Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

On Christmas Eve, Peter Parker, age 18, determined that his destiny was to be completely alone.

It didn’t feel like that wild of a conclusion. He lost his parents, and while obviously that was traumatic and probably worth unpacking more at some point, it was kind of okay. Well, it wasn’t, but he had been awfully young and it didn’t totally ruin his life.

But then Uncle Ben. That was rough. He didn’t often let himself think about Uncle Ben, and his gentle voice and good humor and love of baking, because frankly it was really hard to do that without freaking out. And it was one of the only topics that could make May burst into tears, no matter how well she had claimed to move on. Ben, though — a weird time in his life to be the middle school kid with no parents who had to explain to his teachers and friends that his uncle dying was actually a pretty big deal, thank you.

And then, some lonely years as Spider-Man, opening up to people just for them to die or forget him, and everyone else forgetting him, anyway. Goodbye to Mr. Stark and Aunt May, and Happy, and goodbye to Ned and MJ and even Flash fuckin’ Thompson.

Plus, thinks Peter, the other Peters did seem to corroborate this destiny. Peter Two seemed well adjusted enough, but the guy was like, middle aged and clearly pretty lonely and it took him like twenty years to figure stuff out with his MJ (how old was he, anyway? Like 30? 40? 50? Peter could never guess anyone’s age — the dude was solidly middle aged, and that was the point).

And Peter Three — well, Peter Three made Peter One kind of sad, because it seemed like maybe he was just Peter ten years from now. Different tragedies, same guy.

That’s confusing.

Peter leans into a stretch where he hands, upside down, from the outcropping of an art-deco office building in Midtown, five stories up. He’s in a costume, kind of, which is pretty itchy and doesn’t offer any actual protection from anything. And it’s not even that warm, which sucks because it’s starting to snow. Who knew that good fabric was so expensive?

He was immensely thankful that Aunt May had liked sewing, and that he could manage piecing together a suit well enough — but man, he wishes she could have helped with this one. The inner seams itch at his sides constantly.

The wail of sirens from Rockefeller had finally quieted down. Peter had missed the event of the night, swinging into the scene after the arrests had already started. The police scanners had been wild earlier, detailing a mafia event at the ice rink that allegedly involved Hawkeye and another archer. Clint and his friend had seemingly come out on top, though the scene was a mess.

Peter had never really gotten to know Clint. The fought on opposite sides at the airport, the same side against Thanos, and attended a funeral together. Peter hadn’t talked to him directly since.

He seemed nice enough for the member of the team who was famous for kind of just being a guy. That was Peter’s whole impression of Clint Barton, and he was pretty sure popular opinion, too. A kind (not nice, but allegedly kind) guy with a good skill who was generally pretty happy to be left out of all things “Avengers” since 2016.

As for not being nice, well: Peter always tried not to hurt anyone, and usually left criminals webbed up to suffer the consequences of their own actions with whomever it was they had wronged. The end result at Rockefeller Plaza, which admittedly had way more bad guys on one side than Peter had ever faces in the city, was pretty messed up. Trick arrows with explosions and gases and wires. Some of the guys were almost certainly dead.

Peter isn’t sure how he feels about that, and wishes desperately (again) that he had MJ or May or Ned around to talk through this kind of stuff with. Being a supposed hero is heavy. How’s he supposed to find his place in a world that looks like this?

And Peter once again circles back to his overwhelming Christmas Eve feeling: he is alone, and he is supposed to be. This is how it is now.

Peter can feel himself spiraling, and tries to pull it together. He webs to the top of the building, resting with his hands and feet on the surface to feel the vibrations of the city. He breathes in and out, learning the difference between this neighborhood and his old one.

Midtown is different than Queens. He went to school here, of course, but his home base for Spider-Man had pretty much always been Sunnyside. After the events at the Statue of Liberty, though, it was nearly impossible to find somewhere to live without things like, you know, an ID or a checking account (and how does anyone find an apartment even with proper ID and a real income, my God?). He had to take the first apartment offered to him.

It was a seedy studio way closer to Times Square than any “real” New Yorker would ever opt to live, with a fortunately placed fire escape that allowed him to come in and out via the window, not seen by the tourists, if he was careful. So that was cool.

Pretty much every single other thing about it is not cool, though. The shower gets maybe four minutes of hot water, the floor caves in five inches in the middle, and the stove is literally a camp grill that runs on propane cans, which Peter is expected to buy himself. It is absolutely not a legal unit —

— which is the only reason he could rent it. When he went back to the apartment the morning after everyone forgot, he cleaned out May’s stash of cash, his own piggybank of birthday money from years past, and everything else he could pack that wasn’t affected by the forgetting (which is a whole other story — who knew that a memory spell could adapt so well to the complexities of 2024?).

That amount hadn’t lasted very long. His very first priority was finding a place to sleep and stash his stuff, and his second a place to shower. Two weeks of patching together stints at his old high school, some nice churches, and a gym with a cheap membership ended with him answering a very seedy Craiglist ad about “no questions asked” housing. Peter handed over $3000 dollars to an old dude in a stained white tank top named Randy after signing a one page agreement to pay rent and not “fuck anything up.”

Peter stands and gives one last look around before heading home. Manhattan is quiet now that the Rockefeller situation is done. That makes sense. It’s a holiday. People want to with their families or watching It’s a Wonderful Life or something.

He hasn’t been webbing as much lately. The practical excuse is that it’s much more difficult now to break into the school and make web fluid when he needs to, but the other reason is mostly that webbing just kind of… bums him out? It used to be the best feeling in the world and now it’s hollow. He’ll do the old “leap and stick” to get home instead.

Peter carefully makes his way down the side of the building and into the back alley, avoiding the sightline of any windows that have a light on. He’s not terribly worried about being seen when he’s masked up, but he’d rather not make it super clear that Spider-Man is based around here now.

He stops short of ground level, making his way from fire escape to fire escape through back alleys and webbing only to get cross streets. No reason to be in a hurry, especially not when he’s not particularly fond of the home waiting for him. He’ll just take it easy, stick to the shadows, attempt not to be perceived.

And that’s of course when his Spider-Senses scream at him.

Peter feels his hair stand on end, and the rush of adrenaline that comes with a gut instinct. He drops immediately into a crouch on the fire escape he finds himself on, opting to listen and wait.

It’s just city sounds. A quiet night. There’s Christmas music from someone’s television. The alley is narrow, and the fire escapes are mostly cluttered with chairs and plants and kid’s toys. Peter can’t see anyone, but that doesn’t mean there’s no one there.

“Spider-Man?” says a clear voice from across the alley.

“Holy Shit,” says Peter, despite himself, hoping whoever just called out didn’t catch him jumping out of his skin.

Movement catches Peter’s eye. Down the alley, a figure moves slightly from their hiding place three floors up and two doors down from Peter’s own. They had been so still and quiet that Peter didn’t notice them earlier, which makes Peter think he’s losing his touch.

“What are you doing here?” says the voice, probably a man, as he stands up to his full height. He’s dressed in all black, including a cloth mask tied over the top half of his face. The guy is well-muscled, tall, and now that Peter is paying attention, smells like blood and sweat.

Oh, shit. No wonder his senses were trying to warn him.

“Daredevil?” asks Peter. “Hey, man, uh, sorry. I didn’t know you were back at it.”

The masked man stares (maybe? It’s not like Peter can see his eyes) at him, and Peter mentally takes stock of what he knows about the Devil of Hell’s Kitchen.

1. Daredevil was known for beating criminals to a bloody pulp.
2. Daredevil was only sometimes considered a hero, and not widely beloved outside of Hell’s Kitchen.
3. Daredevil had almost certainly been blipped, according to the Buzzfeed articles about blipped heroes and celebrities that Peter read to catch up.

Peter probably should have done some more research, like any at all, about what Daredevil was up to now before moving one neighborhood away from the vigilante. Everyone knows not to fuck with Daredevil. There was a reason Peter had never responded to police calls from Hell’s Kitchen before. But, competition from other vigilantes wasn’t exactly top of mind when Peter was looking for a place to live.

“What are you doing here?” asks Daredevil again, sounding both completely terrifying in tenor and confused in tone.

Peter slowly puts both hands up. “I, uh, live around here now. Kind of a long commute to go back to Queens for Spider-Man stuff all the time.”

Daredevil cocks his head, and from across the alley Peter can hear him breathing. They hold, well, not eye contact, but the masked equivalent for what seems like a long time.

“Okay, well, I can just get out of here, then,” offers Peter, gesturing vaguely in the direction of his apartment. “I might see you around, but I can leave Hell’s Kitchen alone. No problem.”

Still silent. Still Spider-Senses.

“We can even draw a line if you want,” says Peter, cursing his inability to stop talking. “Like Sharks and Jets. Totally don’t wanna mess with what you’ve got going here.”

Okay, time to go. His Spider-Senses were not going to chill unless he ran away or got confrontational, and he was not in a position to get confrontational with Daredevil.

“Cool, see you around, maybe,” says Peter, backing up slowly, and then using a web to launch himself at the third story roof and climb on top of it, easy.

Peter can hear the clattering of movement on the fire escape, and then Daredevil lands on the roof, ten feet behind him. No one really knew the hero’s whole deal, but to make the jump across the narrow alley wasn’t easy for anyone.

“Wait,” says Daredevil, slightly out of breath. The masked man puts his hands up, too, briefly, and takes a step backwards from Peter. “This is… Do I know you? Have we met?”

He didn’t sound scary at all, now. Just confused. Peter can’t help but let out a laugh.

“No,” he says curtly, “definitely not. I know that for a fact.”

“Why is that funny?” asked Daredevil.

“What?” asks Peter, hearing him fine but confused that that’s the question.

“You just laughed,” says Daredevil, like he’s talking to a child. “I don’t think it’s because you were lying. So I don’t understand what’s funny about that.”

“Is that your super power? Lie detecting? Cause that’s rad as hell,” says Peter, “a little freaky though.”

“One of them,” says Daredevil.

“Huh,” says Peter, thinking carefully about how to answer the question. What level of candid should one be with a fellow masked vigilante? Who is setting off one’s emergency alarms and is known for being dangerous?

“I know I haven’t met you like this,” says Peter carefully, gesturing to his costume, “with either of us in masks. And I know you haven’t met me otherwise, because no one has.”

“You’ve been around for years,” prompted Daredevil, “you must have people.”

“I’m not anyone when I’m not in the mask,” says Peter, opting for “mostly candid.” “I don’t know your whole deal outside of this, but I don’t have anything else. I don’t have friends, I don’t have a job. I just have Spider-Man. So between that and some sorcerer bullshit that I really can’t explain right now, I can absolutely promise to you that you’ve never met me in your life.”

“Everyone’s someone,” says Daredevil.

“Not me,” says Peter.

The two of them stay steady, and Peter’s senses finally slow down a little. There’s an understanding that comes with being a hero in a mask, one that Peter has never had the opportunity to experience before.

“Alright,” says Daredevil, finally. “Just… stay out of Hell’s Kitchen. Where’s your base?”

“I can’t just tell you that, man,” says Peter, “what if you tail me home?”

“What if you tail me home?” counters Daredevil. “I was here first. Tell me your radius and I’ll tell you if it needs to change.”

“I don’t know. One mile bubble around Times Square and anywhere outside of Hell’s Kitchen that has a major emergency. I’ll try to stick more East, though.”

Daredevil nods, seemingly satisfied with that answer.

“I can’t believe you moved from Sunnyside to Times Square,” says Daredevil, making a joke, much to Peter’s shock.

“Yeah. Yeah, me either,” agrees Peter. “The rental market, you know?”

“The rental market,” agrees Daredevil shaking his head. He’s being polite, but something is still off in the other man. It feels like he’s holding in a question. It’s enough discomfort for one night, Peter decides.

“Okay, well, it’s Christmas, and I’m going to go home now. Any plans?” asks Peter, kicking himself. 

“Are you asking to hang out?” says Daredevil incredulously.

“Absolutely not,” says Peter quickly, “I’m just uh, really out of practice with small talk. I’m so sorry.”

Daredevil has the audacity to sigh, and folds his arms, waiting.

“Do I need to count you off?” he asks. “Go home on three?”

“Nope, sorry, bye,” says Peter, taking one last look at Daredevil before pivoting and launching himself in the air toward home, webbing to get out of there as fast as he could.

He thinks maybe he could turn around and tail the other man, if he really wanted to, and quickly decides that would be the stupidest thing he could do since at least November. So instead, he makes his way home, not slowing down until he reaches his own fire escape.

He just met one of the most violent and unpredictable vigilantes in the country and it went kind of okay, Peter reflects, sliding in his window and tossing his mask on his bed. That’s a win for the day, right?

His loss for the day, however, was waiting for him in the form of his apartment being absolutely freezing. The heat must be out. Again. On Christmas. Peter’s not sure if that’s a building thing, or a “not paying the landlord enough money” thing, but it’s not great. He throws his blanket over his shoulders, and starts the propane stove to maybe make some mac and cheese before bed.

Peter starts Christmas music from his phone, and reaches to plug it in when he sees the battery —

And blows a fuse. With a phone charger.

Okay, sure. No problem. He can make do. He’s Spider-Man. What’s the cold to a friendly neighborhood Spider-Man? He can sneak into the high school in the morning to take a shower and warm up. No problem, no problem, no problem.

He eats his macaroni in bed, listening to Fairytale of New York, and thinking about what May would say if she saw him tearing up into his dinner under the blanket that Ben had knit so many years ago.

“Merry Christmas,” says Peter to no one but the mask on his pillow.

Chapter Text

Matt Murdock, age 35, determined that his destiny was to suffer.

It wasn’t the first time he had thought this, by any means, but it was the first time in a while he had thought it so pointedly. 

Admittedly, a lot of that had to do with money.

Yes, he was always the one that told Foggy they weren’t in it for the money, but he also had, for the last ten years, always had just enough. He didn’t need a great apartment, or a lot of entertainment — just his personal little luxuries. Nice sheets, a few good suits, the on-brand BandAids. And of course, the loft that was perfect for him and him alone.

That same loft was now occupied by two artsy 20-somethings, both of whom having moved in while Matt was away, which is a nice way of framing “getting removed from the face of the Earth for five years by random chance.” By the time Matt (and everyone else) came back, the arty couple had been living there nearly as long as Matt had before them.

So, when Matt found himself five years in the future, in his-but-not-his living room, he was pretty much shit out of luck. In the last year and a half, he had to get recertified to practice law, stretch a small government supplement while waiting to get some assets back, help his whole neighborhood figure out their housing situation as best he could before and after being able to practice law again, and live with roommates.

It was, to put it generously, torturous. There was absolutely no space left for Matt to be himself. He could be Daredevil, sure, and needed to be to keep people safe. But Daredevil had rules.

And so did Matt Murdock, lawyer. He couldn’t react or move or be the way he actually is, not when his brand new roommates were constantly home and asking polite but nosey questions about his whole deal.

(“Did you get punched?” asks Molly, aghast. 

“What?” asks Matt, moving a hand to his face. “Does it, uh, look like I did?”)

And it was difficult to enjoy his apartment when he kept himself so busy with both of his jobs, anyway. So he simplified: why pay rent when you don’t need it?

A better solution, Matt had found, was to put what he could afford to pay in rent toward an office space in a less sketchy part of town. He was in a much better position to help everyone else affected by homelessness and scummy landlords when he had the legitimacy of a nice home base, and one private space where he could lock a door and be a little bit himself, between meetings and patrols and meals.

He showered at Fogwell’s, and slept there sometimes when he just needed to be somewhere else. Sometimes, too, he crashed at the church, or grabbed a meal there, but things with Maggie were still weird, and Matt didn’t exactly want to explain to Maggie that yes, he was homeless again.

Between his office, the gym, and the church, he was holding it together. Really. He already had pretty much lived on cheap takeout, and the only need he had was privacy. And this is the privacy he could afford.

Or he thought he could, until now, when his bank statement had just told him a number that was very difficult to ignore. He clicked again, just to make sure he had heard right.

“Statement balance: negative fifty-five dollars and thirty-two cents,” says the robotic voice.

“Fuck!” says Matt, who normally tries a bit harder than that to keep his language in check. He wasn’t actually sure where dinner was going to come from today. Or lunch. Or any meals for the next week, or most likely beyond, since he was bound to overdraft for the next few days.

Which brought him back to his current spiral: he was destined to suffer. No home, no money, no food, no friends — he tries not to get started on the “no friends” part — and a moral dilemma before him. Matt normally kind of got off on moral dilemmas, but it was all starting to add up.

Being a pro-bono tenant (and occasional vigilante) lawyer post-blip was not where the money was at. He had received a government subsidized salary for a few months when he helped sort out the worst of the housing emergency, and had a few high profile cases back in the summer, but his cases these days were tougher. It was the people that had been left out of the system, who did’t have an easy time just getting their lives back after returning from the blip. A major effect of being blipped was being flat broke, since bank accounts were dispersed so many years before.

Matt had considered switching his practice around before, trying to attract more paying clients, or, God forbid, representing the landlords in court who were more than willing to shell out for great representation to not lose their status. As attractive as a conventional “I take lots of money to solve your problems” structure sounded, Matt found he couldn’t look away from his neighbors that were struggling so profoundly to just survive.

And he considered again, hands still resting on his laptop, and came to the same conclusion: he couldn’t just leave his neighborhood hanging. He could practically hear Foggy in his head: “Matt the Martyr.”

Probably, maybe, if he really needed to, he could call Foggy & Karen for help or a place to crash. But man, he did not want to do that. It would be so devastatingly awkward for reasons Matt didn’t want to think about while he was already freaking out.

He replays the bank balance one more time, which actually decreases as the tip he left on this morning’s coffee is added, and then slams his laptop shut with a little bit too much force. Not exactly what one should be doing when money’s tight, but fuck.

Matt gets up from his desk to pace, feeling hot and anxious. It’s open hours today, and his first day open since the holiday, so he’s expecting the clients that really have nothing, financially, to be coming in today. Maybe, maybe, he can pull sliding scale on someone who’s doing alright and make enough to get out of the impending overdraft fee.

Even that makes his heart sink. He’s here to serve, not to take. Though in his anxious state, and with the way his memory has been recently, he’s not sure he’s fit to even do that very well.

It had been happening for a little more than a month. He would think about his recent cases, or see something in the news, or just get this feeling that there was something he was forgetting. The feeling was awful, the knowledge that there was a gap of some sort, and the black void that gap created.

Bafflingly, his encounter with Spider-Man a few nights ago is what clicked the gap into place.

He had represented Spider-Man in court. He knew that, for a fact. He had some case records from it. He found articles that were captioned with his name and “Spider-Man” from the court dates. He knows that he had paid his part-time paralegal to painstakingly analyze the footage from the Mysterio incident every which way, and had heard hours of description of how Spider-man moved and looked and acted.

But he could not actually remember Spider-man, which is why the rooftop meeting a few nights ago had absolutely broken him. 

Matt could not be certain that he learned Spider-Man’s regular identity in the course of defending him, but since he didn’t actually remember it or have a record of it anywhere, he must not have, right? But it would be absolutely wild to have had an entire court case as high profile as an Avenger’s and not know the identity of the party in question, right? How would he have been arrested if found guilty? How could his character or motivation be convincingly testified to?

It gave Matt a right headache, which had started rather immediately upon realizing the person across the alley was Spider-man, and in the days since had mellowed to a dull background pain but had not gone entirely away. It’s like his head was working overtime to rectify what he had experienced with his scattered lack of memory.

Matt sits back down at his desk, prompting his phone to read the time: 8:49. His open hours start in eleven minutes. Enough time to try once again to meditate and take stock of the issue. Matt moves from his desk chair to the floor, sitting legs crossed with good posture.

Alright, take stock of the facts: what happened?

On Christmas Eve, three days prior, late in the evening, Matt had been patrolling a wide bubble around Hell’s Kitchen. He had missed the hullabaloo at Rockefeller, and would have preferred not to participate anyway, if he could help it. He was just making sure none of the tracksuit mafia made their way into his neighborhood, those bro-y assholes.

(There was of course the whole issue of who the tracksuit mafia was working for, and that Wilson Fisk had been released from prison in the time that Matt was blipped, and that Fisk keeping the lowest profile in the world right now didn’t mean shit, and that the two were essentially in a Cold War leaving each other alone and waiting for the other to make a move, but Matt’s really trying to compartmentalize that fear for now, okay?)

Then, on his loop out toward Time Square, he sensed the weirdest movement he had felt in a long time. Matt’s first thought was, honest to God, aliens — after all, anything could happen now — before realizing that the figure swinging through the air almost certainly had to be Spider-Man. 

Matt had been around Spider-Man in Manhattan before, though he doubted the other vigilante had ever realized Matt’s presence. It was inevitable living in Manhattan that one would see Spider-Man swinging around the East side, or in Matt’s case, sense the most bizarre movement above his head.

This was, though, the first time Matt had sensed Spider-Man since his memory thing had started, and the first time Matt realized the memory thing was all about him. In that moment he figured he could attempt to quietly tail the other man, or confront him as Daredevil. And while Matt was usually a bit more calculated in his execution, he was nothing if not impulsive when there was a mystery in front of him.

The late night conversation had been so weird, though. Matt-as-Daredevil communicated with intimidation, but Spider-Man was so… Sad? And seemingly pretty young? It threw Matt off his game, as did his sudden headache and inability to comprehend how he knew what he knew about the person in front of him.

Spider-Man was young, probably not more than 25. Spider-Man did not have his Tony Stark-gifted metal suit, and was wearing some really cheap spandex. Spider-Man did not smell very good, but Matt was pretty sure someone with senses like his would tell him the same person thing. Spider-Man was very kind, which Matt wasn’t sure how exactly he was able to put together, but he did. Finally, Spider-Man was nervous as hell. The other man’s heart was racing, his adrenaline had spiked, and he held himself so tensely.

“I, uh, live around here now. Kind of a long commute to go back to Queens to be Spider-Man,” said Spider-Man, and Matt knew he had a conversation with him before. But he couldn’t place as who. Matt to Spider-Man? Daredevil to Spider-Man? Matt to… whoever this guy actually was?

The other man had assured him, with his full belief, that Matt did not know him —- but really, that was only a promise that Daredevil did not know him. Masks made everything complicated, even when the whole point was to simplify his double life.

Matt feels some guilt that he had pushed the kid (was he a kid if he was 25? Sure) away. Daredevil was harder and less kind than Matt, but not like, a real jackass. Spider-Man was clearly lonely, and struggling. But so was Matt and everyone else.

Oh, no. Daredevil was a jackass.

That thought is interrupted by Matt’s phone alarm going off, reminding him that it was 9:00 and time to unlock the door. He sighs, standing up, making sure his glasses are in place and unfolding the cane he grabs from the desktop. 

He hasn’t been very intentional about making time to think about what the hell is going on, because he doesn’t have time to make time. Those eleven minutes didn’t get anywhere.

Matt unlocks the door, hearing someone come up the stairs to his third floor office. He waits there, and someone with a slight limp rounds the corner.

“Mr. Murdock,” says the man, the second Matt is presumably in sight, “I’m so glad you’re open today! My landlord, he is insisting that I pay back rent. That’s not legal, I keep telling him, but he’s threatening to sue!”

“Well, let’s sit down and figure out just what to tell him. What’s your name?” asks Matt.

“Read,” says the man, “Gary Read. But I don’t have any money, I should tell you right now. It’s all tied up with the landlord.”

“That’s okay,” says Matt, as warmly as he can manage in spite of his anxiety. “Let’s get you sorted out, Mr. Read.” Matt holds the door open for the other man, who offers an arm to guide Matt to his own desk, bless his heart.

—

Three hours, and it’s been busy. More than once, the waiting area has had a client or two waiting their turn. It’s deflating to listen this many people worried about their eviction and heat, right after Christmas. Matt mostly drafts letters, and makes some plans for upcoming representation. It’s a day in the life, but not one client is in a position that Matt feels he can ask them for any sort of payment.

Until —

“Kate Bishop,” says the woman, “My mom, was, uh, in the news recently.”

“And so were you,” says Matt. 

Kate Bishop was in the news for running around with Clint Barton, fighting the tracksuit mafia and getting her apartment blown up — and of course for her mother’s ordered hit, financial crimes, and all around cruelty. In fact, Eleanor Bishop had been a defendant in a case Foggy had taken before. Eleanor’s holding company represented a number of rented apartment buildings in the city, and was a pretty heartless landlord to those tenants — especially during the blip.

“Yeah, and me,” agrees Kate. “That’s part of why I’m here. Two separate issues, I’m wondering if you can maybe help with one or the other. I know you’ve represented vigilantes before.”

“Is that what you are?” Asks Matt. He has little patience for rich kids in general. And especially not rich kids who are wanna-be heroes.

“I mean, I guess in that instance, yeah. With the whole Rockefeller thing. But I think I’m technically going to be an Avenger?” Says Kate, not sure of herself.

“I don’t tend to give discounted legal advice to Avengers,” says Matt, “don’t they have a whole bunch of Stark money? And government help? The new Captain America works for the Airforce.”

“Well, I’m not an Avenger yet,” says Kate, “but I was hoping I’d be able to skip the whole vigilante phase and go right to “Helping Hawkeye,” you know? And then to being Hawkeye.”

Matt leans back, head tilted at the ceiling, and takes her in. She’s almost as tall as him, wearing a clean wool coat and platformed leather boots. She didn’t bring a bow and arrows with her, thank god, but there was a knife just barely small enough to be considered a pocket knife in her coat pocket. She’s well-muscled and well-fed, but her voice gives away her lack of sleep.

“And you’re looking for legal advice for what, exactly?” asks Matt, intrigued despite himself. He may not like rich kids, but he does need to get paid. And Kate Bishop, heir to Bishop security, seems like she might be the answer.

“So the first thing,” says Kate, reaching into the tote bag she brought with her to pull out a fat file folder, “is that my mother is the worst, and was recently arrested for being the worst. And part of being the worst was a lot of white collar crime. Like, a lot, a lot. And I know you prosecuted Fisk before, and with my mom having a ton of real estate I thought maybe you’d be the right person to help.”

Kate’s heart beat weird after she said Fisk, which gave Matt a sharp pause. What did that mean? He mentally file that away to follow up on later.

“Are you asking me to prosecute your mother?” asks Matt. He’d probably give his shoes to take down Eleanor Bishop in court.

“Do you only speak in questions?” Asks Kate. Matt cocks his head, incredulous.

“I’m a lawyer.”

“Right, sorry, sorry. But no, not exactly. I just need help sorting out all of this. Oh! Uh, here’s a big folder. It’s like, 300 pages of notes and receipts and account statements. I don’t know where to begin getting those readable for you, but whatever I have to do—“

“Don’t worry about that for now,” says Matt. “Knowing what your mother was arrested for, I’m sure a lot of what you’re going to find here is incriminating. Are you prepared for that?”

“Yes,” says Kate without hesitation. “My mom wronged a lot of people to feel powerful. Especially with all of her real estate stuff. She was snatching up properties and letting them sit empty to collect insurance money and wait for the right time to flip them. Like, even after everyone got snapped back. And that’s, excuse me, that’s totally fucked.”

Matt begins to think maybe his first impression of Kate Bishop was off.

“I just want to figure out how to untangle all of these accounts and get these properties back to people who can use them,” says Kate, shoving the folder toward Matt.

“That’s very noble,” he says.

“Sure, thanks,” says Kate, “but mostly I just feel bad that it took getting her arrested to figure out how deep this went. I’ve always known but I haven’t been able to do anything about it until now.”

“Do you have power of her estate right now?” asks Matt, “or does she need to sign off on everything?”

“She’s gotta sign off,” says Kate, “but my guilt trip will go a long way, I think. And the better this is documented and handled transparently, the better this will unfortunately be for her.”

“Am I representing Eleanor, or you?” asks Matt. He needs the money, but representing Eleanor Bishop is maybe the worst thing that could happen to his professional reputation. Well, the worst thing outside of being outted as Daredevil.

“Me,” says Kate, “or at least not like, a super public representation of my mom, you know?”

“Okay,” says Matt, taking it all in, “I’ll consider it. And what’s the other thing?”

“The other thing is that I was just very publicly involved in taking out the tracksuit guys,” says Kate, “among other things. All in the name of like, goodwill and fighting crime. But it is possible some of what I just did was sketchy.”

“I did hear about that,” says Matt, “There were 24 arrests. And some of those people died.”

He can hear Kate’s heart rate rise. She’s clearly uncomfortable at the extent of what she did, which tells Matt that she is so, so young, and new at this whole thing.

“Yeah,” says Kate, “I’m coming to terms with that. It wasn’t intentional. But they were trying to kill people, including my friend and my mom, so.”

“Alright,” says Matt, “then they’ll probably go to trial late next month, unless something interesting happens. Is Clint also testifying, then? I’d assume he’s equally as responsible.”

“I don’t actually know,” says Kate. “He’s an actual Avenger. People love him, especially right now. I’m new, and the public hates my mom.”

Matt has to give her credit. She may be young and privileged, but she’s not an idiot, not at all. Her mom finally getting caught is going to work against her no matter how good her intentions.

“You’re right to seek legal help early,” says Matt. “The system is not going to be kind to you. Even with Hawkeye on your side. He is on your side, right?”

“Yeah, yeah. Clint is cool. He’d testify for me, or submit a statement, or whatever. Anything that doesn’t involve him leaving his family for months.”

“He’s got a family?” asks Matt. He hadn’t heard of any of the Avengers having a robust home life, other than the child Tony Stark left behind.

“Shit!” says Kate, quietly, but forcefully. “Attorney client privilege?”

“Only if you’re paying me,” says Matt. “Which is only half a joke. For both of these cases, I do need payment.”

Kate deflates. “Oh,” she says.

“Ms. Bishop, you’re, well, a Bishop. I can’t give you the same benefit I give to my neighbors here in Hell’s Kitchen.”

Matt can feel Kate slump in her seat, her hands fidget. He starts to feel bad, much to his chagrin.

“I get it,” says Kate, “but if you’re judging my income based on what you know of my mother, then it’s not very accurate.”

“You can’t possibly be Eleanor Bishop’s daughter and be short on resources,” says Matt, waiting to gauge the lie in her response.

“It’s… Nearly all of my accounts had my mom on them, too, meaning those funds will be absorbed to her debts. I don’t want to accept payment from her sorting all this out, cause that incriminates me. So I’m working with a few thousand dollars and a place to live with no other prospects for the next couple months of sorting this out, which I expect to be a full-time job. And Bishop Security is already being bought out.”

“Ms. Bishop, I respect your circumstances, but all of my pro-bono clients are flat broke. They have nothing. And to offer the same opportunity to someone of your standing doesn’t seem very fair.”

Matt waits. He needs to get paid, and she’s a Bishop, no matter how sympathetic her cause. Or at least that’s what he tells himself. If he’s broke, he can’t be anything for anyone. If he can get paid, even a little, from the person in front of him, that’s more time he has to serve his community. It may not be fair, but it’s the best he can do with what he has.

“I hear you,” says Kate carefully, “but I have to think about it. To be candid, I’m crashing on couches. I have a checking account and nothing else. I have to be careful right now.”

“None of those properties good enough to sleep in?” Asks Matt, knowing he’s being too sharp, wanting to gauge her response.

“They’re very good,” says Kate, rising from her chair, “but forgive me if I don’t want to stay for free in a place that my mom got through exploitation.” A good answer.

“Sixty bucks,” says Matt. “And I’ll dig into the financial stuff. I have to consider the other opportunity though. Have you gotten a date for any of that, yet? Or been called in to question?”

“Oh, okay, sure,” says Kate, getting a wallet from her bag immediately “sixty is fair. Thank you. No, I don’t have a date yet. Questioning could be any time.”

“Here’s my card,” offers Matt, grabbing one of the last business cards he has from a desk drawer. “It’s got a cell number — call it when you get called in and I’ll try to come with you. Can you leave the folder now, or do you need to make a copy?”

“I’ll make another one and drop it off next week,” says Kate, “and I hope you’ll consider the other case.”

“Sure,” says Matt. He stands, and reaches out a hand, missing on purpose. Kate takes it, shaking firmly, and gives him a handful of bills that Matt can only trust adds up to $60. That’s not normally how he would bill, but he’s not about to be fussy.

“Thank you,” she says, and Matt knows how much she means it. He offers a smile.

“You’re welcome. See you next week,” says Matt. He knows there’s another person in the waiting room. Kate makes her way out, leaving the door open for the next person.

“You can come in,” says Matt to whomever’s waiting. And then the smell hits him.

He had been so wrapped up with Kate that he hadn’t paid much attention to his senses regarding whoever was next.

Spider-Man was in his waiting room.

Chapter Text

Peter didn’t actually use his front door very often. When you’re Spider-Man, and your whole thing right now is just being Spider-Man, it makes more sense to swing in through the window, like, nine times out of ten.

The issue with that is that Peter noticed his eviction notice with only ten days remaining.

He had gotten up in the morning on Christmas, still without heat, and still needing to figure out the fuse situation. After stumbling around in the dark basement to find the fuse box, and leaving a polite note in the landlord’s mailbox about the lack of heat, he made his way back upstairs to find a series of notes on his own door that he had completely missed on the way down, all of them printed on pink paper with very official looking capital letters.

“Shit. Shit!” He ripped the notices off the door, taking them with him and laying them out on the small table in his apartment.

It seemed pretty unambiguous: he had to be out of here in less than two weeks, or he’d be escorted out. Which, as a legally non-existent person with super powers, was not something that would end great for him.

Either the landlord was really that pissed about the one late rent payment, or he was trying to get straight and narrow quick. The whole city was still sorting out the housing crisis caused by the people who returned from the blip, making it easy for people like Peter’s landlord to take advantage of folks without means. Was it even legal to kick someone out who hadn’t resided there for a full month? Would there be extra consequences that Peter forged documents in the first place and never really signed anything offical?

And fuck, how does someone with no ID or money or documented existence get a lawyer?

“I’m a really good lawyer,” played the voice in Peter’s head.

He stared at everything in front of him, and glanced out the window, half waiting for another brick to come flying in.

Matt Murdock was a really good lawyer, absolutely bizarre skills for a seemingly blind man aside. He had gotten Peter out of every single charge thrown at him, no matter how major or minor, from the murder of Mysterio to trespassing through a construction site (c’mon, webbing over a place wasn’t really trespassing, right?).

But what would Mr. Murdock remember about him? Anything? 

As far as Peter understood it, Spider-Man had not been forgotten. People knew there was a Spider-Man, and that Spider-Man lived in Queens and helped the Avengers and decidedly did not murder Mysterio, according to the court. But how anyone from the last six months that encountered Spider-Man remembered Peter was anyone’s guess.

The time he had gone to the diner after finding the courage to re-meet his friends, it wasn’t like Ned and MJ were yelling about how they might know Spider-Man. There wasn’t a clear answer to how the memories of himself had warped for others, or anyone he could just ask.

Except maybe Matt Murdock. Maybe Matt Murdock was the right person to just ask.

Attorney-client privilege was a thing, right? Peter could roll in, suss out the situation, and if Mr. Murdock was like “woah, hey Spider-Man,” then that would help illuminate exactly how this memory spell (curse?) worked. Another data point to figure out the implications of his new life.

Peter was, after all, a scientist.

Plus, if he chickened out of talking to Mr. Murdock or it got weird, he could always go bother Flash Thompson for a pretty low stakes understanding of what that guy’s memory held. All he’d have to do is take a picture with him as Spider-Man and Flash would happily share everything he knew.

Peter laughed a little at the idea of Flash being the person he reconnects with, out of everyone left, and bundled the notices on his table. With the last bit of charge on his phone, he looked up Mr. Murdock’s new office and open hours, and started planning.

—

And that brings Peter to now, waiting in a shabby third floor reception area in Hell’s Kitchen, not too far of a walk from his house. He’s going full civilian today, in the nicest sweater he has left and all the notices from his door shoved in his backpack along with, admittedly, his spider suit. The last thing he wants is for the landlord to go snooping in the apartment when he’s not home, which seems fully possible.

He taps his foot nervously. Inside the office, he can hear Matt Murdock discussing his rates with the woman who showed up before him. Office hours are almost over, but Peter had taken too long to get out the door trying to be as put together as possible.

…Which was silly, right? Mr. Murdock is blind. But Peter could practically hear May’s voice in his ear this morning, reminding him that being polite and presentable could get him far.

He’s also not sure if the sense of dread and stomach-flipping nausea he feels is anxiety related, or Spider-Sense related. Normally Peter can tell the two apart just fine. But normally, Peter isn’t about to maybe explain his whole deal to a near stranger, or maybe not do that actually, or walk into such a strange situation with pretty much no plan.

“You’re welcome. See you next week,” Peter hears from behind the office door as two people rise from their chairs.

The door in front of him swings open, and a young woman with long hair and a nice coat walks past Peter for the exit, barely noticing him.

“You can come in,” says Mr. Murdock from within his office, and Peter is now certain the feeling, the nausea-worry-panic, is both anxiety and Spider-Senses. Something is weird here. He briefly considers pivoting right out the door — maybe his senses aren’t going off for a physical threat at all, but telling him not to give away information right now? That would be unprecedented, but anything can happen.

Peter grabs his backpack and walks in the room as confidently as he can muster despite his gut instinct screaming at him, and freezes immediately at the sight that greets him.

It’s definitely Matt Murdock, with his signature red glasses, but he’s a little run down since Peter last saw him, with a shabbier suit and longer hair, and a morning shadow from at least three mornings ago. But the part that freaks Peter out is the man’s stance — totally frozen, weight shifted on his heels, white knuckling the cane in his hand.

With Peter’s enhanced senses, he can hear the man’s heartbeat from here. It’s going a mile a minute. What the hell? Peter freezes in turn. Maybe it’s the memory thing messing with the other man. That would be freaky for anyone, right? They hold the tension for maybe ten seconds.

“Uh, hello,” says Peter, “I’m here for open hours.”

And then suddenly, Mr. Murdock plays it cool. Everything but his heart rate relaxes. The man offers a smile and extends a hand outward, just barely in the wrong direction.

“Great,” says Mr. Murdock, “I’m Matt. How can I help you?”

Peter shakes his hand and his sense go wild. Danger Danger Danger.

“Peter Parker,” he says, almost hoping the name unlocks something with the other man. He waits to sit, watching the lawyer’s face scrunch up in confusion.

“Have we met?” Asks Matt, and suddenly it all clicks into place for Peter.

He’s not exactly sure how, but he’s 95% sure that his blind lawyer is Daredevil.

The cadence of the voice, though gentler now, is the exact same as the man from the roof. He lives in Hell’s Kitchen. A quick glance shows that he’s well-muscled, and the same height as the masked man from a few nights ago. Even his smell (which Peter really needs to be better at paying attention to, but it feels so weird to just smell people) is the same, without the layers of blood and sweat.

“No,” says Peter, sharply, “I don’t think so. I just need a tenant lawyer and I’ve heard you’re one of the best.” He wills himself to sit, slowly, despite Mr. Murdock still standing at the ready.

Daredevil is his lawyer. His lawyer is Daredevil. And now Daredevil either 1) doesn’t know who Peter is and is confused at him being weird as hell, on top of whatever memory stuff is going on for him or 2) Matt Murdock, Daredevil, thinks that Spider-Man has intentionally tailed him to his office and is trying to play him.

Across from him, Matt slowly sits as well, making what Peter thinks is a bit too much of a show of finding the back of the chair with his hand and carefully sitting down. 

He isn’t possibly, actually, blind right? Peter thinks back to the brick in his living room window, and how everyone in the room just opted to ignore that display for more pressing matters. But he had thought about it every so often since. What does a man have to gain from pretending to be blind? It almost gets Peter fired up, the indecency of it.

“Alright,” says Matt, “Landlord/tenant issues. Where’s the location in question?”

“Midtown East,” says Peter.

“What’s the address?” asks Matt, beginning to type on his keyboard.

“It’s on 39th,” lies Peter, heart racing. Matt frowns.

“I need to know the address to get started, Mr. Parker. So that I can help.”

“Can we skip that for now? I just need some advice, more generally,” says Peter. He’s not going to tell Daredevil where he lives. God, this was a mistake.

“I— okay,” says Matt, baffled, but not pushing the issue. “What’s your question then, generally?” He leans back in his chair, folds his arms, but doesn’t relax, either.

“If I rented a place without signing anything, or anything official looking, and it’s the only place I can find right now, and I’m being evicted illegally, does it even make sense to push back?” asks Peter, finding himself hoping he can still get some legal advice out of the afternoon. After all, his lawyer is moonlighting as Daredevil, it’s not Daredevil pretending to be a real lawyer.

“Is it mostly financial reasons?” asks Matt, “or something else?”

“Like what?” asks Peter, too quickly. Shit. “No, it’s, uh. All financial. My paperwork got messed up after the blip and I haven’t been able to get a job or anything.”

“I have some resources for that,” offers Matt, after a pause. “Let me pull up the forms to request Thanos-related documentation updates. You’re coming at this pretty late, though.” 

“Yeah, sorry,” says Peter. Matt navigates the computer, which reads the screen out loud to him quietly. It’s all by the book, the names of forms and fields, with no secret revelations about being a violent masked vigilante.

Peter has an idea. Slowly, he raises one hand off to the side, willing Matt Murdock to look at it. He feels like an asshole, but it’s even more of an asshole move to impersonate a blind person, in Peter’s humble opinion.

Matt Murdock isn’t phased, but Peter can tell he still isn’t relaxed. He hopes and prays it’s all memory related, not sudden-realization-about-the-other-night-related, but he’s not optimistic. Peter starts making weird shapes with his hand, remembering the shadow puppets he used to do as a kid.

He probably looks ridiculous, making his hand a barking dog. Matt does nothing. Peter flips him off, feeling only a little guilty about it. Matt does nothing, just listens to his computer. Peter sticks his tongue out for good measure, but, being a bundle of nerves, chokes on his spit.

“Are you okay?” Asks Matt, not a drip of concern in his voice. “Do you need a lozenge? A tissue?”

“No thank you,” chokes Peter, clearing his throat and slumping in his chair. He looks around the office, studying it more carefully. It’s a little more cluttered than he would expect for a lawyer, with a few pieces of storage furniture and a big braille printer. The window into the side room off of this one didn’t reveal a lot, but Peter could see the hanging bags for suits through the dark glass. Combined with Matt being so disheveled, and the leftover containers peaking out of the trashcan, Peter could swear that he was living here.

His blind, homeless lawyer is Daredevil. Life is so weird. 

“Okay,” says Matt, as a smaller printer in the corner of the room clicks to life, startling Peter a little, “here’s the basic form for rectifying blip identity errors. But you’ll have to go to court once that’s submitted and testify if you want any of it to get through.”

“Oh,” says Peter. Great. That’s a non-starter, then.

“Can you grab those from the printer, please?” asks Matt, watching-but-not-watching Peter from his side of the desk.

Peter stands up, not wanting to turn his back on Matt. He shuffles backwards to the printer, grabbing the small stack of papers without looking away.

“Was that a yes?” asks Matt.

“Yeah, uh, sorry. I’ve got them.”

“Can you… bring them here?” asks Matt, as if he’s talking to a small child.

Fuck, Peter’s being too weird. Goddamnit. Maybe he totally misread this whole situation. Maybe Daredevil is Matt’s brother. Or a Norman Osborne alien-inhabitant type. Or any solution that makes more sense than this.

“Yeah, man — sir. Sorry,” says Peter somewhat sheepishly, returning to his chair across from Matt. Matt hands him a highlighter, talking him through what sections he’ll need to be thorough in. Peter nods along and highlights what’s needed, even though the forms are going to go right in the trash.

“That’s the identity piece,” says Matt, “but in terms of a place to sleep, I’m not sure the best option. Stay there until you’re unable to, or too worried about your safety. Have you considered a roommate? You could probably sublet. A lot of students leave town for the winter semester and rent their rooms cheaply.”

“I don’t do well with roommates,” says Peter, privately thinking that Matt Murdock, who is clearly living out of his mini fridge, is in no position to tell him to get a roommate.

“Alright, then,” says Matt, “I’m not sure what else to offer in the short term without more detail.” They’re both momentarily tense again.

“The documents are helpful, so I’m gonna go for now,” says Peter, deciding it’s time to get out of here. He moves quickly to get his backpack from the floor, and Matt flinches.

Barely, but he does. His allegedly blind lawyer flinches at his silent, sudden movement.

“Do you want to leave your contact information?” asks Matt, standing and taking a step back. He holds his cane loosely.

“Nope,” says Peter, “I’m good.”

And then, in one last moment of what some might call stupidity, but Peter would call science, he decides to move with the speed of Spider-Man and see what happens. 

Specifically, he decides to move his fist at that speed. 

He cocks a fist back as fast as he can, and watches as Matt Murdock, blind lawyer, drops his cane on purpose and pulls his own hands into fists — and then drops them so quickly that anyone other than Peter Parker wouldn’t have seen the intention in the action. Peter drops his own fist just as quickly.

“Forgive me,” says Matt, “I’ve always been clumsy.” But Matt makes no move to pick up his cane. If anything, he shifts his weight back to one foot, breathes in intentionally.

“Okaybye,” says Peter, and he sprints out of that office faster than he’s ever moved out of costume in his life.