Peter has never had a nightmare about May before.

As a child, they were only ever about monsters under his bed and snippets from horror movies when May forgot to change the channel before the damage was done, and the occasional dream of the plane that he'd only been told about in freefall through the sky. After Ben died, Peter began to notice a negative correlation between the time he spends as Spider-Man and the frequency of the dreams that cycle through the event like a broken record. The selection became more varied after everything with Toomes, adding struggling to find the surface of the water and waking up to his sheets strewn about around him to the list of scenarios that could meet him once he closes his eyes.

The ones that put him in a sea of dust and rubble after Toomes brought the warehouse down upon him are thankfully rare, because they always end the same way. The debris will get heavier and heavier and when Peter tries to cry out, either the words won't come or no one will answer. When Peter's strength finally gives way, he always snaps awake a second before everything comes crashing down, and he always has to scramble off his lofted bed because the ceiling is just too goddamn close to his face.

Yet he would take that dream for a week straight if it meant that he didn't have to relive seeing May in the wreckage in his place. She hadn't even said anything, she'd barely even looked at him, but she was alive under there and Peter couldn't-

Peter takes a slow, shaky breath in an effort to calm his racing heart and does a quick once-over of the room. The ceiling is high above him and as far as he can tell, well-supported in all the pivotal places. The window's large enough that sunlight is all that's needed to illuminate the room, and the bed's comfortable enough that Peter really has no reason as to why he slept better on that creaky motel mattress. He instinctively reaches out to the nightstand for his phone, searching for the time, searching for a distraction, but all that bumps his hand is the device labeled Talking Alarm Clock that has no digital display.

Peter turns over onto his back and feels for the sheets, pulling them up to his chin. Silk, he's pretty sure. A bit out of place and expensive compared to everything else in Murdock's sparsely decorated apartment, but it's soft enough that the prospect of lying in bed and delaying any small talk or questioning from the man is more than tempting. The last thing he wants is for Murdock to prod at how he slept, because the best response Peter has for that is a blatant lie.

Then again, Murdock wouldn't have to wonder at the answer if Peter holed himself up in the bedroom all morning. If he had to guess, he'd bet that the man is already awake. With a sharp breath, Peter forces himself to a sitting position and swings his legs off the bed, failing to suppress a wince when his feet make contact with the freezing floor. His hand automatically moves to his head in an attempt to fix his messy hair, but he's quick to give up when he remembers that it's not like Murdock would judge. He smooths the comforter back over the mattress and places the pillow on top before sliding the door open.

Murdock is nowhere to be seen. The blankets he used rest folded on the back of the couch and the pillow is tucked next to the armrest. A quick stroll around the living room confirms that the bathroom door is wide open, revealing nobody inside. The front door is locked, which succeeds in bringing Peter a modicum of relief.

"Mr. Murdock?" he tries anyway, hating how his pulse immediately picks up when there's no response.

Peter takes a deep breath and slowly blows it out before he shakes his head. He has May's schedule memorized, and he must've gotten used to Mr. Castle always announcing what he was leaving to do beforehand. It's not like Murdock has to follow that pattern. Besides, it's Murdock's home he's staying in. It could only be a matter of time before he returned. Yet Peter still finds himself eyeing his burner on the coffee table, Murdock's number fresh in the contacts.

He forces his gaze away from the phone and drifts toward the kitchen, backtracking when he notices the laptop on the small table in front of the counter. The screen is open, but it's cool enough that Peter's fairly certain that at least half an hour has passed since it's been used. Would Ned have emailed him his assignments by now? Peter purses his lips and shifts his weight from foot to foot. Homework's a productive distraction. Murdock probably wouldn't mind.

A swipe across the touchpad is all that's needed to light up the screen once he pulls back the chair and takes a seat. Aside from a robotic voice that reads "Google" back to him when he hovers over the icon, everything seems to function like he's used to. He resorts to muting it when it reads off every word that he types in the search bar and makes a mental note to change it back as he logs in to his email. Three unopened messages from Ned sit at the top, with what looks to be an automated email from the school below them. Following that is a small cluster of colleges begging for him to pay a campus visit, and then-

Peter's breath catches in his throat.

May Parker.

It was sent four days ago and the subject is Scholarship of all things, but after failing to hear her voicemail, failing to say goodbye, it feels like the most important word in the world. He rushes to click on it with his heart pounding in his chest, yet presses the heels of his hands to his eyes before the new screen loads.

What is he thinking? This is the last thing she ever sent to him, ever will send to him, and he's rushing to read it the second he finds it like- like- Shit. He knows he should save it, should star the email and come back to it when he actually needs it, but holding himself back is a feat he doesn't have the strength to perform. He pulls his hands away from his face and resolves to read it slowly, word by word, but the second he turns his eyes to it he takes it in all at once.

I found this 2k scholarship [link] that you should apply for, your grades already qualify you and you just need to write an essay! It's never too early ;)

Peter blinks back the burning in his eyes and swallows the lump rising in his throat. There's no love u, no proud of u, not even a heart emoji. It's too short, and he shouldn't be disappointed because there's no way May could've known, but he can't help but put his fist to his lips and clench his jaw shut. It's not fair. He brings the wobbly arrow to the winky face and hovers over it as the edges of his vision blur before squeezing his eyes shut. Maybe- Maybe May texted him. He has to check his phone for a goodbye, an i love u, or a you'll be okay. He needs to get back to his apartment, he has to make sure Gargan hasn't taken his phone-

A sharp tingle pricks at the base of his skull.

Peter slams the laptop closed and whirls around, the chair crashing to the floor as he shoots to his feet.

A stranger stands before him, a large paper bag clutched in one hand while holding one of Murdock's canes over his shoulder with the other, poised and ready to swing. He yelps and scrambles back at Peter's sudden movement, but he doesn't stand down.

Peter's heart leaps to his throat when he reaches for his web-shooter on his wrist and all his fingers meet is bare skin. He knew this would happen, he knew Gargan would track him down- He risks a glance to the hallway, trying to push down his panic to prepare for the sight of Gargan over Murdock's body, but there's no one else in sight. Which means- Peter curls his hand into a fist at his side. If the stranger hasn't called for reinforcements yet, then he's going to have to-

"What?" the stranger breathes, his face scrunching up to make an expression closer to bafflement than aggression.

Peter swallows, meeting the man's eyes with an unblinking gaze that he hopes shows more resolve than it does fear.

Instead of making a move toward him, the stranger's brow just furrows tighter as he glances Peter over. Come to think of it, he doesn't look like the typical goon. He has a dark brown suit jacket over a white button-up and a bright blue patterned tie, and his sandy blond hair is neatly combed to the side with the help of product. The paper bag smells of Thai food, and considering he's armed with a cane instead of a gun, he probably doesn't have one.

"Uh…" The stranger blinks rapidly as if he's trying to prove to himself that Peter's still going to be there when he stops. "Not to be rude, but… who are you?"

"Who are you?" Peter snaps back. As long as the stranger doesn't have backup, taking him out shouldn't be too much of a challenge. He could use his webs to restrain him, but that'd risk him knowing Spider-Man's face- "How- How'd you get in here?"

The man's mouth falls open as he lets out a disbelieving scoff. "How did I- Okay, I asked you first," he retorts, a note of petulance in his voice that catches Peter off guard. "I have an apartment key. How'd you get in here? What are you doing with that laptop?"

"How'd you get his apartment key?" Peter counters, eyeing his web-shooters on the coffee table over the stranger's shoulder. "What did- What did you do to Murdock?"

The stranger readjusts his grip on the cane. "What do you mean, what did I do to- oh, shit," he breaks off, his voice going soft as he inches closer and squints at Peter's face. "Are you cr- Uh, hey, are you okay?"

Peter falters, wiping his eyes with his forearm and dismayed to find them wet. "I- I'm fine," he says, but can't hold the stranger's gaze.

Slowly, the stranger removes the cane from his shoulder and rests the tip against the ground. "What are you, uh- What were you looking at there?" he asks in a different tone, gesturing at the laptop.

Peter's mouth opens before he can decide how he wants to answer. "Um… scholarships."

The man clicks his tongue against his teeth and presses his lips together with a sympathetic nod. "Yeah, I'd be crying too." Before Peter can protest, he crouches to set the bag and cane on the floor. "But a criminal record doesn't look good on a college application, so…"

Peter bristles at the underhanded accusation. "I- I didn't break in."

The stranger smiles a tight-lipped smile and gestures vaguely to the room. "Mind clearing that up for me? 'Cause I really doubt you wandered in here by accident."

Peter waits for a cue from his Spider Sense, for any indication that he should be scrambling for his web-shooters or bolting for the door, but he gets no response. Slowly, he crosses his arms over his chest and takes a deep breath. "I'm Murdock's client. I- Legally, I can't tell you anything. Attorney-client privilege."

The stranger huffs, quickly mirroring Peter's stance. "I'm Matt's business partner. We share all our clients. Hold on," the man mutters as he reaches into his pocket. He pulls out his wallet and rifles through it before presenting a card that reads New York State Bar Association. "See? So, legally," he passes the card into Peter's hand with a triumphant grin, "no secrets allowed."

Peter glances between the card and the man with narrowed eyes. The likelihood that he's with Gargan seems to get lower the more that he talks, and if he really is here for Peter, whatever he's playing at is far from how Peter would go about it. So he takes his eyes off the man to study the card, quickly skimming over the text. Franklin Nelson. It matches up with the law firm name, but there's no picture on the card to match the man carrying it. Slowly, Peter hands the card back over. "I, uh, don't actually have a reference point for what a lawyer card should look like, so," Peter gives a small shrug, "that could be fake for all I know."

Nelson shakes his head with a humorless smile as he folds the card over before throwing his hands up in the air. "Why would I carry a fake bar card around in my wallet? I did not spend hundreds of thousands of dollars in student loans on this for a twelve-year-old to tell me it's not real."

"Fifteen," Peter blurts, then stiffens and fights the urge to clamp his hand over his mouth.

"Fifteen and looking at scholarships?" He blows out a low whistle. "You're on top of it. However, we at Nelson, Murdock and Page—especially the Murdock—do not condone playing hooky." Nelson shakes his head with an exaggerated sigh. "For shame."

Peter has to suppress a grin at Nelson's overly stern stare before the meaning of his words register. "Wait- school's started?"

Nelson gives him a long look. "It's a quarter 'til twelve. Thai?" He nudges the bag with his foot. "Not exactly a breakfast food."

Peter runs a hand down his face and takes a step back. He'd never been one for sleeping in; not with Spider-Man and a plethora of homework to do. He's not sure what to make of the new development. How long ago had Murdock left? Did he really think Peter needed rest to the point where he was ready to let him sleep the day away?

"Tell you what," Nelson begins, pulling his phone out of his pocket and Peter out of his thoughts, "I'll call Matt. If he says you're not supposed to be here, then you better have a good lawyer. Or you better be really good at making Braille apology cards."

At Peter's mumbled agreement, Nelson taps and swipes at the screen for a few moments before holding it up to his ear, angling himself away from Peter as it rings. Nelson starts to fidget once ten seconds of nothing passes, and lets out a frustrated sigh that's he's quick to cut off when it goes to voicemail in the middle of a ring.

"New plan," Nelson announces with a clap of his hands. "We await Matt's arrival."

The way he says it makes it seem like they're about to embark on a quest instead of do nothing in an apartment for an untold amount of time, and Peter's grin slips past him before he's able to force his expression back to neutral.

"Oh," Nelson starts suddenly, glancing between Peter and the paper bag on the floor. "Matt's not here, and I've got two lunches that are only good when hot." He bends down to open the bag and removes two Togo boxes, one in each hand, and extends one toward Peter with a pointed raise of his brow.

After a moment of hesitation, Peter reaches out to accept.

Matt never thought he'd live to see Maggie and Stick in agreement.

While Peter had been adamant that Matt keep everything between them, Maggie's not the type to pry where she's not welcome. If an orphan, teenaged Spider-Man is staying with me is all Matt could provide, he can trust Maggie not to demand any more than she's given. Then again, Matt had also been under the impression that after everything she's seen, after everyone she's witnessed get hurt due to their ties to a vigilante, she'd be the first to affirm that Matt should do everything in his power to steer a child away from that kind of life.

Instead, once Matt had finished laying it all out, she'd just hummed and commented, "Are you familiar with Matthew seven, verse three?"

Her tone was conversational to the point where it took Matt a few seconds to register what she meant. When Matt regained his footing enough to point out that no, he's not being a hypocrite because Peter barely has any training, Maggie had retorted with a dry, "And what could you possibly do to fix that?"

In the end, Matt left much less certain than he'd come.

On one hand, Peter's far too young to take it upon himself to combat New York City's criminal population. The kid's lucky he entered the vigilante scene when he did; he wouldn't have stood a chance against Fisk in his prime, a sentiment even Peter was smart enough to echo. Not even a few months back, the kid would've been target practice for Dex if it weren't for his aunt's intervention. And the fact that Frank was able to get so much information out of him in so little time is either a testament to the trust he earned, or a testament to how desperate Peter was to place that trust.

On the other hand, Matt can't put a stop to Spider-Man now and expect himself to lose his qualms the second the kid turns eighteen. If Spider-Man gets himself killed because he spent three years sitting on the bench instead of training, then that's on Matt too. Matt blows out a long breath as he opens the door to his apartment building, trying to organize his thoughts. Frank informed him that Peter's aunt was aware of her nephew's extra-curricular activities when Matt had asked—she had to come around to it, but she knew about it. Had she tried and failed to stop him? What would she think of the child she raised training with the same person she'd instructed him to stay out of Hell's Kitchen to avoid?

His aunt ain't here.

Matt shakes his head with a huff and tries to shove Stick's voice aside. Figuring out what to do regarding Peter's future as Spider-Man is far from his greatest priority at the moment. Not with Gargan, the Accords, and Peter's lack of a permanent place to-

Thud.

Matt freezes mid-step. Did that come from—? Matt's heart jumps in his chest as he holds up his cane and rushes up the rest of the stairs. Shit. He doesn't have his mask, he doesn't have anything- He should've woken the kid up- No, he shouldn't have left him in the first place-

"But why a butcher?"

The kid's voice cuts through Matt's thoughts and halts him in his tracks outside the door.

"You know, I think she just liked the idea of free ham."

It only takes Matt a couple of seconds to piece it together, but it takes his heart much longer to slow with a strange mixture of relief and surprise. Matt takes a moment to compose himself before reaching out and twisting the doorknob open with a click.

"Matt?" Foggy tests.

"Yeah," Matt calls back, resting his cane in the crook between the table and the door before heading for the living room.

"You gotta answer my calls, buddy."

"Noted."

Foggy's sitting at the table by the kitchen, a fork in his hand and a container in front of him that smells of the Thai place on the corner. A few droplets of sauce are splattered on the floor by his shoes—from a recently dropped fork, if the noise was anything to go by. But it's the kid that gives Matt pause. Peter's mirroring Foggy's position across from him, picking at what remains of the food in his container while Matt could barely get the kid to down a piece of toast last night. He's actually leaning back against the chair, sitting like he's not preparing to bolt for the door at the drop of a hat.

"Oh, Matt," Foggy begins around a mouthful of food, gesturing with his fork to the kid in front of him, "this is Peter, our new intern."

"Intern?"

"Mmm." Foggy swallows. "He forgot his resume, which is hard to overlook—" Peter huffs at that "—but he's got straight A's, he's good with hardware, and he understands that an internship at a prestigious law firm looks great on a college application. Oh, and his previous internship experience? Stark Industries."

"Stark Industries?" Matt snaps his head up. Come to think of it, that actually makes sense. Either it's how Stark found out, or Peter was offered the internship as a way to keep an eye on him. The information Stark could get from the kid from his application alone, maybe even press for more info at proper interview… Could Peter have met Tony Stark? Did the kid know just how deep of water he was treading in by working for the same man who signed to lock people like him up? Matt gives a tiny shake of his head and mentally files the information away for later before bringing his attention back to Foggy. "Do you want an intern, or someone to fetch coffee?"

"There's a difference?" Foggy pushes back his chair and gets to his feet. "We both know that no law firm's official until they have interns. Besides," Foggy cups a hand over his mouth, yet makes no effort to lower his voice, "you don't even have to pay them!"

"Foggy-"

"He's good with hardware and our printer's been broken for a week. C'mon, new blood, Matt."

"Are we sharks now, too?"

"I know how to fix a printer," Peter pipes up, earning enthusiastic nods from Foggy.

"He didn't break into your apartment, did he?" Foggy asks when Matt fails to come up with an immediate response. "You do know this child?"

"What? No, he didn't-"

"Then I fail to see the problem."

Matt takes a breath to retort, but cuts himself off when he notes that Peter isn't protesting. Somehow, Foggy was able to get the kid's name and employment history out of him, the latter of which could be far more relevant than Matt ever considered. Maybe Matt's been asking the wrong questions. Karen's always had a knack for knowing where to dig, and if Peter's new amiability is any indication, he may not be as opposed to an introduction as he had been previously.

Matt turns to face Peter with a small exhale. "Can I tell him?"

Just like that, the air around the kid shifts. His spine goes ramrod-straight against the back of the chair and his jaw freezes mid-bite. He swallows, his heart rate picking up as he casts a quick glance behind him to the roof-access door.

"Tell me what?" Foggy asks slowly.

Peter stabs his fork into the Togo box. "Nothing."

"He has the same attorney-client privilege with you that I do, Peter," Matt tries, managing to withhold a sigh. It'd been a gamble on his part; it's much harder to hide something from someone to their face than from the opposite end of a phone line, but the kid doesn't fold. "Anything you told me-"

"You said would stay between us." There's a new edge in the kid's tone, a warning and a challenge at the same time.

Matt presses his lips in a tight line and wishes the distrust was a surprise. He can't even blame the kid for it—Matt doubts he would act much differently in his shoes. From what Frank told him and from what Matt had managed to gather, he's the first person Peter ever willingly revealed his identity to, and even then, willingly is a stretch. Considering that it's the wrong person knowing his identity that put him here in the first place, perhaps Matt's pushing for too much too soon.

Maybe Matt should return the favor. A simple 'I'm Daredevil' would likely bypass all of that, and for once Matt actually has a decent idea regarding what the reaction would be. It'd be a shortcut to getting his cooperation, something Matt's almost tempted to take. Then again, that path doesn't come without its own risks. Peter isn't as careful with his identity as he should be, and that's not even factoring in the worst-case scenario. If the government manages to get their hands on Spider-Man, Matt can't expect a kid to keep Daredevil's identity to himself when considering the kind of treatment the government could get away with on a prison that no one ever comes back from.

So Matt tries for patience instead, holding up his hands in a placating gesture. "Peter-"

"No, okay?" the kid bites out.

Foggy pointedly clears his throat in the heavy silence that follows. "Just a guess here," he begins delicately, "but I don't think a strange kid just happened to show up in your apartment following a mysterious phone call from Frank Castle."

If Foggy had a hunch before, Peter's sharp breath must confirm it for him now. The kid seems to come to the same conclusion when he slumps back against his seat and lets out a soft sigh, taking a moment to press his elbow against the table and lean his face into his hand. When he finally speaks, it comes out a mumble. "Fine."

Before Peter can change his mind, Matt says, "Foggy, this is Spider-Man."

"What?" Foggy's heart does something funny that doesn't match his scoff. "Spider-Man's not a teenager."

Peter goes still and stares down at his lap, his grip tightening around his silverware. Foggy's head swivels between Matt and the kid, a small noise coming from the back of his throat when no one moves to affirm his objection. Slowly, Peter raises his hand off the table, a fork dangling in the air from where it sticks to his forefinger.

"Oh," Foggy breathes, his quiet tone a polar opposite to the pounding in his chest. "That's- huh. You're just- doing that. I thought it'd be, like, adhesive gloves or something, but-" Foggy takes a breath and turns away, dragging his hand down his face before he starts to pace. "But Spider-Man first showed up a year ago. You'd have been…"

"Old enough," Peter mutters. Matt pretends not to hear.

"Do- Do your parents know?" Foggy barrels on, oblivious to how Peter's breath catches in his throat. But he's saved from answering when Foggy stops in front of Matt, his voice growing higher and faster. "Is- So that's what Frank wanted? He just- Spider-Man? How long have you known? How long have you known that Spider-Man is a-"

"A what?" Peter snaps, the fork dropping out of his hand and clattering onto the table. Matt's not sure if it's the noise or his tone that makes Foggy clamp his mouth shut, but Peter's quickening pulse is only concealed by it for a moment. "Everyone keeps saying that! I know I'm a kid, but that doesn't change the fact that I- I can stop a speeding car with my bare hands. Everyone's fine with Spider-Man until the second they find out he's a teenager, then they just- just expect me to sit around and do nothing while there are people who could be-"

Whatever expression Matt and Foggy are wearing, it's enough to get Peter to cut himself off the moment he looks over. The beginnings of a word form in his throat before it dies off, replaced with a sniff as he rests his elbows on the table to support his head when he runs a hand over his hair. "I'm sorry," he mumbles, the shift in demeanor like a flip of a switch. "I shouldn't- I didn't mean to yell."

He really does mean it, too. Whatever aggression and frustration Matt glimpsed, it's altered into something else entirely. Matt never anticipated finding himself thinking what would Frank do, but it's better than the alternative.

"Hey…" Foggy shifts on his feet before taking a tentative step toward the kid, entering his space with an outstretched hand before Peter shrinks back. Foggy's quick to pull away, opting instead to return to the chair across from him. He takes the kind of breath that usually precedes a lengthy question, but nothing comes of it.

"Can we just…" Peter makes a vague waving gesture between them and finishes by blowing out a long breath. "There's this gang leader named Mac Gargan that got out of prison and wants me dead. He knows my secret identity. That's- That's what Mr. Murdock's supposed to help me with. I just want- Can we please focus on that?"

Foggy's jaw falls open. "You've got a-" He breaks off, lightly clicking his tongue against the roof of his mouth.

Matt doesn't miss that Peter only addressed half of his legal problems, though he doubts his aunt's omission is an accident. But if Peter wants to deal with this piece by piece, perhaps even make all of his answers honest this time, then Matt will oblige. And if he wants to pretend his flare-up had never happened, Matt remembers enough about Matthew seven to not push him. Besides, if Matt's included with everyone in Peter's outburst, it'll only be so long before the kid's out looking for his own solution if Matt fails to provide one for him.

"Okay. Yeah, sure. We'll talk about the- the gang leader after you," Foggy starts, the disbelief poorly hidden in his tone as he pushes himself back out of the chair to restart his pacing. He slows when he nears Matt, hissing out an almost inaudible, "Does he—?" At Matt's slight shake of his head, Foggy clears his throat and continues after a pause just long enough to mean you're explaining this later. "Right. So you can't let this guy live free or he'll kill a bunch of people, and if you put this guy in prison again he'll- Sounds pretty Fisk-y, actually. You got any dirt on this guy?"

Peter's relief is almost palpable. "I got an NSA agent to look into him. No blackmail, if that's what you're asking."

"Of course you had an NSA agent look into him," Foggy mutters. "What else you got?"

"How about the man in prison who gave him your identity?" Matt wonders aloud. "You didn't mention his name." As to why, Matt doesn't have to guess. He has no doubt what Frank would try to do with the information.

Peter swallows and winds his hands together in his lap. "Adrian Toomes," he finally gets out.

"And how did he find out?"

"A dumb coincidence. It's not important." Peter's shoulders fall with his sigh. "Basically, Toomes ran an illegal weapons gig. They'd combine Chitauri tech from the Incident with Earth weapons and sell them on the black market. I got wind that Toomes would be making a deal with Gargan on this ferry, but I didn't know the FBI would be there. A sting, or whatever. Toomes and I started fighting, Gargan got knocked off and the FBI got him. I caught Toomes a few days later. I think- Gargan probably threatened Toomes' family or something. I saved his life, and I don't think he'd just… yeah."

Jesus. The kid sounds like he's reciting a paper, not recounting illegal weapons deals and FBI encounters. He's in far deeper than Matt could've imagined. The investigation he must have conducted to piece it all together and to take the collar when the FBI couldn't- What kind of situations did he have to put himself in to get that information? How many people did he have to hurt?

"Jesus," Foggy echoes. "That's- Wait. You were- I heard about that ferry. It split in half, and I remember a picture of Spider- a picture of you, just- holding it all together-"

Foggy cuts himself off when the kid's only response is to ball his hand into a fist and pinch the bridge of his nose between his thumb and forefinger, mumbling something even Matt can't catch.

"Are Toomes and his men all in prison?" Matt asks softly, gratified when Peter looks back up.

"Um, not all of them. But I haven't seen any more weapons, so…" Peter trails off with a shrug.

Foggy casts a quick glance in Matt's direction as Matt resists the urge to run his hand down his face. Cutting the head off the snake wouldn't have worked with Fisk if they let everybody on his payroll keep walking around. Either Toomes' men gave up on the massive source of income they were sitting on, or Matt's lucky they decided to move their operation somewhere else than Hell's Kitchen.

"Wait," Foggy blurts, his heart jumping in his chest as his pacing picks up. "Wait, wait, wait, wait. Does he- Toomes made the deal, right? Did Gargan buy the weapon? Did you see money go from one hand to the other?"

"I- I don't- The weapons were all in a truck. I saw Gargan's guy looking at the weapons, and- and I grabbed the keys before he could pass it over. Maybe- I guess the money was already exchanged. Does it-"

"Matt- Matt-" Foggy whirls around and clutches on to his shoulder. "The Sokovia Accords!"

Matt can't help but go stiff under Foggy's grasp. Shit. It was only a matter of time before Foggy came to that conclusion, but Matt can already feel the kid's curiosity coming off of him in waves as Frank's words ring in his head. If Peter was in the habit of trying to make nice with his enemies, getting him out of Iron Man's grasp would be considerably more difficult than Gargan's. If the kid starts to look into it- Unless- "Foggy, wait- You think-"

"Legally, an enhanced individual is someone with superhuman capabilities, right?" he says, his words and pacing getting faster and faster. "Whether someone has biological superhuman capabilities or technology that gives them superhuman capabilities doesn't matter. But- In the Accords, strictly regulated tech that grants people superhuman capabilities-"

Holy shit. "If possessing Chitauri weaponry makes you an unregistered enhanced individual-"

"One-way ticket to the Raft. Indefinitely, without trial."

Slowly, Peter rises to his feet. "Wait- Can this really- But the weapons aren't in Gargan's possession anymore."

"The Accords don't specify that they have to be," Foggy rushes out. "Sure, the Raft isn't exactly meant for guys like him and it's a bit of an unfair loophole, but that's what we get paid to find."

"So this could actually work?"

Matt takes a deep breath. Playing with the Accords could go very wrong, very quickly for people like them. The second Gargan starts to consider Spider-Man and the Accords in the same sentence, they could be facing a combined force of the government and any criminal that's interested in what Gargan could offer. They couldn't afford to strike more than once, to let Gargan slip away and give him a single minute to retaliate. But even if they're playing with fire, it's still the best chance Peter has. "Yeah, I think it could."

"We just need the nail in the coffin," Foggy says, stabbing his finger into his palm for emphasis. "Considering the without trial bit, all we need is proof that Gargan bought the weapons. Videos, photos, a witness, a gift receipt—and present it to the right person. You think Toomes would corroborate?"

Peter's leg grows restless against the floor. "I… doubt it."

"So who do you know that would? Any of Toomes' men?" Matt asks. When the kid doesn't respond, he tries, "Peter, is there any name we can start with? Anyone who associated with Gargan or Toomes in the past?"

Peter opens his mouth, closes it for a long moment, then opens it again. "Sorry, but I can't think of anyone off the top of my head."

"Hmm. Well, keep thinking on it." The disappointment is apparent in Foggy's voice as he starts to sigh before cutting himself off. "Guess I'll be digging through lots of files on this Toomes guy. Maybe something will crop up."

"Maybe," Matt echoes.

The kid's lying through his teeth.