Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

The streets of Hell’s Kitchen hummed with the familiar rhythm of the city: distant car horns, the shuffle of footsteps, and the occasional murmur of a conversation carried by the wind. Peter Parker stood outside a glass door, squinting at the faded, slightly crooked lettering spelling out Nelson and Murdock, Attorneys at Law. His fingers tightened around his resume, a single page, flimsy and embarrassingly light without the weight of his past accomplishments. Stark Industries, Queens Midtown High… all of it had been erased. Just like the rest of his life.

He took a steadying breath. He wasn’t about to let an entire résumé’s worth of “starting over” keep him from trying. Even if it meant interning somewhere that made him feel like he’d stepped back into the early 2000s.

The door creaked as he opened it, and inside, the reception area felt even smaller than it looked from the outside, with a faint, constant buzzing from a fluorescent light above. It flickered, just enough to make him glance up and hesitate, feeling like he was intruding into someone else’s world.

“Uh, excuse me?” He approached the front desk, where a blonde woman typed away, the clack of her keyboard filling the quiet. “I have a one o’clock interview with Mr. Nelson?”

The woman looked up, bright blue eyes skimming over him as if sizing him up before she checked the notepad on her desk. “Peter? For the internship?”

“Yeah,” he said, managing a quick nod, though his smile felt a little thin.

“The door on your right,” she said, a hint of a smile. “Head in whenever you’re ready. I’m Karen, by the way.”

“Oh, right, thanks, Karen,” he said, trying to ignore the way every creak in the floor seemed to echo as he made his way to the office.

It was smaller than he’d expected, crowded with mismatched file cabinets, a well-worn desk, and an odd assortment of chairs. And in one of those chairs sat Foggy Nelson, his welcoming smile broad but the slight creases in his brow giving him an air of constant thoughtfulness.

“Peter, right?” Foggy said, glancing up from the resume with his hand extended.

Peter shook his hand and sat, feeling the chair give a little more than he’d like. Please don’t collapse under me.

“So,” Foggy said, peering at the single sheet, “tell me about yourself. Got any experience?”

Peter’s mouth opened, and for one brief moment, “Stark Industries” hovered on the tip of his tongue out of sheer reflex. He caught himself, though maybe not quickly enough. Foggy’s brow furrowed just slightly.

“Uh, well,” Peter started, shifting his grip on his resume. “I’ve done some…technical stuff. Helped out on a few projects, fixing things here and there.”

“Technical stuff?” Foggy repeated, eyebrows raised as he skimmed the sparse resume. “Good with computers, then?”

“Oh, yeah,” Peter said, sounding too enthusiastic and trying to backpedal immediately. “I mean, nothing fancy, just… turning things on and off, fixing glitches, you know…”

Karen leaned her head into the office, smirking as she overheard. “If you can fix our printer, you’re already overqualified.”

Peter chuckled, though it came out a little hollow. He could practically hear the flickering light overhead. “I’d love to help. I can fix whatever you need, honestly.”

“Hey, let’s not get ahead of ourselves.” Foggy held up a hand, smiling but serious. “How about you tell me a bit more about yourself? Where you’re from, what made you want to work at a firm that can barely keep its lights on?” He paused. “And, be honest. I get the sense you’re holding back.”

Peter shifted in his chair, the polished answer he’d practiced earlier seeming to dissolve. “I… well, I don’t have much on my resume. And all I’ve got to my name is my GED. I was hoping this could help me get some real experience under my belt, get my foot in the door anywhere that’d open.”

Foggy’s brows furrowed thoughtfully. “Where are you from?”

“Queens,” Peter answered, quick and automatic.

“Queens, huh? Alright.” Foggy leaned back, studying him. “What else can you do besides fixing things and working with computers?”

“I’m good with math, and science too. Not a lot of law knowledge, but I learn fast.”

Foggy nodded, and for a moment he simply tapped his fingers against Peter’s resume, thinking it over. Finally, he looked up with a smile. “Well, Mr. Parker, I’d say it’s very likely you’ll be hearing from us soon. I just need to talk it over with Karen and Matt, and we could have you starting by next Monday. Sound good?”

Peter’s face lit up despite himself, relief flickering through him like a current. “That sounds incredible, Mr. Nelson. Thank you. I really can’t wait to hear back.”

Peter thanked Foggy one last time, his smile just a little too wide, and headed out of the office. Karen caught his eye as he passed, giving him a quick thumbs-up and an amused, “Good luck, kid.”

The weight of the one-page resume finally loosened in his grip as he made his way through the tiny reception area, back toward the glass door. The old fluorescent light flickered once more, like a farewell. See you Monday, he thought, resisting the urge to let out a relieved sigh until he was fully outside.

Out on the street, Peter took a deep breath. The buzz of the city seemed louder, almost vibrant, as he walked a few steps away from the building, the thought of actually landing the internship still sinking in. It wasn’t Stark Industries, sure, but that was probably a good thing. Somewhere normal, he thought, adjusting his bag on his shoulder as he glanced back at the office.

Nelson and Murdock: Attorneys at Law

Chapter Text

New York summers were hot. Hot like sweat dripping down his brow the moment he stepped outside.

It didn’t help that Peter’s mask covered his entire face, well… It did help with keeping his identity a secret. It just wasn’t aiding him in wearing off the heat exhaustion. The soft breeze that flew through the air as he swung from one building to the other feigned off some of it.

Peter wasn’t that bitter about the record breaking heat of the summers, no, not compared to the freezing cold winters in his skin tight suit. He could survive a little bit of heat, he just wasn’t as sure that he could survive the amount of criminals he's stopped in the late hours of the night. His police scanner and time restraints usually only takes him so far, but with his new free time found in not making excuses to his friends about where he runs off to, he can do this whenever. And maybe that was the dangerous part.

Peter only ventured this far outside his usual neighborhood to veer off his nerves about his latest interview. The law firm gave him a good feeling and some positive reassurances, but good vibes could only go so far with an empty resume.

He found himself outside of Queens, chasing a gang that was talking very loudly about some operation that didn’t sound the least bit legal. They rode their bikes toward a bar in Hell’s Kitchen, music loud, and bouncer with a glare that could snap your neck. Peter liked to keep his alter ego as somewhat different than himself. So if you saw the Spiderman take a step back to reassess the situation in a way that won’t get him shot at, then you should mind your business. He kept his head down, perched on the top of the neighboring building taking in how many were entering the building and trying to determine how and who would be the most likely to spill what was going on.

He stood ready to shoot a web in that direction when the hairs on the back of his neck stood as straight as a point.

He ducked, just nearly missing a fist as it flew towards his head. He whipped his head around, catching a kick towards him and swinging the opponent to the side. He studied them quickly as they got up. Red suit and a helmet that covered the top half of their face, to fit the theme of the area that he found himself in, the helmet had a pair of devil horns on top.

Oh, he was fighting The Devil of Hell’s Kitchen.

Before he could think too much about it, the Devil made another advancement on him. Pushing him towards the edge of the building, he countered each strike, trying to hit back harder and faster. When one push actually gave them a distance, he shot a web at the man's feet, delaying the attack as he was stuck for a moment. Spiderman caught his breath while he could. He stretched his arm out ready to abandon whatever curiosity dragged him to Hell’s Kitchen in the first place, but before he could react, a metal stick flew at his wrist, breaking the web shooters on his left.

“Dude!” Spiderman exclaimed. Now pissed off that getting back home will be more difficult than he was hoping, he webbed the Devil to the roof. “What is your problem?”

The Devil was ripping off the webs, as Spiderman paced around him. “My problem is you compromising my fight. Whatever business you have with the Dogs of Hell, just drop it. I have it under control already.”

“They were in Queens and I overheard some talk about an operation—.” The Devil ripped himself out of the webs as he rambled and stomped towards him with fists raised. Spiderman held his hands up in defense. “Okay, listen, I know that Hell’s Kitchen is your place but I care about my city so I didn't think it would hurt to check out, you know?” The Devil stepped forward and Spiderman backpedaled several feet. “Okay! Maybe you don’t know!”

The Devil paused and tilted his head, probably studying him. “You're Spiderman?” He questioned, slipping the billy clubs back into his belt. “You’re the guy who swings around New York in spandex and helps the elderly cross the road?” He waved his hand, expecting an answer.

“Oh!” Spiderman shifted his weight from one foot to the other. “Uhm, yeah. Yeah, I do that– That’s me. Listen,” he started, “I didn’t mean to get in your way. Just trying to figure out what was going on. I’ll get out of your hair, just… Sorry about the miscommunication!”

“Wait,” the Devil held his hand up. “I’m sorry. We’re both trying to help the city. Wasn’t sure what your business was at first…”

“No, no, you’re cool! I’m sorry, um, hey! I’m Spiderman,” he said, reaching out his hand.

The other pulled off his glove and shook his hand. “I’m Daredevil.”

***

Spiderman lingered on the rooftop as Daredevil went into the building. He closed his eyes and listened to the yells and grunts below. Guns were fired, followed by muffled shouts, but the fight didn’t stop. Daredevil was holding his own in there. After a while, the commotion finally died down. Peter barely had time to shift before Daredevil reappeared, scaling the fire escape and pulling himself onto the roof, his chest rising and falling with labored breaths.

“Why are you still here?” the vigilante asked, his voice rougher than before.

“In case you needed backup,” Spiderman replied easily, resting his hands on his hips like he wasn’t sweating through his suit.

Daredevil shook his head, a small chuckle escaping as he walked further onto the rooftop. “Kid, I’ve been doing this for a long time.”

“So have I! Well, if you count the Blip, but—.”

“How long, not counting the Blip?” Daredevil interrupted, his tone sharpening just enough to make Peter pause.

The silence stretched between them for a moment before Spiderman crossed his arms over his chest, trying to look more confident than he felt. “Long enough…” he muttered, deepening his voice in a way he hoped sounded cool.

“Definitely not,” Daredevil shot back, a wry smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. He tilted his head slightly, studying Spiderman in the way only he could. “You sound young. Really young.”

Peter’s shoulders stiffened, his voice rising defensively. “I’m not that young!”

Daredevil raised an eyebrow, or at least Peter imagined he did under the mask. “You can’t be more than a rookie. Just saying.”

“I can handle myself,” Peter shot back.

“Maybe,” Daredevil allowed. “But I’ve seen what happens when people think they can handle everything.”

The words cut through Peter’s bravado, his retort dying in his throat. For a moment, they stood in silence, the distant sound of sirens filling the void.

Daredevil gestured toward the noise with a nod. “You should get that. Seems up your alley.”

Peter hesitated, his mask hiding the flicker of doubt in his expression. “You know,” he started, his voice quieter, “just because I’m younger doesn’t mean I don’t care as much as you do.”

Daredevil turned to him, his voice softening. “I never said you didn’t care, kid. But caring isn’t what keeps you alive out here.” He paused, stepping back toward the edge of the roof. “Keep your focus where it matters and watch your back. I’d hate to see your name in the papers for the wrong reasons.”

Peter didn’t have an answer for that, so he nodded instead, watching as Daredevil slipped into the shadows like he was never there.

“See you around, kid,” Daredevil called over his shoulder, disappearing into the night.

Spiderman stood there for a moment longer, the weight of the exchange settling over him. Then the sound of sirens tugged him back into motion. With a deep breath, he fired a web and swung into the warm night air, chasing the distant red-and-blue lights.

***

Peter collapsed onto the thrift-store couch in his cramped studio apartment, the springs creaking beneath him. The room was dim except for the glow of his laptop on the battered coffee table. Next to it sat a half-empty mug of coffee, lukewarm at best, and a stack of unopened bills that made him glance away every time they caught his eye.

Rubbing his shoulder, because swinging back home with only one working web shooter was a pain. Peter flipped open his laptop and refreshed his inbox for the umpteenth time. He wasn’t exactly sure why; it wasn’t like anything had changed.

His inbox was the same as it had been all week, a disheartening parade of rejection emails:

“Thank you for applying, but we’ve chosen another candidate.”

“While your skills are impressive, we’ve decided to go in a different direction.”

“We wish you the best in your job search.”

His lips slipped upward in a humorless smile. At least they tried to sound nice about it. He scrolled further down, the pattern repeating itself. Rejections. Rejections. More rejections.

Peter slumped back, closing his eyes briefly. He could always just go back into patrolling. He was sure he fix his web shooters pretty quickly. New York didn’t patrol itself, but Spiderman didn’t pay the rent, either.

He clicked back to the top of his inbox, ready to hit refresh out of sheer desperation, when something new caught his eye.

Subject: Welcome to the Nelson & Murdock Team

For a moment, he just stared at the email, frozen. His heart skipped a beat as he clicked it open with trembling fingers, reading so fast the words almost blurred together:

“Peter,” it began, “Congratulations! After discussing with Matt and Foggy, we’re thrilled to offer you the internship. Looking forward to having you onboard. Let us know if you’re available to start Monday!”

Peter blinked, rereading it once. Twice. The tension in his shoulders eased, replaced by something lighter, brighter. He leaned forward, a quiet laugh escaping his lips as he ran a hand through his hair. Relief washed over him like a long-awaited summer rain.

“Finally,” he whispered, leaning back against the couch. He tilted his head up toward the ceiling, closing his eyes as the weight of uncertainty loosened, bit by bit.

When he glanced back at his inbox, the email from Karen stood out like a beacon above all the rejection letters. Those didn’t feel so suffocating anymore.

His phone buzzed on the armrest. He grabbed it, and his screen lit up with another notification:

Unknown Number: Excited to have you on the team! See you Monday! -Karen

Peter grinned. The idea of working at a law office wasn’t anything he’d ever pictured, but right now, it felt perfect.

He stood and stretched, his muscles still sore from every night and week before. Outside, the faint hum of the city filtered through the window. His eyes caught the crumpled red and blue suit sat in the corner of his closet. It would be time to patrol again soon. But tonight, the thought didn’t feel so heavy.

This wasn’t Stark Industries, no. It wasn’t a flashy lab or a cutting-edge tech company. But for once, it felt like he was getting his life back.

Chapter Text

The alarm beeped steadily.

Peter cracked one eye open, grimacing at the burning red numbers on the clock. 8:47 AM.

For a moment, he just lay there, letting the weight of exhaustion sink him deeper into the mattress. His body ached, muscles sore in that dull, overworked way that came from too many nights of swinging between skyscrapers and crash-landing onto rooftops. His ribs still twinged from an unlucky punch he’d taken the night before, nothing broken, just enough of a reminder that his healing factor had its limits.

He could sleep a little longer. Just a little. He wasn’t needed anywhere.

And then his eyes flicked back to the clock. 8:49 AM.

His stomach twisted.

His gaze darted to the crumpled calendar taped to the closet door, barely holding on with an old strip of packing tape. The dates were marked with scribbles, deadlines, reminders, question marks scattered where he’d debated whether certain things even mattered anymore.

But today.

Today was circled in red ink.

Monday. 9 AM. First day at Nelson & Murdock.

"Shit!"

Peter scrambled out of bed so fast he nearly tripped over his own feet.

The next few minutes were a blur, yanking a toothbrush through his mouth while trying to shove a comb through his hair, rifling through a half-folded pile of laundry to find a shirt that wasn’t completely wrinkled. The mirror over the sink gave him a bleary reflection of himself: bedhead, bruised cheek, dark circles under his eyes. He looked exhausted.

Nothing new.

He doused himself in deodorant, slung his bag over his shoulder, and grabbed his web-shooters before clambering onto the windowsill.

His watch blinked at him. 8:50 AM.

“Crap, crap, crap!”

And then he leapt, free-falling for a second before firing a web, slingshotting himself into the city.

***

New York roared around him, alive and bustling as the morning rush clogged the streets. Taxis honked impatiently, pedestrians crowded the sidewalks, and the air smelled like hot pavement, brewing coffee, and the vague hint of burnt pretzels.

Peter twisted mid-air, barely dodging a pigeon, before flipping over a delivery truck and firing another web.

8:53 AM

Not even halfway there.

He pushed harder, launching himself across blocks, the wind rushing under his mask. His ribs groaned in protest, but he ignored it, cutting corners and taking the fastest route through the skyline.

By the time he landed on the pavement outside Nelson & Murdock, he was winded, his lungs burning from the effort. His watch read 9:08 AM. Not horrible, but not exactly ideal for a first day.

He jogged up the stairs, taking off his mask as he slipped inside.

***

The office was… cozy. Not in the warm and inviting kind of way, but in the “we use every square inch of this space because we have to” kind of way. Shelves overflowed with legal books, stacks of case files were shoved onto desks, and the entire place carried the faint scent of coffee, ink, and paper that had been sitting in one place too long.

Karen sat at the front desk, her blonde hair pinned up, typing away at a computer that looked like it had been through several lifetimes. She barely glanced up before giving him an amused smile.

“Peter! You’re early.”

Peter blinked. “Wait, early?”

Karen arched an eyebrow. “Yeah? The email didn’t say a set time, right?”

Peter groaned internally. “I figured getting here as business hours started was the safe bet.”

“Well, you’re off to a responsible start.” She gestured toward the corner of the room. “Since you’re here, mind taking a look at that fan? It sparks whenever we turn it to the third setting.”

Peter exhaled, rolling up his sleeves. “Sounds like a loose wire. I’ll take a look.”

***

By the time the door creaked open again, Peter was practically inside the office printer, wrestling with a stubborn paper jam.

A voice rang through the room, warm and easygoing.

“Putting him to work already? Love to see it.” Peter twisted slightly, spotting a man in a slightly wrinkled suit grinning at him. Franklin Nelson, Foggy. “He’s working on the printer,” he said, following up more softly. “How’s it going, Peter? First-day jitters?”

Peter wiped his hands on his jeans. “Nope.”

Then he saw the man standing beside him. And for a moment, his brain short-circuited.

Matt Murdock.

Peter’s grip tightened on the screwdriver in his hand. Because he knew this man. Or, he had come across him. Once. The memory hit like a punch to the gut. The dim apartment. Aunt May sitting across from him, wringing her hands. The crushing weight of the entire world turning against him.

Peter swallowed hard.

But Matt didn’t hesitate. Didn’t blink. Didn’t react. Because he didn’t remember. The spell had erased everything. To Matt, this was their first meeting. Peter forced himself to move, extending a hand. “Hi, I’m Peter. You must be Mr. Murdock?”

Matt tilted his head slightly, like he was listening to more than just Peter’s voice. Then he reached out, Peter met his hand, his grip firm.

“Please, just call me Matt.” His expression was calm, unreadable. “It’s great to have you on board.”

Peter studied him, waiting for something, anything, but Matt just turned to Karen, his expression neutral.

“What’s on the list for today?”

Karen flipped through her notes. “Foggy’s got meetings, and you need to review those MID contracts.”

Matt nodded, his fingers tapping lightly against the desk. “Sounds good.” He turned back to Peter. “When you’re done with the printer, come to my office.”

Peter barely had time to process the interaction before Matt disappeared down the hall.

***

Matt’s office was smaller than Peter expected. The desk was neat but not pristine, papers stacked in careful disorder, a coffee cup resting on top of a thick case file, a braille display sitting next to an open laptop. The whole room had an odd warmth to it, like the air itself had settled into the space and refused to budge.

Matt was already seated, fingers grazing the edges of a thick stack of documents, his head tilted slightly like he was listening to something Peter couldn’t hear.

“I neglected to catch up on any updates about an intern coming in, so I apologize for not being prepared,” Matt said.

Peter shifted, still standing just inside the doorway, suddenly unsure if he should sit or stay put. “I don’t want to be an inconvenience, Mr. Murdock. I know I’m not exactly experienced.”

“Matt,” he corrected easily, his tone even. “And you’ll learn. That’s what internships are for.”

Peter swallowed, nodding once, finally moving to sit.

Matt pulled out a thick, well-worn book and slid it across the desk. Peter reached for it automatically, fingers pressing into the smooth, slightly frayed cover.

“Start here,” Matt said. “You like to read?”

Peter hesitated. “Yeah.”

“Good.” Matt leaned back in his chair, adjusting his sleeves. “Let me know if you have any questions.”

Peter nodded again and cracked the book open, scanning the dense text.

And immediately regretted it.

The first paragraph alone was a labyrinth of legal jargon, words twisting into each other in long, winding sentences that made his brain short-circuit. He blinked at the page, forcing himself to focus, but the words “precedent” and “litigation” started blending together into an unreadable mess.

He glanced up.

Matt was already working, hands moving across the braille display, his attention elsewhere. His face was unreadable, his focus entirely on whatever was coming through his headphones.

Peter shifted, exhaling slowly, tapping his fingers against the pages in front of him.

He was bored.

Not just bored, but actively resisting the urge to claw his way out of his own skin. It had been a long time since he sat still like this, since he had to sit with his own thoughts rather than swinging between skyscrapers or dodging bullets or…

His fingers twitched. His knee bounced under the desk.

He snuck another glance at Matt.

It was hard to tell if Matt was actually reading or listening to something. His expression remained calm, his fingers brushing across the braille text, his free hand occasionally moving to his laptop.

And that’s when the thought crept into Peter’s brain like an itch he couldn’t scratch.

Did Matt still have his file?

The memory-wiping spell had erased Peter from the world, his records, his school history, his employment, his whole existence wiped clean. But Matt had been his lawyer, his lawyer. And lawyers kept records, right? Kept case files stacked somewhere in locked cabinets or old digital folders?

Had the spell altered those? Had it just… rewritten everything?

Peter swallowed, the weight of the question pressing on his ribs.

He could ask. He could try to bring it up in some roundabout way.

But the thought of Matt facing him with that unreadable expression, the thought of him saying, “I don’t know what you’re talking about, Peter.”

No. He couldn’t.

A siren wailed outside.

Peter stiffened.

It was distant, maybe a few blocks away, but close enough that his senses locked onto it immediately. His heartbeat picked up. His fingers curled slightly against the book, his body tensing on instinct, ready to move.

Matt didn’t react.

Didn’t move. Didn’t glance toward the window.

Nothing.

Peter’s breathing felt too loud in his ears. His muscles coiled, the familiar urge rising in his chest– go, go, go, get up, get out there, they might need you.

But then Matt moved. Not much. Just a slight tilt of his head, his fingers pausing over the braille display.

And for some reason, that was enough.

Peter exhaled, gripping the edges of the book a little tighter.

The sirens faded, swallowed by the usual hum of the city, and Matt went back to work without a word.

Peter shifted, forcing himself to refocus, flipping to the next page.

Chapter Text

“Is your brain fried yet?”

Peter blinked out of the sentence he’d been rereading for the third time, eyes glassy, spine curled in the worst posture imaginable. Across the office, Matt leaned back in his chair, a small smirk tugging at the edge of his mouth. His fingers hovered idly over the smooth surface of his watch like he could read the time by touch alone.

“It’s been two hours,” Matt continued, “and you haven’t said a single word.”

Peter stretched, spine cracking audibly as he slumped back in the chair. “Sorry. I guess I don’t have that many questions. Except maybe why half of these passages read like a thesaurus exploded.”

He closed the heavy casebook in front of him, the pages fanning with a musty breath of aged paper and court dust. “To be fair, this is my first introduction to law. I did watch a few Crash Course videos the other night, so I wouldn’t come in totally unprepared, but…” He rubbed at the back of his neck. “Is it bad that I kind of thought law would be more… common sense? Like, if you have to ask yourself if this is legal, then maybe you shouldn’t be doing it?”

Matt raised a brow behind his tinted glasses. “I assume you have a squeaky clean record, Peter?”

Peter’s mouth opened. Then closed. Then opened again. Define squeaky. Because technically, there was that whole being arrested for suspected murder thing, but also technically, it never happened. His name wasn’t in any official databases anymore. As far as the state was concerned, he was a nobody.

“Well…” Peter scratched his jaw. “It’s complicated.”

Matt smiled like he already knew. “Don’t worry I practice law, not enforce it.”

That actually made Peter grin, a little tension rolling off his shoulders. “Touche.”

Matt steepled his fingers, then tilted his head slightly. “Do you know what lawyers do?”

“Uh…” Peter sat up straighter, ready to BS like it was high school English class. “Offer legal advice? Represent people in court? Convince a judge and jury that their client’s not guilty?”

“Not bad,” Matt said. “The reality is… less dramatic. A lot of talking, because there are a lot of people who don’t understand the laws they’re expected to live by. A lot of contracts. A lot of reading. And yes, we do often represent clients who are guilty. That doesn’t mean we’re defending the crime, they’re still entitled to counsel. Sometimes it’s about reducing a sentence, or making sure they aren’t railroaded by the system.”

Peter nodded, slowly absorbing it. The idea of representing someone who’d done something bad made his stomach twist, but he also understood it. The world wasn’t black and white. It was never that easy.

“There’s a lot of memorization,” Matt added, with the faintest hint of fatigue in his voice. “Even more patience. You ever try memorizing civil code while running on two hours of sleep and burnt coffee?”

Peter gave him a look. “Try memorizing AP Physics while balancing a full-time job and getting punched in the ribs five nights a week.”

Matt sucked in a breath. “Touche. I got into fights a lot too when I was younger.”

Peter leaned forward slightly, something catching in the quiet between them. “So… why did you decide to become a lawyer?”

Matt gave a long pause, the corner of his mouth twitching like he was deciding between two answers. “I watched Legally Blonde. Changed my life.”

Peter laughed. “Shut up.”

Matt grinned. “No, not really. My dad used to tell me I was good at arguing, even when I was a kid. I figured I might as well put it to use. And, well… when you grow up watching people fall through the cracks, you either decide to help them or look the other way.”

Peter swallowed that answer, storing it somewhere quiet and reverent. He didn’t say anything for a moment.

Matt leaned forward, adjusting the papers on his desk with deliberate care. “Now it’s my turn. Why you, Peter? Why Nelson and Murdock?”

“Honestly?”

“I’d prefer it.”

Peter fiddled with the sleeve of his sweatshirt. “I applied to over a hundred internships. Like, everywhere. All over New York, even a few in New Jersey and Rhode Island. Most haven’t even opened my emails. You guys were the only ones who wrote back.”

He paused, sheepish. “I know I’m not supposed to tell employers they were my last resort, but… I guess honesty’s a virtue, right?”

Matt gave a dry hum of amusement. “Fair enough. Considering you were the only applicant, I think that evens us out.”

Peter blinked. “Wait. Seriously?”

“Seriously,” Matt said, mouth flattening. “We’re not exactly the most desirable name in the legal world. The kinds of cases we take on come with controversy, bad press, and occasionally a target on our backs. Most future law students want a clean resume, not one soaked in criminal court politics.”

Peter’s brows knit together. “Then… why even offer an internship?”

Matt tapped his desk lightly. “Because Foggy has a soft spot for idealists. And because Karen thought your email sounded genuine. Also, we could use the help. Even if it’s just fixing our fans and printers.”

Peter let out a breath. “So… what will I be doing?”

Matt leaned back. “We’re still figuring that out. We didn’t plan this ahead of time. But hopefully, by the time you’re done here, you’ll walk away with some new skills and a few more lines on your resume.”

Peter nodded, grateful but still nervous. He eyed the thick book again on the desk, the words already blurring in his brain.

Matt seemed to sense it. “Take a break,” he said gently. “Go grab a coffee. Clear your head.”

Peter stood slowly, stretching out his legs. As he turned to leave, he glanced at Matt’s desk, at the piles of paperwork, the braille display, the bare lack of computer screens. And for just a second, he wondered if his name existed in any of those files. If Matt, against all odds, remembered him. If the spell that rewrote reality missed something, some stray document, some glitch in the legal system’s endless database.

But Matt didn’t say anything. Just smiled faintly and returned to his work.

So Peter left it alone, for now.

The rest of the morning passed in a strange blur of paper jams and strong coffee.

After Peter returned from his walk, iced coffee in hand, courtesy of the bodega down the block, he found Karen rearranging the filing cabinets by alphabet instead of court date.

“Foggy’s system is chaos,” she said without looking up, elbow-deep in manila folders. “I mean, I love him, but if I find one more motion to dismiss under M for ‘maybe important’ I’m going to scream.”

Peter set his coffee down and grabbed a stack before she could protest. “Happy to help. Although I should warn you, I’m still traumatized by color-coded folders.”

She smirked. “Traumatized how?”

“High school. There was this one girl who would bite the corners off her color tabs while she studied. Whole rainbow of paper shreds by midterms. I still hear the crunching in my dreams.”

Karen laughed, really laughed, and Peter found himself relaxing into the moment, the anxiety of earlier slipping away as they worked.

Later, Foggy emerged from a consultation looking like he’d walked through a wind tunnel. “Some people think ‘I didn’t know it was illegal’ is a solid defense,” he muttered, loosening his tie as he wandered toward the kitchenette. “Peter, do me a favor. If you ever get arrested, just say you’re sorry and shut up.”

“Noted,” Peter called from where he was stapling files.

Foggy plopped onto the couch in the corner, holding a donut like it was the only thing tethering him to the Earth. “You’re doing good, kid. Karen said you fixed the fan. You’re already more useful than our last intern.”

“You had another intern?”

Karen leaned on the edge of the desk. “For one week. Quit after a client threw a sandwich at him.”

“It was turkey,” Foggy added solemnly. “A waste of perfectly good deli meat.”

Peter snorted into his coffee. “I think I can handle a sandwich.”

“That’s the spirit.” Foggy held his donut high like a toast. “If you ever want a great sandwich feel free to check out Nelson’s Meats a couple blocks over.”

They fell into an easy rhythm after that. Karen let Peter read through some public records she’d printed out for one of her side projects, something about zoning laws and a suspicious real estate firm that kept buying up low-income buildings. “Off the books,” she said quietly. “I do a little bit of investigative journalism on the side. Can’t quite kick the habit.”

Peter nodded, fingers ghosting over a name on one of the documents. Something about it tugged at him. “You think they’re laundering money?”

Karen raised an eyebrow. “I think they’re doing something shady. But I don’t have the proof yet.”

He chewed on that for a moment. “If I… came across something, like, totally hypothetical, would you want to know?”

Her gaze sharpened, and then softened. “If it’s important. If it helps someone. Yeah.”

By the time the sun began to lower outside the office windows, casting golden slats across the desks, Peter felt something he hadn’t in a long while.

He felt seen.

Not in a ‘save the world’ kind of way. Not with a mask or a mission. Just… in a room, with people, doing work that mattered to someone. Sharing donuts and printer toner and sarcasm.

It wasn’t saving the city. But it was something. It felt like he would be remembered tomorrow.

When he finally gathered his things to go, Karen waved from her desk, Foggy was on the phone loudly trying to reschedule a meeting, and Matt raised a hand in silent farewell from behind his door.

Peter stepped into the hallway, tugged on his hoodie, and smiled faintly to himself.

A strange part of him didn’t want to leave.

***

Peter stepped out into the thick warmth of early evening, the air still holding onto the city’s heat like it had nowhere better to put it. The concrete baked under his sneakers, shimmering slightly as he walked toward the edge of the block. He glanced over his shoulder once, up at the narrow windows of Nelson and Murdock’s office, and let himself smile.

Then he ducked into the alley behind the dry cleaner’s and shrugged off his button-up shirt. He rolled it, along with his tie and slacks, into a compact wad and stuffed them into his backpack, already crammed with law books, repair tools, and a half-squished sandwich he forgot he packed. The suit came out next, red and blue, webbing glinting faintly in the dying light. He pulled it on quickly, hands practiced from repetition, even as he swore under his breath about how sweaty his undershirt was. The mask came last.

Spiderman exhaled through the mesh lenses, and just like that, the world got quieter.

Higher.

Lighter.

He shot a web up to the fire escape and launched himself skyward, the city stretching out beneath him like a living, breathing thing. It was a familiar freedom, wind slicing past his ears, buildings whipping by in shades of concrete and steel. He cut a clean arc over a subway station, past an apartment window with someone playing trumpet badly, and kept going.

His comms were off. He didn’t need the police scanner to know where trouble was.

Trouble had a way of finding him.

Three blocks over, the screech of tires and the unmistakable crunch of a bumper told him someone had run a red. He dove without hesitation. Two cars sat at angles in the middle of an intersection, horns blaring and glass spider-webbing outward from cracked windshields. A woman was yelling, and someone was limping away from the passenger side.

“Hey!” Spiderman landed beside them, skidding to a halt on the asphalt. “Everyone okay? No fires? No injuries?”

The woman gawked. “You’re, oh my god, you’re Spider-Man!”

“Yup. Local, friendly, you know the drill.” He helped her back toward the sidewalk, double-checking the driver’s injuries. They’d be bruised, but fine.

“I… I didn’t even see him coming!” she stammered.

“Well, now you know: New York drivers. Endgame bosses in human form.”

He webbed up the leaking bumper so it wouldn’t drag while the guy drove it to the side, gave a brief wave to the cops pulling up late, and swung off before they could ask for a statement.

Two blocks later, a mugging behind a bodega.

One guy, tall and wiry, holding a knife to a trembling delivery kid’s chest. Spider-Man dropped silently behind him.

“You know,” he said, conversationally, “muggings are so 2005. Ever heard of Venmo?”

The guy spun around, too slow, and found himself face-first against the brick wall, webbed from chin to belt buckle.

“You’re lucky I’m on my good behavior this week,” Peter muttered, helping the delivery kid to his feet. “Go. And tell your boss to stop sending you out without a buddy.”

The kid nodded, wide-eyed, and took off on foot.

Spiderman slung himself upward, landing on a nearby fire escape with a clank that echoed faintly. He paused there, crouched, letting the breeze skim his mask. The sun was gone now. The city had cooled by a few degrees, shadows getting longer, lights flickering on across the skyline like stars in reverse.

He sat down for a minute. Just a minute. Backpack at his side, heart still somewhere between the sky and the streets of New York.

He pulled his knees up to his chest and leaned against the rusted railing, mask pushed halfway up, watching the windows flicker across the skyline.

Tomorrow he’d go back to the office.

Tomorrow he’d have something else to fix.

But for tonight, Spiderman sat still.

***

From where he sat on the fire escape, Peter could see across to Bleecker Street, down to the corner where the donut shop was finishing up for the night. The interior lights buzzed dim yellow, casting long shadows across the linoleum floor. He saw her there, MJ, untying her apron from a tight knot, then slipping it off and folding it with the same care she used to put into physics lab reports. She swept behind the counter like she always did: brisk and practical, lips tight in a way that used to mean she was deep in thought.

Peter didn’t move.

She locked the doors, gave a small nod to the guy still counting the register, and stepped out into the street, hoodie pulled up against the wind. Her earbuds were in. Same playlist, probably. She turned toward her apartment. He didn’t follow her. He never did.

He just watched.

Making sure she got to the crosswalk safe.

Making sure she didn’t look over her shoulder and catch a flicker of red on the rooftop above.

When she disappeared from view, he let out a long breath and stood. His joints ached. His shoulders burned. His stomach let out a growl so sharp it echoed against the metal of the fire escape.

“Right,” he muttered, stretching his arms over his head. “Dinner.”

It was past ten when he swung back into his apartment window, peeling off the suit one sticky layer at a time. The place smelled faintly of city steam and mildew. One of the overhead lights flickered even when it was off. The radiator hissed in uneven intervals, and the fridge had been making a death rattle for three days straight.

He tossed his backpack onto the couch and trudged into the kitchen. The cabinets were half-empty. A box of pasta sat next to a chipped mug and a bag of stale cereal. He filled a pot with water and set it on the stovetop, waiting for it to boil as he leaned against the counter, still half in costume, chest rising and falling in quiet exhaustion.

The pasta boiled over once. He didn’t even flinch.

He ate standing up, out of the pot, plastic fork clinking dully against aluminum. No sauce, just butter and salt. He liked it that way, simple and warm, something that didn’t remind him of anything.

When the pot was empty, he rinsed it out, left it in the sink, and toed off the last of his suit. His bed was still a futon on the floor, a pile of old textbooks as a makeshift nightstand. He laid back onto it and stared at the ceiling.

Tomorrow he’d be Peter Parker again.

But tonight, in the quiet hum of a too-small apartment, with city light bleeding through the blinds and the ghost of MJ’s silhouette still lingering behind his eyes, he was just a kid with tired hands and a full stomach.

And maybe, for now, that was enough.