Spider-Man: Black and Blue (AU) Chapter 31: Back in Action

[Third Person POV] 


Damon was in his room, shirtless, as he lowered himself toward the ground in a steady rhythm of push-ups. His reflection in the tall standing mirror followed every movement—broad shoulders flexing, muscles tightening and releasing. Sweat clung to his body in shining rivulets, sliding down the sharp ridges of his chiseled torso and tracing the lines of old scars that faintly caught the light. Strands of damp hair fell across his face, partly obscuring the piercing blue eyes that burned with silent determination.


“Eight hundred sixty-eight… eight hundred sixty-nine… eight hundred seventy…” Damon counted under his breath, voice low and even despite the strain in his arms. Without pausing, he shifted his weight, folding his fingers into fists and kicking upward into a perfect handstand, balancing on his knuckles as if gravity itself dared not challenge him. His body trembled only slightly as he continued the set, sweat dripping onto the mat beneath him.


Somewhere on the bed behind him, his phone buzzed repeatedly, the faint vibration muffled by the rumpled sheets. He heard it but ignored the sound, focusing instead on the burn in his muscles and the steady rhythm of his breathing. He wasn’t going to stop—not until he reached the number he had set in his mind.


Finally, as the counter in his head reached a thousand, Damon pushed off the floor with a sudden burst of strength, flipping through the air in a tight, controlled spin before landing lightly on his feet. The impact barely made a sound. He rolled his shoulders, stretching the tension out of his back and arms, and drew in a slow, calming breath. ‘I’m mostly okay now, he thought, flexing his fingers. Most of the injuries have healed. Still a little sore, but I can manage.’ 


Crossing the room, he grabbed a towel and dragged it across his chest and neck before finally reaching for his phone. The screen flared to life with an almost blinding glow, making him squint. “Uhhh, I hate this…” he muttered, slipping on a pair of round black glasses that softened the glare.


The notification was from Richard. Damon opened the message and smirked at the short, to-the-point text: The materials arrived. Come here and help me.


“Sweet,” Damon said to himself, the corners of his mouth tugging upward. He tossed the towel aside, grabbed his black backpack from the corner, and began pulling on a clean shirt and a dark hoodie. His parents were still at work, thankfully, which meant he could slip out unnoticed. Within minutes he was out the door, moving through the quiet neighborhood streets with long, confident strides.


Damon cut through alleys and side streets, his pace quick but unhurried, until the looming silhouette of an abandoned warehouse came into view. He vaulted a low fence and crossed the cracked pavement, the sound of his footsteps echoing faintly in the hollow space.


In one smooth motion he vaulted over the railing of the upper floor and landed silently outside the office space. He pushed open the door and stepped inside, where the warm glow of a desk lamp revealed Richard crouched over a worktable.


Richard looked up briefly as he fiddled with the settings of a sewing machine. Boxes of equipment and rolls of fabric were stacked in neat but precarious towers around him.


“You could have waited for me,” Damon said with a small shake of his head as he strode over to one of the boxes. “I would’ve helped you carry all this.”


“Nah, it’s fine. They weren’t that heavy,” Richard replied with a grin, brushing a strand of messy hair from his face. “Besides, with the money we’ve been saving, I finally managed to snag some stronger materials for the suit. And let me tell you, they were not cheap.”


“I can tell,” Damon said, lifting the lid of a box and carefully running his fingers along the smooth surface of a roll of deep black silk. He could feel the quality—the durability beneath the softness.


Richard tapped the sewing machine and leaned back, his eyes gleaming with pride. “I even managed to get carbon fiber. That was by far the priciest thing on the list, but it’ll give you way more protection—blunt force, stabs, even small-caliber bullets. It’s not perfect, but it’ll hold up a lot better than your last suit did against Electro.” He chuckled at the memory. “Still wild that you actually went toe-to-toe with your own supervillain.”


“He wasn’t a supervillain,” Damon corrected, voice steady but soft as he set the fabric down. “Just… someone misunderstood. Someone who felt lost and alone.”


Richard blinked, then covered his mouth dramatically, pretending to wipe away a tear. “You sounded just like a real superhero just now. I think my heart did a little flutter.”


Damon smirked, raising an eyebrow. “What do you mean sounded? I am a real superhero.”


Richard snorted, and the two of them exchanged a grin before turning back to the task at hand. Together they began unpacking tools and spools of thread, the rhythmic hum of the sewing machine soon filling the room as they carefully reconstructed the Spider-Man suit from scratch—piece by piece, stitch by stitch.


The two of them moved easily around the cramped office space, passing fabrics and tools back and forth like seasoned craftsmen. Spools of thread, jars of dye, and small rolls of carbon fiber cluttered the worktables, but their movements were quick and precise, weaving through the chaos with practiced rhythm. Together they dipped strips of carbon fiber into a basin of light blue dye, the liquid shimmering like molten sapphire as it soaked into the fibers. Richard held the material steady while Damon carefully threaded a needle, stitching each piece with steady, deliberate motions.


Richard paused mid-step, eyes narrowing as he noticed the faint glow in Damon’s irises. The soft blue shimmer caught the lamp light, making his focus all the more striking. Damon’s brow furrowed slightly, his entire body leaning toward the needle as if every stitch required absolute precision. Richard watched, almost mesmerized, as Damon guided the thread with a speed and accuracy that seemed far too advanced for someone who had only been learning for a month.


“Hold up,” Richard said, breaking the silence. “Just what are you doing? How the hell are you already that good?”


Damon didn’t look up. His tongue poked out from the corner of his mouth as he squinted at the carbon fiber. “I’m using my telescopic vision,” he replied casually, as if it were the most normal thing in the world. “Zooming in between the strands so I can see exactly where the next stitch should go. Makes it easier to keep the pattern tight.” He gave the thread a firm pull, the stitch landing perfectly flush with the one before it. “Plus, my spider-sense warns me if I’m about to poke myself. Helps me dodge the needle before it happens.”


Richard stared, lips twitching in disbelief. “…I just want you to know how utterly unfair that is.”


“Really?” Damon finally looked up, flashing a sharp grin. “Because to me, that sounds like a skill issue.”


Richard barked out a laugh and flipped him the middle finger without hesitation. Damon threw his head back and cackled, the sound echoing faintly through the warehouse.


Thanks to their combined focus—and Damon’s enhanced eyesight—they finished far faster than either of them expected. The last stitch went in smoothly, and the two stood back to admire the fruits of their work. The newly reconstructed suit hung proudly on a mannequin near the wall, the fabric gleaming faintly under the overhead light. Richard even managed to replace the tiny camera embedded in the lenses, syncing the feed so he could see everything Damon saw in the field.


“I just have one quick question,” Damon said, breaking the quiet as he wiped his hands on a rag.


“Hm?” Richard hummed absently, still admiring the suit from every angle.


“Where the hell did you get a mannequin for this thing?” Damon asked, jerking a thumb toward the figure standing like a silent sentinel in the corner.


Richard straightened up, puffing out his chest with obvious pride. “Found it while I was driving around. It was sticking out of a trash pile behind some store. Looked like a waste to leave it there, so I brought it home.”


Damon blinked, his face somewhere between impressed and horrified. “…You couldn’t just ask your dad for one? You had to pick up a mannequin out of the trash?”


Richard froze mid-thought, tapping his chin as though the idea had never once crossed his mind. “Huh. I… actually didn’t consider asking my dad.” He shrugged and flashed a carefree thumbs-up. “Don’t worry, though—I cleaned it.”


Damon chuckled, shaking his head as he carefully lifted the suit off the mannequin’s shoulders. “You’re certainly something else.”


---


Later that night, Damon stood atop a high-rise rooftop, the city spread out below like a sea of glittering lights. The wind whipped around him, tugging at his freshly stitched suit as he bounced lightly on his heels. He rolled his neck, loosening his shoulders, and flicked his gloved fingers to test the fit.


The new design was striking. The spider emblem across his chest was bolder, the legs stretching farther across his torso and wrapping over his arms in sleek, angular lines. The lenses of his mask and the trim of his gloves gleamed in a vibrant cerulean blue that caught the moonlight, turning him into a streak of living neon against the darkness.


Richard’s voice crackled through the earpiece hidden beneath the mask. “So… you ready to get back in the game after your little unprompted break?”


Damon smirked beneath the mask, eyes scanning the skyline. “Do you think I am?”


“I’ll tell you who you are—” Richard’s grin was practically audible through the comm.


Damon sprinted toward the rooftop’s edge. His steps were quick, almost silent, until he launched himself into the open air with a powerful leap.


“—You’re Spider-Man. That’s who.”


Damon laughed, the sound carried away by the rushing wind. “Haha! You know it, baby!”


He tucked his arms behind his head for a brief, reckless freefall, the city lights blurring beneath him. The roar of the wind filled his ears, a familiar thrill sparking in his chest. At the last possible moment, he stretched out his left arm, a web-line shooting into the night with a sharp thwip!


“Woohoo!!” he shouted, the exhilaration bursting from his lungs as the line caught and his body swung forward. The city welcomed him back, and Spider-Man was once again in motion.