The city exhaled its nightly breath—a cool, metallic sigh that ghosted up the brick face of the apartment building. I sat on my throne of rusted iron, a fire escape five stories above the relentless river of traffic, my beat-up acoustic guitar resting against the railing. This was my quiet place, the only spot where the city's sound resolved into a kind of symphony.
A thud, followed by a muffled grunt, broke the rhythm. I knew that sound. It wasn't the clumsy landing of a pigeon or a dropped bag of groceries. It was the sound of controlled momentum meeting exhaustion. A flash of red and blue resolved into the familiar shape of Peter, peeling his mask off to reveal a face that was a roadmap of a bad day. A fresh, angry scratch sliced across his cheekbone, and the corner of his lip was swollen and purpled.
He moved with a careful stiffness, each motion a negotiation with pain. He tried for a casual grin, but it came out more like a grimace. "Evening, Shadow. Nice night for a view."
"Depends on the view," I said, my eyes tracing the dark bruise blooming on his jaw. "Yours looks a little… colorful."
He chuckled, a dry, airy sound that ended in a wince. He leaned back against the railing, and I saw his whole body tense as the cold metal bars pressed into his spine. "Met a musician downtown a week ago," he said, his voice a forced, lighthearted rasp. "The Hypno Hustler. Apparently, his backup dancers have a mean right hook."
I didn't smile. I saw the tremor in his hands, the faint sheen of sweat on his brow despite the chill. He was hurting more than he was letting on. Without a word, I slipped off my oversized grey hoodie. It was soft, worn thin from years of being my portable comfort blanket. I folded it into a thick cushion and held it out.
"Here," I said softly. "So you don't add tetanus to your list of grievances."
Peter looked at the hoodie, then at me. The mask of breezy indifference flickered, and for a second, I saw just Peter—tired, aching, and grateful. He took it, his fingers brushing mine, and wedged it between his back and the railing. He let out a slow, careful sigh of relief. "Thanks."
The quiet settled between us again, punctuated only by a distant siren. The city lights blurred into a glittering tapestry below, beautiful and indifferent.
"So," I began, trying to find the light tone he seemed to be aiming for, "beaten up by a wannabe DJ with a disco ball for a costume. How's that going to look on your hero resume?"
He managed a genuine, albeit pained, laugh this time. "Hey, I'll have you know his hypnotic 8-track tapes are a legitimate public menace. And his platform shoes? Lethal. I nearly tripped." He adjusted the hoodie, and another flicker of pain crossed his face. His voice dropped, losing its manufactured cheer. "But you're right. It's embarrassing. What hero loses to a fucking musician. Still… even the joke villains can leave a mark if you're not paying attention. Scars don't really care who gave them to you."
That was it. That was the line that snagged on something deep inside me. Scars don't care. My fingers tightened on the neck of my guitar. The teasing mood evaporated, replaced by a cold weight in my chest. I thought of Bobby, of Iceman. Seeing him in that coma.
Peter must have felt the shift. The silence stretched, no longer comfortable but heavy with unspoken things. "Shadow? You zoned out on me."
I took a shaky breath, the cold air stinging my lungs. "I was just thinking about Bobby," I admitted, my voice barely a whisper. "After his fight with Taskmaster. Seeing him like that… it shook me."
I looked over at Peter, at the stark reality of his own injuries. "I guess I always thought of you guys as… untouchable. You know? Like in the comics. You get thrown through a building and you just dust yourself off and make a witty comeback. But watching Bobby struggle to open a jar of pickles, seeing you wince every time you breathe, hell I was chocked out by a walking flashlight… it's not like that at all."
My gaze dropped to my hands, tracing the grain of the wood on my guitar. "I thought heroes were supposed to be indestructible. But… he wasn't. And you aren't either." The confession felt like releasing a trapped bird, frantic and fragile. "It scares me, Peter. Not just for him, but for you. Being your friend… sometimes it feels like standing too close to a storm. You see the lightning, you hear the thunder, and you just have to hope it doesn't strike the people you care about."
Peter didn't say anything for a long time. He didn't offer a platitude or a dismissive joke. He just sat there, the cushioned hoodie a small island of comfort in a sea of hard metal and concrete, and listened. When he finally spoke, his voice was low and serious, stripped of all its usual levity.
"It scares me, too."
His honesty hit me with more force than any punch from a supervillain ever could.
"All the time," he continued, his eyes fixed on the distant, glittering horizon. "I'm not scared of getting hurt, not really. This stuff," he gestured vaguely to his bruised face, "this heals. But I'm terrified for the people who can't heal as fast. For the people I'm trying to protect. For my friends." His gaze flickered to me, and I saw an ocean of weariness in his eyes. "For you."
He shifted, a slow, deliberate movement. "Every time I get back up after a hit like this, it's not because I'm not afraid. It's because I am. I'm afraid of what happens if I don't. If I don't get up, someone else might not get another day to see a sunrise, or complain about their job, or sit on a fire escape and worry about their stupid, reckless friend."
He pointed a thumb back toward the city. "Take the Hypno Hustler. Goofy, right? A joke. But if I'd let him win, if I'd just stayed down after one of his sonic blasts, a whole concert full of people would have been dancing like zombies, there choice and freedom stripped away. What are we if we no longer get a choice?"
The weight of his words settled over me, reframing the very architecture of my fear. It wasn't a weakness to him; it was a fuel source. A compass pointing him toward what mattered.
I didn't have a response for that. Words felt clumsy, inadequate. So I did the only thing I knew how to do. I pulled my guitar onto my lap, my fingers finding the familiar frets. I didn't play a song, not a real one with a name and a structure. I just let a melody drift out into the night air. It was a slow, somber tune in a minor key, full of hesitant notes that rose and fell like an uncertain breath. It was the sound of my anxiety, of my fear, but also of the quiet understanding that was blooming between us.
Peter listened, a faint, sad smile touching his uninjured lip. He understood. This was my language. This was how I processed the things that were too big for words.
When the last note faded into the hum of the city, I rested my forehead against the cool wood of the guitar. "I don't know if I could ever be that brave," I whispered to the strings.
"You already are," he said, his voice gentle but firm. I looked up, surprised.
"Bravery isn't about never being scared, Shadow. It's about caring about something so much that you're willing to act in spite of the fear. It's not about being fearless; it's about your fear losing the argument."
He leaned his head back, looking at me. "You think it wasn't brave to share your music with me for the first time? You were terrified. I saw your hands shaking. But you did it anyway. You think it wasn't brave to sit here tonight and tell me you're scared for me? That's one of the bravest things anyone's ever done. You were vulnerable, and you didn't run from it."
A blush crept up my neck, hot against the cold air. I didn't know what to say to that, how to accept a compliment that felt so… undeserved. So I just held my guitar tighter and strummed a soft, uncertain chord, letting it hang in the air between us.
The night grew colder, seeping into our clothes and chilling the skin. Peter pushed himself up with a quiet groan, the sound a final, stark reminder of the reality of his night. He carefully pulled my hoodie from the railing and handed it back to me. It was still warm from his body heat.
"I should probably go… ice some of this," he said, gesturing to his face.
He was about to turn, to pull the mask on and disappear back into the concrete jungle, but my voice stopped him.
"Peter?"
He paused.
"Take care of yourself," I said. It wasn't a casual parting phrase. It was a plea, weighted with everything we'd just discussed. I needed him to hear it.
He looked at me, and his smile this time was genuine, reaching his eyes. It was a weary smile, but it was real. "You too, Shadow."
And then he was gone, a silent swing into the abyss of alleys and rooftops, a streak of color against the endless night. I stayed there for a long time, my hoodie pulled tight around me. The fear was still there, a low hum in my chest like a bass note held too long. But it was different now. It was softer, laced with a thread of understanding. It was the price of standing next to a storm, yes, but Peter had shown me that you could also learn to appreciate the rain. And maybe, just maybe, I was a little braver than I thought.