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Part 60 of my defenders fics
Collections:
Glue for my broken heart NWH, Team Red and Vigilantes, Leymonaide fic recs
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Published:
2022-02-05
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1,845
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1/1
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25
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758
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Memory

Summary:

Jessica frowns at the long, raised scar marring Peter’s side. “I remember that one.”

Four times the Defenders remember more of Spiderman than he'd expected.

Notes:

This has references to the other fics in this series but it can make sense without having read them. Probably. I think.

Anyway.

I hope you enjoy!

(See the end of the work for more notes.)

Work Text:

Jessica

Jessica frowns at the long, raised scar marring Peter’s side. “I remember that one.”

He nods, ducking his head, and gives her an awkward smile as he pulls t-shirt on. “Yeah. You, uh. You would.”

A grin flashes across her face. “Allergic reaction to cayenne pepper.”

“I wouldn’t call it an allergic reaction,” Peter says. “I didn’t, like, die.”

“What would you call it?” Jessica counters.

Peter pauses. “My inherent spider-ness?”

Huffing a laugh, Jessica shakes her head. She runs a finger along the beat-up chest of drawers Peter’s repurposed as a table to eat at. “Your place is a piece of shit.”

“I’m a seventeen-year-old without any papers,” Peter says, flat. “Not many people are hiring.”

“Hm.” Jessica comes to the sewing machine where the Spiderman costume sits, left for whenever Peter has the time to repair it. “I…don’t remember any of this.”

“But you knew me.” Peter drops down onto his bed and looks up at her earnestly. “And you knew Spiderman.”

“I do know Spiderman,” Jessica says. “I guess I can figure out who Peter Parker is too.” She groans, letting her head thunk back against the wall. It creaks. “Shit, but you’re young. But I knew that? I don’t know why. Jesus, this memory stuff is driving me insane.”

A hint of amusement curls at Peter’s mouth. “When we met,” he says, slow and thoughtful, “you told me that I wasn’t fooling anyone. And that it was obvious I was twelve.”

“I…” Jessica pauses. “Huh. I do remember that.”

“And then I showed you my face,” Peter goes on. “And you said that that was somehow worse.”

“That…” Jessica gestures vaguely. “…is where my memory fails me.”

Peter lets out a sigh, shoulders sagging. “Yeah. Because it was when I told you who Peter Parker was. Is.” He grimaces. “Whatever.”

Jessica sighs too. Glances around his closet of an apartment again. It’s just a sink, a chest of drawers, and a bed. The door in the corner leads to a grime-covered bathroom. “I’ll…I’ll try.” She does her best to smile; it comes out strained, she can tell, but something brightens on Peter’s face. “I’ll try to remember, okay, kid?”

 

Matt

“Your form is sloppy,” Matt tells him from where’s he’s perched on top of the crate. “Keep your thumb outside, remember?”

Down below, Peter nods, his breath hitching slightly. “Yeah, I—I know.”

“Good.”

Peter takes a swing at the final gang member, but the punch goes wide. Instead of hitting his jaw, he gets his collarbone.

“No,” Matt says, sharp. “Keep your focus.”

“What the fuck, man?” the gang member yells, distress in his voice, knife humming in the cold night air. “What the fuck is this supposed to be?”

“Get him down,” Matt says.

Peter swings his leg out, low, and knocks the guy’s legs out from under him. “Can’t you see that he’s Jedi-ing me,” he says to the gang member. The usual notes of humour in his voice are discordant, off like they have been since…whatever it is that happened.

Matt huffs. “I’m not Jedi-ing you.”

Peter webs the gang member up, pinning the guy to the ground, then turns. “You’re my Yoda,” he says, laughter in his voice. “You’re even teaching me how to fight!”

“If I were your Yoda,” Matt tells him, vaulting down from the crate, “I would have you running around with me on your shoulders.”

Peter tilts his head to one side. “So, how did I do?”

“Like I said, sloppy.” Matt pats his shoulder. “But improving.”

The criminal’s litany of ‘what the fuck’ is getting annoying.

Matt bares his teeth at the guy. “Shut up.”

He shuts up.

A few feet away, Peter crouches down to study the other unconscious gang member. “He’s got this weird tattoo on his neck.”

Matt pauses. “What kind of tattoo?”

“I don’t know,” Peter says. He reaches out to brush some of the guy’s hair out of the way. “I think it’s some kind of snakes? But, like, just the skeleton. It’s kind of weird.”

“Hm.”

Peter’s head tilts up. “Do you know if anyone’s seen anything like that?”

Matt shakes his head. “I’d have to ask around.”

Leaping up to standing again, Peter says, “Cool!”

A pause.

Then:

“How much do you remember?”

Matt grimaces at the question and starts down the alley, away from the watchful eyes and ears of the conscious gang member. Peter hurries after him.

“Red?”

“As much as Foggy and Jessica and Danny and Luke and everyone,” Matt says. “I don’t know who the hell this…” He gestures vaguely at Peter. “…is supposed to be. But Spiderman? Of course I remember.”

“What?” Peter’s voice cracks halfway through. Blood rises in his cheeks, and he swallows and tries again. “I mean—what do you remember?”

Matt sighs, checks their surroundings for any listeners, considers what to say. “I know,” he starts, “that I was the one who showed you to harness your enhanced senses. I know that I trained you to fight but that Danny showed you how to keep your cool. I know that Jessica and Luke taught you how to manage your strength.”

The tiniest of breaths, the beginning of a sob, escapes Peter.

“You know,” Matt continues, clenching his fists, “what Foggy likes for breakfast, and where Karen does most of her shopping. You steal my juice and my milk and any food that’s not bolted down, but you won’t touch a drop of alcohol because you think it’ll get you arrested.”

“Someone I know got told off by the police,” Peter says in a straight voice. His heart is beating fast.

“You’re a fucking vigilante,” Matt says. “You can handle getting told off by the police. But,” he adds, “you won’t, because you’re a good kid. And you don’t want to mess anything up.”

The laugh Peter lets out is uncharacteristically bitter. “Look where that got me.”

Matt shrugs. “We’re vigilantes. We take shit and we spit it back in their faces.”

A pause.

Then Peter says, disgusted, “We’re eating shit? That’s a terrible metaphor.”

Matt can’t help but laugh.

 

Luke

“When did you leave the Queens scene?”

Peter pauses with a spoonful of peanut butter half-raised to his mouth. “Huh?”

“I may not remember everything,” Luke says, “but I remember that Spiderman sticks in Queens. That’s where you lived.”

“Right.” Peter drops the spoon back in the jar, a sudden bitterness to his voice. “I did.”

Luke frowns and leans forward on his couch, clasping his hands together. “Peter, you already know that I don’t remember everything. I don’t know what’s going on.”

“Yeah.” Peter’s face twists, caught between anger and grief. Too much for a kid his age. He lets out a deep, weary sigh. “Yeah, I know.”

“So…” Luke leaves the word hanging. After a long pause, there’s no response. “You want to share it?”

Another sigh. One of Peter’s hands goes down, down to the freshly healing cut in his side, right next to day-old bruises.  “My, um.” His eyes lift to the ceiling. “My aunt. Do you remember her?”

Luke tries. Fails. Looks down at his hands. “I’m sorry,” he says, quiet. “But…”

“You don’t remember,” Peter finishes. “Yeah, I…I get that. It isn’t your fault.”

“Did she die?” Luke asks as gently as he can.

Peter’s lip quivers. “Yeah,” he manages, voice cracking. “Yeah, she did.”

“I’m sorry.”

“There was nothing left for me in Queens,” Peter says. “Nothing…no one. No reason to stay.”

“Every reason to go,” Luke fills in.

Peter nods, eyes wet. “Exactly. My friends…Ned, MJ…they don’t remember me. They don’t know—” He lets out a bitter laugh. “—a single thing about me.”

Luke doesn’t say anything, letting Peter talk.

“But…out of everyone, everyone in the whole city, it’s you guys who remember. You, Matt, Jess, Danny. The only people I can still talk to. I just—” Peter shakes his head. “Why is it you guys? Why not—why not MJ? Why can’t she just remember?”

“You could talk to her,” Luke suggests softly. “You could—”

“No, I can’t,” Peter says immediately. “I can’t do that, I can’t get her involved, not again. She got hurt because of me.”

“Did she know you were Spiderman?”

“Well—yeah.”

“Then she chose to be there,” Luke tells him. “She must have chosen to be there. Just like Claire and Misty, Karen and Foggy, Colleen, Trish… They all chose to be there.”

Peter shakes his head, pressing his lips together. “No.”

Luke sighs, leaning back in his seat. “I’m guessing I can’t convince you.”

“No,” Peter repeats.

“You’ve always been a stubborn kid,” Luke says with a grimace.

A smile flickers to life on Peter’s face. “You remember.”

“Like I could forget,” Luke scoffs.

 

Danny

Danny leads Peter through the tearoom, watching as Peter looks around in wonder.

“Your usual table, Mr Rand,” the waitress says with a fixed smile.

Danny grins at her. “Thanks!”

“This place is awesome,” Peter breathes. He slowly takes a seat, rubbing the lace tablecloth. “It’s like all those places in mafia movies where the matriarch of the crime family orders the deaths of—” he drops his voice low “—the traitors—” his voice returns to normal “—because they’ve, you know, betrayed them.”

Danny laughs. “That would be awesome. And terrible – but then I could punch them and take down a crime empire.” He nods. “That would be cool.”

“Fighting crime in a tearoom would be cool,” Peter agrees. “The flowers would make for an awesome background setting.”

“My mom liked it here,” Danny says. He smiles at the purple orchids blooming from a pot in the middle of the table. The colour matches the hydrangeas dripping down the walls and trailing across the ceiling. “They do little cakes.”

“Ooh, little cakes,” Peter says. “I like little cakes.”

They order more than a dozen, given the two increased metabolisms at the table, along with green tea and biscuits.

“So,” Danny says once the waitress has gone again, returning to the main room where the customers wear their best instead of home-knitted sweaters (Danny) and sneakers held together by duct tape (Peter). “Your name is Peter.”

A pause. Peter’s brow furrows. “Yeah?”

“Do I call you Pete?” Danny asks very seriously. “Or Petey? Or do we stick with Peter?”

Something softens on Peter’s face, something like relief. “You…uh.” He lets out a half-laugh. “You mix it up.”

“Good,” Danny says. Then: “Jessica says your apartment is cold.”

Peter frowns. “Uh?”

“I made you a scarf,” Danny says brightly. “I got the ribbing right this time, too.” He hands a package across the table, wrapped in paper with little sparkly Santas on it.

Peter takes it, something deep and complicated on his face, and tears the wrapping off. He holds up the scarf.

“I, um. I like the colour,” Peter says, voice higher-pitched than normal. “It’s—my favourite.”

“I know,” Danny says. “I remember.”

Peter’s fingers dig into the wool, face twisting. “Yeah,” he says, voice cracking. “Yeah.”

 

 

Notes:

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