Title; In Which People Know Too Much (Part 3)
Fandom; Marvel (Spider-Man/Daredevil)
Characters/Pairings; Peter Parker/Matt Murdock
Theme; 13. I want to hurt you
Canon; About four days after (Part 2). (See here for (Part 1).)
Rating; R/NC-17
Warning(s); Sexual situations, language, and violence. And by sexual situations, I mean actual sex this time, guys. In the rain. On a rooftop. Mmm, rain.
Summary; After avoiding Matt for a few weeks (and Matt, in turn, being a bitch and avoiding him), Peter finally gives up on discretion and jumps Matt already. Which is nice enough, until Bullseye shows up and ruins everyone's fun.
Notes; All this is turning into one storyline, so there's a little index here underneath the table if you'd rather read in order. :D


Every time Peter was pretty sure things couldn't get worse, they got worse. Because now? Now, Matt wasn't talking to him.

At all.

...Well, no, that was a lie. Sometimes, Matt grunted at him. Every once in a while he'd get a short sentence. When Peter walked into a room, Matt barely moved. He was always buried in work or out as Daredevil or in a post-Daredevil 'No, Peter, I don't want to talk to you' funk.

It got old. Fast. Made Peter jittery. Without Matt constantly trying to get his attention, Peter felt alone. Kind of abandoned, like he wasn't attractive or like he was some kind of plague---

All right, Matt. Point taken.

After four days of this treatment, Peter decided he needed to tell Matt about the Bullseye problem. The one that, at this point, may not have even existed. He hadn't even heard that hum for a few days---and he wasn't even totally sure that had anything to do with Bullseye in the first place. Matt was gone when he got home, and a quick call to the office showed he'd already left.

So Peter pulled on his suit and jumped out the window to track him down. He eventually found him on a rooftop, landing easily and walking toward him. Matt didn't acknowledge him, making his way to the edge.

"Hey."

Still nothing.

"Hey!"

...Nope.

"Come on, you can't not talk to me!"

Matt stopped, replying, "Says who?"

Peter grinned. "Gotcha talking."

Matt growled, turning to face Peter but not getting any closer, backing up a step when Peter moved forward.

"Oh, come on, Hornhead."

"I'm surprised you're letting yourself be seen with me," Matt said venomously. "What, do I have something you want? Is that why you're willing to talk to me? Maybe you want to reiterate how embarrassing it is to be around me?"

"What? Hey, hey, stop that. It's not like that!" Well, this was going to go well. Matt was more pissed off than he'd expected. "You've been ignoring me lately, don't get all high and mighty."

"High and mighty. Right. I almost forgot how dramatic you are," Matt replied with a snort.

"Oh, hey, pot and kettle. Which one do you want to be?" Peter scowled. "I prefer the kettle myself, but if you want it, you're welcome to it."

"You are such an idiot."

"Do you want a goddamn apology or not?" Peter snapped. He was so close to turning around and leaving. It was cold, it was supposed to rain tonight, and this wasn't shaping up to be worth it.

Matt paused, quiet for a moment. "What makes you think I still want one?"

Peter's expression fell behind his mask. "...What?"

"It won't mean anything, Spidey. I don't give a shit."

Peter didn't have a response for that. He expected Matt to turn around and leave---and when he didn't, they ended up just standing there in a one-way stare down, listening to each other breathe, angry and loud. Peter just didn't want to drop it, but he wasn't sure why Matt was sticking around.

Eventually, the rain came. And when it hit, it hit hard, instantly soaking through Peter's suit, chilling him to the bone. Deciding it really wasn't worth it, he backed away, headed for the doorway into the building itself where he could wait it out or see if the downpour would lessen.

And it was then that he heard Matt's footsteps coming toward him, heavy in the rain. Peter half turned back toward him just as he reached the door; Matt stopped in front of him, and Peter swallowed hard.

A second passed. Two.

At the third, Peter reached up, grabbing Matt by the back of the neck and tugging him in for a hard, painful kiss through his mask. Matt shoved him against the door, pulling away just long enough to tear at Peter's mask and expose his mouth and nose before kissing him again, pushing his tongue into Peter's mouth and groaning when Peter sucked, hands moving desperately over Peter's body. The rain slid off Matt's suit but plastered Peter's to his skin.

The kiss and the touches felt so good they made Peter ache. They hadn't touched each other in weeks and Peter couldn't get close enough, pressing against Matt, letting his hands snag on the leather, sliding down over his ass and squeezing with both hands, eliciting a grunt from Matt.

Biting at Peter's mouth, Matt fumbled with the suit until he managed to shove a hand under the bottom half, none too gentle when he wrapped his fingers around Peter's cock and stroked, squeezing in a way that would have been uncomfortable for anybody else. But the hard touch felt perfect to Peter, who groaned, bucking into the hand and clinging, hands digging into Matt's back. He nearly whined when Matt pulled away to shove the suit down and drop to his knees, taking Peter into his mouth with no hint of hesitation.

It wasn't soft or loving, hardly affectionate. Just Matt, sucking with every intention of getting Peter off, letting Peter thrust, fucking his mouth, a hand buried in his hair. Matt peeled off his glove, pushing his hand between Peter's legs and shoving two fingers into his ass with a groan around his cock; Peter gasped and squirmed, shoving further down Matt's throat. Either Matt had expected it or that ninja mind-over-matter training was being put to use----rather than choking, Matt stubbornly kept his hand where it was, even as Peter tightened around his fingers. Peter was tough, he could handle it.

And Peter wasn't quiet about it. Most of the noise he made was swallowed by the sound of the rain falling on the building, nearly deafening as Peter moaned, shoved up against the door for support and calling Matt's name, wondering if he could even hear it. It was rough and so good it made his head ache, and if he weren't so distracted, he would have sworn his spider senses were even acting up a bit.

He didn't have time for a warning; when he came, he came hard in Matt's mouth. Matt stayed where he was, sucking until he was sure Peter was done before pushing himself to a stand and kissing him hard on the mouth, hand still between his legs. The taste of his own come was foreign, but Peter had to get used to it fast; Matt had him trapped between the door and his own body, was sucking on his lower lip, and the instinct to find Matt's tongue with his was more powerful than any aversion to the taste of himself.

Matt reluctantly pulled away from the kiss just enough to breathe raggedly, "We need to go home. Right now. I need to---"

"Fuck me. Let's go."

Matt pulled away, letting Peter tug his suit back up and pulling his glove back on before they were leaving, swinging home in the pounding rain, tumbling through the window, Matt coming in after Peter and tackling him to the ground. There was no real foreplay, Matt fumbling again, unbuckling and pushing down the bottom half of his suit before going after Peter's. Like a habit, Peter reached down to grasp Matt's cock, stroking hard; Matt shuddered, losing focus for a moment before Peter pushed him back, twisting so he was on his knees instead.

Tearing his glove off with his teeth, Matt tore at Peter's suit again, exposing his ass and pushing his fingers back in. They should have used lube, but it was too far away---they were soaking wet and Peter could take it, lubricant be damned, Matt shoving in a third finger a little too soon and earning a surprised grunt from Peter.

It only lasted a minute or two before Matt pulled his hand away, positioning himself on his knees behind Peter and replacing his fingers with his cock. Here, he was slow, pushing in gradually, hissing and resting his hands on Peter's hips as Peter leaned back. "Fuck," he breathed, fingers digging into Peter's skin, resting fully inside him for a moment. Beneath him, Peter breathed raggedly, dripping water onto the carpet and gently shifting his weight. Waiting for Matt to make his move.

When Matt moved, he fucked, hard and harsh and desperate, Peter grunting and groaning beneath him, making him shudder. He opened his mouth as if to speak and gave up on the notion, content with sharp moans at every thrust.

It took Matt even less time than Peter to come inside of him, leaning heavily on Peter for support as the orgasm spread his range uncomfortably, shaking. Peter stayed in place, letting Matt pull himself back in even as he rested on shaky arms and knees, catching his breath. Eventually, Matt pulled out, rolling onto his back and leaving Peter free to flop down onto his stomach.

Peter pulled off his mask, tossing it aside before he inched closer to Matt, breathlessly tugging off Matt's cowl and leaning in to kiss his forehead. Matt turned toward him, burying his face against Peter's shoulder while Peter slung an arm across his chest.

There were no words. And for once, Peter was comfortable with that.


* * *


Peter went into work the next day feeling relaxed and more than a little relieved. That little stunt on the rooftop the night before hadn't been caught on tape, hadn't been seen by anybody with access to a radio or the internet---at least, not to his knowledge. No one in their right minds would be outside that time of night with the rain that bad, anyway. After they'd recovered and pulled themselves up off the floor, they'd both showered and headed to bed, and Peter had taken it upon himself to go down on Matt to go along with his good bye kiss this morning.

Hell, Matt was even talking to him again.

And work didn't suck. ---Well, no, it sucked, but less than the day before. Kids were still chattering about the Globe cover, but by now, most of them had found something else to gossip about. All in all, the day was going pretty well.

Until sixth period.

Peter hated handing back tests. He didn't mind correcting them, but handing them back was a headache. They were usually late, and most kids hated science---and the ones with bad grades whined.

"Oh, stop it. If you'd studied, you wouldn't have so much of a problem, would you?" Peter could feel them glaring holes into his back as he pass, setting corrected tests onto their desks before returning to the front of the room. "On Monday, we start---"

He was cut off by a sharp, unimaginable pain in the back of his skull that made Peter recoil, holding his head and smacking right into the wall before tumbling to the floor, instinctively curling into a fetal position. It was excruciating, like someone had tapped into his spider senses and cranked the feeling up so hard he couldn't see straight. The pain lasted for one and a half extremely long seconds, and left his head reeling when it was gone---but when it was gone, he felt fingers tangle in his hair and shove his head against the ground.

And then there was a person, crouching over him, and a voice close to his ear, harsh and so low only Peter could hear.

"Did you really think you could get away with what you did last night?" The voice was male---and ultimately, amused. Its owner turned away then, and by the sound of the click Peter heard coming from above him, the man had a gun. Peter's stomach twisted, his head still aching from whatever had been done to him, knowing if he moved too fast or too far whoever this was would shoot in an instant. "Nobody move! You all know who I am, and none of you wants to risk getting shot running away, now do you? No? I didn't think so."

The man looked back down and yanked Peter to look up at him. Bullseye. What a shock. Peter grimaced when Bullseye leaned down, mouth nearly touching Peter's ear when he breathed, "You shouldn't have left your window open, Mr. Parker. You. Me. Inside Matty's church in three hours. You're not there, and I'll come back and kill all your little kids, you hear me? You call Red, I'll kill them anyway."

Peter opened his mouth, but Bullseye let go of him, reaching into his own coat pocket---and then that pain was back again, this time in a momentary jolt, just enough to make Peter shriek before Bullseye was hauling him to a stand by his hair.

Nobody had moved, and if they had, they'd gone back to their seats, watching Bullseye---and now, Peter---with wide, scared eyes. Some shook, others were so stiff in their seats it was a wonder if they were breathing or not. Peter couldn't blame them. They were New York City kids, used to violence and guns and school shootings, but they'd never seen the legendary Bullseye put a gun to their chemistry teacher's back before.

"See, kids, this is what happens when you make deals with the devil," Bullseye was saying, shaking Peter a bit. Peter could have twisted around, maybe fought, but Bullseye was at his back and he was in front of his class. He was in a bad position already, but one wrong move and Bullseye could shoot someone---and he never missed. "I'm gonna be nice to Mr. Parker, just this once, for all of you. I'd hate to scar your little eyes by blowing his brains out in front of you. You little bastards will do that to each other without my help, isn't that right, Pete?" Bullseye dug the barrel of the gun into his spine; Peter shifted away from the pain, mouth twisting. "But if things don't change, I'll be back."

With that, Bullseye let him go, pulling away far enough to comfortably smack Peter hard across the face with the barrel of his gun---and Peter took it, afraid to dodge too fast and give himself away. The pain bloomed across his cheek and nose, and he smelled the blood before he felt it, trailing down over his mouth. Peter stumbled, hitting his desk hard.

And when he looked up, Bullseye was gone.

The room was still and silent, save for the sound of Peter ripping off a wad of paper towel from the roll to press it against his nose, until one student finally found his legs and went over to close the window. Like that would keep Bullseye out if he decided to come back. Maybe made brave by the first student, a second approached the desk, tearing another handful of paper towel when the blood soaked through the first, offering it to Peter, who took it gratefully.

"Mr. Parker...? Are you, you know ... gonna be all right?"

"Yeah," Peter breathed. "Yeah, I will, I think---someone call the main office, please. I need a second."


* * *


It took the cops an hour to get there, another to decide it was all right for Peter to go home. He'd really played it up, holding the paper towel to his nose long after he'd stopped bleeding, tearing up a little, sobbing about how he really wanted to go home, he just needed to see his boyfriend, no, a phone call wasn't good enough. He gave the police a statement, omitting all the parts about the night before and the strange pain in his head, saying he'd been hit with something instead. Eventually, they'd let him go.

As soon as he was out of sight of the building, Peter tore off his civs and swung as fast as his webs could carry him to the church. He was swinging right into a trap, but he was more afraid of what Bullseye would do if he didn't show up. Bullseye had too much leverage, and it was better to fight him out of the public eye than be tracked down---or worse, hear about him next because he'd killed someone.

He crawled in through a window on the ceiling---only to have that jarring, excruciating pain back in his head. Peter fell like a rock, hitting the floor hard, landing in front of the dais and curling up, nearly sobbing and covering his head with his arms.

"Not even an attempt at back up?" Bullseye walked up the aisle; Peter couldn't see him---couldn't see straight, couldn't see much of anything---but he knew a nasty grin when he heard one. "You must really love those kids, Spidey. Or Matty. Which do you love more, Pete, Red or the kiddies? It's something to ponder. ---You like my new toy, by the way?"

Peter looked up at Bullseye in time to see Bullseye pull something out of his jacket. It looked like a pen, some blurry buttons trailing up the side. Bullseye pressed one and the pain increased, making Peter shriek. The sound was almost inhuman as he writhed, trying to push himself away from Bullseye and ending up pressed against the dais.

But he'd gotten what he wanted. He knew what he had to do to make it stop, to fight Bullseye off. Now Peter just had to do it. That was the hard part.

"It's a little frequency device. Nice, don't you think? I used your little spider-tracer; it's right inside the pen, see?" Bullseye crouched down in front of him, turning the pen so Peter could see the little spider tracer pressed into the side. Having it so close to his head made the pain surge, and Peter guiltily wished Bullseye would just stab him or something instead. A little messier, but ultimately less painful. "It was a challenge getting it strong enough to hurt, I've been testing it on you for weeks, but I got a good handle on it, don't you think? Hm? No? The least you could do was give an opinion."

Peter wanted to say, I can't, you jackass, if I open my mouth I'll scream. But he couldn't say it, because if he opened his mouth, he'd scream. He was grinding his teeth so hard they ached, too, to keep from giving Bullseye the satisfaction of hearing him cry out.

Bullseye stood, viciously kicking Peter in the side. Peter flinched, felt his skin open. Steel-toed, maybe, or maybe he had razors in the soles. Peter couldn't tell, couldn't concentrate enough to tell the different---God, make it stop, make it stop, please make it stop. Peter was on his back, squirming, covering his ears like that would help, stomach twisting with painful nausea. His twisting pushed him onto his side and Peter shook, prying one hand away from his head to brace against the floor, hitting the wood so hard it cracked, weakly prying up his mask with his other hand before he heaved on the stairs.

The next kick was to his face, bloodying his nose again, cutting his cheek. Peter covered his nose with a shaking hand, tasting the blood as his hand fell again, both hands on the floor now in a weak attempt to stand. Bullseye reached down, grabbing him by the back of his neck and tossing him into the pews at just the wrong angle; Peter smacked into the pews, knocking one into another and laying awkwardly on the wood, banging his shoulder.

"You know, I killed Red's last girlfriend in this church," Bullseye mused. "Stupid girl, I was going to let her live, but she played hero. Jumped right in front of me. So I killed her. You should thank her; I would've killed Matty instead if she hadn't been there, and then where would you be?" He walked over at a leisurely pace, grabbed Peter's arm and twisted it back so hard Peter felt his shoulder slide out of the socket but couldn't react; it hurt, but not as badly as the pain in his head that was making him whimper.

Peter flexed his fingers, but his hands were shaking so hard he couldn't get them into the right shape to shoot his webbing---not that he could have aimed correctly if he could.

"Hn. You're no fun when you're not talking, you know that?" Peter heard Bullseye scoff---and then the pain lessened, just a bit. Enough that it wasn't as excruciating as before.

Which was actually a bad thing, because when Bullseye kicked him this time, he really felt it, grunting and curling up, the pain blooming over his side. Definitely a knife, judging by the blood and the searing pain.

"You won't kill me," Peter choked, coughing on the blood dripping from his nose.

Bullseye chuckled, tucking the pen back in his jacket and lazily pulling a cigarette out of his coat and lighting it. "That so, Spidey?"

"Yeah." Peter shifted, moving to push himself back up until Bullseye pulled something out of his jacket and tossed it in Peter's direction. His spider senses surged up, but with the frequency device on, it did more harm than good, and the quarter went right through his shoulder at such close range. Peter nearly screamed, forcing it down, flopping back down on the floor and holding his shoulder.

"And why not?"

"Because," Peter panted. "Because if you wanted to kill me, you'd have done it in---ah---in front of my kids. Or in front of Matt. You'd ... you'd want someone to watch me die, you'd want me to know they were there. You wouldn't isolate me if you wanted me dead."

Bullseye applauded, grinning. "Good boy, Spidey. But you know what that means?" He walked back over, crouching in front of Peter, breathing cigarette smoke in his face. "It means that good, quiet death you'll be hoping for when I'm done with you? Isn't coming."

Peter growled, grabbing Bullseye's ankle with his good hand. "You don't know me at all."

"Oh, Webby, I know you. ---Or at the very least, I know that this will hurt." With that, Bullseye took the cigarette from between his lips and ground the hot end into Peter's cheek where he'd pulled up the mask.

Peter screamed, recoiling immediately to cover his face. His head ached, and now his face burned. It was a miracle Peter wasn't sobbing yet.

Bullseye actually moved to sit down in one of the pews nearby, drawing a deck of cards out of his pocket, shuffling. Like he couldn't let his hands be idle. "Peter Peter, pumpkin eater, had a wife and couldn't keep 'er, divorced him and's been gone a year, so depressed he's now a queer---what would little MJ say about this, by the way? Oh, yes, Peter, I know about MJ. I do my homework. Lucky girl, she's gone and now she's in LA. Nice and safe. Smart lady, too bad she couldn't stand you."

Peter scowled, glaring up at Bullseye. "Don't you even---you son of a bitch---"

Bullseye pulled out a card and tossed it; it sank into Peter's leg, making him grunt and reach down, shaking too much to twist down far enough to grab it. "Now now, Peter. Don't get so upset, you're with Matty, remember? Be nice." Another card, and then another, all lined up nice and neat in Peter leg and making him whine with pain. "I'm not going to kill her. Or you, or Matty, just yet. Though I might pick off a couple of those kids regardless, what do you think? I'm sure you hate some of them, I'll even let you pick which ones get to go."

That really did it. Peter pushed himself up, pain be damned, and launched himself at Bullseye, slamming right into him and toppling the pew over, sending playing cards flying. Peter was still shaking, still in terrible agony, but he was on top now, and Bullseye had been caught off guard before he could reach for the frequency pen.

"You touch my kids, I will rip your heart out of your body, Bullseye!" Peter spat, holding him down by the throat, his vision and balance still too far off to even think about a punch.

"You wouldn't," Bullseye said with a little chuckle. "You don't kill, remember?" He reached into his coat, pulling out the pen and holding it in front of Peter's face. Peter reached up, but just as he did, Bullseye hit a button that turned it up.

Peter shrieked, but his hand was close enough that he grabbed the top of the pen on reflex.

There was a little snap. Bullseye gasped----and then, the pain was gone, fading away. He was still a little woozy, but his vision was clearer.

And more importantly, he wasn't shaking anymore. His left arm still hurt like hell---well, all of him pretty much hurt like hell---but his head was clear again, and he slid the hand that hand broken the pen down to Bullseye's wrist, breaking it in one swift motion.

"No!" Bullseye cried. "No, not my hands!"

"Technically, it's not your hand, you big crybaby," Peter scoffed, webbing Bullseye down by the throat first, then by the broken wrist, adhering it to the pew. "It's your wrist." When Bullseye brought up his other hand---to smack Peter? Grab him? What? Come on, now.---Peter's good hand snapped over to grab it, 'accidentally' breaking his thumb and listening to Bullseye cry out. "Oop. My bad." He didn't enjoy the sound of Bullseye---or anyone---in agony, but he didn't feel that bad, either.

Easily webbing Bullseye's other wrist, Peter dragged himself to his feet, swaying a bit and still half bent over when he webbed Bullseye's feet, while he was at it. His head was still spinning, and when he walked back, he stumbled, nearly tripping over Bullseye.

Peter dropped to his knees again (standing was a bit much at this point) to dig through Bullseye's pockets with his good arm, closing his fingers around a cell phone and dialing 911, quietly grateful that Bullseye's phone was on silent. He didn't think he could handle the beeping of regular cellphone keystrokes right now.

"Hi? Hi, I---yeah. I have an emergency. Sorta. ... I'm at St. Patrick's Cathedral in Clinton, and I---I'm not dying, no, I just sort of found Bullseye." Peter coughed, listened to the woman on the other hand pause in disbelief and ask him to repeat himself. "Yeah. Bullseye, the bad guy. All webbed down. Tell them to get here before an hour's over? 'Cause he's covered in webbing and it takes an hour to dissolve. I----am I who? Spider---no. I'm not. I'm just kind of a nerd, I know these things. Yeah. Okay. Sure, I'll wait for you, but my battery is dying, I can't stay on for more than, like, a minute."

Peter actually enjoyed pretending to be the clueless guy who'd just found the big bad Bullseye. It let him take his mind off the pain. ...Was that weird? It was probably weird.

"You lying little bastard," Bullseye spat. "You're as bad as I am."

Peter rolled his eyes, even if Bullseye couldn't appreciate it, hitting the End button on the phone and tossing it back at him, hitting Bullseye in the face with it. "Oh, shut up. I am so done with you."

"But I'm not done with you, Spidey."

"...Wow. That is so original," Peter said dryly. "I swear, I have never heard that one before. I'm terrified, really." He was, but it was more fun to piss Bullseye off like this.

"You should be." Bullseye grinned. "I know where you live. I know who you are. And I won't stay in jail, you know I won't."

"Yeah, but ... come on----" Peter reached over and grabbed the pen. "---this is mine, by the way----who's actually going to believe you, crazy man?"

Bullseye just laughed. It was kind of creepy.

Peter dragged himself back up, stumbling out of the church and fishing his backpack out from behind the dumpster he'd used to hide it next door before heading home, painstakingly tearing out the cards in his leg before limping in the direction of his apartment. He webslung a little bit, relying heavily on his good right arm and leg, stumbling onto the roof of his apartment building.

He just had to hope no one saw him, that no one was picking right now to walk the halls. Ambling uncomfortably down the stairs, Peter found his door (mercifully on the second floor down), sliding his bag down his good arm to the elbow and fumbling uselessly for his keys.

He was surprised when the door opened instead. Peter looked up to see Matt, who just paused for a moment, nostrils flaring. Taking in the way Peter must have smelled and sounded before breathing, "Oh my God" and pulling him in gently by the back of his neck. Peter stumbled, grateful to have Matt to lean against, hearing the door close behind him.

"Hi," Peter muttered, dropping his bag and clinging to Matt with his good arm. Okay. He would be okay, he was alive (he'd known he would be) and he wouldn't have to recover alone. He could recover with Matt, here and safe and---

"Matt, what the hell is going on?"

Peter flinched when he heard Foggy's voice. Oh, shit. He tried to pull back, but Matt held him stubbornly against his chest. "Don't move," Matt scolded gently, running his hands over Peter's face and grimacing when he felt blood, jerking back when he touched the burn and Peter hissed. "Hang on a sec, Fog." Distracted. Go away, Foggy, Peter's hurt, don't you get it?

"Can I sit?" Peter mumbled, abandoning the strong, trudging, numbed up hero act in favor of the 'I'm in a shitload of pain please take care of me' shtick. "I need to sit."

"Yeah, yeah, of course." Matt spoke softly, the way Peter did to him when his head hurt and he couldn't pull in his senses, when he needed that soft voice. He gently guided Peter over to the couch and eased him down to sit. Papers were strewn over the coffee table, and Foggy hastily moved to get up off the couch and move the papers, tucking them away. "Foggy, could you get me the first aid kit? And some hot water."

"Sure, yeah, okay." Foggy left and Peter vaguely paid attention to his heavy footsteps walking out of the room.

"What happened?" Matt ran his hands lightly over Peter's body, jerking back when Peter flinched, resting on his dislocated shoulder.

"Pop that back in for me, yeah?"

"Count of three?"

"Count of nothing, just pop it----shit!" Matt had slammed Peter's shoulder back into place while he spoke, and Peter grudgingly brought up his arm to rub it, grimacing. "Thanks."

"You're welcome. What happened?" Ghosting his hands over Peter again, hissing when he found the cuts on Peter's side.

"It---ah, Jesus, watch your hands---Bullseye."

Matt faltered. "What?"

Peter grunted when he shifted, cradling his bad arm with the good one. "Bullseye. He ... can I explain this later? Please? He's headed for jail right now, can we not talk about this right now?"

Matt paused, frowned, like he really wanted to keep asking, wanted to try and lawyer an answer out of Peter, but he held his tongue. "Later." He leaned forward, carefully cradling the back of Peter's neck, kissing his forehead---not wanting to go near his bloody mouth or burnt cheek. Instead, he kissed Peter's forehead, his temple, even between his eyes, anywhere covered by the mask.

"Matt...?" Foggy was back, bearing the first aid kit and a bowl of hot water---and looking extremely confused as to why the hell Matt was kissing Spider-Man. Like he had his suspicions but didn't want to throw them just yet.

Matt rested his cheek against Peter's hair, muttering, "Pete...?" Too low for Foggy to hear.

Peter hesitated, shifting nervously and whining quietly in pain. The last thing he wanted was another person who knew, but ...

"We can trust Foggy," Matt breathed, as if reading his thoughts.

Another moment of silence, and Peter nodded. "It's okay."

Matt took a deep breath, and then he gently pulled the mask off of Peter's face, careful not to brush the burn on his cheek.

"Foggy, you remember Peter."