Oh, hey, Matt. So I've been thinking on it, and I just remembered that Phineas Mason's the witness we need. Isn't that great?

Peter grimaces and kicks a small rock out in front of him, sending it tumbling down the sidewalk.

Good morning, Matt. You'll never guess what just came to me—the guy we need is named Phineas Mason, and he's somewhere in Bushwick. Yeah, it's just been on the tip of my tongue this whole time. Better late than never, right?

Peter absently moves to kick the rock again once he catches up. He's not good enough at acting to pull off spontaneously remembering, and Matt's not stupid enough to buy it. Maybe, just maybe, honesty is the best policy here. Besides, no harm no foul, right?

Then again, that's not how May saw it a few months ago. His curfew of ten wasn't exactly negotiable, so when he'd been clued in on a midnight robbery only two weeks after she found out about Spider-Man, going out behind her back seemed like the only viable option. It'd gone smoothly enough, and he'd been ready to pat himself on the back for a job well done when he found his bedroom window latched shut. His trudge up the apartment's stairs was nearly unbearable, and he'd heard May's pacing before he gathered the courage to knock at the front door. He was unable to meet her face as she'd gone on about how he'd broken her trust and felt the shame swell up when she said that she would've allowed it had he just asked.

She had settled on taking his phone and forbidding him from hanging out with Ned for the rest of the week, but it was the persistent cracking open of his bedroom door at night to check on him that stung the most.

Hey, Matt. So, the good news is I found out the guy we need is Phineas Mason. The bad news isn't even that bad, really, because the worst thing that happened is I learned that Daredevil's really territorial. Peter sighs, sidestepping a bit in order to kick the pebble ahead. He wouldn't blame Matt for deciding to take his burner away. It's what he used to talk with Ned and get Davis' address, so the punishment fits the crime. And in his experience, said punishments are always less severe when he owns up to his actions before giving the adults a chance to discover them. Even Mr. Castle's response to Peter admitting to calling the police station had amounted to nothing more than a stern don't do that again, albeit that fumble hadn't been intentional.

Though Peter has yet to see it, he'd take a pissed off Matt over a pissed off May or a pissed off Mr. Castle any day. And when it comes between a pissed off Matt or the guilt that would come with lying to his face after everything he's done to help, Peter finds himself leaning toward the former. If Matt confiscating his burner and locking the roof access door is the price he has to pay for his honesty, then Peter won't object.

Peter finalizes his decision with a nod as he beelines to the edge of the sidewalk to kick the rock back to the center. Come to think of it… Why is Daredevil so territorial? He's always struck Peter as more of the brooding, I work alone type, but then again, so had Mr. Castle. He never would've thought the Punisher would be more open-minded to the company of other vigilantes than Daredevil. It kind of stings that the only other person who could understand what comes with having a secret identity doesn't even want to acknowledge him beyond throwing a baton at his face. Even just a 'get out of my city, Spider-Man,' would be better than chasing him out like he's some menace. Someone's been reading too much Daily Bugle.

Peter slows with a frown. Mr. Castle had started out in Hell's Kitchen, hadn't he? Daredevil probably wasn't a fan of that. It's not a stretch to assume that it put him off other vigilantes hanging out in his neighborhood. Though if that's the case, Peter's not sure how to feel about being lumped in the same category as the Punisher. Peter reaches in his pocket, brushing past his folded mask to rest his fingers on his burner. Hi, Mr. Castle. I was just wondering, have you ever ran into Daredevil before? I just wanted to know, because… Peter blows out a breath and slows as he nears the rock before shaking his head and stepping past it. On second thought, he doesn't want to hear about the circumstances that could've led to Mr. Castle meeting Daredevil. Peter already has a pretty good guess. Still, his fingers tighten around his phone.

Hi, Mr. Castle. I'm doing fine. Matt's friend got me a Lego set. I just wanted to check in and ask how you're… Peter dismisses the thought with a shake of his head. He's not sure he wants to hear that answer either. A bad means that Mr. Castle's not any closer to finding Gargan, and a good means that he's close to killing him. Either answer means that he's leaving a trail of bodies.

Yet… Hi, Mr. Castle. Are you busy?

Peter's wrenched out of his thoughts when the hairs on his neck stand on end.

He stops in his tracks and looks toward the roofs, but there's no horned shadow in sight. While he has been made aware that not seeing Daredevil isn't any guarantee that he's not there, this feels… different. This feels… familiar. Less you're being stalked by a dangerous vigilante and more the feeling that comes when he's patrolling Queens, the kind of feeling that precedes a crash or a shout for help.

Peter's body reacts before his mind has the chance to object. It's all autopilot when he turns down the sidewalk to the source, his fingers readying automatically on his web-shooters. His heartbeat thunders in his ears as exhilaration floods through his veins at the fact that he actually has the chance to help someone, followed by a mental slap in the face because hey Spider-Man, someone's in danger.

And what do you plan to do about it, Peter? A voice that sounds suspiciously like Matt's rings uninvited through his head and stops him mid-step. Gargan will know Spider-Man is in Hell's Kitchen if you use your webs. You have what you need to know, and you already risked enough for it. Keep walking.

Peter shakes his head and shoves the voice to the back of his mind, but the words still linger with the faint prickling at the back of his skull. Maybe he's blowing it out of proportion. As far as he knows, his Spider Sense could just be warning him about a drug deal or a stolen bike a block over. It wouldn't be the first time and it's decisively not something to risk his identity over. Maybe he should-

A scream rips through the quiet and is cut off in less than a second.

Peter whirls back around and takes off.

His Spider Sense sends him skidding to a stop near the end of the street at the edge of an alley, the sound of scuffling and muffled shouts echoing between the walls when he arrives. A couple of half-empty beer bottles sit a few feet away, making his lip curl when paired with what he sees next. He risks a quick glance to find two men—the closer one rifling through a purse that obviously isn't his, and the other grappling with his hand pressed over a struggling lady's mouth. She's shaking in her heels and scratching fruitlessly at the forearm around her chest, a scene Peter's intervened in a dozen times before. Habit takes over as Peter aims his web-shooter at the man's face-

-then ducks back behind the wall before he can fire. Crap. No webs. Think, Spider-Man. He can't throw any punches without risking Gargan hearing about some superpowered kid and putting it together. He has his mask, but it doesn't resemble Daredevil's enough up close to fool them, and he sure as hell can't pull off any of Daredevil's moves. It wouldn't take Gargan long to realize who a masked vigilante that isn't Daredevil is if he gets wind of it. Where's Daredevil when you need him? How's Peter supposed to-

"Ach! Shut up, bitch!" The man careens to the side when the woman manages to get out a yelp, trapping her between himself and the wall. Peter catches a sharp flash of silver from the man's free hand that starts on a trajectory toward the woman's neck.

Now!

Peter dives for a bottle and hurls it at the wall opposite of the woman. It shatters the second it meets the bricks. The man stumbles back from the woman as shards pelt against his leather jacket and he turns just in time to have one slice across his cheek.

Oh God- Peter clamps his hand over his mouth to stifle his sharp breath as a red gash opens on the man's face, but manages to snap himself back when the woman uses the distraction to writhe free. She hurries out of the alley, nearly shoving past Peter in her effort to escape.

"Hey- Ma'am, are you-"

The woman doesn't even look back at him as she flees across the street.

"Shit! Rich, your face!"

Peter's heart does something funny when he faces back down the alley. The man is leaning against the wall with his forearm, a steady stream of red seeping down his jawline from a jagged cut stretching from his ear to under his eye. Gargan's marred face flashes through his mind and Peter's stomach churns as he bites back his lip to keep himself from blurting out an apology. A part of him that he's less than proud of is almost grateful that he isn't wearing his suit because Spider-Man's not supposed to do something like that.

He was mugging someone, he forcibly reminds himself. It does little to stop the nausea growing to his throat. He was mugging someone and I stopped it.

The man looks up and locks his eyes on Peter's. The pure loathing in their depths sends his feet faltering back, but he finds that he'd take the fury any day over the expression that stares back at him a moment later and all but freezes him in place. The corner of the man's mouth twists upward and his eyes narrow as they go alight with something that sends a rush of ice water down his spine.

Recognition.

Somehow, Peter makes himself unstick his feet from the ground and darts around the corner. He presses his back against the bricks as soon as he's out of their sight and takes in a slow breath of frigid air in an attempt to calm the thundering in his chest. No way. He just imagined it, there's no way-

"Hey, hey- You see that kid's face?" Leather Jacket rasps.

His companion scoffs. "You see what he did to yours?"

"Fuck you." Footsteps. "Thing is, I could've sworn that's the little shit Gargan's after."

Shit. Shit. Shit shit shit-

"No fucking way."

Walk away. Walk away, Spider-Man. Walk-

"Yes fucking way."

Peter's Spider Sense burns as he makes himself back up down the sidewalk. This can't be happening- It's only one criminal, how could the one criminal who saw his face in a city Peter's not even supposed to be in have connections with-

"Wanna make some more cash tonight?"

Peter stumbles to a halt. His breath catches in his throat as the ground is yanked out from under his feet. He'd been joking about the bounty thing to Mr. Castle, he didn't think- there's no way that-

"Hell no. Ain't he with the goddamn Punisher?"

The rush of relief has Peter swaying before he can force himself to walk again. One night. It's only night one, they'll think that this is a fluke, and Gargan won't-

"I don't see no Punisher."

"Well, shit."

It takes all of Peter's willpower not to scramble up the wall when the pair of footfalls gets closer. The headlights of a car passing from behind reveals the tips of long shadows by his feet.

Stupid Parker Luck. Stupid goddamn Parker Luck. To think that he was in the clear, that he finally got a leg up on Gargan and now-

"Hold up," Purse-snatcher hisses. Though Peter's enhanced hearing places him at about forty feet back, he can all but feel the man breathing down his neck.

"You wanna give this fucker the chance to get-"

"Not on the sidewalk, dumbass. You want him drawing attention? Look, he can't stick to it forever."

Peter clenches his hands into fists to stop them from trembling and forces a slow breath when the ground starts to sway. Okay. He has to- There has to be a way he can play this right. Options. Short term: he can't turn around, or they'll see his face and both of them will know for sure that it's him. If he runs, they'll chase after him. Staying on the open sidewalk and keeping them walking at a distance is his best shot. They probably don't have guns since they weren't aiming any at the woman, so that's something. The knife could pose a problem, but if it comes down to a fight for his life, he has enough web fluid to make it out clean.

Long term: he webs them up, they realize he's Spider-Man. He could turn down an alley, hurry up the walls and give them the slip- and then they'd call for backup and Gargan would know you're here. Peter swallows back the panic rising in his throat as he pauses at the end of the street. The whispers behind him get more and more audible as the men near. He turns on his heels and heads down the side road, careful to stay within the light of the streetlamps. Maybe- Maybe he can lead them straight to the police station. They wouldn't dare jump him there.

And even if he knew where the hell the police station was, the police are going to have a lot of questions when they see May Parker's missing nephew on their cameras. "Shit," Peter breathes. Matt was right, Matt was right- He should've just told him about Davis, if he'd just goddamn listened-

The entire reason Mr. Castle made him stay with Matt is so that this wouldn't happen, so that Gargan wouldn't find him, and Peter just-

Peter's leading them straight to Matt's apartment.

Peter takes a sharp turn in the opposite direction once he reaches the end of the street and tries not to panic when the men's footsteps pick up at his sudden move. When they slow, it's not at the same pace it was before. Shit. He can only wander around Hell's Kitchen for so long before they decide to corner him in an alley, or call for backup, or decide that Gargan would be content with taking him dead or alive-

His burner nearly slips out of his hand once he fishes it out of his pocket. He's careful to keep it out of sight of his followers and close to his chest, which only serves to bring his attention to how frantically his heart is battering against his ribcage. He can barely feel the buttons beneath his thumb as he opens the contacts and he doesn't think that he can attribute the numbness to the cold.

Mr. Castle can help. He'd helped last time, when- when he-

Peter squeezes his eyes shut to keep the gunshots from echoing in his skull.

He scrolls down to Matt's number and tries to summon the courage to dial. Sorry to wake you up, Matt. But I did exactly what you told me not to do and what resulted is the exact thing you warned me about. Peter clenches his jaw, biting down on the insides of his cheek. What could Matt even do? Was he supposed to pass his phone to the muggers and hope that Matt can lawyer his way out? Matt doesn't owe him anything—hell, Peter just took his money and clothes without asking after Matt had stuck his neck out for him—so what if- what if he-

He presses the button and holds his breath.

It doesn't even get halfway through the second ring.

"Where are you?"

Peter hasn't heard that tone before. It's even enough that a part of him is relieved that Matt seems to have been awake, but the unfamiliar coldness to it makes him suppress the shiver that tries to crawl down his back. He brings the mouthpiece in front of him and keeps his elbow close to his side, silently begging that it's enough to keep the goons from taking notice. "Um, I don't- I'm not sure."

"Can you make it back by yourself, or do you need me to come get you?"

Peter's cheeks burn despite the cold. "Matt, I- I s-screwed up," he forces out, careful to keep his voice low and the chatter out of his teeth. "There's these, um- I promise I wasn't looking, I swear I wasn't like, Spider-Manning or anything, but this woman was getting mugged, and I didn't- I couldn't just stand by-"

"Peter." Peter snaps his mouth shut. "Is someone following you?"

"I'm sorry," he breathes. "I'm sorry- I know what you said, I just- I think there's a- a contract out on me." He's barely able to stop his voice from cracking. "They saw my face."

There's a long pause and static as Matt shifts the phone, muttering something that Peter doesn't catch. Peter tightens his grip on the burner, silently bracing for the click of the receiver. "Are you in Hell's Kitchen?" he finally asks. His voice is far flatter than Peter expected and a part of him wishes for Mr. Castle's blatant anger that at least lets him know just how thin of ice he's walking on.

"Yeah. Uh—" Peter squints at the street sign ahead "—Fifty-first and… I'm on Ninth, I think."

"You said 'they.' How many? Are they armed?"

"Two. Um, I saw a knife." His pulse picks up as the murmuring increases behind him. "I won't lead them to your apartment, I swear. I think- I can fight them if it comes to-"

"No." Matt draws in a slow breath. He says something else that Peter's not privy to, though the harsh inflection he can pick up on gives him a pretty good guess. Peter ducks his head and bites back his lip; he's never heard Matt curse before. "Peter, listen to me very carefully. Turn on Fifty-second. There's an abandoned building next to a parking lot on the right side of the street. Go inside."

Peter knows that it's childish, that the composure in Matt's tone isn't as real as he'd have him believe, but the directions feel like a lifeline and he can't help but latch on. "Okay."

"Make sure they follow you in. Then go to the fourth floor. Do I make myself clear?"

Peter swallows. "Yes, sir."

He waits for the explanation, for any indication as to what's supposed to happen next or what he should do if he's cornered in a way that only Spider-Man could escape. Instead, the line goes dead with Matt's name on his tongue.

His chest shudders with his next inhale. Okay. He called Matt. He called Matt, and Matt gave him a solution. He's in no position to be demanding answers, not when he owes Matt far more. Peter closes the burner and slips it back in his pocket and runs the instructions over in his head. Fifty-second, abandoned building, fourth floor. Then… call Matt back? Or stand around and hope that Leather Jacket doesn't want to put a matching scar on his face? What if he gets there and- and why is Matt so sure that the fourth floor of some abandoned building is-

Peter gives a firm shake of his head. He can follow orders this time.

"Hey, go down the next alley and cut 'im off at the end of the street. I'm getting sick of this shit."

"Here, take my kni-"

Peter quickens his pace and veers around the corner to Fifty-second.

"Keep it down," Purse-snatcher hisses, and Peter has to strain to make out what comes next as he fixes his gaze on the large parking lot ahead. "You sure the Punisher's not about to jump out at the corner?"

Leather Jacket scoffs. "I've got a buddy who says he's been busy around Queens. I'll call him up—he'll swing by here and take us to Gargan. I wanna get paid before the Punisher puts a bullet in him."

The implications behind been busy barely register beyond the flood of adrenaline at call him up. Peter draws in a breath, steels himself, and breaks into a sprint.

A startled "Shit!" comes from behind him, but Peter doesn't dare look back. He beelines for the building's door and lurches to a halt before it, his heart jumping to his throat at the rapid footfalls behind him. The realization that the door had been locked comes only after he twists the knob and wrenches it open to the splintering of wood at his shoes. Panic courses like a jolt of electricity down his body, barely quelled by a mantra of they didn't see it, they didn't see it- For a split second, scuffing the shavings out of sight feels more important than getting to the fourth floor before a shout that's much closer than it should be snaps him back to reality.

The only light comes from the doorway behind him and the dirtied windows, but his enhanced senses make quick use of what he's got. The tile is cracked where it's not missing and the plaster is flaking from the walls, revealing the blackened brick underneath. It could've been a shop a long time ago; maybe that's how Matt knows of it. Peter hurries for the stairwell in the corner and glances up the center, fixing his gaze on the thin metal railing four floors above. A part of him says that it'd be smart to test his weight on the less than stable-looking structure, but that part all but vanishes at the prickling at the back of his neck.

It's all instinct when he goes from the ground to clinging to the outside of the railing two floors up and he can barely hold himself back from firing a web over half-clambering, half-leaping the rest of the way. The light from the doorway flickers and footsteps pound across the tile as he scrambles over the railing and makes it to his feet just in time to peer down and see Leather Jacket staring up at him with an expression that's almost feral.

Peter forces himself to duck away before his companion enters and to ignore the frantic, "Fourth floor!" below him.

"How the fuck-"

"Come on!"

The thundering up the stairs is as good of a signal as any. Peter turns on his heels and bursts out of the stairwell. Suddenly, the frigid air outside of Davis' window with the gun aimed at his face doesn't seem all that bad.

There's nothing here.

Peter doesn't know what he expected. Maybe some mysterious cash-filled briefcase in the center of the floor that he's supposed to use to bribe the men to go away, or maybe Foggy in the corner with the cane poised and ready to swing. Instead, he's met with rickety floorboards and broken windows that create a cross-breeze cold enough to freeze him to his core. A shrill squeak jolts him in place as a bat takes off out the window, leaving Peter alone to face what's to come.

Is that what Matt wanted? Nobody else getting caught in the crossfire?

Peter squeezes his eyes shut and resists the urge to throw his burner aside in favor of trying to regain control over his breathing. May would tell him to run. Climb out the window to the fire escape while he has the chance and do not look back. Then keep running until he's out of Hell's Kitchen and he can call Mr. Castle and- and that would solve nothing. But Mr. Castle would tell him to go for the wrist. To get the knife away as quickly as he can and make sure he doesn't telegraph it with his eyes. Then maybe let fast reflexes and carefully applied super strength take care of it from there. Then- Then he can knock them out and call the police. Yeah. Simple. Abandoned building fight, take two.

"Fourth floor, right?"

He doesn't need super senses to hear their panting. A twinge from his Spider Sense lets him know to keep the action away from the center of the floor and to steer clear of a cracked support beam in the corner. Peter draws in a deep breath, widens his stance, and faces the stairwell.

Leather Jacket sees him first. Streams of sweat cut through the blood caked on his cheek, the wound dark and gaping. He slows to a stop as he looks Peter over and his mouth twists into a grin that churns his stomach. "Peter, right?" He steps out of the stairwell as Purse-snatcher crowds behind him, and hangs back in the doorway. The man stalks forward and Peter forces himself to stand his ground when the switchblade flashes open.

There's a dull buzzing at the base of his skull.

"You wanna come quietly? Or do you wanna make us collect the lower rewa-"

GET DOWN.

Peter drops to the floor just as the window shatters behind him and red whisks above his head. It ricochets against the wall and meets Purse-snatcher square in the temple, sending him crumpling to the ground in under a second.

Leather Jacket's eyes go wide as Peter scrambles backward against the wall. The crunching of glass under his feet sounds distant compared to the roaring in his ears and the pounding in his chest.

Right in front of him, black outfit illuminated by the city to his back, is the devil himself.

Once it registers, to his credit, Leather Jacket doesn't miss a beat. The switchblade goes from his side to out in front of him, jabbing at Daredevil with frantic steps forward. For a moment Peter thinks Leather Jacket is actually driving him back, but then Daredevil sidesteps his outstretched arm and grabs it by the elbow to yank it behind him in a direction that arms aren't supposed to bend.

Peter can't help his flinch at the man's scream, and almost finds himself relieved when Leather Jacket manages to squirm out of his hold. As he lunges for his fallen knife, Daredevil flips in the air, almost in a way that resembles a cartwheel if it wasn't for the way his boot hooks the man in the jaw. Leather Jacket stumbles back into the bricks, careens to the side, and collapses on the floorboards. It's all over in less than a minute.

Then Daredevil turns to Peter.

Peter manages to bite back his yelp when his recoil results in slamming his palm onto broken glass, but the pain quickly becomes easy to ignore. He shouldn't have been looking for horns. Instead, it's that black mask that Peter remembers from those grainy YouTube videos a few years back. Only now, Peter can make out that it's actually a black cloth with a white layer poking out underneath, tied together in the back. What at first glance seem to be fingerless gloves is actually more black cloth wound tightly around his hands, and there's a collar of a red undershirt just visible under the black crewneck.

Peter could've died happy knowing none of this.

He racks his mind for a quip, something conveying both thank you and please stay on the opposite side of the room, but the lump in his throat keeps his words from escaping. Daredevil tilts his head to the side, assessing, and Peter's never wished for his mask more than now. Did Daredevil get close enough to recognize his outfit from the roofs earlier? Or can Peter play himself off as some dumb teen that doesn't know any better than to walk around Hell's Kitchen alone past midnight? Daredevil turns away before Peter can decide, his footsteps catlike as he maneuvers around the glass to reach the fallen form of Purse-snatcher. He seems to study him for a moment (how he can see through both layers of cloth, Peter's not sure) before reaching down to retrieve his red baton.

Oh shit. Peter clambers back to his feet and tries not to have a heart attack when Daredevil goes tense at his movement. The man turns to face him, mouth pressed in an unreadable line that, for a split second, seems almost familiar. When he takes a slow, deliberate step forward, Peter matches it with several steps back.

But Daredevil doesn't stop. He keeps his baton close to his side as he nears, and keeps nearing after Peter's spine lines up against the wall. He doesn't know if it's blood or sweat that has his palm slick when he rests his finger on his web-shooter's trigger, but Daredevil halts the moment Peter angles it at his boots.

A part of him wants nothing more than to dart out the window, and the other part of him is shouting that he should take advantage of getting in the first strike. Neither wins out, leaving Peter frozen in place with the buzzing growing louder and louder, almost drowning out his heartbeat roaring in his ears.

Daredevil's chest rises and falls as he takes a slow breath through his nose. All at once, the buzzing dissipates.

"Go home, Spider-Man."

Oh.

Oh.

He knows.

Peter fishes his mask out of his pocket with shaking hands as Daredevil shifts to the side, opening the path to the fire escape. How long the offer will be open for, he doesn't want to find out.

Peter bolts out the window and doesn't look back.

Matt's nowhere in his apartment when Peter returns.

He'd expected to find the man in the center of the living room with his hands on his hips, maybe wearing a suit if for no other reason than Peter can't picture him pissed off in his t-shirt and sweatpants. Peter had built himself up before opening the roof access door, preparing his defense and bracing himself for the lecture and disappointment, but the only sign of Matt's presence is the rumpled blanket at the end of the couch. The bedroom door is just as open as Peter left it and there are no additional outfits missing from the closet when Peter hurries over to check.

Calling him seems like a good idea until Peter's attempt to grab his phone chafes his cut against his pocket. It's not long before he finds himself in the bathroom with his hand under the faucet, his web-shooter set next to the first aid kit on the counter, and the mirror cabinet open so he can avoid the pale face of the teenager staring back at him.

The water runs pink into the sink after it flows over his palm, the cold stream unfortunately returning feeling to his hand instead of numbing it due to the sheer briskness of the rooftops. The stinging snaps him into focus if nothing else, making him just swift enough to catch one of the trains in his mind taking off at a million miles an hour.

As far as he's aware, Daredevil has the same criminal endgame that he does: gift-wrap them for the police and let the system handle it from there, albeit Daredevil prefers the too-unconscious-to-run-away method. Odds are the two men after him would end up in police custody, and even if they didn't want to admit to trying to kidnap a teenager, Peter bets they have a record dirty enough for the police to keep them from waltzing back onto the streets. It's far from a long term solution, but with Phineas Mason's name, they can put Gargan away quickly enough for it to not become a problem.

Because you've proven lucky enough for that to work out, a dry voice points out from the back of his mind.

Shut up, Peter expertly counters. He grabs the bottle of hydrogen peroxide from the kit and pops off the lid. Besides, I was lucky enough for Daredevil to show up on time.

Were you?

Peter clenches his teeth and tips the bottle onto his palm, just keeping himself from jerking back as the wound burns and fizzles white. When it clears up, it's decisively not as deep as his torso and leg gash that Mr. Castle had to stitch up; it's more on the level of the wounds he got after his final fight with Toomes. With that sound diagnosis, Peter reaches for a roll of gauze and begins to wrap it taut around his hand.

Come to think of it, with the way things have been going for him, maybe it's not luck. After all, it'd been Matt that sent him up there. Peter hadn't even heard Daredevil climb the fire escape or pick up on any footsteps on the roof—almost like he was staking him out. And he didn't ask anything of Peter once he'd dealt with the men as if he'd already known why they were there. Combined with Matt's abrupt hang-up… The gauze goes still in Peter's hand.

Could Matt know Daredevil?

They've talked about him on more than one occasion. In fact, it was one of the first things they talked about. If Matt knew where to find Daredevil this whole time, why would he play dumb about the fact that Daredevil actually is active when Peter brought it up? Why would he pretend to understand what Peter's going through, when, at any time, he could've just asked if talking to the only other masked vigilante is something Peter is interested-

I'm not required to disclose representation of my client, Matt had said. No one is going to make the connection, and I promise you that unless I have your explicit permission, it stays in this room. Foggy had mentioned that they helped put Wilson Fisk away. And it's no secret how much Daredevil hates the guy, so maybe it isn't a stretch that they worked together on it and their firm agreed to be Daredevil's lawyers on a rainy day. If that's the case, then Matt's silence regarding Daredevil is something of a relief.

Peter ties off the gauze and places the kit back in the cabinet. Once he rinses the stray red droplets down the sink, he pulls out his phone and dials Matt's number.

It goes straight to voicemail.

Peter frowns and dials again.

Nothing.

Okay. Peter swallows and begins to pace around the living room's perimeter. Maybe- Maybe Matt's talking to Daredevil right now. Something like 'hey, Spider-Man is my client, so please don't stalk him across the rooftops. Also, he told me that those men you found tried to mug a lady, so I'll show up at the precinct tomorrow and do lawyer things so they don't talk about Peter Parker on the streets.' Yeah. After all, navigating Hell's Kitchen at three in the morning wouldn't be any different for a blind man.

Peter halts in his tracks.

Daredevil started following him only a few buildings away—at least, according to his Spider Sense. It's not like there hadn't been anything more pressing going on, because those muggers certainly didn't sound new to this. For whatever reason, Daredevil had him pegged almost immediately. And for someone interested in following him, he was especially uninterested in what Peter had to say to him. Almost as if…

No. Come on. What is he thinking? Matt's blind. Peter's seen the way his gaze doesn't focus in on things, he's taken note of how Matt never looks down when he handles something, how he always reaches out to touch a chair or the couch before taking a seat, the talking alarm clock, the computer and phone settings, the Braille books lining the shelves and the Braille tags in his closet- Matt is blind. Completely, totally blind, with maybe the smallest amount of light perception that Peter hasn't gathered the courage to ask about.

Another thing Peter knows is that you have to see someone's face so you know where to aim when you do a backflip to kick it.

Right?

Then again, Peter didn't see Daredevil looking at him when he almost got a baton to the face. Double then again, Matt wouldn't throw a projectile at the face of his client who's been staying in his home for the past three days.

Triple then again, did it hit you?

"Get a grip," Peter hisses, dragging his hand over his hair. He needs sleep. The past few nights have been either nightmares or work toward finding Davis; clearly not enough to keep his brain functioning properly. He has half the mind to close his eyes and try for a backflip himself, and that thought alone is enough for the other half to steer his legs to the bedroom. Silk sheets. Daredevil wouldn't sleep on silk sheets. He either sleeps on a bed of nails or has a superpower that makes him not need sleep at all. He's a vigilante, the furthest thing from a lawyer with the exception of a cop. And he's certainly not the kind of guy who's best friend with Foggy Nelson.

But he is the kind of guy to not be seen around Hell's Kitchen after Matt Murdock takes on Spider-Man as a client. It's the same line of reasoning Toomes used to figure him out.

Peter uncurls his fist to find a red dot growing in the center of the gauze.

Where Would I Hide the Supersuit? isn't a new game to him.

Peter turns on his heels to the locked closet near the stairs. He'd wondered at it before, but it wasn't his place to question what his host kept behind doors that he clearly kept locked for a reason. And to think that the formality had been his priority. Peter grabs a hold of the lock, shackle in one hand and the padlock's body in the other, and yanks.

He drops the two pieces to the floor as the doors creak open. He half expects to find the horned cowl staring straight at him, but it's the large chest on the floor that makes his heart beat faster. Peter crouches down and unlatches it with trembling fingers. With a slow, measured breath, he flips it open.

Shit.

A small collection of what looks to be boxing memorabilia covers half of the space, along with a colorful, intricately folded paper bracelet, some poster or newspaper clipping, and a small chart labeled Braille Alphabet. But what draws Peter's eye is the red satin robe, carefully folded to display the yellow Battlin' Jack Murdock.

Peter claps his hand over his mouth, faltering back as he sucks in a gasp through his fingers. What's wrong with him? Peter would be furious if someone he let into his home decided to go poking through Ben's stuff, yet here he is, staring at one of the last things Matt's dad wore before he was murdered. He squeezes his eyes shut, pressing his face into his palms and shaking his head. How the hell is he supposed to justify this to Matt on top of everything else? Oh, sorry, but I thought you were Daredevil. My bad. As delicately as he can, he places his hand on the lid and closes it. He tries his best to ignore the gnawing at his insides as he latches it shut and nudges it further into the closet.

It's… very light for how full it looks.

Biting his lip, Peter pulls it back and reopens it. He sticks his fingers against the sides of the chest, careful not to disturb any of the mementos inside, and lifts. All of the items come up with him.

The chest, however, does not. Right under the items, right under Peter's nose, is a large, empty compartment that smells of leather and gunshot residue.

Peter's heart skips a beat as his lungs forget how to function.

He hastily reassembles the chest and shoves it back in place, almost slamming the closet doors shut. He snatches the pieces of the padlock off the ground and drops them in his pocket as he reels back onto the couch. The place where Matt- Daredevil had been sleeping, just a doorway away from him, and Peter hadn't-

He's blind. It doesn't make any sense. He's blind.

Yet this whole time- from the moment Peter met him- Matt had been the first person he'd ever told about Spider-Man, and Matt knows this, and he just-

Why didn't he say anything?

Peter told him how he felt about Daredevil. Matt had- had pretended to care about his feelings, had listened and commented when he talked to him about Daredevil and told Peter how fucking similar they were with what happened to his dad, all the while if he'd just said one thing, the one thing that would actually be worth a damn- Daredevil's supposed to be the one person who could understand, the one person who knows what Peter goes through every time he puts on the mask, yet all he'd said was legal bullshit and 'Go home, Spider-Man' like it all means nothing.

Peter's breath hitches around the lump rising in his throat. All at once, the room's yellow glow turns cold. He hurries to the bedroom and slides the door shut, then aims his good hand at the latch and coats it with a glob of webbing. His breathing picks up faster than he can help it as he lowers himself on the bed, waiting for his vision to adjust to the darkness. He gives up in favor of crawling under the blankets and closing his eyes, and for a moment he can convince himself that he's back in his own bed with May in the next room instead of in Matt's apartment, engulfed by Matt's silk sheets-

He throws the covers off and grabs the hem of Matt's sweatshirt, pulling it over his head and writhing himself free. The cold hits him immediately, drawing his eyes to Mr. Castle's jacket on the bedpost.

Did he know?

The room's silence is deafening.

His burner reads 3:14 AM, yet that barely gives him pause. Peter dials the number and holds his breath.

It doesn't even ring.

"Your call cannot be completed as dialed," the robotic voice says. "Please check the number and dial again."

What?

His mouth drops open, but he clamps it shut to stop the small noise rising in the back of his throat. He- He said he'd answer. He promised he'd answer, that he wasn't going to leave him- It wasn't like Mr. Stark, it wasn't about convenience, Mr. Castle had promised-

Why would he lie? Did he just toss his burner aside once he passed Peter off to Matt like- like he doesn't even- no. He wouldn't. He wouldn't. Not after everything he told him, everything they've been through, after that look on his face when he talked about his daughter- But then what does Peter know?

Peter reaches blindly for the jacket and curls up on the mattress, pressing his face into the pillow to keep his lip from wobbling. He shakily splays the jacket over him and wipes his eyes on the sleeve.

It still smells like him.