March has been abnormally cold this year. New Yorkers didn't tend to salt their rooftops or concern themselves with fire escapes coated in a layer of frost and ice, which made Daredevil's nightly activities all the more exciting. Despite the assault to his senses, Matt had fitted the interior of his gloves with a rubber grip after more than one slip had sent him tumbling to the asphalt. Until the city thawed, Matt had accepted that his hands would reek like bloody basketballs, iron-coated and heavy on his tongue. (And, yes, he had memories to associate with that scent. High school and accidental throws aimed at the unsuspecting blind kid had made for a hell of an introduction.)
The rubber had scraped against Peter's shoulder when he'd placed an uncertain hand there. The sweat that had frozen in droplets under Peter's suit had warmed under his touch, shifting the spandex fabric. Although spandex is a quieter fabric, he had still been able to listen to its soft scratches as Peter had told a story that had seemed equal parts thrilling and tragic.
It had been hard to believe, but he'd promised to believe anything that was the truth. Peter's voice still clung onto a note of youth, shaking as he told Matt about his mentor dying in front of him with a blend of shame and resignation. The air had been thick with icy tears as Peter stumbled over stories about his best friend and a first love. As much as Matt had wanted to fight or flee at first, it didn't feel right to leave without hearing Peter out.
But Matt didn't like surprises. He didn't like feeling tricked. And when Peter had played his hand, responding to Matt's Peter with a reply of Matt, he'd been, for lack of a better word, blindsided. His mind had flooded with a fear the public didn't believe he could feel. A scream had built up in his throat, primal and raw, and he'd tamped it down only to listen for the tell-tale signs of reinforcements. They'd sent Black Widow last time to deal with him. Matt hadn't entertained the thought that the (mostly) celebrated defender of Queens would be confronting him alone.
Peter had come to his office. He'd asked for help and Matt had believed him. Of course he'd believed him. As a Catholic, he had a soft spot for hopeless causes. Peter had promised that Spider-Man did his best to be a good person and his heart had beat nothing but truth.
However, Spider-Man had been an Avenger. He'd fought on the side of the Accords and had been heavily associated with Tony Stark. The definition of a good person could be so varied based on what one believes. So what reason did Matt have to think that they hadn't sent a naïve and immature super-hero to prove Daredevil was enhanced before surrounding him?
Matt had led Peter further into Hell's Kitchen, keeping an ear out for the others that would surely follow. They'd settled on an old tenement building- one of the highest points in the borough. Sound travels less distance in the winter. In the hotter months, Matt can hear a few miles away if he focuses. But when it's cold, it's better to be higher up, away from the sirens and cars and drunks stumbling home after one too many shots. He'd known what to listen for; he'd planned to flee at the first instance of quinjet engines or riot gear. There had been nothing.
Of course Tony Stark had shielded Spider-Man from the Accords. Of course they would never come to mind for a vigilante who'd rubbed elbows with the elite.
But Peter had wanted to talk, and, more than that, he wanted to network. All Matt had heard when the word left Peter's mouth was a kid trying desperately to sound adult. Lost, confused, and eager to make a friend. It had been like a blow to the chest.
People rarely seek Daredevil out with good intentions.
So he listens. People have left him all his life and he never wants to do that to someone else.
While Peter's story is wild and fantastical, his heart beats truth, truth, truth all the way through it. He's met Peter Parker before. He'd fought viciously to have Peter's criminal charges dropped and apparently he'd succeeded. Even though he can't remember doing this, his chest flushes hot with pride. Listening to Peter talk, it's easy to tell why he would have agreed to take Peter's case despite the risk of public scrutiny. There's a voice in the back of his head, bearing the familiar cadences of Father Lantom, that says, No man should walk alone. If we have the strength, we have a duty to protect one another.
He wants to protect Peter.
There's an unmistakable skip when Peter describes the aftermath of the Goblin's betrayal, a slight hitch to his breath that fumbles to keep his voice from cracking. A shudder tears through Peter down to his atoms.
There's no lie there, but something's missing. Something big and obvious that Matt knows exists, shining bright like the billboard outside his apartment window, but he can't read it. His senses tell him a lot, but some expressions are written only on the face. A quivering lip could mean many things. Fear, panic, guilt. A heartbeat can only tell so much. When Peter's story ends, there's silence.
He can't help but ask, "Peter, how old are you?"
The answer isn't surprising, but it pulls at his chest all the same. (He's a kid. He's a child hanging his hopes on a lawyer he'd barely known and a vigilante in a devil costume, and, as much as he knows he's not the kind of person Spider-Man should be putting his trust in, the faith is startling. He can't live up to it. He has to live up to it. Otherwise he's abandoning Peter like Stark did or like Stick did with him. He can't do that. It'd be a sin even confession couldn't absolve him of.)
The roof is cold under him and his legs are heavy as they hang off the ledge. A taxi pulls up down the street, cajoling drunks into the warm and cigarette-stained interior. Even from up here, the scent of menthols and cotton candy vape clouds churn his stomach. Beside him, Peter shivers like his molecules are trying to escape and he's tucked closer to Matt than he remembers him being.
Peter's fingers twitch when Matt offers a job, going back to rub at the humming metal on his wrists. "Can I think about it?"
"Of course." Matt wants to smile, but a thought still bothers him. A May Parker-shaped hole is missing from Peter's story. Karen had been right; the casualty from Spider-Man's fight with his rogues' gallery is important. A mother? A friend? In their first meeting, Peter had mentioned an aunt. His lip twists. "Peter, I know this won't be a question you'll want to answer. And if you don't, that's okay. But I don't want to just help Spider-Man, I want to help you. You need somebody in your corner. We both know it."
The air shifts around Peter's head as he nods. "Okay."
Heaving a sigh, he turns himself towards Peter. Matt blames it on the lawyer brain that urges him to ask this question. This isn't a cross-examination, he knows it isn't, but his ability to help hinges on knowing as much as he can. "What happened to May Parker?"
Peter's not-quite-right heartbeat ramps up and a burst of salt water puffs into the air.
"I-" he starts, voice cracking.
"Peter," Matt says softly, reaching out to touch his shoulder. Rubber scrapes against spandex as Peter jerks back. Peter scrambles backwards, heart thudding against his throat, and rolls to his feet.
"Who- who's May Parker?" Anxiety drips from every word. He's bouncing on the balls of his feet, body coiled and on the cusp of release like a spring in a broken mattress. Even phrased like a question, Matt hears the lie.
Pushing to his feet, Matt keeps his palms open and posture loose. He tries to approximate where Peter's face is and directs his focus there. "It's alright. Peter, you're alright."
"But she's not." His voice is barely a whisper and it's so tight all the words jumble together. "I- I'm sorry, Mr. Murdock. This was a mistake. I can't... I can't do this."
He reaches out a hand to catch Peter's wrist, his fingers falling through the empty air as Peter turns and leaps from the roof. His webs catch the next building, then the next, and then the next, leaving behind a cloud of salicylic acid and methanol. Although he takes a step forward to follow, Matt knows it'll be impossible to catch up. Sighing, he retrieves his discarded mask and heads toward the fire escape. As he resolves to stay out a little later, just in case Peter comes back, Matt prays he hasn't fucked things up for good.
"So, catch any spiders?" Karen asks the next morning, the air around her arm whistling as she manipulates her fingers.
Matt sighs, tucking his cane against the wall. "I don't know what you're trying to show me."
"She's wiggling her fingers to make a spider, Matty. It's pretty gruesome. I mean, the spider's missing three legs," Foggy says from the kitchenette. He's sipping from a mug of what could either be coffee or hot charcoal.
"Oh, please," she scoffs, high heels tapping across the open space. Papers slide against the wood of her desk. "I got a breakthrough last night on our newest, um, client. Had to do some digging, but it looks like Stark Industries had a claim on Spider-Man's business."
Frowning, Matt walks over to Karen's desk, reaching out a hand for the documents. His fingers run over the braille embossment.
(They'd had a deaf client a couple months back that had approached them about a discrimination lawsuit in their workplace, seething from her company's refusal to write information down or provide her with an interpreter over the span of several months. She'd been written up for yelling at co-workers and managers, despite the fact she couldn't hear her own voice and hadn't been allowed to communicate through text. While Matt and Foggy are defense attorneys first and foremost, they've always welcomed clients with civil suits. After the success of the lawsuit, the client had surprised them with a braille printer for the office. She'd said she hoped it would be useful. It had been.)
"That's not all that surprising," Matt says. "He's been endorsed by Tony Stark."
"Was endorsed by Stark," Karen replies, her fingers brushing against her hair. "Seems all connections were cut off about three months ago."
A sharp intake of breath from Foggy. "And then suddenly, Peter Parker."
In the past, Matt thinks he would have let them keep searching in the wrong direction. There's an urge to keep what Peter had confessed last night to himself- to bury the secrets close to his chest. But he's learned from then. The only way they'll trust him is if he trusts them back. (That's how it works, Matt, Foggy had said, drowning himself in his second pint as Josie's. You want to keep us safe? You gotta let us know what's going on.)
But he won't tell them Peter and Spider-Man are the same person. That's not his secret to tell.
He extends the papers back to Karen. "I caught a spider last night."
"What happened?" Foggy asks, pushing away from the kitchenette. The rancid coffee wafts closer.
"Well, Karen was right. Kind of. Peter did know me." He rubs a hand on the back of his neck sheepishly. Before they can explode in justifiable concern, Matt continues. "And he'd passed the message along to Spider-Man. Good news? He actually does want us on retainer. It wasn't about the Accords."
"Bad news?" Foggy bumps Matt's shoulder.
"He-" How the hell is he supposed to explain this? "He wanted to network."
The room grows so quiet Matt thinks he could hear a pin drop from across the street.
"I thought you said Spider-Man was G-rated. Like, Avengers grade," Foggy says, his hair swishing as he pivots towards Karen. Matt can only assume they're sharing a look. "Full offense, Matt? You're like, R-rated with a special warning for extreme violence. If you were both movies, kids would be trying to sneak into your movie stacked up in a trench coat while daycares go to see Spider-Man."
He can't shake off a smirk. "Thanks, Fogs."
"But what about Peter?" Karen says, her hand back near her face. Her nails scratch against her hair as she twists a strand around her finger. "If he already knew about Daredevil, why would he bother coming in here first? Why would he even be a part of this if Spider-Man was just going to run into you anyways?"
"I don't think he knew then. You said Peter seemed to recognize me when he first came in. It's possible he's been in the gallery at one of our trials. I don't know. But Spider-Man said Peter did some research after he came here. Took some leaps, made some guesses."
"Damn good guesses." Foggy taps a finger against his mug. A curl of doubt rises from him like steam from his coffee.
Matt nods, a small laugh escaping him. "Yeah. But I talked to him. And... and I think it has to do with May Parker."
"The nurse from that apartment attack?" Karen asks, rounding her desk to open her laptop. "Maybe Spider-Man saved him and now he feels, what, obligated to help him out? Spider-Man's endorsed FEAST, right?"
"To my knowledge," Matt concedes.
"Maybe that's the next lead? Because I'll be honest with you guys, even if Peter's not a bad kid, he's still a kid. And if he needs our help-"
"We might be the only ones who can." He sighs. It's not a fun thought. Two co-dependent lawyers and an investigative journalist with a nose for trouble? They're not exactly the best choices for support.
The three of them stand around for a long, awkward moment. In classic Foggy fashion, it's his best friend that breaks the tension. "So, swapping out drinks at Josie's for a soup kitchen in Queens? Sounds like fun. I'll get us matching aprons and we can offer our serving expertise."
Matt chuckles, reaching up to adjust his glasses. "You're not tricking me again."
"Oh, come on! You loved the matching Kiss me, I'm Irish sweaters! Think about the possibilities if we match aprons next."
"Sorry, you did what?" Karen asks, voice muffled as she suppresses a giggle.
"Columbia. Foggy gave me a sweater for Christmas and said he got a matching one. Didn't bother to tell me I was a walking stereotype." Matt grins, patting Foggy's shoulder as he retreats to his office.
"What Matty's forgetting to tell you is that he loved it," Foggy adds, ducking his head conspiratorially towards Karen's.
"No proof of that, Counselor," he replies before shutting his door.
He's got a lot of paperwork to do before he can learn more about May Parker.
The FEAST shelter and soup kitchen is bursting with so many smells it's disorienting. Matt clings to Foggy's arm after they've exited the cab, tapping his cane along the road. Karen follows alongside. There's a group of people outside, a heady blend of body odour, trash, and perfumes. Shaking hands pass around cigarettes and flick at lighters. People hack, coughing up wads of phlegm that reek of sweet infection, and snore under lumps of nylon. Underneath it all, there are sweet potatoes and roast chicken coming from inside. The meal of the day.
There's a lot of input to take in. Hell's Kitchen has its own special brand of noises and smells that Matt's grown used to over the years. In Queens? He needs a little more time to map the place out. He tightens his grip on Foggy.
They're well-dressed enough that they're drawing attention. Curious onlookers turn their heads as they walk up to the entrance.
Inside, the smells and noises are muted. A rush of warm air rolls over them as they cross the threshold. Foggy flags down the nearest volunteer.
"Hi," he says, a smile in his voice. "I'm Foggy. This is Matt and Karen. Do you have a minute to talk?"
"Cynthia," the volunteer, an older woman with a tired edge to her voice, says. "And unless you're here to help, I don't got time."
"We'll make it quick," Matt says, drawing his cane against his chest. He pulls a business card from his jacket and extends it out for Cynthia to take. "We own a law firm in Hell's Kitchen and recently had a client come in for legal help. We're looking for potential character witnesses and he mentioned May Parker. Our client said she volunteered here. As we've had some trouble contacting her, we thought it'd be helpful to come down and meet her in person."
Cynthia's heart quickens and her jaw quivers. The card shakes between her fingers. "Well, I'm sorry to be the bearer of bad news, but May died in December. Terrible accident. It's not been the same without her here."
Matt pinches his brow in sympathy. "Oh, I'm sorry to hear that. Did she have any next of kin that volunteered here? Our client had suggested there might be."
"No, none that I'm aware of. Her husband died about four years before the Blip. Never had children. Her brother and sister-in law died a long time ago. I could have sworn they had a son, but I'm not sure what happened to him. I don't think she ever mentioned a nephew." A note of confusion tinges her voice, hazy and far-away. Like she's trying to remember a dream she'd once had. At his sides, Karen and Foggy seem to catch it. Their shoulders stiffen. Cynthia's back straightens and the haze is gone. "Sorry I can't be of more help. I hope you can find somebody for your client."
Smiling, Matt nods. "Not a problem. Our condolences about Ms. Parker."
They chat for a few more minutes, but Matt's mind has already drifted away. Though Matt doesn't know much about magic, he knows nothing is infallible. Doctor Strange's spell can't be 100% concrete. There had been an echo there, of a time when the world had known Peter Parker. He'd been a nephew. May Parker's nephew. And May Parker had died in an attack against Spider-Man.
May Parker had died because of Spider-Man.