long he didn't know what that could've been, but now he knew. Ever since a couple months ago he knew — he was sure — that this is why he'd been granted the abilities he had. That this is what he was meant to do.
A rogue throwing star (not intended for him) flew from behind the box, hit one of the beams and ricocheted back towards him. It was a matter of one tiny movement that it only scraped his mask and his cheek instead of his eye. It wasn't like it could do much damage to his eyesight. Although a missing eye would certainly be harder to explain to Foggy than the usual bruises. Technically those weren't the easiest to explain away either. One man can only run into walls so much. Especially when he had proven during their college years that he was suspiciously capable.
Speaking of capable. Or more so the opposite. Spiderman fell. Matt was doing good with the side of ninjas he's taken on (while Spiderman dealt — or Matt assumed he was going to deal — with the other half) when a loud thud sounded from behind him. The warehouse became so much clearer with the echos the metal beam colliding with what he now sensed was human bones. At a high speed. Two more men stood before Matt. He grabbed the man's arm who was currently in front of him, twisting it around until he fell down to the ground wincing. With one last punch to the head he took care of the last one. Then he took his turn to the other side of the box. All but one of the men were webbed up and unconscious. The one remaining Matt could knock out before he even noticed him.
Spiderman still breathed. A bit shaking, but he was fine. Deciding to at least get him out of the way Matt walked over to the other vigilante and dragged him out of the building. He sat him up against the wall outside near the dock railing.
He'll be fine. He's Spiderman, he thought.
Now. The box and the ninjas.
Oh and how wrong he was. On multiple occasions. Firstly, he wasn't going to deal with the ninjas or the box. For that he'd need ninjas and a box. None of which were in the warehouse by the time he went back. It was empty, save for a piece of paper lying on the floor where the box was. Shipping label maybe? He picked it up from the floor. Some kind of a label, yes. The back was sticky. Could he somehow get Foggy to read it for him without it being suspicious? He could try.
Matt pocketed the paper and listened around, but there was no sign of any of the men. It was just the sound of the Hudson and Spiderman's breathing. But he could leave, right? Spiderman had a pulse and he was breathing. Sure, a bit slow and inconsistent and there was a kind of gurgling sound in his lungs...
Who was he even kidding?
Matt walked back out the building and sat down next to the railing across from Spiderman.
If he didn't catch any ninjas he could make sure New York's favorite vigilante got back to Queens alive.
×~×~×
Peter woke up with a horrible headache. He didn't remember how he ended up in this situation. He certainly ended up in headache inducing situations more than enough, but this… this was extra bad. It was as if someone tied a rope around his head and kept pulling on it tighter and tighter, trying to crush his head into pieces.
He opened his mouth to breath, but no air moved out of his lungs. Like someone put a lid into his throat the air only moved inside his airways never leaving and never taking in new. Was there even oxygen around him? What if the ninjas kidnapped him and took him to a place where there wasn't air? Was the last time he breathed fresh air was when he pulled his mask on back in Queens?
His mask.
Maybe that was it. Maybe that blocked his air. Maybe that was the cover. The lid. He needed to get it off.
Now. Right now. He needed to breathe. He needed the rope to let go.
He scrambled to find the end of his mask. It was harder than normally with the lid blocking his airways and all, but he found it. With one swift move he pulled off his mask and let it fly out of his hand and onto the ground around him.
The rope loosened around his head and the barely fresh night air of New York hit him. It finally moved into his lungs. Never before did he feel like this when breathing. The air flowed down like it was water. It truly felt like the same way when he finally drank water after a patrol. Wait. No. There was actually something. Something there. He felt something other than the air in his lungs. Something fluid.
Fuck.
He planted his hands on the ground, turning slightly as his stomach clenched and he felt something make its way up into his mouth. A second later he was staring at the puddle of blood on the ground. Now he could certainly breathe. Very quickly and inconsistently in fact. So much so he became dizzy. Or maybe because of the whole vomiting up blood thing. Or both. Great stuff. His head was spinning as the rope tightened around it once again.
He leaned his head back against the wall happy that the cold from it transferred into his head a bit. Just helping with the rope ever-so-slightly. He ran a hand through his hair, trying to get it back to its less ‘flattened by mask’ state. His hands felt sticky. Were they in the way? Did he–
And only then did he see it. The possibly-ninja-man sitting across from him.
Shit. He took off his mask.
“Shit shit shit shit,” he searched for his mask to put it back on. “Why did I take it off? Why the hell am I always this stupid?” he muttered. “Should've checked what was around before–” the next lines turned into a coughing fit. He felt the blood rushing into his mouth again, but the second he was done with this whole ‘spitting blood’ thing he continued his search.
That is until someone grabbed both his wrists and held them in place. Someone, obviously, being the man from the warehouse.
“Hey, stop–” the man spoke, but Peter kept wiggling. “Stop– stop it. You put that on and you'll choke on your own blood.” The guy knelt before him to be on the same level as him, trying to sound calming. “It's fine. Not dying is the goal.”
Sure, not dying is great. But keeping a secret identity a secret was also great. This guy not only saw his face from afar, but now up close. Like really up close. So close Peter could see through the cut in the other man's mask that exposed one of his eyes. Which was staring into his soul.
Peter tried a bit more wiggling, just to be sure.
“I'm not letting you go until you promise you won't try to put the mask back on.”
Worth a try. Peter sighed and leaned his head to the side, tired.
“Who are you, anyway?” he asked. “Thinking about it I might've seen you like… once before, somewhere, at some point. But like. You a new vigilante?” God, his voice sounded exhausted.
“I'm no one important.”
“That's how all of us start. Don't worry. Sooner or later you'll get a name.” His wrists were still held tightly. “If I'm making small talk you can assume I won't search for the mask.”
Mr. No One stared at him for a bit more. And damn that mask of his? How did he even see anything? When it wasn't slashed that is? Because now he could see out through the hole in front of his right eye, but what does he do on a regular day?
Now wait a minute. He wasn't staring at Peter. He didn't seem to be staring at anything at all. His eyes, or at least the one Peter could see wasn't moving. Wasn't focusing. Did… did the throwing star damage it? There was blood on his face. A small cut on his cheek. But no, surely the guy would be freaking out if a blade hit his eye. But then why–
The man let his hands go and stood back up. He moved over to sit on a crate left by the building.
Suddenly Peter's brain came up with something and instead of sending the idea over to the ‘to be thought over’ area it went directly to his mouth.
“Hey, did I get blood in my hair?” he heard himself asking.
“What?” Valid reaction to be honest.
“Well, I think I got some blood onto my hands and I dragged it through my hair…” How was he talking when he didn't even know what the point was here? “You know — or I guess you might not, but whatever — it's hard to get blood out of my hair especially with it being… so light.” Oh that's where this bullshitting was going. “I know it's dark, but the darker patches would probably be visible somewhere in there.”
The man hesitated before getting down from the crate, walking over and a couple seconds later saying, “No. No, you're fine. Don't see anything dark, it's light.”
“Cool, thanks.” What did Peter learn from this exactly? “What happened to the guys inside?” he asked, while his brain worked on figuring something out.
“They left. Took the box with them.”
“How did that happen?”
“I took you out here so they wouldn't kill you. They disappeared before I could get back inside.”
“Wow. They didn't leave anything behind?” Peter tried to get up, but his head was still spinning so he just fell back to the ground, coughing some more and looking down at his hands, grimacing at the blood.
“No, they didn't leave…” The other vigilante stopped talking. He looked like he was thinking. “Actually. The shipping label came off the box.” The guy reached into his pocket and pulled out what, from the distance, didn't really look like a shipping label. But it might've been.
“What's it say?”
The man hesitated. Glanced down at the paper, then back over to Peter. “I… don't know.”
Peter tilted his head to the side, confused. “Is it not in English?” Or maybe…
The vigilante looked like he regretted mentioning the paper. “I don't know.”
“Can I look at it?” Peter asked slowly.
The other didn't say anything, he just walked over and held the paper out.
Peter took it from him and looked it over. “It came from Japan. Weighs a ton. The receiver name is just ‘John Doe’. Do you know what was inside?” Peter gave the paper back.
“Another box.”
Peter nodded, then, “How d'you know that?” The box was intact when he went flying and the guy said the ninjas disappeared before he got back.
“The box didn't sound hollow. It didn't echo on the inside, so it was full,” he said, like it was the most normal thing in the world to hear.
Peter looked past the other man, staring out at the Hudson. The paper was easy to read. His hair colour was easy to see. Easy to… see.
“Hey,” he spoke up after a couple minutes of silence. “Can you…” How would that even…? But then again… maybe? “Can you not… see?”
The vigilante froze. “I-I’m sorry?”
He didn't freeze in the ‘what is this guy talking about?’ way, like Peter did whenever he was in the near vicinity of Deadpool, no it was the ‘he's not supposed to know that’ freezing.
“My hair is brown,” Peter finally stood up, this time not falling back down. “Pretty dark at that.”
“I just thought it was the shadow that made it seem– Why would you even lie–?”
“Your eye is unfocused,” Peter continued, ignoring the rambling.
“How would you know that?” he took on a much more alert stance than he had anytime in the past ten minutes.
“You just stared into my soul— well, tried to. Your mask is ripped and… and if it weren't, you couldn't even see out of it. If it was thin enough to look through I would've seen through it. But I didn't.”
“You could've seen through the fabric?” Now the other was a bit more relaxed, and much more confused from the looks of it.
“Enhanced senses. Great eyesight. Perks of the radioactive spiderbite,” Peter joked, so the guy would realize he didn't have any sinister intentions. He just wanted to figure out stuff. He liked knowing stuff; no one could blame him for that.
“Radioactive, huh?” he smiled a bit.
Message sent I guess, Peter thought. “You got bitten by something too? Radioactive ninja?”
The man laughed and tipped his head forward while he did so. “More like radioactive waste to the eye,” he replied, still laughing a bit.
“Unfortunate. Did that — I don't know — give you some superpower? That's why you, you know, don't run into stuff and can fight a bunch of guys?”
“Enhanced my other senses.”
“Right, I saw you fight. It was like you saw behind you. And you moved your head like you were hearing stuff that even I wasn't.”
“You have to leave some powers to those of us who can't shoot webs out of our hands.”
“Actually– Well, I guess I know something about you, so I can tell you something about me if my face isn't a concern,” Peter pondered. “The webs aren't organic. I made them. They're a device.”
“Certainly fooled me. And everyone else. Next you're gonna tell me you can't even talk to spiders,” the man smiled.
“Why does everyone think I can do that?” He had no idea where that even came from. “No!” Peter laughed, but during that laugh he took in a breath just a little too sharp and had to hunch over coughing. And the coughs didn't arrive without blood. This time was worse than the last.
“Fuck. Sorry,” he muttered, after another splatter of blood landed on the ground. Somebody was going to think someone died here.
“You should get that checked out,” the guy had his head tilted to the side as if he was listening for something.
“Yeah, hospitals and I don't really like each other.”
“Not enough health insurance to cover vigilantism?”
“Not enough money to cover health insurance,” Peter said as he started to scan the ground for his mask. “But I'll be fine,” he waved his hand. “I heal fast. Sort of.”
“Wouldn't that be great,” the man winced, a hand at his side.
“You okay?” Peter looked back at him, still trying to see where that damned mask was. Did he throw it somewhere when he took it off?
“Better than you are,” the guy tilted his head again. “It's behind that crate. Next to the door”
“What?” Peter looked over and there was his mask, clear as day. “How did you…?”
“I should probably get going now,” he ignored the question. “I've got places to be tomorrow. I hope my secret stays safe with you.”
Peter snatched up his mask. “If mine stay with you,” he smiled.
“The webs? I think I'll manage,” the guy said, somewhere on the verge of another laugh.
“Then I'll manage the blindness,” Peter held out his hand for the other vigilante.
The exact second he realized someone blind couldn't see the hand the man reached out and took it.
“That's a deal then,” he shook Peter's head, then turned to leave.
“Nice to meet you, Mr. No-name Vigilante!” Peter shouted after him.
“The feeling's mutual, Spiderman!” he shouted back.
Peter pulled back on his mask and when he could only see the small figure of the nameless man he added, “And I'm sure we'll meet again.” He had a feeling he would be heard. “New York's only so big.”