Growing up as a city kid, Peter had always figured that it's impossible to see the stars in Queens. Hell, he'd believed that it had been impossible to see the stars from anywhere in New York City, save for the corners of Staten Island or from a perch at the height of the Brooklyn Bridge, until the day of the Incident.
(The sky had cracked in half above Avengers Tower and exposed a jagged scar overflowing with Chitauri and cosmic energy. Aunt May had grabbed him by the collar, hoisting Peter into her arms like he hadn't been almost eleven years old and far too big to be carried. Huddled in the cement laundry room of their apartment building, Peter had thought of the stars- bright and glittering- in the chasm far above, Aunt May's murmured prayer hitting his ear in shaky puffs. Into His hand I entrust my spirit, when I sleep and when I wake. And with my soul, my body too, the Lord is with me, I shall not fear.
He and May had never been religious; that had been Uncle Ben's faith. But he hadn't been there to pray for them, so May had prayed for him.
A plea for Uncle Ben, somewhere in Midtown for work that day, while they'd waited for death or salvation to come. Heroes had won that day. No blood had yet stained Peter's hands.)
There's another place he can see the stars now. The end of Hunter's Point, right where Peter's apartment building looms over the East River. It's nice. A new place to get away from it all, when the world and his stuffy apartment becomes too much. It isn't like he can go back to the roof of Midtown High anymore. He's up there an hour after Matt finally calls, his low voice loose with relief, and scratching at the stiff fabric of his Spider-Man suit. He'd found it hanging in the shower, wrinkled and devoid of the tell-tale trickle of pink water. No copper scent had hung in the air. Mentally, he'd filed it under the growing Things to thank Matt for list in his head, and let it hang until he'd worked up the nerve to leave the apartment.
(He hadn't found that nerve until his phone had started vibrating on the coffee table.)
His mask is a crumpled bundle in his hands. It had taken some stealth to sneak back to the tenement building, hiding his face inside a still-damp hoodie from his backpack, but he'd found his mask in a puddle, the dry edges fluttering like candy wrappers in the breeze. Resting his chin on a propped-up knee, Peter watches the stars. Far in the distance, there are sirens. There are always sirens in Queens. After the spider bite, he'd been able to hear them from streets away. His hands tighten into fists. Technically, he hadn't promised Matt that he'd take the night off. Matt had advised it, but Peter hadn't exactly... verbally agreed. Surely his lawyer would know all about loopholes like that. But Matt had given him refuge- soft clothes, food, and someone to listen- and spoken like a man who'd understood the weight of what he was asking. And Daredevil would know.
You're allowed to rest.
But is he allowed? Can he afford to? Somewhere in his city, Ned and MJ are at home or work or wherever they'd be on a Wednesday night. But they could be out, walking the streets and talking about Mr. Harrington's final project, and somebody could mug them. Pull a knife and decide that a better payment than some wallets are his best friends' lives. Somebody could hurt them and it'd be Peter's fault for letting his guard down. Even if he can't be a part of their lives anymore, he has a responsibility to keep them safe. He has a responsibility to be Spider-Man.
(He knows that better than ever now. In her final moments, Aunt May had made sure he knew that.
That's not my responsibility, May.
She'd shaken her head, clutching his arms as they stumbled over crumbling concrete.
You have a gift. You have a power. And with great power comes great responsibility. Aunt May had held him as tight as the day of the Incident, but her grip had weakened and weakened until she couldn't even hold herself up. Kneeling among the wreckage of Happy's apartment complex, men with guns threatening to open fire and Jameson's cameras pointed right at him, Peter had told her she'd be okay. Even with her blood on his hands, he'd promised and blinked back tears so his last memories of her alive wouldn't be blurry. I just need to catch my breath.)
He also has a responsibility to be Peter Parker now.
And maybe the first steps to being Peter again can be found in Hell's Kitchen at a rinky-dink law firm. Maybe the way forward is alongside a vigilante with his own share of heartache and regrets- a superhero who's somehow discovered the impossible balance between two different lives. (Not a superhero. Superheroes save the world from alien invasions and celebrate their victories with adoration from the public and memorials. Vigilantes protect the streets post-invasion and celebrate their victories by bleeding out in their apartments and hiding behind a mask. So, no. Matt's not a superhero. And frankly, Peter isn't one either.)
Tomorrow, he'll take the first step forward. But tonight? Tonight he sits on the roof of his apartment building, crushing his mask between his hands, and watches the stars. And if tears run down his face, blurring the night sky into finger-paint smudges? That's nobody's business but his own.
The subway sucks. It's slower than swinging, costs a whole two dollars, and there's a man in the center of his train car singing opera with an outstretched hat. Peter keeps his gaze carefully focused on the window to his right, watching the tunnel bricks age and sag as the train zips past Bryant Park and through the Garment District. The man's bald head reflects the flickering subway lights, bouncing off the window and into Peter's eyes. The band of light trembles as the man bobs his head like a bird to leap between high notes and low notes. Peter closes his eyes. Nine in the morning is too early for this many Figaros.
The Spider-Man suit sits folded in the bottom of his backpack. He could have swung here. But it's a waste of web fluid and too out-of-character for Spider-Man to be seen outside of Queens twice in the same week. He kind of wishes he'd done it anyways, if only to escape the busker that's slowly inching his way towards Peter, shaking his hat. When the train finally reaches his stop, Peter ducks under the man with a little-more-than necessary flexibility and pushes through the sparse crowds to escape New York's underbelly.
At least this time, he has a small canister of deodorant to mask the stench of stale sweat and breakfast burritos. Matt should thank him.
On the street, Peter tugs at his shirt, pulling the collar of his only nice button-down to rest over his grey pullover. The edges of his sweater are a little moth-eaten, frayed at the wrists and too loose, but it had been three dollars at a local thrift store. A fucking robbery for Merino wool. It's the nicest sweater he owns.
He stops outside of the office building. It stands tall and defiant, like all the buildings in Hell's Kitchen, and all but looms over him. He props his chin up. The windows stare back like a game of chicken. Last chance to back out. Matt can probably hear him from here, setting up his laptop or chatting with his friends, while Peter stands outside bouncing on the balls of his feet. Matt, who knows him better than anyone in the world, and won't judge him if Peter backs out now.
He sucks in a breath and walks inside.
The stairs creak as he climbs to the second floor, telegraphing his every step. He's steeled himself enough for this. His hand pauses on the doorknob, debating whether or not he's supposed to knock, and twists. Miss Page- Karen- glances up from her laptop and closes a notebook as Peter lets himself inside the office. She smiles. "Hi, Peter. Good to see you again."
"Um, hi." He glances around the sparse office, breathing in the scent of old wood and lemon oil. Matt's office door is closed. "Is Matt- sorry, that's kind of rude to ask first thing, isn't it? I mean, it's great to see you again, Miss Page, and I really appreciate being here, so, uh, sorry. Maybe I shouldn't ask where Matt is the second I show up. I guess I'm just a little nervous?"
Karen's smile reaches her eyes, crinkling around the edges. Pen in hand, she gestures to the coat hook behind Peter. A red jacket hangs loosely over it. "Matt and Foggy are in a meeting right now. You're stuck with me."
"Well, maybe that's a plus," Peter tries to joke, pulling on his backpack strap.
"Maybe," Karen says, leaning back in her chair. Under her careful gaze, Peter can tell why she'd choose to split her time between here and the Bulletin. With barely a word, it feels like she's picking him apart. She straightens. "Why don't you grab a chair and we can finish up some paperwork?"
Spinning in a circle, Peter settles on one of the waiting room chairs- a dark fabric chair with a scraped mesh back- and hoists it over his arm. When he tries to set it down across from Karen, she shakes her head and taps on the short side of the desk. "So you can see what I'm doing."
His eyes slide over the open laptop and to the closed notebook on her left. It's nothing special, just a spiral book small enough to fit in a jacket pocket, but it sparks the memory of being fourteen and deciding to be a superhero. Of taking his school notebook and filling it with pages upon pages of suit designs and formulas for web fluid. (It's gone now, discarded like ashes in a spent fire sometime during the Blip.)
"Peter?"
He blinks. How long has she been talking? "Oh! Sorry."
"I'll just need you to look over some forms for me," she says, tilting her laptop towards him. She tucks a stray strand of hair behind her ear. "You can sign off on us using your client information so we don't have to go through all the same paperwork from before, and then there's the employment contract. Don't worry about signing it today if you need to take it home to read."
Nodding, Peter leans over to read.
They chat as they review the paperwork. It's standard stuff, really. Nothing he hadn't had to sign for the Stark Internship (and a lot less than he had to sign for that internship too). Karen tells him about some of the articles she's written for the New York Bulletin after Peter asks about the photo of her, Foggy, and Matt on her desk, where they pose proudly after winning a major court battle, and Peter tells her about his photography for the Daily Bugle. When she makes a face, Peter's quick to add that it's more about paying the bills than agreeing with Jameson.
"He's like a tabloidist," Karen says, scrolling over another document for Peter to review. "The kind that's still obsessed with the whole 'if it bleeds, it leads' way of reporting."
Peter grimaces. "It must be worth something if he's still in business."
"Times Square rap artists still sell their music to tourists. Take a listen to one and tell me if it's worth anything."
He laughs. It's quiet and dies quickly, but it lifts a weight off his chest. His next breath comes easier, his shoulders finally relax, and while the comment hadn't been all that funny, laughter these last few months has been in short supply.
Checking her watch, Karen sighs around her smile. "Damn, too early to call lunch. I could use a coffee."
Peter glances at the kitchenette.
Following his gaze, she leans back in her chair and laughs. It's as pretty as windchimes. "I've filled my quota for using the coffee maker this week. Matt thinks I burn it."
"Oh, maybe I could-? I could make a pot," Peter says, pushing to his feet. "Part of office management, right? 'sides, I've got a pretty good nose. Maybe I'll catch it before it's too far gone."
She waves a hand. "I think it's just the pot. But, sure, that'd be great."
Tucked next to the fridge, there's a curled bag of Vietnamese coffee beans and a can of Folgers. His hand hovers over the red drum just long enough to hear the phantom scoff of MJ over his shoulder. Right. She'd remember him just long enough to tell him off for even touching the stuff. He scoops the Vietnamese coffee, indulging in the calm tapping of Karen's fingers on her laptop and the low timber of Matt's and Foggy's voices behind the closed office door.
He's careful with the pot, not wanting to mess up on something this easy, and pulls the coffee off the burner the second the maker chimes.
"Milk or sugar?" Peter asks, searching through the overhead cupboards for mugs.
"Milk, please. In the fridge," Karen says, her voice faraway. She's leaning close enough to her laptop screen for her nose to touch the glass. Matt's office door opens just as the first drop of milk swirls into the black.
"Thanks for coming down, Miss O'Breen," Foggy says, shaking the hand of a young, freckled redhead. Her eyes are rimmed red, but she offers a watery smile. "Call us anytime, okay? We'll get you through this."
Peter glances away from the scene, two mugs held tight to his chest, and shifts from foot to foot. Miss O'Breen shakes Matt's hand, wipes at her eyes, and scurries out the door. The moment the door clicks shut, Foggy's attention is on him.
"Um, hi," Peter says, raising a mug in greeting. "Hi, Matt. Nice to see you again, Mr. Nelson."
Two voices overlap: a "Hi, Peter," and an "Oh, God, don't call me Mr. Nelson," reply in disharmony. Foggy picks up the tail end of the false duet with an added, "Mr. Nelson makes me feel ancient. Foggy's fine. Is that fresh coffee?"
Nodding his head, Peter steps to the side. He places Karen's cup into her expectant hands. Behind him, Foggy makes a note of surprise.
"Hey, Matt. You might be able to drink this stuff."
Karen buries her scoff in her cup.
Setting his cane back against the wall, Matt walks to the kitchenette, running his hand over the counter until his fingers hit an empty mug. With some minor direction from Foggy, he fills the mug and takes a sip. Peter's not sure why, but his breath is caught in his throat. Matt smiles and nods towards Peter. "Already better than Karen's."
Peter's lip twitches. He rubs the back of his neck. "I can probably do better. MJ liked to tell me that there's a lot more to making coffee than just pressing a button, you know?"
"Who's MJ?" Foggy asks conversationally. Peter freezes, the sensation of falling dragging his limbs down, down, down to a place where he'd failed to catch her. Where he'd failed to do anything right.
(You don't deserve this," he'd said, face scuffed and heart aching, I ruined your life.
Hey. MJ had taken his face between her hands. She'd made him look her dead in the eyes- made him see how much love she'd held for him. There'd been a recognition in those eyes that had been lost in the aftermath of Doctor Strange's spell. Look at me. I'm here.)
Matt cocks his head, no doubt concerned at the sudden uptick in Peter's heart and the grip that's tightened around the ceramic mug. Peter shakes his head. He swallows it down. "Just... someone I used to know."
One of the first things Peter learns about his new boss is that he's great with social cues. Foggy nods, takes another sip, and jumps into a story about the espresso machine at his old job. "It was godly, I swear. You wanted a latte?" He snaps his fingers. "Like that. Now I'm back here with a fifteen dollar machine and a partner that treats his work schedule like a suggestion."
Grinning, Matt takes a long pull from his mug. "You want a better coffee maker? Why don't you ask Marci to sneak the machine out of your old firm?"
"As if. She'd sooner feed me to the sharks than steal from that cushy job."
Matt raises an eyebrow. "There are sharks in New York?"
Heart settling back into an easier rhythm, Peter blows ripples across the surface of his coffee. Waves crash against the ceramic shore. "There's like fifteen species of shark at the New York Aquarium in Brooklyn."
Foggy points to Peter, face mock-stern. "And she'd feed me to every one of them. Chum in the water. Since I like being in one piece, I guess I'm stuck up shit creek without an espresso machine." Blowing away the steam curling at the lip of his cup, Foggy adds, "Still, we'll probably add coffee making to your office duties if you take over for Karen. She give you any trouble?"
"Oh! No, uh, no trouble." He rubs the nape of his neck, curling his fingers in his hair. He really needs a haircut. It's starting to make the Spider-Man mask look funny. "I really appreciate this."
Foggy's smile softens. "You're doing us a favour. From what I remember of our last meeting, you'll be a great fit here."
(And doesn't that sound too good to be true.)
"While you're here," Karen says, straightening in her office chair. "I can show you a lot of the work you'll be doing. I won't be here Monday to help out."
"Monday?" Peter asks, his gaze jumping between the three smiling adults.
"Your first day." Matt puts his hand out. "If you want it."
He shakes Matt's hand. His voice comes out at the tail end of a breath he'd long forgotten about, a tension uncurling low in his gut. "Yes! I mean, yeah, that'd be amazing. Monday."
Spider-Man's first night with Daredevil happens Saturday.
They meet on the rooftop of a Chinese restaurant in Hell's Kitchen, surrounded by the scent of fried dough, garlic, and unfiltered cigarettes from line cooks on break in the alley below. He gets there first, about an hour before they'd agreed to meet, his nerves bubbling too close to the surface to stay trapped inside his shitty apartment, surrounded by webs of laundry lines that make the place smell like ocean breeze and old wood. He hadn't taken Matt's advice for an extra night off, spending most of his Friday and a solid chunk of his Saturday out on the streets just a few miles from his old home.
One benefit, he supposes, of the world forgetting Peter Parker, is that it had messed up the Mysterio tapes. He isn't remembered as the vigilante that bombed London, or the one who'd killed Mysterio, and it means that nobody hurls bricks through his window or coats his Spider suit in neon green paint. New Yorkers and tourists wave and shout in varying degrees, asking for photos or help moving a couch. He'd tried his best to stick to petty crime until his meetup with Daredevil. Nothing that would lead to a fist being raised.
Nothing that could end in a hole through someone's chest.
Peter perches on the edge of the restaurant, scanning the streets for reasons to jump into action. The line cooks on the street below fill his head with Cantonese he can't understand and makes it difficult to listen for the telltale sounds of danger. He'd depended on Karen, his old AI, for updates to police feeds, signs of disturbances, and a steady stream of Ned's text messages to keep him awake on patrol. Now, there's no AI in his suit; there's no nanotech to protect him like a suit of armour. It's just polyester, spandex, and a whole lot of blue thread. It's up to him to pay attention.
Which, apparently, he still can't do. Peter's Spider sense doesn't care to warn him until Matt's already breathing down his neck.
He leaps a good two feet, heart skittering like a jackrabbit, and spins towards Matt. "Oh, hey!"
Matt tilts his head, face half-covered by his cowl. "You didn't hear me coming."
A wave of heat burns through Peter's chest. He can feel his cheeks grow hot. He's disappointed Matt already, hasn't he? He has the senses for it. Peter can hear a fly buzzing down a busy hallway, but couldn't track a ninja in a devil costume. Peter shakes his head. "Sorry."
"That's just a compliment for me," Matt says, lip twisting upwards. He jerks his head to the side. "Come on."
"Can you hear something?" Peter asks, chasing after Matt (who's already taken off at a sprint like a parkouring maniac). He flicks his webs out for the first few buildings, catching his footing on unfamiliar rooftops, and nearly eats pavement twice before he stops throwing out his wrists. Cars honk, their headlights speckling the streets below like stars in an inverted sky, and laundry lines flutter in the wind. Matt's fast. Unfairly fast. Peter has to start making use of his barbed fingertips to stick to fire escapes to avoid tumbling all the way down.
They pause for a moment near the Irish Arts Center on the corner of West 51st and 11th. Matt shakes his head. "Not tonight."
"What? Matt, people need us."
"And if I hear someone we'll go," Matt concedes. "But there's something we have to do."
They approach a half-built warehouse near the docks, crumbling and forgotten, and Matt drops down to the road just long to shove his way inside. Rats skitter across the floors, their pattering steps amplified by the vast, empty space. There's evidence of people taking shelter here. A sloppily-rolled sleeping bag and a dented cardboard box rest in a corner where the ceiling has yet to crack, but there's no sounds of human life aside from his and Matt's breathing.
"What is this place?" Peter asks, spinning around on his heels as he follows Matt through the building, marveling at cement walls covered in cosmic-blue spray-paint. There's a mural of the sky cracking open over Stark Tower, splattered stars peering through the ugly tear in the sky's fabric, and the edges of the paint are tinged red like blood.
In a stenciled-scrawl, black against a startling blue, the mural asks one question: Where did you go?
"Part of Fisk's Better Tomorrow act. Was supposed to be a grocery store people could actually afford to shop at. After Fisk went to prison for the first time, it was abandoned." Matt beckons Peter up a set of rusted metal stairs. The iron filings have chipped away over time, dying the staircase in patches of sunset orange. "He could have made a difference if he hadn't been a monster."
The ascent is quiet after that. There's venom in his words, a darkness that threatens to leech out of every pore. The horns on Matt's helmet suddenly look sharp enough to hurt. The darkness passes by the time they've reached the second floor.
"Why are we here?" Peter scans the empty floor, clocking crushed beer cans, grocery bags, and tagged pillars littering the space.
Matt walks up to one of the pillars, pulling off a glove and placing his palm flat against the cement. "We need to know how hard you can hit."
Dread trickles down Peter's spine like he's been shoved under a cold shower. His throat tightens. There's a phantom pressure on his fists, the sensation of bone breaking through viscera as he'd thrown a grown man backwards, his head suffused with static. He shakes his head. Hard. "No. No, no, I can't. I can hold back. I've always held back."
"Spider-Man." Matt cocks his head. The name sounds unnatural coming from Matt's mouth. Everyone knows Spider-Man. But so few people know Peter. "You almost killed someone."
"You- you said he'd be okay. And," he swallows, his tongue twisting over excuses, "you- he- he was hurting someone. I was just stopping a crime."
"Peter." The name echoes off the barren walls. Outside, the wind rattles loose-fitting window panes. Something red-hot and furious begins to burn low in his stomach. Matt should understand. He'd promised to help. How can this help? How can reminding Peter of what he's done, forcing him to confront his own strength, do anything but make things worse? He's strong. He's too strong. Why does Matt need to know for himself? It's not fair. It's not fair.
There's a hand on his shoulder. His Spider sense fails him again.
"Hey," Matt starts again. His expression is deadly serious. "Hiding won't help us. Zachary Rogers might have been a criminal, but what you did to him wasn't right. You know that. All him being a criminal means is that he's unlikely to press charges. It doesn't matter what he did. It wouldn't have been your place to kill him."
He wants to snap an angry retort, tell Matt that it's been a huge mistake messing up both their lives, but the words die on his lips. Peter's selfish. (But he's not. Not as much as his heart wants him to believe.) He wants to catch any shred of hope he can find and bury it under his chest. His voice is weak. "It was an accident."
A squeeze to his shoulder. "I know. That's why we have to make sure it doesn't happen again. Make a fist."
He does. Peter raises his clenched fist for inspection, letting Matt run his fingers along the coiled muscles and adjusting his thumb so it's tucked properly. Taking a step back, Matt taps the pillar beside him.
"It's not a support beam," he assures. "You said you were strong, right? Hit it as hard as you can."
"What if I break my hand?" Peter can't help but ask. Broken fingers are a bitch to set right.
Matt smirks. "I think you might have said something about accelerated healing?"
For a second, Peter misses the ever-expressive eyes of his StarkTech Spider suit. Even if the shocked white eyes would have been lost on Daredevil, it still would have felt more impactful than the scrape of spandex when he raises his eyebrows. He mutters under his breath, angling his stance to point towards the pillar. Bouncing on the balls of his feet, he pulls back his arm. His fist barely makes it past his head before he falters.
"I can't."
Matt's expression is unmoving. "You can. You can't always pull your punches."
"Maybe I could."
"You're going to depend on that?" he asks, folding his arms across his chest. "It takes a second to lose control. A second to get angry. If you don't know how hard you can hit, you won't know how much a person can take. The next time you get angry- and there will be a next time- you'll kill someone."
The simmering heat in Peter's gut begins to rise. Is this what networking is? Daredevil telling him off in a gruff voice, no more of a friend than Mysterio had been to Peter? Peter grits his teeth. His fist stays clenched. "Stop."
He keeps going. "Is that what you want to happen? You want to ignore your abilities until they control you? It's your strength, Peter. You have to know what it feels like."
Peter shakes his head. "I don't. I don't."
"You do. Because if you don't, the next punch you throw will be the one that kills."
(Osborn's there, in the ash and ruin of Happy's apartment. Fear makes his heart tremble. And then he's at the Statue of Liberty. He's throwing punch after punch, still holding back, a scream curled tightly in his throat, waiting to shriek its way into the world. Osborn's there and he's laughing.
She was there because of you. I may have struck the blow, but you? You are the one that killed her.)
Peter's fist explodes through the concrete.
The rage sinks to the floor, escaping through his feet, leaving Peter cold and shaking. His chest heaves. Bile scorches his throat, but climbs no further.
Matt's quiet. He places a hand on the smashed pillar, scraping his fingers along the hole left by Peter's fist. His voice is soft. "Did you break all the way through?"
"Yeah," he gasps, shaking out his hand. It barely hurts. Dust flies around his feet. "Sorry."
"Don't be. Just means we need to try something bigger." He pauses. "If that was too much, I'm sorry. I needed you to get angry."
"Otherwise I'd hold back," Peter finishes. He looks down at his hands. The red fabric is coated in a fine layer of dust. He nods to himself. "It's cool. Just... maybe not again?"
Nodding, Matt pulls his glove back on. "Never again. Think you're up for hitting something bigger?"
"I think so."
A rare smile pokes out from under the Daredevil facade. "Then let's go."
By the time Matt hears someone in need of their help, working with Daredevil has become as easy as shooting a web.
The first day as Nelson, Murdock and Page's new office manager is surprisingly hectic.
The phone doesn't stop ringing until mid-morning with potential clients asking about everything from office hours to what kind of fruit they'd like best in a thank-you pie. He taps away at the computer, thanking his 3rd grade teacher for taking the time to teach all of her students typing. (It's a lost art in the days of nanotech and holograms.) The Wi-Fi cuts out almost once an hour, giving him spontaneous five minute breaks that remind him to straighten his back and flex his wrists. Matt and Foggy take clients in one office and then the next, pausing to ask how Peter's doing as they duck into the kitchenette to pour fresh cups of coffee.
"It's good! Busy," Peter replies, hoping it's the right answer. Matt smiles.
"You caught us on an off day. I promise it'll be nothing but case research by tomorrow."
Foggy groans. "You love that stuff, you nerd. Luke Skywalker never defeated the Empire by citing Miranda v. Arizona."
Matt raises an eyebrow, leaning back on the kitchenette counter. "Wouldn't wartime laws apply to Star Wars? I don't remember there being any police that could have read him his rights."
"Would American law even count?" Peter asks, trying not to shrink when the two direct their focus to him. "I mean, it's a galaxy far, far away, after all."
Pulling a face of mock-consideration, Foggy nods thoughtfully. "You like Star Wars?"
Peter's mind flits to the Emperor Palpatine lego figure on his desk at home. "Yeah. Made a Lego Death Star with my friend once."
"Oh, every nerd's dream," Foggy sighs, taking a sip of coffee. "I still can't get Matt to build one with me."
"Well, I'm not sure how much help I'd be," Matt says, sporting a shit-eating grin. He nods towards Foggy's office. "We'll leave you to it, Pete. You're doing great."
They disappear into Foggy's office and the world's quiet again. Across the hall, he can hear a new client knock on the chiropractor's door. Thinking of Matt's super hearing, he can't help but wince in sympathy. It's going to be a crackly afternoon.
He picks the next call up on the first ring. "Nelson, Murdock and Page, Attorneys at Law and Investigative Services."
Humming into the phone, Peter reschedules appointments, making easy conversation as he does so. It's nice to empty his brain of everything but the job at hand. He wishes the client a great day, settling the phone back on its cradle before leaning back in his (Karen's) chair. He's not sure if it's really his job, but he's been spending the better part of his time between calls figuring out the best way to restructure the firm's terrible finances spreadsheet. The more he looks it over, the more he's convinced that none of them have taken a math class since high school. More than that, he can tell they barely have the money to pay Peter's promised salary.
Although he wants to let it bother him, he figures he'll feel better if he can just hunt down the root of their bad financials. (Part of it is the firm's policy of taking on pro bono work and willingness to accept alternative forms of payment. Most notably, food. But there are some payment plans from past clients that he can follow up on, at least.)
While most of their issues seem to come just from poor bookkeeping, Peter finally finds his worst enemy: a misplaced zero.
By the time Matt and Foggy say goodbye to Mr. O'Hara, their latest client, Peter's all but bouncing in his seat. Maybe it's silly to be pleased with something as innocuous as finances. But still, it feels like maybe he's doing something good. Something that Spider-Man couldn't have done. (A reason for Peter Parker to exist.)
"You want to say something," Matt says nonchalantly.
"How can you tell?" Peter asks, half-curious.
"People's, uh, breath tends to catch before they speak. Yours keeps hitching and then kind of," he flutters his hand to demonstrate, "dies off."
"Still weird," Foggy adds, tossing a baseball up and down. He paces the office, under the guise of stretching his legs. His footsteps make the floorboards creak. "What's up? Did you want to say you're absolutely in love with office management? Because, you know, I was picking up that vibe."
Peter's lip curls in a tentative smile. "Actually, I wanted to say that I, um, reorganized your finances? Sorry, the spreadsheet was driving me crazy. I saved a back-up copy if I wasn't supposed to do that."
Foggy eyebrows knit together. "Sorry, you did what?"
His shoulders tense. "Good news? You can officially afford to pay me now."
There's a moment of pause. Matt's first to break the silence, huffing a laugh that makes his face light up. He leans over to nudge Foggy's shoulder. "Told you we'd find the money."
"Oh, are you adding psychic to your list of quirks? Or are you just one lucky bastard?" Foggy turns to Peter, expression faintly bemused. "Can you forward me the spreadsheet? If you've actually made money out of nothing I might have to swap out Matt's name for yours on our sign."
"I think we might get a discount on the next plaque," Matt says. "Since we have a tendency to throw ours away."
"Oh, come on. That was, like, two times!"
Later, when Foggy's reviewed the spreadsheet, he leaves in silence only to return an hour later with the best doughnuts Peter's ever had. All in all, it's more than a fair trade. As he sinks his teeth into soft, maple bacon-coated pastry, he almost admits to himself that his luck might be turning around.
Almost.
Nights as Spider-Man begin to take two forms.
Since Daredevil doesn't leave Hell's Kitchen and Spider-Man still considers himself the protector of Queens, networking nights happen about three times a week. Although Peter's decently adept at fighting, Matt still teaches the basics and then some. Just enough that if Peter's webshooters fail, he won't panic at close range. On nights with Daredevil, Peter follows Matt's lead, sprinting across rooftops and working to hone his senses as they fight their way through the unsavoury characters of the Kitchen. The day after they're first spotted together, news stations have already picked it up.
(Jameson's assistant had even sent Peter an email requesting any and all photos of the two vigilantes. Double the pay if it showed Spider-Man being corrupted by Daredevil's extreme methods.)
Peter knows Daredevil is calmer on nights with Spider-Man. Less violent, more growly. It had already been surprising to the people on Hero Watchers that Daredevil would even let another vigilante into his city, let alone appear to be working alongside him.
On nights where Spider-Man is flying solo, the people of Queens don't seem to change too much. A couple more concerned faces than usual, but vendors still let him buy hotdogs if he asks politely, so it hasn't been an issue. To his people, he's just Spider-Man with a bit more edge. He'll still do a flip if someone asks him to. He can still perch on the edge of his apartment building without fear, and look up at the stars. He's still Spider-Man.
During a lull on one of his nights patrolling with Daredevil, Peter's mind can't help but drift to the world before. It never really leaves him, but in moments like these, where against all odds Peter feels safe, the memories hit him like blocks of asphalt.
"I think about it sometimes," Peter says, swinging his feet over the edge of the roof. He and Matt have perched on the old tenement building, listening to signs of trouble. Matt cocks his head.
"About what?"
"Going back to Midtown High. Going to MJ's work. Try to make them remember me." Far below, Peter can just make out a couple of drunks stumbling into a cab, all giggles and cheap hairspray. "I'd promised them I would."
Matt hums. "What's stopping you?"
It's not a hard question to answer. He's thought about it, over and over, turned the variables over in his mind, and cried himself to sleep as he'd held the truth tight in his fists. He can't hold back a shrug. "They're safe. I'd just put them in danger."
"Even if you didn't tell them about Spider-Man?"
"I couldn't do that," he admits, fidgeting with his web shooters. He keeps his gaze fixed on the street below and tries not to notice the burst of salt water on his tongue. "They'd have to know. Otherwise it'd be the same as being alone."
Hell's Kitchen is alive with sound. It all melds together: cars honking, people laughing, and staticky televisions playing the same telenovelas over and over and over again. This high up, the city is quieter, but never silent. He wonders if Matt's ever known silence since his accident. In his peripheral, Peter watches Matt pull off his helmet.
"Can I tell you something?" Matt asks.
Peter hates when people ask that. Of course he's going to say yes. But it's always a preface to something he doesn't want to hear. "Go for it."
"You can't have your old life back, Peter."
(And if that isn't a knife to the heart. He's known this for months, but to hear it fall from someone else's lips is heartbreaking. It makes the sentiment true. It's not just a nightmare he'll wake up from one day, soaked in cold sweat and tangled in his sheets. There's nothing to wake up from.)
"Yeah," Peter says, drawing one of his knees up to his chest. He props his chin on it.
"You could try," Matt continues, angling his face towards Peter. "But the world's changed and you've changed. So now, I think you have to make a choice."
Peter tears his eyes from the pavement. He sets his gaze on Matt's gentle expression. Even though Matt's a terrible hugger and the armour digs into his skin, Peter has to bite back to urge to tuck himself under Matt's arm. "Last time I made a choice I almost destroyed the multiverse."
Matt's lip quirks in a soft smile. "Stakes are a little lower here. Right now, you're living like a ghost. Trying to live two different lives. You told me you had a great responsibility, right?"
There's a lump in his throat. "Right."
"You either have a responsibility to try and get your old life back, or a responsibility to do something new. To be someone new. But you can only choose one." Matt closes his eyes and sighs, deep and bone-weary. "And there's no right answer here. You either died when that spell was cast or you chose to live. You have to decide. I'll help you, whatever you choose, but this? It's something you have to decide for yourself."
"I don't want to let them go."
"You don't have to. No matter what you choose, your love for them doesn't stop. It doesn't die with you."
MJ and Ned aren't gone forever. He knows they're there, even if he can't touch them without destruction. He loves them. He'll always love them.
And there's still so much Peter doesn't know about Matt. He doesn't know where Matt finds the words that falter before they've reached Peter's tongue, or how he puts up with the mess that Peter's become over these last four months. But he does know that Matt sought him out just as Peter had sought out Daredevil. He knows there's a future that Strange's spell didn't destroy.
Peter sucks in a breath and makes his choice.
He chooses to live.