Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Wind rushed around him, sending his hair flying into his face as he ran across the rooftops, squinting his eyes to block out the jarring light from the sun. His arrow quiver shook on his shoulder, bouncing with every stride. Air burned in his lungs, his eyes stinging from the wind, and his legs ached more than they had in a long time. Clearly, he had fallen out of practice.

He spared a quick glance backwards and saw nothing. The people chasing him must have either given up or fallen too far behind to catch up.

And then he was falling. Falling through space, his arms flailing wildly, hands searching for something to grasp.

His body slammed into something crumpled and squishy, and his feet sunk deep beneath him. After taking a few moments to catch his breath, Clint Barton opened his eyes.

He was in a dumpster. His arms laying uncomfortably at his sides, his legs wedged into a narrow space between two large, greasy trash bags. Groaning, he struggled to get up, but his limbs were worn out and he couldn’t muster the energy to drag himself out of the dumpster. Turning his head to the side, he noticed that he just avoided falling onto a sharp metal rod. He whispered a quick thanks to whatever deity was looking after him, then added a few curse words for getting him into this mess in the first place.

Slowly, he began to sense movement coming from somewhere. Instantly, he tried to get up with renewed effort, not excited at the potential of being eaten by rats in an unknown dumpster.

Before he had a chance to get up, a head popped out behind a rather small trash bag. It was a man in a scarlet costume, a mask clenched in his hand, revealing his face. He had tussled brown hair and dark, round sunglasses. Hastily, he yanked his glasses off and pulled the mask over his forehead to shield the upper half of his face.

Though Clint couldn’t hear anything, he could see the man’s lips moving. “Is someone there?”

Clint held up a hand, gesturing for him to wait, as he fumbled to adjust his hearing aids with shaky fingers. The costume looked familiar, but he couldn’t place it, nor the face. “Who are you?”

“Who are you?” the man repeated back to him.

“I asked first, you have to answer,” Clint said petulantly.

“I don’t have to answer anything. This is my dumpster.”

“Well, I don’t see your name on it.”

“It’s not like I go around painting my name on dumpsters, it’s just that I—never mind. You sound familiar.”

“You sound familiar, too. But I don’t meet guys like you in my line of work.”

He frowned. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Cosplayers. I mostly deal with aliens, if you know what I mean.”

“Cosplayer? I’m—yeah, I do cosplay. That’s why I’m wearing this costume.” He paused. “Wait. Is that Hawkeye?”

Clint raised an eyebrow, looking down at his usual purple get-up. Regardless of whatever Natasha always said (Used to say, his mind un-helpfully reminds him), it was stylish. “Yeah, if it wasn’t obvious from the bright purple outfit.”

The man tapped his sunglasses; his fingers were calloused and bloody. “I can’t see. I’m blind.”

“Oh.” Clint felt like an asshole. “Sorry. I’m deaf, if you didn’t know. Which you probably did. Or not.”

“I didn’t know that, actually,” he said. He sighed. “This is the third time I’ve been thrown into this dumpster. Despite the fact that Hell’s Kitchen has a lot of them, I always end up in this one.”

With a jolt of surprise, Clint realized why the man looked and sounded so familiar. “Hell’s Kitchen… Daredevil?”

He gave a resigned sigh. After all, there was no point in denying it when he was dressed as a fucking devil. “Yes.”

“So, I’m finally meeting the famous Matt Murdock.”

Matt’s eyebrows furrowed and his mouth fell slightly open. “What—what makes you think that?”

“Give me a break, man. We work in the same circles.”

Shaking his head, Matt said, “I thought I was more discreet.”

“To be fair, I only know because Natasha told me. And I didn’t tell anyone, before you ask.”

Matt stiffened. He and Natasha dated for a few weeks more than a decade ago, and though it didn’t work out, Clint knew they were still friends (Had been, that torturous part of his mind corrected). According to her, it never could have gone anywhere because Matt was hopelessly in love with his best friend, Foggy, even if he didn’t know it.

“It’s hard to believe she’s gone,” Matt said quietly. Though, in the end, it was clear that Matt hadn’t truly had romantic feelings for her, Clint knew firsthand that loving—and losing—a friend could be just as painful.

“Yeah.” He cleared his throat, swallowing the lump. “Anyway, can you get us out of this dumpster?”

Without answering, Matt felt around with his hands until he touched the wall of the dumpster, then grabbed a ridge of the wall and pulled himself up so he could reach the top of the dumpster. Throwing a leg over the edge, he held out a hand in Clint’s direction. “Here.”

“How do you know where I am?” Clint asked, taking his hand and letting Matt pull him out of the area he was slotted into. He had heard of Daredevil’s abilities, but never seen them in action before.

“I can hear you breathing and shuffling around. You were making quite a lot of noise, actually.”

“Good to know. These stupid hearing aids malfunction a lot. I think Stark made them to mess with me.”

“Tony Stark made your hearing aids?”

Another pang of pain struck him at the reminder of his friend. So many ghosts. “Unless there’s any other Stark who makes technological devices, and makes them malfunction to annoy me, yeah, he made them.”

Unceremoniously, Clint tumbled out of the dumpster and landed on a patch of wet mud; at least, he hoped it was mud. Matt got up to his feet quickly. Clint glanced back at the rooftop. Thankfully, the men were gone.

“Thanks for your help,” he said. “I should get back now.”

“Good luck,” Matt replied, more than a little amused. “And next time, find your own dumpster to fall in.”

-

The next time they met, Clint fell into the dumpster. Again. At least this time he wasn’t running from anyone. It was supposed to be a routine check, and he couldn’t deny that he was wanted to see Matt again, even if only to continue their argument on the proper ownership of the dumpster. Of course, he wasn’t planning on falling into it again, but his plans always had a way of getting away from him.

“Great,” he muttered to himself. He could feel something gooey and sticky near his leg; he tried not to think about it too much.

“You know,” a voice sounded from behind him. Recognition shot through him. “I would have assumed that a trained spy would be able to get himself out of a dumpster.”

“Maybe I would do it if you didn’t keep interrupting me.”

“I guess I’ll just leave you alone then—”

“No!” Clint protested, trying to get up and failing. The sticky substance had spread to both his legs, and a horrible smell was spreading around him. “There’s something really gross here and I want to get out.”

With a sigh of resignation, Matt helped Clint out of the dumpster again, voicing more than a few complaints when the liquid got on him as well.

“This really is disgusting,” Matt said, frowning. “Usually the bags are tied pretty tightly. I don’t know what asshole decided to leave this one open.”

“Do you have a place I can crash at for a while?” Clint asked, desperate for a shower and a meal. He hadn’t been eating properly for a few days, on account of the fact that Laura and the kids were away visiting her family. Again. Laura’s parents had been anxious to see their grandchildren more often since the Blip, as if they were worried that they would disappear again.

“How long is a while?”

“A few hours. Or days.”

“I’m not sure about that.”

Clint huffed. “It’s not like I’m going to hunt you down and kill you. I just need to get this goo off me.”

“Alright, then,” Matt said, “but don’t say anything to my roommate.”

“Does he not know that you’re—”

“He knows, but you’re not very socially adept.”

“Ouch,” Clint said. “That hurt, Matt.”

“What a shame.”

“Just take me to your home, smartass.”

“Coming from you,” Matt said, but he led the way down several streets and shady alleyways, knowing precisely where to step to avoid a streetlight or turn a sharp corner. The streets were strangely empty, but then again, the sky was growing darker and they weren’t exactly in the safe part of town. However, they continued until the buildings started getting fancier, the streets cleaner and tidier.

Finally, they reached Matt’s apartment; at least, Clint hoped it was, or they were breaking into some random person’s apartment. It had happened to him far too many times than he cared to count. Matt unlocked the door and they entered. The living room was tidy and modern, with a navy blue sofa placed in front of a massive television, and tall windows let the evening light stream in to illuminate the surroundings.

“Foggy isn’t here,” he said.

Clint gaped at him. “How do you know that?”

“For starters, I can’t hear the television or any noise that he usually makes. I can’t hear his heartbeat, either.”

“That’s creepy.” Clint shook his head. “Don’t listen to my heartbeat.”

“It’s not something I have control over. Your heart is practically yelling at me. It’s average, if that interests you.”

“Uh… good to know?”

“The bathroom is over there.” Matt gestured with his hands as he sat down on the sofa. “Take a towel out of the cupboard next to the door. You can borrow some clothes from me, but don’t touch the suits.”

“As if I’d want your suits,” Clint muttered as he went into the bathroom and peeled his outfit off his sweaty body. He really needed to get more subtle clothing. The water coming from the shower was upsettingly cold but it wasn’t anywhere near the icy showers Clint was forced to take in Russia. He rinsed the goo off his legs and the Trash Juice out of his hair. Just to annoy Matt, he used as much of the shower gel as possible. He only realized afterwards that it probably belonged to Matt’s roommate, as he doubted that Matt would use ‘Strawberry Blossom’ shower gel.

Thankfully, the towel was dry and fluffy, and the clothes Matt left on the doorknob for him while he was showering were reasonably comfortable. He returned to the living room, where Matt was watching the news. He held a warning finger to his lips in the universal gesture for shut up and let me listen to this. Natasha used to do the same thing.

“—to a small neighborhood in Manhattan. The police are trying to track him down but there’s been no news yet.”

“You missed the important part,” Matt said.  

“Seriously? In movies the hero always shows up when they’re saying the important stuff.”

“This isn’t a movie, and if it were, I’d be the hero.”

“Yeah, right. What was the important part?”

“They said something about a figure who was seen running on a rooftop, chased by a gang of men.”

Clint groaned. “I should’ve known they’d see that. Did they show any pictures?”

Wordlessly, Matt turned to stare at him, his dark shades glaringly visible.

“Sorry,” Clint said with a grimace. “Did they give any other – um, verbal clues?”  

“Not much. I don’t think there’s anything that can identify you. Still, it would be best if you lay low for a while.”

Clint couldn’t help but grin, even though Matt wouldn’t see it. “Is that an invitation?”

“No. No way.”

“You have a guest bedroom.”

“No,” Matt repeated firmly.

Before Clint could press the matter any further, the door swung open and a man walked in. He had neat, combed hair and was wearing a carefully pressed suit, carrying a briefcase.

The man, who must have been Foggy Nelson, stopped when he saw Clint. “Matt… who is this?”

“Clint,” Clint provided brightly. “I’m your new roommate.”

Foggy looked confused. “Is this some weird power move? Am I being kicked out?”

“No—shut up, Clint,” Matt snapped. “Foggy, don’t listen to him. He’s being kicked out.”

“Please don’t kick me out,” Clint said, his tone dangerously close to begging. “I don’t want to get killed.”

Matt turned to Foggy. “Could you leave for a minute?”

Utterly bemused, Foggy went into his bedroom. The fact that he didn’t question it made Clint wonder what misfortunes—shenanigans, if you will—had befallen Foggy at the hands of his vigilante roommate. Clint decided the man deserved a medal for putting up with a best friend who fought crime every night, yet wasn’t brave enough to admit that he loved him in a decidedly non-platonic manner. How difficult would it even be to say, hey, I know we’re besties, but I also want us to boink. Do the bedroom rodeo. Plant the parsnip. Dance the goat’s jig. It was absolutely ridiculous, and Clint would make it his mission to resolve this if it didn’t work itself out.

“You’re a master assassin,” Matt said once Foggy left. “You’ll be fine.”

“I know, but my family is away and it gets lonely.”

“You… you want to mess up my life because you’re lonely?”

“I won’t mess up your life,” Clint protested. “It’s only for a few days, then I promise I’ll leave you alone. Come on, Matt. We’re dumpster buddies.”

Matt groaned. “Fine. You can stay, as long as you promise never to use that term again.”

“Great! I’ll let Foggy know.”

“No,” Matt said forcefully, holding out a hand to stop Clint, who was already springing to his feet. “I’ll let him know. You sit here and… and think about what you’ve done.”

Clint watched as Matt expertly made his way to the bedroom and opened the door. They must have been talking, but he couldn’t hear what they were saying through the closed door. Finally, they emerged.

“Sorry about that,” Foggy said politely. “I was kind of confused at first, then—”

“Don’t apologize to him,” Matt muttered. “We don’t like him.”

“He seems alright.”

“Exactly,” Clint said. “See, Matt? I’ve known Foggy for thirty seconds and he’s already nicer than you.”

“This is exactly why I told you not to talk to him,” Matt hissed.

“So this is a weird territorial thing?”

Foggy looked weirded out at that while Matt looked horrified. Clearly, Clint had struck a nerve. He bit back a smile.

“I’ll intervene before this gets worse,” Foggy said hastily. “Clint, you can have my room. I’ll take the sofa.”

“Clint will get my room,” Matt interjected. “I’ll sleep on the sofa.”

Clint had expected to be exiled to the sofa, so it was a welcome surprise that Matt would give him his own room. Then again, Matt hadn’t been hostile until Clint invaded his house, so he couldn’t have minded him that much. Maybe he had judged him too hastily.

“On second thoughts,” Matt said. “Maybe Clint should get the sofa.”

Clint groaned. Oh, well. Better than nothing.

-

During the time Clint stayed at Matt’s house, which ended up being a week, they gradually grew accustomed to each other. Matt got used to Clint instinctively attacking him in the mornings because he hadn’t put on his hearing aids yet and couldn’t hear him walk in behind him, and Clint got used to describing the weather outside before Matt left for work. In all fairness, Matt could hear the absence of rain and figure out what the weather was like anyway, but by the last day, they enjoyed sitting by the window while Clint described how the sun looked as it set at dusk.  

“Foggy sometimes does that,” Matt said, somewhat dreamily, as Clint tried to describe what flowers looked like when they bloomed in the spring. Foggy was outside buying groceries while Clint and Matt were setting the table. More accurately, Matt was setting the table while Clint lazed on the couch.

“He’s always liked describing everything to me,” he went on. “Normally people’s expressions, gestures, but sometimes nice things, too. A sunset, a little bird, things like that. It’s almost like I can see them.”

Clint sat up, interested. “What’s your thing for him, anyway?”

Matt’s face pinkened. “What thing?”

“I don’t need to hear your heartbeat to know that you’re smitten, Murdock.”

“I’m not smitten. I’m simply… intrigued by him.”

“That’s just a fancy way of admitting that you’re smitten while retaining your dignity. And it doesn’t even make sense. Intrigued, of all words? Is that how you talk about your friend of, like, since college?”

“If I had any dignity, it was destroyed when you came here. It was bad enough that you walked in on me in—”

Clint threw his arms up in the air in frustration. “I already told you I didn’t hear you telling me to go away!”

“Take the hint, Barton! The door was shut. It was my bathroom.”

“Well, why wasn’t it locked?”

“I don’t lock it when I’m showering, because I don’t expect anyone to come in.” He threw in a glare for good measure. “Normal people don’t.”

“You need to move past that,” Clint informed him. “I didn’t see anything, anyway. Well, not much—”

“Please stop talking.”

“Noted. But we’re not moving past the Foggy thing. You love him.”

After a minute, Matt said, “Maybe just a little.”

“A little?”

“Don’t make me kick you out just when I was beginning to tolerate you.”

“Aw, you were tolerating me?” he cooed. “That’s just another word for love.”

The door opened, and Foggy walked in, his footsteps almost silent. Noticing that they were having a conversation, he gave a silent nod, not speaking up so as to not interrupt. Clint could already see where this was going. He tried to hide the glee on his face, hoping it would go where he thought it was about to go.

Matt’s face was unamused. “That’s right. I love you, and I’m disastrously in love with Foggy.”

As a tight silence fell over the room, Matt sighed. “Foggy’s right there, isn’t he?”

“Yep,” said a wide-eyed Foggy.

“I can explain,” Matt said hurriedly, turning his head towards Foggy with an expression halfway between desperation and total mortification. Clint almost felt bad for him, but not really. Maybe those idiots would finally get their shit together and admit that they were head-over-heels in love with each other, then Clint could be best man at their wedding. On second thoughts, that was unlikely.

“This is my cue to leave,” Clint announced. “Thanks for letting me stay here, guys. Buddies? We’ll work on that.”

He threw himself out of the window, landing on a nearby roof and running away. Soon, he realized that he had no idea where he was going.

Well, that was stupid.

-

When Clint got shot at 2:30 am, he found himself knocking at Matt’s door once more.

“What happened?” Matt asked, his voice unsurprised. Without waiting for Clint to answer the question, he stepped aside to let him in. At moments like these, Clint was immensely grateful to have an almost-friend who wouldn’t interrogate him in situations like these, knowing that Matt wouldn’t push him to answer the question.

His head swimming, Clint looked around for somewhere to sit where his blood wouldn’t stain the fabric, but ended up collapsing on the floor before he could sit down. “Shot. Mission went wrong. I can’t go home, don’t want to scare Laura and the kids. Didn’t know where else to go.”

Matt rushed off to get some a first-aid kit and settled beside Clint, reaching out to feel the wound. Clint winced when he touched the stinging skin.

“I’ll have to stitch this up,” Matt said. “I don’t have any anaesthetic, though.”

Clint waved a limp hand. “Just do it. Not the first time.”

He bit down on his hand as Matt sanitized the wound then stitched it up, finishing off with a cotton bandage to protect it from infection. It stung like hell, but clumsier people than Matt had done this to him before.

“All good,” Matt said, satisfied. “Does it look okay?”

Clint looked down at his shoulder. The stitches were as precise as if they were done by a surgeon. “Yeah. Perfect, actually. Where the hell did you learn to do this?”

“Not important. Do you want some coffee?”

“At 2:30 am?”

“I’ll just make it for myself, then.”

“No, no, I’ll have some. As black as you can make it.”

Matt walked over to the coffee machine. “No sugar or cream? It might help bring up your blood sugar levels. They must have dropped.”

“A little,” Clint allowed. “Thanks for helping me, man. I would have taken care of this myself but I’m in a pretty bad state. And you understand why I can’t go home like this.”

His tone was stern. “You should be more careful. You have a family to live for.”

He raised an eyebrow, though there was no one to see it. “And you don’t?”

Matt turned around, bearing his trademark poker face. “Not like you do.”

“I thought you and Foggy were, like, a thing now.”

As he predicted, Matt’s face softened, as it always did at any mention of Foggy. “We are—” he sniffed— “though I wouldn’t call it a thing.”

“Soulmates? Lovers? Smash pals?”

“…On second thoughts, let’s stick with thing.”

They decided to watch a movie until Clint was feeling better, so Matt put on a random action movie. As they watched, Clint gave descriptions of what was on screen while Matt described the audio at the parts where Clint couldn’t catch it over the dramatic sound effects, even with his hearing aids on. It was a good system.

After the movie, Clint returned home, assuring Matt that he would be fine.

The next week, he got shot again. Seemed about right.

-

“This is just excessive,” Clint complained as he fell into the dumpster for the third time. Thankfully, all the bags seemed tightly sealed this time. He almost expected Matt to show up, but when he didn’t, he climbed out of the dumpster by himself and shook himself down, disgusted. His wallet was in the dumpster, and he really didn’t want to enter the dumpster again, so he needed to find another way to get some money.

One bad – or maybe good? – decision and half an hour later, Clint was knocking on Matt Murdock’s door.

Matt opened it, wrinkling his nose. “Clint?”

“I don’t always smell like this,” Clint said indignantly, offended that Matt had identified him so quickly.

Matt let out a short laugh. “Your heartbeat is quite recognizable. Very healthy. I’m guessing you fell in the dumpster again. Either that or you’ve seriously fallen behind on your personal hygiene.”

“Hilarious. Please let me in.”

Matt stepped aside to let him in, silently pointing towards the direction of his bedroom. Gratefully, Clint rushed into the shower, rinsing himself off as quickly as possible, emptying out half of the ‘Island Breeze’ shower gel in his endeavour to eliminate the odor. If it was this bad for him, he couldn’t imagine how bad it was for Matt. Within five minutes, he was sitting at the dinner table in clean clothes while Matt rummaged around in the fridge.

“Need any help?” Clint asked.

“You can set out two plates.”

“Foggy won’t be here tonight?”

“He’s working late. We were working on a big case together, but he made me go home to rest,” Matt said, pulling out a plate of leftover lasagna. He put it in the microwave and set it to the correct temperature while Clint put two plates down on the table. Clint dug into his lasagna with the reckless abandon of someone who hadn’t eaten in months, though he had eaten three hours ago. So what? Running away from bad guys required a lot of energy.

Matt sat down across him. “Why are you always here?”

“That’s rude,” he said with his mouth full.

“I mean, why do your missions always bring you here?”

“Oh.” Clint shrugged. I don’t know. I’m just given the missions. I can’t question them.”

“Are they successful?”

“Most of the time. The ones here always end up going south, for some reason.”

Matt smiled mischievously. “Maybe the criminals here are used to dealing with heroes of a higher standard.”

Clint shot him an unamused look before remembering that he couldn’t see it. With Matt’s heightened senses and awareness of everything around him, it was easy to forget that he couldn’t see. “Very funny. At least I saved the world multiple times. You just micromanage the hell out of a few blocks in New York.”

He took a bite of his lasagna nonchalantly. “Firing a few arrows counts as saving the world?”

“Smug bastard.”

They ended up drinking on the couch until it was almost midnight and they were both shit-faced. Matt was more coherent than him, slumped on the floor with his head tilted against the armrest, but he was slurring his words in a way that Drunk Clint, sprawled on the ground, found absurdly hilarious.

Clint tried to lift his head, but he was unable to. “Matt. Did—didn’t you meet the Mex-Men?”

“X-Men,” he corrected.

“That’s what I said. Can’t they read your mind? Find out you’re M-Matt Murdock?”

“Too fucking polite to bring it up,” Matt said, his voice suddenly very loud. “And anyway.”

“Way?”

“My mind’s a fucking mess, they don’t want to delve into this,” he announced as if it was a triumph, grabbing the nearest vodka bottle and brandishing it in the air like a trophy. He was getting increasingly passionate. “I’m fucking depressed, an’ angry, an’ sick.” He gave a bitter laugh. “And I’m Catholic.”

“Fuck, man. Takes a lot of messed-up-ness to get a blind Catholic to run around in a devil costume. Whoever the fuck read your mind, they prolly had a heart attack.”

“It’s just so much. Like, I hear breathing, and blood, and heartbeats, and every little sound everybody makes, every sound passing by. Then there’s touch, and scent, and some fucking sonar and radar shit. A billion crazy sensory inputs, all the time. It’s a fucking nightmare of overstimulation.”

“You’re a hot mess, dude. We’re hot mess bros.”

“And I have a shit-ton of guilt,” he repeated, almost under his breath, as if it was the only answer he could muster.

“Amen, brother,” Clint called out loudly, though he wasn’t sure of who he was addressing. His own voice seemed ear-splittingly noisy. He wondered if this was what crying babies felt like. “I—I love you, bro.”

After his outburst, Matt seemed dangerously close to sobbing. Through teary eyes, he got out, “Love you too, man.”

Clint had always been a sappy drunk, but he hadn’t expected Matt to be so emotional. Even in this state, he knew that they’d regret this in the morning. “I—I feel like I’ve known you for long time.”

“For long time?”

“Looooong time” was the reply, just before Clint passed out. Right there on the floor.

At least, he thought that he passed out because everything went black for a minute. Then, his vision reappeared, and nothing seemed to have changed. “No pass?”

Matt, who was ranting to himself, stopped talking. “Huh?”

Clint concentrated hard on the words. “No pass out? Me?”

Matt didn’t say anything for a while. Then, he said, “We need to sober up.”

Just before blacking out for real this time, Clint said, “Definitely.”

-

In the morning, they did regret it. That was one thing Drunk Clint got right.

Clint cleared his throat. Matt looked up from his cereal. “Sorry about yesterday, man.”

“It’s fine,” Matt said tensely. “Listen, uh… you wouldn’t remember anything I said, would you?”

“No,” he said, but he knew that Matt picked up on the lie. It was impossible to get anything past him.

He sighed. “I’m sorry for unloading all that on you.”

Clint Barton might have been stupid, but he wasn’t stupid. He knew the time to joke around, and when to be serious. This was clearly one of the serious times. “Don’t worry about it. I mean, it’s like you said. I kind of figured something was wrong up there—” he gestured towards his own head— “what with the whole devil costume. But I didn’t know that you’re Catholic.”

“I am,” Matt said, ignoring the ‘something wrong up there’ comment.

“Do you want to talk about it?”

“…Being Catholic?”

“No, idiot. Feeling guilty. It might do you some good to let it out, but if you don’t want to talk about it, that’s fine.”

Matt sighed, rubbing his temples. “I have the worst hangover.”

Clint didn’t say anything.

After what seemed like an eternity, Matt said, “It’s just… a lot of anger.”

Clint waited for him to continue.

“I’m angry all the time,” he said again. He was speaking faster now, like the words were torn from him. “Everyone I love betrays me, except Foggy. He’s the only… the only good thing I have. He’s all I have left to lose, and every single day, I’m worried that someone will take out their problems with me on him. Except for him, I can’t tell anyone who I really am, and everyone who sees me treats me like I’m helpless.” He pressed his fingers to his temples. “Worse of all, I’ll never get absolved of sin because I can’t tell anyone what I do.”

His breathing a ragged rhythm, Matt said, “I can’t remember what it was like to be normal.”

“You don’t have to be normal,” Clint said quietly. “None of us do.”

“I wish I was.”

Rather than offering empty words, he just stood up and walked around to place his hands on Matt’s shoulders, offering him nothing but raw empathy. Matt was shaking, and Clint stood there, supporting him in silence. For countless nights, he’d sat on the bathroom floor at midnight, raging at the universe for taking Natasha from him, for taking Tony. He knew what it was like to fear that someone would attack his family to hurt him, and it was a fear that would never go away no matter how carefully he protected them, hid them from the world.

It didn’t ease the pain, but it was comforting to know that Matt felt the same, and Clint would do whatever he could to help him in return for how much Matt had helped him. All the times he stitched him up, let him stay at his house without questioning him, offered him comfort after a mission went wrong; Clint would never be able to pay him back fully for being the only true friend he knew anymore.

When Matt had calmed down, Clint walked back to sit across from him again.

“Thank you, Clint.”

“Don’t mention it.” He tried for a bad joke. “If I wasn’t around, who knows what you might do to yourself?”

 Matt gave a watery smile. “I’d spend a lot less time pulling Avengers out of dumpsters.”

“Excuse me, you are lucky that you get to pull an Avenger out of a dumpster on a regular basis.” Clint sobered up. “Though I’m not sure the Avengers are even a thing anymore. Without Tony and…” he trailed off.

Matt understood the name he was leaving unsaid. “I’m sorry.”

“She liked you, you know,” Clint said, his throat thick. “She always spoke of you nicely.”  

“Nicely?”

“Well, nicer than her other exes,” he amended. “She really thought of you as a friend. She would have been really happy to see that you and Foggy finally got your shit together.”

They sat together in solidarity, two people who didn’t really have much in common other than their disabilities and their love for Natasha Romanova. Clint was sure that Natasha, wherever she was now, was finding the whole thing hilarious as fuck.  

“Clint?”

“Yeah.”

“You’re welcome to come over whenever you want.”

Clint smiled proudly. “I wore you down.”

Matt couldn’t help but smile as well. “Well, I may be slightly fond of you.”

“That’s just another word for love,” Clint said, and in the space between them, he could hear a silent maybe it is.

Chapter Text

Needless to say, Peter Parker was not having a good year.

It seemed like impact after impact, trauma after trauma, a million arrows flung at him to knock him over, drawing blood on collision, puddles of blood that pooled around his feet. Of course, he could never sit down and lick his wounds, not when the villains would never stop coming. He was the Friendly Neighborhood Spiderman. He had a duty to fulfill.

Today, he was chasing yet another bad guy. Thankfully, this wasn’t an alien or a superpowered maniac from another universe. It was just a run-of-the-mill gang boss. Still, that didn’t mean it wasn’t bothersome to have to trace this guy all the way to Hell’s Kitchen, and he was sweating so much that his Spiderman suit was chafing his skin.

Peter shot another web forward to swing to the next building. He was catching up to the gangster now, a kingpin with a name he couldn’t conjure in his memory. Another few buildings, and he would—

A blur of red passed in front of him and he diverted his web just in time to avoid the figure.

The sudden movement made him lose control. He plummeted in freefall, disoriented, then dropped straight into a pile of trash bags. The sickening stench rose around him, making his empty stomach churn. His legs ached from the force of the impact, but it didn’t feel as if he had any injuries. He had suffered much worse, anyway.

Peter looked up with a frown to appraise who had ruined his trajectory only to see a scarlet-costumed, masked figure fighting the criminal, kicking his legs to take him down. When the criminal jumped to his feet again, he drew his fist back and punched him, then punched him again, the motions sharp and merciless, colliding with appalling crunches that made Peter wince. The criminal kicked him, but the masked man caught his leg and swept it with a swift jerk, taking him down in a quick movement.

He groaned, propping himself up on his elbows with a glare. “You interfered in my business.”

“I wouldn’t have had to if you didn’t go after me in the first place,” the masked figure said in a raspy voice, kneeling to tie a rope around the criminal’s arms, bounding him tightly so he couldn’t move.

“Kill me like a fucking man.”

“The law will serve its due process. You’re lucky to be alive.”

The gangster gave a bitter laugh. “Yeah, taken down by the Devil of Hell’s Kitchen. Must be my lucky day.”

The Devil of Hell’s Kitchen. That sent a jolt of recognition through Peter. This was Daredevil. He’d heard the Avengers talk about the vigilante before, but he’d never seen him in person before. It was a wonder to watch the man fight in his signature style, parkour across the buildings without any aiding gadgets whatsoever, even if the merciless way he beat up the criminal, striking him more times than he had to, was almost disturbing.

If only Peter wasn’t currently in a dumpster. He considered swinging out—it would certainly be easy enough—but it was nice to get a chance to catch his breath, even if he was in the most rancid square kilometer in a block radius. A mysterious fluid had spurted over him when his fall split one of the bags open, and his suit was spattered with it.

Nothing was worth staying here for even a minute longer. Peter prepared to climb out of the dumpster. Daredevil was standing on the street as if listening for something.

Daredevil swiveled towards Peter. “Who’s there?”

Peter raised his hands, then quickly lowered them in case the vigilante misconstrued the motion as preparation for an attack. “Spiderman.”

He paused. “Spiderman.”

“Mr. Devil, you’re so cool,” he blurted out before he could stop himself. “I mean, your fighting style is so unique, it’s awesome. And taking that gangster guy down without killing him—I hope I can be just like you.”

Daredevil seemed utterly bewildered. “…What?”

Before he could speak up, a shout came from the distance. “Hey, did you get that guy? You know we agreed—”

“Shut up,” Daredevil responded, his voice not overly loud yet commanding. "There’s a kid in our dumpster.”

Peter almost protested about being referred to as a kid, but he was distracted by the sight of Clint Barton running towards them, dressed in his Hawkeye costume, a quiver of arrows slung over his shoulders. His hair was messy, face flushed red from exertion. They were never close, but he was a familiar face. When he saw Peter, he stopped.

“Spiderman?” Clint said uncertainly, raising his hands to his ears to adjust his hearing aids.

That was when Peter remembered that most of the world still believed that Spiderman killed Mysterio. Making everyone forget Peter Parker unfortunately didn’t make everyone forget about the villain who took everything from him, who had managed to convince the public that Spiderman was the villain. Sometimes, when he swung on the streets, he felt as if people were going to hurl tomatoes at him. So far, he’d gotten a lot of newspapers flung at him unsuccessfully, but ever since he moved to a new apartment, no bricks were thrown through his window. At least there was that.

“I didn’t kill Mysterio,” Peter said hastily. “Um, just saying.”

Clint paused. “Right. I kind of figured.”

“Really?”

“Yeah. You’ve done lots of hero stuff, it’s way too suspicious that you would kill someone for no reason. Then Mysterio comes in, taking out those elemental monsters that specifically pop up wherever he goes? It’s suspicious.”

“Hawkeye using his brain,” Daredevil commented in his low voice. “It’s a miracle.”

Clint rolled his eyes. “You’re getting on my last nerve, Red.” He turned back to Peter. “Need some help getting out of there?”

“Uh, no, thanks.” Peter shot a web at a nearby lamppost and swung himself out of the dumpster, landing neatly on his feet. The dumpster fluids trickled down his costume, and he nearly gagged.

Clint stifled a laugh, pushing his quiver further up his shoulder. “I’m going to make you an offer you can’t refuse.”

“Is that a Godfather reference?” he pointed out.

“Nope. I just made it up.”

“That is a Godfather reference,” Daredevil agreed.

“Can both of you shut up?” Clint said, frustrated. “I was trying out a thing here. This is the plan. Let’s let Daredevil get back to whatever he does, and you can take a shower at my place. God knows you need it.”

“I thought you lived out in the country.”

He frowned, distrust tinting his expression. “How do you know that?”

Peter cursed internally; he forgot that erasing memories of him also erased the trust the Avengers placed in him since they didn’t know him anymore. “Mr. Stark mentioned it.”

“…I’m in town on business. Got a hotel here. You get cleaned up, I’ll call my buddy Matt, and we’ll talk.”

“Matt?”

“He’s a lawyer. He’ll probably give you better advice than I do, even if he’s a dickwad,” Clint said cheerfully. Daredevil snorted.

“Do you mean Mr. Murdock?” Peter said hopefully.

Clint’s mouth fell ajar, and Daredevil stiffened. “How do you know Matt Murdock?”

“It’s complicated. We’ve talked before, but—it’s complicated.” He could have slapped himself. If Matt showed up, how could he explain to someone who had no idea who he was that they had spoken before?

“Alright, alright. The shower is a priority. I can’t handle this stink.”

Clint herded Peter back to a nearby hotel. It was a small room, with a single bed and a tiny table where a few items were scattered: a wallet, an arrow, a file. Peter went straight into the shower, scrubbing himself with the hotel’s ginger soap until he couldn’t detect the dumpster stench anymore.

Wrapping a towel around his waist, he poked his head around the doorway, keeping his mask on. “Mr. Hawkeye? I’m sorry to ask, but do you have anything I could wear? My suit is dirty, so…”

Clint had been typing on his phone, but he put it down to bring over a stack of fresh clothes. “Here. And Clint is fine. No one has ever called me Mr. Hawkeye. Ever.”

Peter had thought they would talk in the hotel room, but Clint led him to what looked like a lawyer’s office with the assurance that Matt would help him out. The building lights were already switched on when they entered, and when they stepped into the office, Matt Murdock was waiting there.

“Hey,” Matt greeted as they walked in. He must have heard them. “I think you have something you want to talk about… Spiderman.”

Peter took a deep breath. He had no idea where to start. “I’m in a complicated situation.”

“What’s the situation?”

“It’s complicated.”

“Yes, I got that.”

He decided to start at the part he would be able to explain; the only thing Matt Murdock could help him with. “The world thinks that I killed Mysterio, but I didn’t—well, I did, but—” He paused to take another deep breath. “He edited some stuff I said out of context to make it look like I killed him for no reason, but he was a bad guy. He faked those Elemental attacks to make himself look like a hero. The monsters were just a projection, but the damage was real, so really, he was destroying the city. I stopped him, but now everyone thinks I killed a hero.”

Matt folded his hands on the desk, leaning forward slightly. “Right. Well, I’ll have to appraise the evidence to determine what charges you’ll be dealing with here, but I don’t think they’ll stick. You can’t prosecute someone without a known identity.”

There was no way Peter could explain to Matt that he himself already cleared the charges, but he also didn’t want to waste Matt’s time by forcing him to look over a case he already resolved. Still, there was no alternative. He couldn’t risk unveiling his secret identity again. He had already hurt too many people.

“As well as that,” Matt interjected. “I’m aware of some transgressions you’ve committed, including trespassing, breaking and entering, and attempted murder.”

Peter gaped at him. “Is this about that fight last week? Because if I didn’t trespass into those grounds, that maniac would have blown up the entire warehouse. And I did not try to kill anyone.”

“These vigilantism-related charges are common, and regardless of whether you killed Mysterio—”

“I didn’t!”

“I know, but the general public doesn’t know that. The court of public opinion isn’t on your side. If you come by my office again tomorrow, we can talk about it further.”

“It doesn’t bother me that much, Mr. Murdock, really,” he stammered out. “I don’t want to create any trouble for you. I can deal with it.”

“You’ve been through the wringer, kid. I’ll handle this, pro-bono.”

-

The next day, Peter returned to the office, wearing a casual hoodie and a pair of jeans, the Spiderman mask tucked in his pocket so he could put it on when he arrived at the office. It was odd to walk through the streets again and have no one recognize him. In a short amount of time, he’d grown used to everyone hurling insults at him, staring at him as if he were an alien made of black goo.

When he walked into the office, pulling on the mask, the sound of arguing voices jumped out at him.

“That doesn’t change the fact that you don’t exactly have the best judgment when it comes to beautiful women.”

Matt’s voice was exasperated. “How would I know if a woman is beautiful?”

“I don’t know. It’s kind of spooky, actually. But if there’s a stunning woman with questionable character in the room, Matt Murdock’s gonna find her, and Foggy Nelson’s gonna suffer.”

“I assure you I couldn’t care less about attractive women. Anymore.”

“Oh, is that so?”

“Lately I’ve been more focused on this incredibly sweet, funny, capable, and stubborn defense attorney.”

“Firstly, stubborn? And secondly, I’m not a particularly good defense attorney.”

“Don’t make me send you a cease-and-desist letter regarding Foggy Nelson slander.”

“I apologize for my misconduct, Mr. Murdock. Will there be consequences?”

Hastily, Peter knocked on the door of the office before this could escalate into something he did not want to hear. With all the traumatizing things he had experienced, law jargon dirty talk might be the last straw.

He heard the sound of a chair clattering over from inside, and someone cleared their throat. Matt was sitting behind his desk, features arranged in a poker face, while an unfamiliar man was sitting on the edge of the desk, his cheeks red. A cane was lying on the ground, along with a few case files and loose sheets of paper. 

“Hey,” Matt said, his voice more lighthearted than usual. To Peter’s surprise, he had a black eye, as well as a large bruise on his cheekbone. “Good to see you.”

The other man snorted. “See you?”

He shook his head. “Figure of speech. What am I supposed to say? Good to hear you? Smell you?”

Peter didn’t know what to say. The man pointed at the spare chair, so he sat down. “Uh… good to see you too.”

Matt gestured towards the other man. “This is my partner, Foggy. Excuse him. He’s a little slow.”

His face visibly brightened as he said Foggy’s name, like it gave him joy just to say the word. Peter didn’t know whether he loved or hated happy couples right now, but either way, it was a fist clenched around his heart.

Foggy held a hand to his chest. “How dare you, Matt. After I opened my home and my heart to you? After we promised each other we’d be the best damn avocados this city has ever seen?”

“…Avocados?” Peter said, more than a little lost.

“Long story. I’m Foggy Nelson.” He reached over to shake Peter’s hand. “Matt told me about your whole Mysterio deal—I’m sorry, man.”

Mysterio was the least of it. “Oh. Thanks.”

“What do you need us for? Or, more accurately, what do you need Blind Matt Murdock for?”

Matt held back a laugh. Peter had never seen him look so happy, his face relaxed, mouth curved in a smile. “Most people say Matt Murdock.”

“Do I look like most people?”

“I don’t know, I can’t see.”

Foggy raised a hand to his head. “I’m having deja-vu. I think we’ve had this exact conversation before—it was that night! You know, with the avocadoes.”

He laughed, then touched the corner of his mouth, as if trying to stop the smile. “I’m sorry. Where were we?”  

“That’s okay, Mr. Murdock,” Peter said quickly. He didn’t say it, but it was nice to see this little picture of happiness after all the tragedies he’d witnessed. Two guys giggling over inside jokes, throwing playful jabs at each other, more comfortable with each other than Peter would ever get a chance to be with anyone.

They spent the next few hours discussing the various legal issues Peter hadn’t even realized he was entangled in. By the end of it, Matt assured him that the charges wouldn’t stick without reasonable evidence, especially since his identity wasn’t known to the public, but that it would take a while before this Mysterio mess blew over, which was essentially what he had told him the first time, minus the additional charges he had accumulated since then. There was a lot of other legal jargon that Peter didn’t understand, but he trusted Matt to handle it.

Afterward, they offered to take Peter out for lunch, and he agreed. It would be nice to spend some time with people who knew him rather than criminals trying to kill him for a change. They sat in the corner of a small restaurant that Foggy swore had the best sandwiches, and due to the shining enthusiasm with which he declared the fact, Peter was inclined to believe him.

When the waitress came by, Foggy gave her a bright smile and said, “Two chicken sandwiches,” like he didn’t even have to think about the second order. Matt touched his forearm in response, a silent thanks.

Peter ordered a chicken sandwich, too, and he didn’t know if he wanted to throw it at them or choke himself with it.

Matt glanced in Foggy’s direction, lowering his voice. “You know the waitress is really attracted to you, right?”

Foggy stared at him in surprise, which soon melted to amusement. “Sweet. I’ll talk to her the next time she comes around. Be my wingman?”

He snorted, hitting Foggy’s shoulder lightly. Doubtlessly, the touch landed where he wanted it to. “You’re awful.”

“Maybe I am, maybe I’m not.” He looked over at Peter and gave him that same wide smile, one that was so purely friendly and genuine that Peter couldn’t help but smile back. “So, what’s up with you, Spidey?”

“Not a lot, honestly,” Peter said with a shrug. “I’m going to get my GED, and yeah, it sucks that this all happened right when I was about to graduate, but nothing to do, I guess. Other than that, just Spiderman stuff.”

“No personal stuff?”

“Not really.”

“No girls?”

He thought of MJ. The memories were tinted bitter with wistfulness now. “No. Just gangsters and aliens.”

Foggy laughed. “Great. Now I’ve got a crime-fighting spider to deal with.”

And though Peter didn’t want to create any trouble for them, he kind of liked the way Foggy said I’ve got a crime-fighting spider, like he was accepting responsibility for Peter. Like he cared for his well-being rather than what he could do for the city or his abilities. Even the Avengers only called on Peter when they wanted something from him, so it was oddly nice to have Foggy recognize that being a vigilante was more of a burden than a gift for him.

“You think that’s bad?” Matt said to Foggy. “At least he’s decent. The real disaster is Clint. I rue the day I let him force his way into my life.”

“How did you guys meet?” Peter asked. “You and Clint?”

He cracked a smile. “We ended up in the same dumpster. Obviously, he couldn’t get enough of Hell’s Kitchen since he kept coming back after that. After stitching him up a bunch of times and letting him stay at my place, we accidentally became friends. That’s how I got saddled with that idiot.”

Peter grinned. “I’m sure he would tell it differently.”

“Don’t believe a word he says. Regardless, I owe him my life, so I can’t complain more than I already do.”

His eyes widened. He couldn’t imagine what sort of a situation would involve a rather mild-mannered lawyer needing to be rescued by Hawkeye. “How?”

Matt put his hand on Foggy’s forearm again, gently squeezing it, and Foggy smiled back at him, so intimate that Peter almost wanted to look away. “A member of some gang decided to kidnap Foggy when we were working on a big case against them, and I was far enough that I didn’t arrive in time. Clint was nearby, and he rescued him.”

“So, technically, you owe him your one chance at love,” Foggy corrected, though he was still smiling. “Not exactly your life.”

He turned his face towards Foggy, and the sincerity etched on his face was unmistakable. “You are my life. My chance at love is a massive understatement.”

Foggy’s cheeks turned red, and wordlessly, he reached for Matt’s hand, entwining their fingers.

Matt turned back to Peter with a sheepish smile. “I was a massive idiot for—I don’t even know. More than a decade. We just got together last month.”

Peter gaped at him. He couldn’t imagine pining after his best friend for more than a decade, having them so close but being unable to bridge the gap, too scared to lose everything. “I didn’t know it’s only been a month for you guys. You really have that old married couple vibe.”

“That’s the college best friends effect,” Foggy said solemnly. "Honestly, dating hasn't changed much. We pretty much act the same as before, except with more kissing." That last bit made Matt laugh. 

“It’s nice. My life’s—” he gave a bitter laugh. “My life’s kind of shit right now, so it’s nice to see people who are actually happy.”

Matt leaned a little closer. “It’s important to have people who will support you. Friends. Family. The world may think you’re a murderer, but it doesn’t matter if the people who know you stand by you.”

“I don’t really have anyone,” Peter confessed.

“Not anymore. You have me, and you have Clint.”

Peter blinked away tears, and for the first time in a long time, they weren’t tears of despair. “Thank you.”

-

Laura Barton was an angel on earth.

Truly. Peter made the decision to accept Clint’s offer to spend Thanksgiving at his family’s farm last minute, and Laura made the necessary accommodations instantly, preparing extra portions of food, setting another place at the table for him. It turned out that Clint and his family had moved to a new farm on the outskirts of Hudson Valley, so it only took a short bus ride to get there.

Clint was in a grey area between retirement and continuing to operate as Hawkeye, occasionally suiting up to handle low-level threats while prioritizing his family. He mentioned in passing that his children had always wanted to live in New York and Laura liked the idea of living on a farm in the Hudson Valley, so they moved there. The remaining Avengers were spread out across the map, if they could even be called the Avengers anymore, considering they weren’t operating as a group. Still, New York City was their unofficial headquarters, and Clint told him that they had bi-monthly meetings where they all flew in to hang out, so living near New York would make it easier to stay in touch with the people who were clearly the only surviving friends he had left, other than Matt and Kate Bishop.

When Peter arrived at the family farm, Clint’s children ran up to him, thrilled to be meeting Spiderman—he had still never taken off the mask around Clint—and it was nice to be around people who idolized rather than hated him.

The Mysterio thing was slowly blowing over, Spiderman’s good deeds accumulating once again to influence public opinion, but the ever-present loneliness hadn’t subsided. Other than Clint and Matt, Peter didn’t talk to anyone. Matt and Foggy were at Thanksgiving too, and with all of them sitting in the living room together, chatting over warm tea, Peter almost felt like he was part of a family again.

Clint’s house’s living room was cozy, the furniture comfortable and well-worn. Laura was preparing the meal in the kitchen while Clint went to help her. Matt was talking to Clint’s oldest son, Cooper, while Lila came over to sit beside Peter.

“Why are you wearing that mask?” she asked, matter-of-fact.

Peter tried to think of how to answer the question without offending her with the insinuation that he didn’t trust her family. “Nobody knows who I am.”

“Not nobody. My dad knows,” she countered playfully. “Uncle Matt knows. I know.”

He smiled at her. “They don’t know my face.”

“Why not? I mean, it’s weird to wear a Spiderman mask when we’re inside.”

“Because I’m secretly an ogre,” he joked, side-stepping the question. “I’m too embarrassed to show my face in public.”

“So, how old are you? Because you sound, like, really young.”

Peter didn’t want to disclose his age, but it was getting hard to avoid these questions. So far, he had an inkling that Clint had figured out his real age because of how young his voice sounded, but he hadn’t commented on it besides referring to him as Kid multiple times.

Thankfully, Matt interjected. “So, I hear you saw the Rogers musical, Lila. What did you think?”

“Aw, it was total shit!” Clint called from the kitchen. A moment later, there was a quiet thud, as if Laura playfully slapped him for swearing in front of the kids. “Poop, poop. Sorry, kids!”

Peter laughed, and so did Matt, the corners of his eyes crinkling behind the shaded glasses. There was a red scrape on his cheek, and when he reached over for his glass of water, Peter noticed that his knuckles were bruised.

So, when Foggy got up to get himself a glass of water, Peter followed him to the kitchen.

“Hey, Foggy,” Peter said, stopping him. “Every time I see Matt, he’s always covered in these bruises or cuts. Where does he get those?”

Foggy faltered, then said, “He has a drinking problem.”

That surprised him. “A drinking problem?”

“…Yeah. Rough childhood.”

“Oh. Sorry for asking.”

“It’s alright.” He smiled at Peter and clapped him on the shoulder. “Thanks for asking, actually. It’s nice of you to be concerned. Don’t worry too much about it.”

The hours passed quickly, playing board games, chatting about everything from pop stars to the weirdest villains they had fought. Naturally, Peter and Clint tied on that one, but the fact that Clint fought the Chitauri in New York pushed him over the edge to take the win for Weirdest Bad Guy.

Before all this happened, he and Clint had never truly interacted, and he was fairly sure Clint hadn’t known he was Peter Parker before Mysterio doxxed him. So, the fact that Clint didn’t have any memories of Peter Parker to be erased was a relief, because it was like having a normal friend rather than the shell of a person he used to be close to. If he tried to approach Ned again, it wouldn’t be the same; it would be too painful to have to hold back inside jokes they used to share, remember memories and fun times Ned had no recollection of.

But Clint Barton had no memories of Peter Parker to lose, so he was getting to know him now, even if it was as Spiderman. It was still too risky for Peter to expose his secret identity. He had to accept that he was flying solo now. A solitary ranger. A lone wolf. Okay, that was too cheesy.

Bottom line, Peter Parker was a nobody, a shadow that trailed behind the blaze that was Spiderman, a satellite bound to his shining orbit.

Spiderman was a hero. He was a beacon of hope that selflessly devoted his life to saving people. Peter Parker was a child trying to protect a city much greater than himself. He didn’t matter. People wanted to know Spiderman. Peter was something else entirely. So even if he knew Clint wouldn’t expose his true name, there was no reason to reveal it when he was trying to squash that part of his identity. He wouldn’t put anyone else at risk. Clint had a family, and he couldn’t afford to have people coming after him in a bid to find out Peter’s identity.

“You okay?” Matt asked, sitting beside him, leaving his cane propped up by the side of the sofa where he had previously been sitting.

“Yeah, I’m fine,” Peter said.

“I don’t think you’re being honest.”

“What makes you think that?”

He cracked a smile. “Call it intuition.”

“It’s just been a tiring time. Taking care of New York is a full-time job.”

“You don’t have another job?”

Currently, Peter was making money by selling photos of Spiderman to the Daily Bugle. It gave him a funny sense of satisfaction to look into J.J. Jameson’s face as he handed over the photographs and received the money in return, hearing Jameson complaining about Spiderman without realizing that he was paying him.

“I have a friend who’s been helping me out until I can get a job,” Peter said instead of disclosing all that. “He—um, he takes photos of me and sells them to the Bugle, then we split the money.”

“I see.” The corner of Matt’s mouth turned up. Peter hadn’t said anything funny, had he? “You know, our firm needs some headshots. You can tell your friend to come to the office sometime if he’s looking for a quick, easy job. It’s just me, Foggy, and our associate, Karen.”

Peter perked up. This was risky, but there was no way Matt would know that freelance photographer Peter Parker was Spiderman, and his blindness only ensured that. Foggy was riskier, but getting paid to work with people he already knew wouldn’t try to cheat him or surprise him with a last-minute demand for parlor photography was a great opportunity.

“I’ll tell him,” Peter decided.

Then Clint called them over for an intense game of Monopoly, and the topic was forgotten. Clint proved to be a beast at Monopoly, destroying them with ease, leaving his children scowling at him in frustration. It was an edition with Braille engravings on the board, so Matt was able to play without Foggy describing the text to him, though he took delight in recounting Clint’s expression when he landed on the most expensive house. Clint was not amused.

When it was time for dinner, they settled at the table together, where Laura had laid out a veritable feast, from a ceramic bowl of cranberry sauce to a large casserole and, the crowning jewel of the meal, a juicy roast turkey, cooked to perfection. Peter and May used to have small Thanksgiving meals together, making do with storebought turkey slices and homemade stuffing when they couldn’t afford anything more. Thinking of her name sent a pang of pain through his heart, and remembering her was even worse, the happy memories tainted with guilt and regret and missing her so much that he couldn’t breathe sometimes.

“Are you okay?” Laura said, concern in her voice.

Peter glanced up. “Oh? Y-yeah, I’m fine, thanks. Just thinking about—about the things I’m grateful for.”

There was a knowing look on her face, as if she knew Peter wasn’t telling the truth, but thankfully, she helped him out. “That’s a nice idea. Personally, I’m grateful we can all be together on Thanksgiving without anyone trying to kill us.”

That sent up a titter of laughter. Clint went next. “I’m just grateful Matt hasn’t tried to kill me yet.”

“Thin ice, Barton,” Matt replied. “If I didn’t have a no—” he cut himself off abruptly but didn’t elaborate.

“What were you saying?” Peter prompted, curious. Foggy shot a sideways glance at Matt, almost nervously. His curiosity only increased.

It took Matt a moment to reply. “I’m morally opposed to jokes about killing.”

That didn’t seem to fit right, but he didn’t know Matt well enough to dispute it. “You’re morally opposed?”

“Yes,” he said, more confident. “Very much so.”

“Last week I made a joke about wanting to kill myself, and he made me say the Lord’s Prayer three times,” Foggy interjected. Matt elbowed him, biting back a smile, and when Foggy glanced at him and saw his expression, a smile spread over his face, too.

Today, though Peter was surrounded by the picture of happy families and healthy relationships, he didn’t feel alone. Playing hide-and-seek in the garden with Clint’s children and Matt (who turned out to be freakishly good at both hiding and seeking), helping Laura prepare dinner in the kitchen while she taught him the trick to dicing tomatoes perfectly, Clint ruffling his hair as he squeezed past to sit on the sofa beside him, arguing over Monopoly and who got the best part of the turkey—Today, Peter got to be part of a family again.

It wouldn’t replace what he lost, but then again, it didn’t have to. Nothing would ever change the past, so all he could do was move forward. Today was a glimpse of the future, and the future looked bright.

Today, he wouldn’t remove his mask, but he was beginning to feel like someday, he could.

-

Peter adjusted his glasses and pulled the collar of his shirt into place, making sure he looked presentable. With one last glance at the sign reading Nelson and Murdock, he stepped inside, carrying a duffel bag in which he had his photography equipment. He deliberated for a while about whether or not it was too risky for Peter Parker to take this job with Matt, but in the end, the lure of money won.

“So, you’re Peter Parker, with the Daily Bugle?” Karen Page asked at the front desk when he gave her the resume he hastily drew up last night. Peter had interacted with her a bunch of times as Spiderman, so he knew she was unofficially an attorney at the firm, but that she still acted as a secretary because the firm wasn’t exactly lucrative.

He felt abnormally bare with his face out in the open, like a proper Victorian maiden. “I’m not with the Daily Bugle, per se. Working freelance at the moment.”

“Right. Well, if you get me talking, I won’t shut up, so you can go right in.”

Peter hesitated at the door of the office. It was risky to take a job under his true identity with someone who knew him as Spiderman, but he needed the money and he trusted Matt to pay him fairly without trying to swindle him because he was young and inexperienced. So, he knocked on the door, then stepped inside at the affirmative reply.

“Peter Parker?” Matt asked, tilting his head up to look in Peter’s direction. He looked the same as always, with his shaded glasses and his crisp, well-fitted suit.

“Yes, sir,” Peter said, making his voice slightly lower. Maybe the mask had muffled his voice enough that Matt wouldn’t recognize it now. “Uh, Spiderman said you were looking for a photographer?”

“Yes, I am. Have a seat.” When he sat down, Matt said, “How do you know Spiderman?”

The way Matt was looking at him was unnerving, as if he could actually see him. Peter shifted in his seat, and wished he had the mask with him so he could cover his face, even if it wouldn’t make a difference. Maybe this was a bad idea. He didn’t know why unmasking his secret identity still felt like such a big deal to him, but after the disaster following the last time he did it, the thought of doing it again sent a shiver of unease up his spine.

“I met Spiderman when… when he saved me from a mugger,” Peter lied. “So we talked and I asked if I could take photos of him for the Bugle, so now we have a working relationship.”

“How do you contact him?”

“I have his phone number.”

“Do you talk casually?”

“Not really.”

“Do you know his real name?”

He paused. That question was almost too accusatory to be a casual inquiry. His voice steady, he said, “If I knew, would you ask me what it was?”

Matt leaned back in his seat. “No.”

Peter hadn’t been expecting that. This was an opportunity for Matt to pressure him to find out Spiderman’s identity, but he hadn’t taken it. “Oh. Okay.”

“I need a few headshots of myself, Foggy, and Karen. I can offer around a thousand for the package.”

Peter’s eyes widened. He must have misheard. There was no way Matt Murdock, whose law firm was dangerously close to falling under the label of broke, would be willing to pay a thousand dollars for three headshots by a student photographer who barely had any experience. “A thousand? Dollars?”

His voice was amused. “Yes, dollars. I’d assume offering payment in rupees isn’t standard practice in the United States.”

“That’s—that’s quite a lot, Mr. Murdock. I’d be fine with less.”

“Any photographer who convinced Spiderman to let him sell photos of him to the Daily Bugle must be worth his money,” Matt said calmly. “And I’ve seen your shots. They’re good.”

“Oh. Thanks. Yeah, that’s fine. Just one more question—”

The door flew open and Foggy barged in with a “Hey, Matty,” throwing a book straight at Matt’s face.

Matt flinched just before the book collided with his face. With a frown, he rubbed his nose, wincing. Peter gaped at Foggy in horror. What sort of a man would throw a book straight at a blind man’s face, let alone his boyfriend? It was a cruel joke, and one he never would have imagined Foggy would do.

To Peter’s shock, Foggy burst out into laughter, even as Matt’s expression turned reproachful. When he caught sight of Peter, something like realization flashed across his expression. “Oh, shit, sorry, I’m sorry—”

“Why’d you do that?” Peter said, unable to resist glaring at him.

“It’s fine, Peter,” Matt said, rubbing his jaw. Was Peter imagining it, or was he trying to hold back a smile? “This is my partner in the firm, Foggy.”

Foggy raised an eyebrow. “Partner in the firm?”

“After that little stunt, I’m firing you as a romantic partner.”

“I’m kind of offended you didn’t do that in a Trump voice.” Mimicking Trump, he aimed finger guns at Matt and said, “You’re fired. I just did finger guns.”

“Stop distracting me.” Matt tilted his head in Peter’s direction. “This is Peter Parker, he’s a photographer. Spiderboy recommended him for the headshots Karen’s making us do.”

“Um,” Peter said, clearing his throat, “I’m pretty sure it’s Spiderman.”

“I must have mixed it up,” he said innocently. “My mistake.”

“Awesome,” Foggy said, offering Peter his usual sunshiney smile that made it very hard to stay angry at him. After all, Matt didn’t seem to be irritated by the book assault. “Hey, you’re the guy that does Spiderman’s photos, right? Those are really awesome. How do you get such close shots?”

“I have a deal with Spiderman, so I get exclusive shots,” Peter said, trying not to be flattered by the compliment. He failed in that endeavor.

“Cool, cool. Can I get my headshots done in a Spiderman costume?”

Peter laughed. “If you want.”

“Hm… Nah, Spiderman’s too heroic for me, I need some morally grey thing going on. Maybe the Punisher.”

“No,” Matt said at once. “We literally spent months working on the Castle case. How could you want to dress up like the Punisher after that?”

“You’re right, it’s too soon. What about Captain America?” Foggy flexed his arms. “I could pull off a Captain America. Right?”

If Peter was in his Spiderman mask, he would have been close enough to Foggy to make a joke that Foggy decidedly did not have enough muscles nor enough patriotism to pull off Captain America. However, Peter Parker was meeting Foggy for the first time, and it would be strange if he responded with a joking insult.

“You need to hit the gym more,” Matt advised, saving Peter from having to reply. “Captain America is a no.”

“Do I look like someone who’s capable of making healthy life choices?”

“I wouldn’t know, I can’t see.”

“What about Thor?” Foggy suggested. “I could do a chubbier version of Thor.”

Matt laughed at that, a real laugh that crinkled the corners of his eyes and made him bow his head from the force of it, his head almost touching the desk. Peter couldn’t help but laugh, too, feeling it shake through his bones, spark a bundle of warmth in his stomach. The original joke hadn’t been hilarious, but it just got funnier as they kept laughing, the laughter itself becoming amusing. His sides were starting to ache, but it was a good ache.

The headshot session went well. It started off fairly professional enough, but soon Karen and Foggy started making jokes, and it deteriorated into all of them messing around, laughing so much that all the photos came out shaky. Eventually, Peter wasn’t even taking photos anymore, instead joining in their lighthearted banter, Karen telling the guys that they looked like corporate stooges while they responded that they had never been so gravely insulted. Noon rolled around and passed, so they agreed to take a break for lunch and an argument ensued between Foggy and Karen about what they should order. In the end, Karen won, and they ordered Chipotle.

“Chipotle was a good idea,” Foggy admitted grudgingly as they all sat around Karen’s desk to eat lunch.

“My ideas are always the best,” Karen said. “You should know that by now.” She glanced at Peter, who had already finished half his meal. She pushed one of the extra burritos they had ordered over to him, and though he politely refused it, she insisted he take it.

“Peter, just take the burrito,” she insisted. “We wasted a lot of your time and your resources.”

Matt nodded. “We really have. I will compensate you for that.”

Peter frantically shook his head. “It’s fine, Mr. Murdock, please, you don’t need to pay me more than what you already are.”

“This stuff doesn’t come cheap. I’m sure you have to spend a lot for each hour and each shot that we messed up. I’ll add it to your payment.”

Visions of an embarrassing amount of money swam in front of his eyes, and he pushed them away. “I really don’t mind. It was fun.”

Foggy looked up from his bowl. “Oh, man. They forgot the guacamole.”

“There are already enough avocadoes in this office,” Matt said, sending Foggy into stitches of laughter.

“You guys are absolutely ridiculous,” Karen said with a roll of her eyes, and Peter thought that maybe it wasn’t so bad to hang out with them without his mask after all.

His friends. His family, a small voice in the back of his mind corrected, and he was inclined to agree.

Chapter Text

For the next few weeks, Peter found Matt offering him more and more jobs. Commissioning him to take photos of a specific building he claimed to love, asking him to photograph as many low-flying planes as he could. Peter was starting to question Matt’s taste in photography, because some of these commissions were absolutely absurd, but Matt insisted on paying him a ridiculously high fee for every photo and some of his requests were quite fun to fulfill, so Peter continued accepting the jobs. 

[Matt Murdock] Hey, I have another job for you.

[Me] you make it sound like it’s a hit job

[Matt Murdock] I am Morally Opposed to that.

[Me] k

        so what am i supposed to photograph this time? a sewer in hell’s kitchen? a particularly tall tree?

[Matt Murdock] Karen and Foggy are going to a cosplay convention together. They want to dress up like Luffy and meat and they insist there’s only one photographer they trust.

[Me] …. Luffy and MEAT??

[Matt Murdock] Don’t get me started.

[Me] can i guess who’s the meat

[Matt Murdock] We both know who it is.

[Me] djagfklahfkshg

        is he really going to do it

[Matt Murdock] He already has the costume.

Matt Murdock has sent an image.

Peter looked at the image that popped up on his screen and let out a laugh that was more like a snort. Foggy was in a T-bone steak costume, holding two thumbs up while beaming.

[Matt Murdock] I’m reconsidering our relationship.

[Me] maybe you could talk him down to tanjiro and nezuko

[Matt Murdock] So he can dress up like Nezuko? No thanks.

[Me] levi and erwin

        nah you can’t send your man out as part of a couple costume with one of the most beautiful, tragic anime couples of all time

        levi and a titan ahdfkashfdkl

[Matt Murdock] I thought we were allies. You betrayed me. I can never forgive this.

The day of the convention, he deliberated over whether he should dress up, too, or whether he should just go in normal clothes. In the end, he decided to have fun with it and settled on a low-effort costume that wouldn’t take him much time to prepare. A few smudges of eyeliner and a white shirt later, he was heading to the convention as L.

When he walked through the doors, a barrage of colors, lights, and sound hit him. People were everywhere, dressed up in intricate costumes, some equipped with props, and there were stalls where artists were selling their work, from posters to necklaces with familiar symbols.

“Peter?” a voice said from behind him.

Peter turned to see Matt. He gaped at him. “How did you know it was me?”

Matt’s mouth was slightly open. After a moment, he said, “Your footsteps are familiar.”

That was suspicious, but Peter didn’t know enough about being blind to dispute it. Besides, what other explanation was there for it? “…Okay.”

That was when he took in what Matt was wearing. The outfit he had originally mistaken for his usual suit was actually a black six-button tailcoat emblazoned with a crest over a striped, white shirt, along with a necktie, white gloves, and a silver pin. His hair was combed differently, too.

“Oh my God,” Peter said.

Matt grimaced, clearly understanding what had taken Peter aback. “They wore me down. This was the compromise.”

“I can’t believe you’re actually in anime cosplay. This is the best day of my life.”

“If I wasn’t Catholic, I’d have strong words for you.”

“You’re the one who’s dressed up like a demon butler. Hey, do you have to say ‘Yes, sir’, anytime anyone asks you to do something? Is that in the terms of whatever agreement got you to do this?”

After a loaded pause, Matt said, “Not when anyone asks me for something.”

Peter groaned. “I get it. I’m sorry for asking.”

A large red object appeared in the corner of his vision, and he turned to see Foggy sauntering up to them in a meat costume. Karen was right beside him, dressed in a red shirt, blue shirts, and a straw hat that should have made her look ridiculous but somehow suited her. Peter started laughing, and Foggy twirled around in a circle, showing off the costume.

“I was expecting my trusted photographer,” Karen declared, “and instead I got a supernaturally awkward detective.”

Peter held out his arms. “At your service.”

“He’s wearing a costume?” Matt spoke up, curious, and really, it shouldn’t have surprised Peter that the blind man couldn’t see what he was wearing.

“He’s L from Death Note,” Karen informed him.

“Thanks for the clarification, Karen,” he said, deadpan. “You know how much I enjoyed watching Death Note with my seeing eyes.”

“He’s wearing a white shirt and black trousers,” Foggy provided. “And there’s black eyeliner smudged under his eyes so he looks like he hasn’t slept in two weeks. His hair is also much messier than usual.”

“Thanks.” Matt reached out, feeling around for something, and Foggy stepped closer so Matt could hold his elbow for guidance. He frowned when he felt the fabric of the costume. “I still can’t believe you’re dressed as meat.”

“Pot calling the kettle black. You’re a demon butler.”

“That’s different. I’m not wearing this voluntarily.”

“It’s not like Karen and I strapped you down to put on the costume. You agreed of your own accord—” he put on a dramatic voice— “blinded by love.”

“I don’t think it was love that blinded me.”

As far as photography gigs went, it might have been the most fun job Peter had so far. Following Karen and Foggy around to take photos of them, sometimes forcing a reluctant Matt to participate, too, Peter had a chance to explore the convention. There were a surprising amount of people dressed up as Spiderman, and it was touching to see all the people who supported, even admired him.

As Peter inspected a display of brooches alongside Foggy, Matt, and Karen, someone walked up beside him, nudging him. It was Clint, wearing a long, red coat, matching trousers, and a frilly cravat.

“Foggy, what the fuck is that?” Clint practically screeched. “Did you lose a bet?”

“Nah, but Matt did.” Foggy took in Clint’s costume, then weirdly, his cheeks turned red. “Are you Edgeworth?”

“That I am,” Clint confirmed. He narrowed his eyes. “Why do you look so uncomfortable?” Foggy glanced at Matt, who had also gone crimson, and as Clint noticed it, his confused look switched to glee. “Oh. Oh. I get it.”

“There’s nothing to get,” Foggy said hastily. He looked so genuinely distressed that Peter had to hold back a laugh. “I don’t look weird.”

“Hey, I’m not judging. But y’all are questionable, I’ll say that. Most people roleplay, like, firefighters, not characters with jobs they already have.”

“I’m not a prosecutor,” Matt said, then an almost comical expression of disgust passed over his face, as if he realized the response was as good as an admission.

“Guess we know who’s who.” Clint’s grin widened. “You know relations before marriage is a sin, right?”

Matt glared at him. “Shut up, Barton.”

“Besides, if you’re talking about sins, I think the homosexuality thing is what does us in,” Foggy put in. “Maybe they cancel out. Like PEMDAS.”

Matt gave a small laugh. “That’s not how Catholicism works.” Casually, he added, “And who said I’m homosexual?”

“You’ve partaken in some decidedly homosexual activity,” Foggy said, making Karen groan and hit him.

“Maybe I just can’t imagine loving anyone but you.”

“Aw, that’s so cheesy, Murdock,” he said, but he beamed and gently patted Matt’s hand, which was still holding his elbow, though they weren’t walking anywhere. “But I’m not releasing you from our deal. I know you have extra clothes tucked away in the car. You have to wear this for the rest of the day.”

“At least I tried,” Matt said glumly.

Clint looked over at Peter, appraised him for a moment, then smiled. “You’re Peter, right? Their latest victim?”

“I don’t know if I’d use the word victim,” Peter said with a grin. “Considering the money involved, I’d probably go with financial hostage.”

Matt exhaled a small puff of air, almost a laugh, and feigned irritation. “Another betrayal. I’m beginning to regret choosing you as an ally.”

A few hours later, they all went to a nearby restaurant for dinner. They didn’t have a braille menu, so Foggy listed the options to Matt while Clint somehow riled Peter up into an argument about what foods could be considered sandwiches.

Peter had grown used to interacting with Matt as Peter Parker, so it didn’t seem as weird to be his true self around Clint, despite the fact that Clint could actually see his face. Clint mentioned Spiderman a few times, and it was kind of cool to hear how people talked about him behind his back, the affectionate way Clint recounted fun incidents.

And on some weird level, Peter felt a flash of jealousy towards Spiderman. Spiderman was friends with Matt and Clint without having to use the excuse of photography to spend time with them, invited to family events and movie marathons, assured many times that he had their full support. Peter Parker suffered through everything Spiderman had and worse, and though he had been spending more time with Matt lately as himself, he still wasn’t as close to him nor Clint as Spiderman was.

Then it hit Peter that he was jealous of himself. He shook himself out of the stupor. Maybe he was going crazy.

“I have to admit it, the con was actually fun,” Clint said. He brandished an arm at Foggy and Karen. “You guys win this time. I’m just sorry Spidey missed it.”

“Sounds like you’re pretty close,” Peter commented, and to his dismay, his voice came out more accusatory than he’d intended. For fuck’s sake, Parker. You are Spiderman.

Clint didn’t seem to pick up on it. “Yeah, he’s a cool guy.”

“You don’t think he’s a bit annoying sometimes?” he prompted, and okay, he was officially out of his mind.

He laughed. “What, does he piss you off?” 

“…A little bit.”

“Is he a real diva when it comes to taking photos?” Clint joked. “Is that it?”

“Not so bad. At least he never asked me to photograph him in a Thor costume,” Peter said, shooting a teasing glance over at Foggy.

Foggy pretended to be offended. “How dare you, Peter. Everyone here is against me, I thought you were the only nice one. Maybe even nicer than Spiderman.”

Take that, Spiderman, Peter thought, which only showed how something was definitely wrong up in his brain.

“That’s because you’re paying me,” Peter responded, and it felt like a little victory when everyone laughed, even if he was seriously doubting his own sanity.

-

Peter adjusted the lens, then set the camera on the tripod when he was ready.

After viewing the photos Peter had taken of Matt, Foggy, and Karen in various locations, Clint called him to ask if he could come over to his house for a family photo session. He had considered it a privilege that Clint invited Spiderman to his house a few times, considering him trustworthy enough to meet his family, but being invited here as Peter Parker made him wonder how special it was. Then again, he had spent enough time with Matt as Peter Parker that he was certain Matt had spoken well of him to Clint if he was deemed trustworthy enough to be invited here, even if only as a photographer.

It was much easier to photograph Clint’s family than it had been to work with Foggy, Matt, and Karen. The children stood still while Clint and Laura gave smiles that looked too genuine to be practiced. After a few professional shots, they took some candids, livening the atmosphere, Clint telling them terrible jokes that made the children groan in affectionate exasperation while Peter and Laura laughed.

After the session, Clint pointed at him and said, “Now, Matt warned me you have a habit of refusing stuff to be polite, but we’re going to see Wicked on Broadway tonight and you have to come with us.”

“Oh, I can’t come,” Peter stammered. It would be far too expensive. “I’m busy.”

“What are you doing?”

He blurted out the first thing that came to mind. “Washing my hair.”

There was a pause. Five pairs of eyes turned to him. He could feel himself turning crimson. Washing my hair? What’s wrong with me?

Clint laughed. “Sure, junior. Nice try. Let me guess, Netflix and Chinese takeout?”

“I don’t have Netflix,” he mumbled.

“Then you have no excuse at all. Some of Cooper’s clothes might fit you.”

Despite Peter’s fruitless protests, he found himself in the back of Clint’s minivan, heading to the Theater District. He tried to pay Clint back for the ticket he bought, but he refused to accept the money, insisting that it was his treat. It made no sense at all to Peter that both Clint and Matt were so insistent on throwing money at him all the time, and though it made him feel guilty, it meant that he could afford an apartment that wasn’t a total dump and enough food that he didn’t go to bed hungry.

The musical was unsurprisingly fantastic, and afterwards, they ate dinner at a fancy steakhouse where Clint paid for everything yet again. Warm in the coat Clint pressed into his hands, his stomach full, still exhilarated by the experience of the show, it was hard for Peter to feel guilty when he was so content. Nowadays, these moments of happiness weren’t so rare anymore. There was going to a musical with Clint, but there was also running around with him as Spiderman, Clint teaching him how to use a bow. There was going to a cosplay convention with the Lawyer League, as Foggy jokingly called himself, Matt, and Karen before Karen rolled her eyes and called him a nerd.

Peter excused himself to get some air, and he walked outside, standing on the street, watching the colorful billboards flash around him.

“Hey,” Clint said from behind him. “You alright?”

“Yeah. I’m fine.”

Clint didn’t seem convinced. His voice gentle, he said, “You don’t have family, do you, Peter?”

He bowed his head, looking down at the ground, scuffing a pebble around with his shoes. “No.”

“You know, if you need anything, you can always ask me and Laura.”

“First Spiderman, now me,” Peter said, almost bitterly. “Do you go around adopting vulnerable kids?”

He blinked in surprise, and Peter immediately felt terrible for saying it. “Is that what you think this is?”

“I didn’t mean that.”

“Good. We just like hanging out with you, that’s all. You’re a good person. It’s obvious there’s a bunch of stuff you’re not telling us, and I don’t want to probe, but I can keep secrets. We all can.”

Peter turned to look at him, and saw nothing but sincerity on his face. A million thoughts rushed through his mind. The moment he realized Mysterio was a fraud, where his trust turned into horror, and beneath it all, shame. MJ, falling through the air, those seconds where he couldn’t get to her and the cold plunge of desperation, followed by the course of relief when the other Peter caught her, knowing someone had his back. Tony, nudging him aside to sit on his bed, giving him the suit, reaching out for him as he turned to dust as if he could stop it. Aunt May, laughing as the banana hit him, telling him she thought he would catch it because of the Peter Tingle. Aunt May, gone now.

The barrage of memories came to a halt, and Peter realized there were tears on his cheeks.

Peter sniffed. “I… I lost my aunt. May. She was all I had, and—” his voice was so clogged that it was hard to speak. “She died because of Spiderman.”

“No,” Clint said steadily. “She died because of the Goblin. Not Spiderman.”

He stared at him through the haze of tears. “How do you know that?”

“Everyone knew May Parker. She was your aunt, right? Everyone knows how hard she worked to help the people who were Blipped.” He put a hand on Peter’s left shoulder, squeezing it. “Sometimes life isn’t fair, Peter. I lost my family for five years because of Thanos, and I thought I’d never get them back. I did, but countless people didn’t. There are people who died in the Chitauri Invasion, thousands killed in Sokovia. I’m sure Spiderman tried to save May, but we can’t save everyone. We just have to keep moving forward.”

Peter sniffed again, wiping his eyes with the back of his hand. “I know.”

“Do you?”

“I’m trying. Trying to do better.”

He put his other hand on Peter’s right shoulder, looking straight into his eyes. “It’s not your fault.”

Peter cracked a watery smile. “Is this Good Will Hunting?”

“It’s not your fault,” he simply said again, and the lump in Peter’s throat thickened. He pulled Peter into a hug, and he hugged him back, burying his face in his shoulder, letting himself be the one to be comforted for once.

-

Peter’s phone buzzed, and he looked over to inspect the text he’d received.

[Clint] Hey Peter, we’re having a Christmas party at my house, love it if you could come! Warning, Laura will have your head if you say no

Just then, the burner phone he used for Spiderman business chimed. With a lurch of fearful realization, he knew what the message would be before he looked at it.

[The Hawkman] SPIDEY CHRISTMAS PARTY AT MY PLACE i’m gonna kill you if you don’t show up

He flung both the phones on the sofa and groaned.

He had no idea what he was supposed to do. Either way, he was turning down an invitation. Who was he? Peter Parker, or Spiderman? Who did he want to be? It wasn’t as if he could be in one place as two different people.

Peter looked back at the phone, and made a decision.

-

When he rang the doorbell, Clint opened it. Peter held up the edible arrangement he’d brought. “Thanks for inviting me. This is for you.”

“Sweet. I would say you didn’t have to get anything, but food is possibly the greatest gift anyone could give me so I appreciate it.” He took the basket. “Ooh, mince pies! Come on in.”

A fully decorated Christmas tree glittered in the living room, strung with tinsel, golden and red ornaments, along with a few homemade decorations that must have been made by the children when they were younger. Cotton was spread out under the tree to look like snow, barely visible under the mountain of presents. An elf sat on the mantelpiece above the fireplace, and stockings were strung along the wall. Clearly, the Barton household got into Christmas.

To his surprise, Bruce Banner was sitting on the sofa. He smiled when he saw Peter. “Never thought I’d see the day where Spiderman is wearing an ugly Christmas sweater.”

“You say that like yours isn’t hideous,” Peter joked in response. “Good to see you, um, Mr. Banner.”

He wrinkled his nose. “Bruce. Besides, I take pride in being the number one wearer of terrible sweaters.”

Clint spread his arms, revealing his simple purple sweater with a mirror taped to it. “Not this year. Guess who’s winning the ugliest sweater contest this time?"

"Who?" Peter asked, oblivious. Then, it hit him. "Clint!"

Clint burst out laughing. "God, I almost wish Fury was here. I would have loved to try that on him.”

“He would have killed you.”

“It would have been worth it.”

“He nearly killed me when I hung up on him this one time, but I can’t say it was satisfying.”

Clint stared at him, sobering up. “Fury called you? For what?”

Peter stared back at him, fumbling for words. Say something. Say anything. “…Photos. He wanted me to take photos of his… cat.” Not that!

“Nick Fury wanted you to take photos of his cat? And you hung up on him?”

“…Yes.”

“You take photos?” Clint asked, and with a lurch of horror, Peter realized that he’d forgotten that he was here as Spiderman.

“Sometimes. Uh… Bruce’s sweater,” Peter blurted out, trying to change the topic. “That’s an ugly sweater, man.”

Bruce was wearing a sweater that was a horrible shade of green with a melting snowman on it, with a speech bubble saying, Ice to meet you! Bruce just gave a good-natured smile and gave a small bow from where he was seated.

“Peter?” a voice said, and Peter turned to see Matt. God, this was a nightmare.

“It’s Spiderman,” Peter said quickly.

“Oh.” Matt gave an apologetic smile. “I guess it’s that you both sound so young. Sorry.”

“I’ll take it as a compliment.”

“You’re the only honest person in this room. Tell me the truth. What am I wearing?”

It should have been obvious, but it hadn’t occurred to Peter that Matt didn’t even know what he was wearing on a daily basis. In this case, it was a blessing that he couldn’t see, because the sweater almost made Peter wish he couldn’t see, either. It depicted Santa riding on the back of Rudolph the red-nosed reindeer, brandishing a large candy cane. Rudolph's nose had an actual light attached to it, and it was blinking red.

Peter held up his hands to shield his eyes. “I’m blind.” He cringed as he realized what he’d said. “Oh, shit, I’m so sorry—”

Matt shook his head, his mouth curving into a smile. “Ouch. Low blow.”

“I’m so sorry—”

“After all, I think I’m the one who’s blind.”

“Please kill me now.”

“I’m—”

“I know, I know, you’re Morally Opposed.”

Matt stilled. “What makes you say that?”

Peter wanted the ground to open up and swallow him. He was completely off his game. Spiderman, he scolded himself. Not Peter. “Um, you’re Catholic. I just figured you don’t support murder.”

“I don’t think anyone supports murder.”

“I do,” Clint piped up. “Zero no-kill code here. I think Daredevil’s also okay with it.”

“Daredevil is not okay with killing,” Matt responded instantly. “He, uh, told me.”

“Sure, he has a no-kill code, but he’s alright with giving people life-threatening injuries. They probably die anyway in the hospital.”

His voice was strangled. “Shut up, Clint. He’s trying his best.”

“You’ve talked to Daredevil?” Peter asked, interested.

“We defended him in court and he gives us evidence sometimes,” Matt said, his expression not changing. “And you’re changing the topic. Give it to me straight. Is my sweater really that terrible? Foggy said it was plain red.”

“Oh, no. You don’t want to know.”

“You fell for my evil plan,” Foggy said, coming out of the adjacent corridor with a beam on his face. “Hey, Spidey. I would do an evil laugh, but from experience, I’ve learned that I’m terrible at those, so I’ll just verbally state that I tricked Matt into wearing a terrible Christmas sweater.”

Matt glared in his direction. “I’m gonna beat your ass, Nelson.”

“Ooh, that sounds kind of nice.”

Clint reached over to cover Bruce’s ears, hissing, “Language! We have a kid here.”

Bruce rolled his eyes. “I forgot how annoying you are.”

“If only I could forget,” Matt said. “Unfortunately, he’s developed into something of a parasite.”

“…Emotionally, I’m on your side, but I just have to say that’s not how parasites work.”

“I’m a lawyer, not a scientist.”

“My mom wanted me to be a butcher, you know that?” Foggy piped up.

“Oh, not the butcher story,” Matt said with a sigh that told Peter this story had been regaled many, many times. “You never know what you said next.”

“I’m fairly certain it wasn’t about bailing out a piss-drunk electrician who nearly burned his house down, which is one of the most annoying things we’ve had to deal with, and I don’t say that lightly.”

“Next he’s going to start complaining about quitting Landman and Zack, even though he hated interning there,” Matt said to the room at large. Clint snorted. “And he’s going to say they had bagels, furniture that doesn’t smell like cigarettes, and elevators.”

Foggy’s expression was resigned. “You know me too well.”

“Naturally. You lost your rights to complain about Landman and Zack when everyone there got arrested for corruption.” He turned towards Foggy and smiled at him. A little softer, he added, “We’re doing good.”

“Yes, we are. So I’ll cut you a deal—I’ll stop complaining for the price of a kiss.”

Everyone groaned, but Matt just grinned and knotted his hands in Foggy’s sweater, tugging him in for a swift kiss.

Peter was glad that the subject was diverted enough that everybody seemed to have forgotten about his mishaps. He would have to be more careful not to mix up his identities, though they had blurred together. He didn’t know if the information he knew was told to Spiderman or Peter Parker. He didn’t know what the difference was anymore.  

After a while, Laura brought out mugs of mulled wine, as well as hot chocolate for her children and Clint, and they sat around to watch a Christmas movie before dinner. She offered Peter mulled wine, too, but he chose the hot chocolate instead, telling her he liked it better, though he was sure she sensed from his voice that he was still under the legal drinking age in the country. The mug was warm in his hands, the smell of the hot chocolate warm and pleasant, tiny marshmallows floating on the surface. When they dimmed the lights as the movie started, Peter rolled the lower half of his mask up so he could drink the hot chocolate in comfort.

He had been certain that he was going to spend this Christmas alone. Instead, he was surrounded by his friends, huddled up on the sofa under a cozy blanket. He had the spot right next to the arm of the sofa while Karen was at the other end, Foggy sitting between them. Matt was sitting on the floor in front of Foggy, who gently ran his hands through Matt’s hair as he watched the movie, the gesture natural as breathing. Meanwhile, Clint was sitting next to Laura, and he held her hand, occasionally glancing over at her and smiling when she laughed at a scene.

It should have made Peter feel lonely, bitter that he never got a chance to make it work with MJ. Instead, it made him feel better to be here, to see that the sacrifices he and the others before him had made hadn’t gone to worse. Tony had given up his life with his wife and daughter to save the world, and now Clint was sitting here with his family, beaming when his children took their eyes off the screen to tease each other, getting up to pour more hot chocolate when they finished their first servings.

After the movie, they sat down for dinner. The table was loaded with a vast variety of foods, from roast potatoes to yet another massive turkey, and faux snow was scattered over the tablecloth, tiny flecks of white standing out like snowflakes against the smooth, red fabric. Peter took his seat beside Bruce.

Then everyone at the table was staring at him, their expressions shocked.

“What?” Peter said, confused. A moment later, it hit him. When he sat down at the table, he had instinctively taken off his mask completely. “Oh, shit. Um, I can explain.”

“Spidey just took his mask off,” Foggy said for Matt’s benefit, glancing over at him. “And it’s Peter Parker.”

“Don’t freak out,” Clint said quickly, just as Matt opened his mouth to speak. “I already knew.”

Peter gaped at him. “You knew?”

“Well, yeah. You’re not that subtle, junior. Saying stuff only Spiderman would know, or stuff only Peter knows when you’re in the mask.”

“I mean, I knew, too,” Foggy added, and Peter turned to stare at him this time. “Your personality is very distinctive. You even text the same way.”

Matt spoke up. “I realized it the first time I met you as Peter Parker.”

That surprised Peter more than the others. At least Clint would have been able to notice visual similarities. Matt had been entirely in the dark, pun unintended. “The first time?”

“Your voice is the same,” he said, matter-of-fact. “You didn’t even try to change it up. It could not have been more obvious.”

“Why didn’t you tell me you knew?”

“We didn’t want to push you into revealing anything you didn’t want to reveal.” Matt grinned. “And it was fun to watch you and your little identity crisis. Don’t think I didn’t notice that you were actually jealous of Spiderman.”

Despite himself, Peter laughed, looking down at the table. “I guess it was kind of ridiculous.”

“You’re a little shit, Murdock,” Clint informed him. “I had good intentions. You were messing with the poor guy.”

Peter glared at Matt as a few memories returned to him. “Is that why you started interrogating me about Spiderman when you met me as Peter? And all the other times you made me talk about Spiderman, knowing I was talking about myself? And the fact that you said ‘Spiderboy’, like, three times?”

Matt’s smile widened, and he gave a casual shrug. “It was very entertaining.”

Peter directed his glare towards Clint. “You’re not much better. You invited me and Spiderman to Christmas. I was really panicking.”

Clint laughed. “I’m sorry, I just wanted to see what you’d do. If it makes you feel better, I didn’t tell anyone.”

“To my credit, I only told Foggy,” Matt spoke up.

“And Foggy told me,” Karen added. “But I pretty much knew anyway. You really weren’t subtle at all.”

“I figured it out on my own,” Clint said, quite proudly. “But I lied about not telling anyone. I told Laura, and she’d already figured it out by the time I told her anyway.”

Bruce held up a hand, looking more than a little disorientated. “Okay, I did not know.” He looked at Spiderman. “So, your name’s Peter?”

Though the reveal hadn’t been intentional, Peter felt as if a weight had been lifted off his shoulders. Peter Parker and Spiderman were one and the same. He didn’t have to pretend anymore. No more irrational jealousy, trying to decide which persona he should use to meet up with Clint, how he should hide what he knew. He could just be himself.

Peter smiled. “Yeah. I’m Peter. Nice to meet you guys. Again.”

And as they smiled back at him, returning to the comfortable atmosphere they had before, passing around plates and bowls of food, Peter looked around the table at the only people in the world who knew who Peter Parker was, and he thought that maybe falling into that dumpster was the best thing that could have happened to him.

Chapter Text

Peter was in the office again, where he tended to hang out lately. After all, Matt, Foggy, and Karen were always here, and consequently, Clint visited the office a lot, too, often lingering around for hours to annoy the attorneys as they tried to work on their cases.

Today, Matt and Foggy were seated at Matt’s desk, inspecting various files, while Peter sat on a wheelie chair in the corner of the office, reading a book that he wasn’t really paying attention to, instead trying to make sense of the legal jargon they were spouting at each other.

“Got the insights?” Matt asked.

Foggy frowned at the computer. “It’s still loading. We need better Wi-Fi.”

“We need better everything.”

“Let’s do that.” He grinned. “Let’s win cases, be popular, and make money.”

Matt gave him an exasperated smile, tinged with weary affection. “It’s not about that, Foggy.”

“I know, but it could be. Just a little, a smidge.”

Karen kicked the door open. “You idiots better not be wasting time fawning over each other when I’ve been busting my ass trying to find anything useful.” Her voice lightened. “Oh, hey, Peter.” She turned back to Foggy. “Wi-Fi’s acting weird.”

“Bang on the router,” he suggested. Karen walked away, and a moment later, he heard a sharp thud. From this angle, Peter couldn’t see the computer screen, but Foggy perked up so it must have loaded. “All right, practice insights for New York State Penal Law 35.15.”

“Penal law?” a familiar voice said from the doorway, sauntering in. Clint. “Save the dirty talk for the bedroom, boys. And especially not in front of Peter.”

“A penal law is a law prescribing a—” Matt began.

Clint’s hands flew to his ears, and he mimed turning down his hearing aids, though he didn’t actually mess with them. “No way. I didn’t come here to be tortured.”

“So why did you come here?”

He held up the plastic bags he was carrying. “Chinese food.”

Two minutes later, they were all sitting around the desk, eating the food. Starving, Peter tore into the chicken, finishing his portion rapidly. Clint and Matt exchanged glances, then Clint tapped Matt’s arm and guided him out of the office, promising that they would be back in a minute.

“I have something to say,” Clint announced as they returned, clapping his hands.

“Is it something stupid?” Karen said around a mouthful of chicken.

“No, it’s very cool.”

“I doubt that.”

“Stop interrupting me, Karen,” he complained. He looked over at Peter, and his face softened. “Anyway, Peter, I wanted to say that if you want, you can come live with my family for a while. We have plenty of space, and Laura would be happy to have you as long as no aliens try to break into our home.”

Peter stared at him, stunned. “I—that’s really kind of you, but I couldn’t do that. You have a family.”

“If you’re willing to take the risk of being blinded by seeing something you definitely do not want to see, you could also stay with Matt and his boy toy,” Clint suggested. Foggy held back a laugh.

Matt huffed. “He is not my boy toy. He’s my partner.”

“That makes you sound like you’re lawyers.”

“We are lawyers!”

Peter let out a laugh and stood up to get himself a cup of coffee. He watched it pour out of the machine, more like black-tinted water than proper coffee. God, they really didn’t have much of a budget for this place. That made him wonder why Matt paid him so much for his photography, which brought him to another realization.

“Matt,” Peter said abruptly. “Did you overpay the hell out of me because you knew I was Spiderman?”

At least Matt had the decency to look a little sheepish. “I wouldn’t say I overpaid you. I was very pleased with the photos.”

“You paid me four hundred dollars for a few photos of Karen making coffee.”

“Those photos show clients that we’re down-to-earth.”

“A hundred dollars for a photo of a plane flying over the Empire State.”

“I love planes,” he said innocently. Clint rolled his eyes.

“You can’t see.”

“One of my clients is a pilot and he liked the photo when he saw it on my desk.”

“Eight hundred dollars for that photoshoot of Foggy dressed up as Thor,” Peter cited, playing his trump card, even if Foggy shot him a playful glare at it with his hands on his hips.

“What’s wrong with wanting photos of the love of my life?” he asked in that same innocent tone. Foggy gave an exhale of laughter, and when he looked back at his food, a tiny smile remained on his face.

“Again—you can’t see.”

“Ah, the great tragedy of life,” Matt said, rather mournfully. “I could be dating the most beautiful man on Earth, and I wouldn’t know.”

Foggy glanced up from his chicken with a grin. “Or maybe I’m utterly hideous and everyone keeps it from you because they feel bad for you.”

“Are you hideous?”

“No, I’m delicious.”

Matt gave a snort of laughter that only Foggy could get out of him. Peter hadn’t really wondered about whether Matt was born blind or whether it was due to an accident, but it hadn’t occurred to him until now that Matt had no idea what his best friend, and now partner, looked like. He didn’t know what Clint or Peter looked like, either. It was odd to think of it.

Foggy got up to get himself a cup of coffee, and while he was there, brought over a few extra cups for Peter, Matt, and Clint, who was on his fourth cup of the day. With a subtle glance at Matt, Foggy brushed his fingers together over his cup, like he was putting something in, but Peter couldn’t say anything.

“Thanks,” Matt said with a sweet smile. He took a sip of the coffee and wrinkled his nose, setting it down. “You put salt in this.”

“How did you taste that?” Foggy protested. “It wasn’t even a pinch. It was, like, one grain.”

“I just can.” He sniffed the cup with a frown. “This is the fourth time this month you or Karen put salt in my coffee. Do you have a vendetta against me?”

“It’s an experiment. Very scientific.”

Peter tilted his head to the side. “So does being blind actually heighten your senses?”

Foggy choked on his coffee. Karen whacked him on the back, but her face was going pink and she stepped away to the coffee machine, turning her back to them, while Clint looked like he was trying to keep his face straight.

Peter looked at Foggy, somewhat concerned. “Are you okay?”

“Yeah,” he sputtered. “I just—I’m so jealous that he has a good sense of taste.”

“…You’re jealous about that?”

“Yeah. I—I lost some tastebuds in a tea-related incident.”

“…Okay.”

Clint brandished a chopstick at Peter. “You didn’t reply to my offer, Parker. Any of us would be happy to have you, but I’ll fight for you.”

Peter didn’t know what he wanted. Well, he wanted to go back to before this all started, back to that perfect week he shared with MJ, but that wasn’t possible anymore. He had prepared himself for being alone, studying for his GED and paying his own apartment’s rent, but it had been a lonely, empty life. Now, he had friends, and he hadn’t been this happy in a long time. It wouldn’t be an overly long commute from Clint’s house to his university, and it would be nice not to have to go back to an empty flat.

Peter smiled. “Sure, I’d like that.”

-

The next day, he moved his sparse belongings into Clint’s guest bedroom.

Lila helped him decorate the place, tidying it up so it was neat, while Nathaniel ruined her efforts by strewing his toy dinosaurs all over the floor, resulting in Peter sitting down to play with him for what must have been almost half an hour before Clint came in to call them for the movie marathon. Afterward, they ate dinner together, chatting about their days while laughing. It was a slice of pure domestic bliss, a life Peter had thought he’d never be able to have, but he was here now.

His apartment hadn’t had a heater so he had been freezing in the cold winter, but the bed here was warm and comfortable, with plenty of fluffy blankets, and he borrowed a pair of Clint’s pajamas to sleep in. He hadn’t been this comfy in a long time. It was paradise.

The next day, he got kidnapped.

-

Okay, the kidnapping was unrelated to moving. Foggy somehow convinced him to come out to a club with him in the evening, and Peter didn’t know why he agreed to be thrown into an environment filled with flashing lights and pounding music except for maybe that he knew what Foggy’s disappointed face was like and he couldn’t bear to make him look that upset. It was a Thing – nobody could say no to Foggy because he would make The Face and the person would end up doing whatever he wanted. As far as Peter knew, Foggy wasn’t even aware of it.

They were walking back to Foggy and Matt’s apartment when Peter got the sickening feeling that something bad was about to happen. It must have been the alcohol in his system that prevented him from responding quickly enough to avoid the hard object that smashed into his head a moment later.

When he woke up, he was dizzy and his entire body ached.

His arms felt stiff, and he realized his hands were bound tightly behind his back. The floor was hard beneath him, the cold seeping through his jeans, and there was a faint scent of blood in the air. When he blinked, his vision swam, slow and hazy.

He glanced around, but it didn’t give him much information. It appeared to be a warehouse, which was almost disappointingly cliché, and narrow windows let in thin slits of light, hitting a sparse cloud of dust. The air was musty, like the warehouse hadn’t been visited in a long time. It could have been literally any abandoned warehouse in the city.

Someone coughed behind him. Instantly alert, he shuffled around to see that it was Foggy, lying on his side, face pressed into the concrete. With another cough, he struggled up into a seated position, his hands also tied behind his back. There was a cut on his cheekbone that looked fairly nasty, and blood was dripping down his jaw to land in thick splotches on the ground.

“What,” Foggy said, “the fuck.”

It was a sentiment Peter agreed with wholeheartedly. “I think we’ve been kidnapped.”

“I’m a bit relieved. I thought we went home with some very questionable girls, and I’d end up having a lot to explain to Matt.”

“I think you’re going to have a lot to explain to him either way.”

He huffed. “Right. He’s not going to be happy about this. He told me this club was in a fishy area and warned me to be careful.”

“Would have been nice if you let me know about that warning.”

“Sorry.” Foggy exhaled slowly, shaking his head. “Man, I hate it when he’s right.”

Peter looked around again, but there wasn’t anything new to notice. There were a few cardboard boxes in the corner of the warehouse, as well as some trash strewn around.

“I’m kind of offended that they didn’t tie us to each other,” Foggy commented with a grin. “It’s like they think we’re too weak to have to be restrained properly.”

“They didn’t even bother to make it cinematic,” Peter agreed. “They literally just dumped us here unceremoniously. I don’t even have an injury to show for it.”

Foggy cringed. “Your head is bleeding.”

“What?” Now that he mentioned it, Peter did feel a slow trickle of some liquid down the nape of his neck, and a spot near the base of his head was throbbing. “Shit.”

“Don’t you have any Spidey stuff that can get us out of here?”

“I was off-duty,” he answered. “Don’t have my web-shooters.”

“You need web-shooters? I thought the web stuff just came out of you.”

“No, I made them myself.”

“So why do you call yourself Spiderman?”

It was kind of weird that it was the first someone ever asked him that. Nobody had bothered to question it before. “I was bitten by a radioactive spider. It gave me super-strength and this sense that kind of helps me sense danger.”

Foggy was silent for a moment. Then, he said, “So, what I’m hearing is that the powers are not Spider-related.”

“Nope.”

“Then why the association with spiders? Did you just decide to stick with it for the novelty?

“This is coming from someone who willingly calls himself Foggy,” Peter teased, making him roll his eyes. “I got the powers from the spider, so I figured, okay, I can work with this theme.”

“Your whole superhero identity is an homage to an insect.”

“Arachnid, actually.”

“I know the difference between insects and arachnids! I’m just preoccupied with the fact that we’re tied up in an abandoned warehouse with a bunch of boxes that could be explosives for all we know, and the club wasn’t even worth it.”

Peter tugged at the rope binding his hands, but it didn’t budge. His strength wasn’t up to its usual par, perhaps from blood loss or panic or the alcohol still in his system. “Okay. Spiderman is out of service.”

“Anyway.” Foggy’s face looked more confident. “Someone will save us soon.”

“You sound really confident about that.”

“If we’re still in Hell’s Kitchen,” he said, “Daredevil is coming. If we’re not there, he’ll just take a little while longer.”

Before Peter could question why he was so confident that Daredevil would bother seeking out two random civilians, the door at the far end of the warehouse flew open and a man with a knife entered, not even bothering to wear a mask, along with a few others. Peter really hoped he wasn’t about to get tortured. It would have ruined what was actually a pretty good week.

The man at the front walked up to Peter, squinting. “I know you’re that kid who always hangs out with Nelson and Murdock.”

Okay, if Peter was being kidnapped, he did not expect it to be because he was hanging out with a bunch of lawyers. Kidnapping Spiderman: Sure, that was to be expected. But this was out of the ordinary.

Foggy exhaled through his teeth. “Shit. This is about our case. They set fire to the dumpster beside our apartment the other day, but I didn’t think anything would actually happen.”

“And you didn’t tell anyone?”

“Only Karen. Anyone else would have overreacted.”

“I think they would have reacted perfectly,” Peter sputtered. “Considering we’ve just been kidnapped by them. Does this happen to you a lot?”

“We’re lawyers in a crime-infested neighborhood. Of course it happens a lot—oh, you mean the kidnapping? No, this is only the third time. The threats happen a lot.”

“Shut up,” one of the men spit, punching Foggy right in the jaw. He let out a hiss of pain. “Fuck, you two talk a lot.”

“I can sing if you’d prefer,” Peter said, trying to goad them into focusing on him rather than Foggy. After all, he would heal quicker from the wounds. He could take more punishment.

The tactic worked, because the man closest to him slammed his fist into Peter’s face, and a sickening crunch followed by a gush of hot fluid told him his nose broke. Peter just spit out the blood and smiled at him, and that earned him a punch in the stomach. The silver knife glinted as it caught the light, and Peter wasn’t religious but he mentally started praying, hoping it would be enough to get him out of this.

Then there was a loud banging on the door. All the attackers turned toward the noise, clutching their weapons. Clearly, they hadn’t been expecting guests. It had to be someone coming to save them; if it turned out to be another branch of the mafia or someone else Foggy had somehow antagonized, it would be supremely unlucky, even by Peter’s standards.

The sound of a fist colliding with bone rung through the air, and the stranger with a gun fired it, the cacophony nearly deafening, making Peter’s head throb all over again. Peter’s eyes squeezed shut automatically, as if it would stop the pain, and when he opened them, the attackers were on the ground, weapons dropped. A red blur rushed past the bodies, dropping to his knees beside Foggy, cradling his face in his hands. Daredevil.

Peter hadn’t seen Daredevil around recently, but his iconic getup was impossible to mistake. The vigilante was stroking Foggy’s cheek gently, then leaned down to press their foreheads together, whispering words even Peter couldn’t hear. Though only the lower half of his face was visible due to the mask, it was clear that he was distraught, but the stress in Foggy’s expression had cleared, leaving behind exhaustion and relief and trust, almost a weary, confused happiness.

“God, I was so worried. I’m sorry, Foggy, I’m so sorry,” Daredevil was saying, his voice low and anguished. “I love you, I love you, please forgive me.”

Foggy smiled faintly at him. Softly, carefully, Daredevil pressed his lips to Foggy’s for a brief, fleeting second. It would have been an extraordinarily tender, sweet scene if not for the fact that Foggy was supposed to be dating Matt.

“What the fuck,” Peter said, not so drowsy anymore.

Both men’s heads snapped to him. Mortification flashed over Foggy’s face, flushing red. “It’s not what you think.”

“When you said Daredevil would rescue us, I didn’t think it was because you’re having an affair with him,” Peter said pointedly, too worn out to muster the energy to be more aggressive about this.

“It’s not an affair!”

“It is an affair,” Daredevil corrected, his voice almost… amused? “Franklin, I don’t care about your partner. He’s always been a jerk anyway. Be with me instead.”

“Shut up,” Foggy hissed at him.

I’m sorry, sunshine,” he said, a little softer, trailing a hand down his cheek again. Foggy’s irritation gave way to a smile, and Daredevil smiled, too, though it was tinged with guilt. With another soft kiss, he stood up and walked over to kneel beside Peter this time.

“Don’t kiss me,” Peter warned, exasperated. Daredevil laughed, and it was strangely familiar. When Peter didn’t push him away, he leaned closer to inspect him for any injuries, his touch feather-light on Peter’s head as he checked the wound.

It took a minute for Peter to come to his senses. There was no way in hell that Foggy Nelson would cheat on Matt. It was obvious that they were massively, absurdly, almost embarrassingly in love with each other; if Peter hadn’t seen them around each other, just hearing what they acted like from a long-suffering Clint would be enough to confirm it. There had to be something else at play here, something Peter wasn’t understanding. Signals he was missing.

“Are you alright?” Daredevil asked Peter in his gravelly voice that made everything he said sound dangerous. Peter almost felt as if he was about to get killed or tortured rather than be rescued.

“Took you long enough to ask him,” Foggy called over to him. “It’s kind of embarrassing that you went for the adult man and not the kid.”

“Sorry, Peter,” Daredevil said grimly, looking down at him. “I really should have helped you first, but I let my poor, achy, lovesick heart take over.”

That was definitely not something Daredevil would usually say. Peter was sure that they were messing with him, but he couldn’t figure out how. Were they making fun of him, or each other? Fragments of a puzzle floated around, but his fuzzy brain couldn’t figure out how to slot them together. There was nothing staged about the way Daredevil ran to Foggy in concern, his voice torn and pleading as he apologized over and over again, begging him to forgive him while telling him he loved him like a prayer. But poor, achy, lovesick heart sounded too much like a joke, and there was no obvious reason for Daredevil to be joking now. And what about Matt? Peter was well and truly befuddled.

“Are there any knives around?” Daredevil asked.

“I don’t know.” Peter peered around, but he couldn’t see anything. “My vision is kind of bad right now. You try looking around.”

He stifled a laugh. Lowering his voice, he said, “I’m blind.”

Peter froze. He was blind. Daredevil was blind.  

A memory hit him like a train. Matt Murdock, Attorney-at-Law, catching the brick thrown through the window without hesitation. Peter had been stunned, unable to understand how the blind man reacted so quickly to catch the brick, as if he knew it was coming a moment before it happened. Matt had a self-satisfied smile, like he had an inside joke with himself as he told Peter, I’m a really good lawyer. Back then, Peter had been so anxious that he didn’t even think of how extraordinary the ordeal was.

Catching the brick. The familiar voice. The way Matt seemed to be able to navigate around even when he wasn’t holding Foggy’s arm, like he could sense what was around him. The way Foggy allowed Daredevil to kiss him now and smiled at him as if he were an angel, even though it was obvious that he was absolutely head over heels for Matt, and throwing a book at Matt’s face though he would never want to hurt him.

With a flash, a lightbulb turned on in his brain, illuminating the pathways.

“Matt,” Peter said, and he meant for it to sound accusing but it came out unsure. Daredevil didn’t react, his poker face intact. “I know that’s you, Matt.”

“Don’t tell anyone,” Matt warned, and that was the Daredevil voice that sent a threatening shiver up Peter’s spine. “I could get disbarred, or arrested. In fact, everyone who knows me could get arrested. Needless to say, beating up people in a mask is very much illegal.”

Peter was still reeling from the shock. Matt Murdock, the very much blind attorney, was the vigilante known for his brutal treatment of criminals, hunting them down like an avenging devil during the night. And he had kept this from Peter for months. Was he even blind?

“What the fuck,” Peter said again, stunned. Matt ignored him, wandering away to search for something. His hand closed on a nearby knife, and he returned to cut the ropes binding Peter’s hands.

Foggy was trying to worm his way out of the ropes, but he must have pressed on one of his injuries as he let out a strangled sound that had Matt by his side in seconds. Matt cut the ropes with shaky hands, then tossed the knife aside and encircled Foggy in his arms, burying his face in his shoulder, their legs tangled together. It was so intimate, so real and relieved and raw, that Peter had to look away. When he looked back, Matt was helping Foggy to his feet, a hand on his back, as if he couldn’t bear to let him go for a second.

Then Matt came over to help Peter to his feet, and once they were both standing, he threw his arms around Peter to hug him tightly. Peter froze for a second, surprised, before melting into the hug, letting his arms fall around Matt’s waist. Man, he was muscular. Peter was seriously jealous.

“You scared me, too,” Matt mumbled into Peter’s shoulder.

For the first time, Peter let himself not be brave. He let himself seek comfort in the arms of someone who would protect him to the best of his ability. It was tiring to always be the hero; for once, he wanted to be an eighteen-year-old who was just kidnapped and beat up, then rescued. “Thank you for coming for me.”

“I always will, okay? Me, or Clint, or hell, I’ll send Karen after you,” he said, making Peter laugh. “Don’t laugh. Karen and Foggy are very dangerous when they team up. They nearly killed some members of the Bulgarian mafia.”

Peter gave another watery laugh. “You have to tell me more about that.”

“I will.” He pulled back. “Let’s go home.”

-

Tonight, home was Clint’s house, where they showed up in the middle of the night, Matt climbing up to knock on his window in a maneuver that left even Peter stunned. He was still wearing the Daredevil mask.

“What the hell?” Clint asked blearily, coming to the door.

“Foggy and Peter were kidnapped,” Matt said solemnly. “And he found out I’m Daredevil.”

He snapped to alertness with a pout. “Oh, man. I missed the reveal.”

“Maybe you wouldn’t have missed it if you were there to help out,” he said, but there was no malice behind it.

“What am I, your emergency rescue service? I think the Devil of Hell’s Kitchen is perfectly capable of saving his boy toy and his son by himself.”

“Boy toy?” Foggy said, exasperated, at the same time as Peter blurted out, “Son?”

Matt stared at Clint like he was short-circuiting, his whole body tensing up. “Son? What?”

“Come on, Petey is pretty much our kid at this point,” Clint pointed out. “He’s like our precious platonic child.”

Matt pulled the mask off. It had flattened his hair, so Foggy leaned over to mess it up. Matt caught Foggy’s hand and pressed a soft kiss to the inside of his wrist before dropping it. It seemed that the fear of losing him had spurned him into more public displays of affection.

Peter held his hand to his eyes, jokingly saying, “Man, I was just kidnapped, I don’t need to deal with you two on top of this.”

Clint clutched a hand to his heart. “Finally. You’re on my side. I knew the day would come where they finally wore you down.”

“You’re just as guilty. I literally only stayed with you for one day, and you’re pretty much constantly cuddling Laura or holding her hand.”

“I love my wife,” he announced proudly. “But also, you should show more respect to your father.”

Peter felt his face heat up. Sure, once or twice, he might have thought of Clint as a father figure and nearly called him Dad by mistake, but it was different to have it acknowledged.

Foggy crossed his arms with a grin. “Did you father a child with my man, Barton?”

“Bold of you to assume that you’re not his father, too.” Clint checked his watch. “God. It’s two a.m, and I’m leaving you guys out there in the cold. Come in, I’ll make hot chocolate while you shower. Seriously, you need to shower. All of you smell like blood.”

Peter went up to his room to take a shower. The scent of copper surrounding him was starting to get overpowering. If it bothered him this much, it must have been unbearable for Matt, a shark picking up the scent of blood in the water. It would be an understatement to say that it was hard to adjust to the idea of Matt as a superpowered human, but it did explain a lot. He shampooed his hair, scrubbed at his skin, and watched the blood flow down the drain, staying under the faucet until the water no longer ran red.

When he stepped out of the shower, he appraised himself in the mirror. His lip was split, and there were a few cuts on his cheeks, along with some bruising. He also had a nasty black eye. The back of his head was still aching, but it wasn’t as painful as it had been before, the warm water easing some of the discomfort.

Sure enough, Clint had prepared a few cups of hot chocolate for them, and they all sat down together in the living room. Matt had taken off the Daredevil suit and was wearing what appeared to be Clint’s old sweatpants, along with a hot pink shirt that said Bad Bitch in glittery writing.

Foggy came into the room, dressed in plain pajamas, and stopped in his tracks. Stifling a laugh, he said, “Matty, you look very stylish. I’m loving the new look.”

Matt frowned, pinching the bridge of his nose. “What does the shirt say?”

“Well. It’s pink, and it says Bad Bitch. And there’s a lot of glitter.”

“Barton, I’m gonna kick your ass.”

Clint grinned. “Nah, you won’t. I opened my home and hot chocolate stash to you. Now get to the Daredevil conversation, I don’t want to miss the spicy stuff this time.”

Peter spoke first. He couldn’t help but shoot a reproachful frown at Matt, though he wouldn’t see it. “How could you keep this a secret?”

“It was for your safety,” Matt said, calm. “Anyone who knows is in danger.”

“I could have made that decision.”

“It wasn’t your decision to make,” he said sharply. He sighed. “You’re just a kid, Peter. You’ve suffered too much, and you of all people should know the consequences of telling people your secret identity.”

Peter deflated. Matt was right. “I get it. But this is still huge. Can you see?”

“Not really. I really am blind, but my other senses are extremely heightened, so I can sense things around me enough to feel where everything is.”

“How strong are your senses, exactly?”

“Let me put it this way. When I eat ice cream, I can tell you that the milk used came from multiple dairy farms. Not only can I hear your heartbeat, but I also hear your bones moving when you breathe. I can feel vibrations in the air, and from there, I can judge the location and size of objects. I can smell cologne through three floors and multiple walls. And that’s the least of it, but it should give you an idea.”

“…Wow,” Peter said. “Foggy told me you got all your bruises and scrapes because you have a drinking problem.”

Matt snorted, glancing over at Foggy. “That’s horrible. Isn’t that what you told Karen back when she didn’t know?”

"Well, it's more plausible than you put on a devil suit and beat the shit out of strangers,” Foggy countered. “Besides, you’ve done me seriously dirty.”

“How have I done that?”

“Exhibit A, you let Peter think I was cheating on you,” he pointed out. “Actually, scratch that. Not only did you let him think I was cheating on you, you actively encouraged it.”

“That only lasted for a few seconds.”

“Exhibit B, when I threw a book at you, you let it hit your head.” Foggy turned to look at Peter. “I throw stuff at him a lot because he always catches it.” He looked back at Matt. “You let Peter think I threw a hard object at a blind man.”

“I did judge you for a while for that,” Peter agreed.

“See,” Foggy said triumphantly. “You’re a dick, Matt.”

Matt gave a shit-eating grin that was somewhere in between infuriating and endearing. He knew what that grin meant. It meant Matt knew exactly what he was doing. “Really, you should apologize to me for that, Foggy. I did get hit by a book in the face.”

Foggy cracked a smile. “Okay, I’ll let that one slide, because it was actually hilarious. The way the book collided with your face—you just accepted your fate.”

Peter did have to admit that the idea of Matt getting hit straight in the face by a book even though he knew it was coming just to keep up appearances was pretty funny. The heightened senses thing was making more and more sense with every moment; how Matt always seemed to know if Peter was listening at the door, and how he could taste a minuscule grain of salt in his coffee. He must have figured out Peter was Spiderman from his heartbeat along, if not his voice, which he really didn’t put any effort into.

“This is seriously cool,” Peter said. Matt glanced at him, confused. “I’ve always thought Daredevil was awesome, and this just makes him, well, you, cooler. You fight crime at night against the law, but you fight crime with the law during the day. You serve justice, no matter what. It’s awesome.”

Matt looked almost panicked now. “You shouldn’t take me as a role model. I’m a mess. I have two broken ribs and I just got six stitches yesterday.”

“That’s true, he’s a hot mess,” Clint agreed.

“Not like you’re much better.”

“I own a house. I have a family. That automatically gives me has-my-life-together points.”

“Are you saying Foggy doesn’t count as my family? Are you discriminating against us because we’re childless?”

“Tone down the lawyer stuff and drink your hot chocolate, Murdock.”

Peter took another sip of his own hot chocolate. The sweet drink slipped down his throat into his stomach, pooling into a bundle of warmth, his hands tingling with it. He dragged the blanket around himself, bundling himself up so only his head poked out of it, and Clint laughed when he noticed him.

“So,” Peter said. “No more secret identities.”

“No more secrets,” Matt agreed. Peter could tell them about the circumstances that led to the entire world forgetting Peter Parker later, but that was just history. Right now, there was nothing they were hiding anymore.

“There’s three of them now,” Foggy commented. “Three crazy people who constantly throw themselves into dumpsters and come to my beautiful, clean, sweet-smelling flat to shower. What did I do to deserve this?”

“Something very, very good,” Clint answered. “That’s the only way you’d get lucky enough to be blessed with us.”

And Peter thought that maybe, after everything, he was the lucky one.