Chapter Text
Hell’s Kitchen lay before him, flickering and alive, an inferno. His inferno. His world on fire; flashes of heat and sound, buzzing electricity, beating hearts, the acrid smell of sweat and cigarettes and the taste of blood on his lips. It was something between heaven and hell—a purgatory. The domain of a prowling, hungry devil.
Or… it had been, once.
Matthew Murdock crouched like a gargoyle atop a water tower, just a few rooftops away from his apartment, and tore the ruined glove off of his hand. It was slashed through completely. Soaked in blood. He’d been clumsy tonight; dizzy, Josie’s rotgut swill still coursing through his system. He’d caught the edge of a knife in a fight on 45th. Not the worst injury he’d ever received; not even in his top fifty.
And nothing like the injuries he’d inflicted tonight.
Matt had left the asshole bloodied and whimpering, with a fractured wrist and a concussion he’d be nursing for days, and zip-tied him to a chain-link fence. The cops would find him within the hour. And the woman he’d been attacking was safely in an ambulance, halfway to Metro General by now.
Unconsciously, Matt ran his tongue across his lip. Copper blossomed over his taste buds, hot and sour and sharp. It wasn’t his blood. He shivered, torn between disgust and a terrible delight, and the devil inside him rumbled softly. Pleased.
A sharp twinge of guilt knifed through him, and Matt hastily crossed himself.
He wasn’t Daredevil. Not anymore. This was just… a fluke.
There was a reason he’d gone back to his black suit; a reason he’d never returned to the horned cowl and red body armor. Daredevil was a figure for a time long past—a time before Thanos, before half the universe dying and resurrecting in some perverse sort of judgment day. Daredevil was insignificant, really, in the grand scheme of things. What could he do against aliens? Against gods and monsters and cosmic nightmares? That’s what the Avengers were for. The world, it seemed, had outgrown Daredevil.
Matt clutched the gaping wound in his hand and hissed in pain, thinking again of tonight’s fight. The spiking heart rate of the woman as Matt had pushed away her attacker. The thudding war drum beats of fists against flesh, against bone. The sound of distant sirens; the wailing of a city mired in misery and crime.
He couldn’t ignore the pleas for help. Not when they happened within his domain. He fought; he bled; he prowled in the darkness. But he did it as himself . As Matt Murdock.
Be careful of the Murdock boys… they got the devil in ‘em.
Matt crossed his legs and closed his eyes, sending out his focus along the city; like hands, running over an enormous braille map. He listened to the tipsy giggles of bar crawlers, scented heaps of garbage and rats’ nests. And he tasted the ozone on the air, the metallic sting of a storm moving in. Still distant, but rolling steadily forward. Powerful, if the low rumble of thunder was any indication. Rageful, even.
After a moment he turned his focus north, toward his own apartment, where Karen Page was sleeping fitfully in his bed. She murmured something in her sleep, and in spite of himself, Matt smiled.
There were a few places that Matt frequented on nights like this; safe spaces where he could survey his city. The cross above Clinton Church, the rooftop of Fogwell’s Gym, the fire escape behind Nelson and Murdock… but invariably, when Karen stayed over, Matt found himself here; perched on a water tower, only a few buildings away.
Where he could sense her. Hear her, smell her. Feel her. She and his city, both at once.
She slept over more and more these days. And, as hesitant as Matt was to say it—fearful of jinxing it, of ruining it the same way he managed to ruin everything else in his life—she belonged there. He could sense it in her posture, her gait, even the tonal gradations of her voice. She felt safer at Matt’s place than at her own. Happier. She was home there.
Matt angled his head toward the apartment. She was still mumbling softly, the silk sheets rustling as she tossed restlessly beneath them. It sounded like she was having a nightmare. She was on the verge of waking; she’d find the bed empty, and she would panic. She slept better when Matt was next to her.
Guilt began to simmer in his stomach, and he stood up. If he hurried, if he leapt across the rooftops and through the rising wind, he could make it back home before she woke up. He could slide in bed next to her and bury her face into his shoulder before she even realized he was gone. And they’d sleep through the impending storm together.
As he stood at the lip of the water tower, one foot dangling over the edge, Karen woke up.
He heard her lurch upright, slightly breathless. She whispered his name—and again—reaching for him across the empty silk sheets. She was panicking, he knew, but trying to suppress it; reassuring herself that this was normal. That this was the life she’d chosen, the life Matt had given her. Trying to swallow down the primal fear and pain that came with loving the Devil.
That fear was his fault. Her pain was his fault.
His burner phone began to buzz in his pocket. He fished it out and flipped it open, pressing it to his ear.
“Go back to sleep, Karen.”
“Are you okay?” she asked, voice still thick with sleep. “Did something happen?”
“The usual,” Matt said. “Nothing too—”
“Injuries?” She was shuffling around the apartment now, slipping into her shoes and grabbing her purse. “Need the kit?”
Matt hesitated. “It’s not bad.”
There was a soft huff of humorless laughter. “I’m supposed to believe that?”
“Really, not bad. Stings a little. It’ll heal fast.” He wiped some of the dripping blood onto his pants. “Go back to bed, please. I’m on my way home.”
“Too late,” Karen said. And he could hear the click and lock of the apartment door. “I’ll come to you.”
He shook his head. “You don’t have to—”
“I want to,” she said firmly. “Stay put, I mean it.”
Matt hesitated, then sighed, biting back a small smile. He held up his hands in mock defeat. “Okay, okay.”
And she hung up before he could say anything else.
Matt hesitated on the edge of the water tower for a moment, shifting from foot to foot, wondering if he should go to her and guide her back to the apartment. But Karen was a force to be reckoned with, he knew. She wouldn’t be deterred from a path she’d set out on, whether that path was meeting Matt on a water tower at 2:00 in the morning, or baring her teeth in the face of hardened criminals. It was best to accept it and deal with the fallout later.
Even if that fallout was as simple as protecting her from the rain when tonight’s storm finally, inevitably, came.
It didn’t take long for her scent to reach him; apple blossom shampoo, spearmint toothpaste, hints of Josie’s Bar and Grill. The slightly dusty smell of Matt’s apartment. And beneath it all, the intoxicating scent of her skin. Warm, somehow; bright, but subtle. A little like summer dandelions. Like sunbathed earth.
Matt took a long breath in, suppressing a shudder of pleasure, and focused on tracking her walk through the streets.
She was shivering, hands jammed into the pockets of one of Matt’s Columbia hoodies, but she moved quickly; and in a matter of minutes, she was entering the building below him. He listened to her quick ascent up the stairs, then the click and push of the rooftop access door. She made her way slowly across the rooftop—hands held a bit in front of her, too dark for her to see much—and came to a stop at the base of the water tower.
“Matt?” she said softly. “I know you’re up there.”
“You’re cold,” he said, a little louder so she could hear him.
Karen shivered as if on cue. “Then you’d better warm me up. Where’s the ladder?”
Matt stood and walked down to the lip of the tower. Then he dropped off the edge, catching himself at the last minute, his fingers clinging to the rusty metal. He shimmied his way along the edge until he got to the ladder. It was halfway up the ground; probably hadn’t been used in weeks. Matt hadn’t bothered with it earlier tonight, preferring to climb silently up the side.
He found the bolt holding up the ladder and released it. It screeched, shrill and ugly—Matt resisted the urge to cover his ears—and came to a clattering halt on the cement at Karen’s feet. She immediately began to climb, putting her bag into her mouth as she made her way up to Matt’s level.
About halfway up, she slipped.
Matt knew it before she did; he caught her by the arm before she even realized what happened. He hoisted her up higher, catching her around the waist, and she yelped in surprise—her bag plummeting toward the ground.
Matt caught it around his foot and slung it up toward himself, catching it with his free hand.
“Showoff,” Karen muttered, her heart rate spiking. Matt laughed and pressed his face into her neck, planting soft kisses at the corner of her jaw.
When they were both safely atop the water tower, Matt sat down and pulled her in close, running his good hand along her arm to try and get some warmth back into her goosebumps skin. “You’re freezing.”
He could hear the muscles in her face tightening slightly as she frowned. She reached for his injured hand. “You’re bleeding.”
Matt shrugged. “Barely.”
“Stitches?”
Matt hesitated for a moment, focusing on the gash across his skin. Already the pain was receding, the bleedings slowed to a crawl. “No. It’ll heal.”
“Are you lying to me?”
He grabbed her hand, pressing it to his chest, and ran his fingers along the bumps of her knuckles. “I’m all right, Karen. Promise.”
She was still for a moment, feeling for his heartbeat. Her fingers twitched slightly against his chest. Matt was sure she couldn’t really feel his pulse, but the touch seemed to comfort her. After a while she nodded. “Still, you need a bandage. I brought the kit.”
Matt tilted his head, listening as Karen rummaged through her bag. It was small, easily concealable; she often had it on hand. Made sense, he supposed, given his nighttime profession. It was nothing compared to the one he kept at the office, let alone the industrial-sized kit back at home. Still, it was something.
“Roll up your sleeve,” Karen said.
“Yes, ma’am,” Matt said, snorting, and obeyed. Karen assessed the wound for a minute in silence. She wasn’t really a nurse; had very little practice. Still, though, after years of involvement with the Devil, she’d picked up a few tips and tricks. Enough to get by.
She dug through the kit until she’d found an alcohol pad, and tore it open with her teeth. Then, with a gentle squeeze to his wrist, she passed it firmly along the wound in his palm. He hissed at the sting—softly, so she couldn’t hear it. She was so thorough, so careful, and far more gentle than she needed to be. Really, he thought, the first-aid was more for Karen’s peace of mind than his. But he didn’t mind it; not with her soft fingers passing over him, her hot breath raising the hair along his arms. The intoxicating smell of her skin and the reassuring pattern of her heartbeat.
Something tingled along his skin—electricity, he thought. And sure enough, a low roll of thunder sounded just a moment later; still a few miles away, but moving closer. It was loud enough, anyway, for Karen to hear. She looked up at the sound and shivered.
“You should go home. Before the storm hits.”
“I’m fine, Matt.” She set his hand in her lap and reached for the kit again, pulling out a bandage and fiddling with the wrapper. “Not like the rain’s ever been a problem for us, anyway.”
He knew what she was remembering.
It was raining when she first saw him; not as Matt Murdock, but as the Devil. The raindrops were sharp, rageful, like shards of ice slicing along his skin. The world was a maelstrom of sound; thunder, drumming, the powerful rush of water, as he fought off her attacker. As he bled. As he caught her scent, the fearful pounding of her heart, beneath the chaos of the storm.
Or perhaps she was thinking of another time; their first kiss, maybe, just outside of Josie’s. Not the Devil that time. Just a man, and a woman, and breathless smiles as their lips met through the sluicing rainfall.
“No,” he said softly. He pressed his face into hers, running his nose along the contours of her cheek before catching the corner of her lips into a soft kiss. “I guess not.”
She smiled into his lips, her breathing a little unsteady, her heartbeat picking up slightly. Then she hesitated, wanting to kiss him more deeply, perhaps. Pull him closer. But after a moment, she shook her head a little and returned to the task at hand.
As she opened the bandage, Matt turned his focus back toward the empty apartment just a few buildings away.
She didn’t live with him, not yet; but she spent most nights there anyway. The bed was probably still warm. He wanted to take her back there; to gather her into his arms and carry her across the streets of the Kitchen, to place her softly upon the mattress and climb in after her. He wanted to run his fingers along her shoulders and her spine until she fell asleep again. Warm against his chest. Happy. Safe.
“Couldn’t sleep?” he asked her after a moment or two.
She kept her head down, focused on Matt’s hand, though he could hear the muscles tightening in her forehead, like she was raising her eyebrows. “You’re one to talk.”
“You were tossing and turning for a while,” he said. “Talking in your sleep. Mumbling.”
“Hmm.” She carefully placed the bandage onto his palm.
“Nightmare?” he said softly.
She pressed her palm over the bandage, holding it tight against his skin. Warmth flooded from her hand into his body, like she was pouring steaming water directly over his skin, and Matt suppressed a shiver.
“You spying on me?”
The corner of his lip quirked up. “And if I was?”
“Then I’d say it’s a normal Tuesday for Matt Murdock,” she said. He could hear the smile in her voice as she crumpled up the bandage wrapper and shoved it back inside the kit. “That’s why you’re up here, isn’t it?”
In response, Matt shifted to sit behind her. He situated himself until she was seated between his legs, her back pressed against his chest, warmth radiating like a sunbeam where their bodies connected. From this position he could feel her heartbeat more than hear it; as though it wasn’t hers, but his. Pounding through his veins, along his skin, pumping fiery blood throughout his entire body until his skin felt feverish.
“You can talk about it if you want,” Matt said. He brought his arms up and wrapped them around her. “The nightmare.”
She reached up and clutched at his arms, holding him just a little tighter than usual—like she was worried he would slip away. Then she took a long breath. “Wouldn’t help.”
“Kevin?”
She shook her head. “Wesley.”
Matt tightened his grip and leaned forward until his chin was resting on her shoulder. “You’re safe,” he said. “Fisk—he can’t come after you. Not anymore.”
“That’s not really what I’m worried about,” she said.
Matt knew it; knew it all too well. Understood the guilt she was feeling, even if he himself hadn’t crossed that line. Some days were better for her than others; sometimes she’d go weeks without talking about it, weeks of restful sleep and happier days. Every so often, though, it came back to haunt her; visions of blood, of bullet holes and slumped over bodies, cold warehouses, raging monsters, and the cement heaviness of guilt.
He closed his eyes and nuzzled his head a little further into her neck, trying to offer her some sort of distraction. It seemed to work a little. Her breathing grew more steady, anyway.
“So, what was it tonight?” she asked after a while.
“Mugging.”
“You’re not usually this worked up over a mugging.”
“There may have been a few,” Matt said grudgingly, his body tensing. “And… an assault.” He took a shuddering breath, the taste of blood on his skin overpowering him for a moment. The taste of blood, and the thudding drumbeat of his heart as he he punched the man, over and over and over…
Let the Devil out.
Karen made a soft sympathetic sound and pulled out of his grip, turning around so she could face him fully. She took his hands, playing idly with them for a moment, then leaned forward until her forehead was pressed against the black fabric of his mask. “And you still say Daredevil’s ‘retired’?”
“He is,” Matt said firmly.
She lifted a hand and wrapped it around the back of Matt’s neck, catching one of the hanging strips of fabric that tied the mask to his head. “So the black suit and mask ensemble is… what? A fashion statement?”
“He’s retired, not dead,” Matt said. And he set his jaw. “I can’t just do nothing. Not when I can hear… the things I hear.”
“I know,” she said, still playing with his mask. “It’s who you are… the Devil of Hell’s Kitchen.” She hesitated, then ran a finger underneath the edge of his mask, tracing over his cheekbones, his nose. And, after a beat of hesitation, she shifted it up until she’d revealed his eyes. “I just… I don’t know why you can’t call it what it is.”
Her hand halted then, cradling his face. Matt leaned into it and closed his eyes.
“Daredevil was a symbol,” he said. And he was; a warning, a guardian, keeping the city on the path of the righteous. Like a warrior from God, he cast out the demons of Hell’s Kitchen. He sought out the source of rot, of corruption and evil, and he purged it. Now, though, in a world so utterly transformed… with demons so much stronger than before, so unknowable…
What could he do against the threats that the world faced now?
“And a symbol can’t save this city,” he finished. “Not anymore.”
Karen ran her thumb back and forth over Matt’s cheek and took a breath. He could tell she wanted to argue with him; but she seemed to sense the futility of it, and leaned forward, catching his lips in hers.
And as she did, the storm broke over their heads.
Karen gave a startled laugh as the first of the raindrops hit, light and icy against her hot skin. She leaned further into Matt, running her nose along his, biting her lip as she gazed at him. Matt laughed too, a soft huff, and reached up to run a thumb across her brow, wiping away some of the streaming rain. And he hovered over her lips—waiting for her to lean in to meet him.
And she did.
“I love you, Karen,” Matt said after a moment; soft, a little breathless. Thunder sounded overhead, insistent and rolling, and electricity tingled along his skin. He picked up her hand and traced the outline of her fingers. He opened his mouth to say something else—and a sudden wave of emotion swelled inside him. The magnitude of it made him tremble. Words were inadequate. He took a small shuddering breath and closed his eyes. “So… so much.”
“I love you, too,” she said, laughing softly against his mouth. And, uninterested in being apart, she resumed the kiss. The rain drummed against the water tower, almost singing; a strange metallic melody. The smell of ozone and rust was a steady note underneath it all, but not enough to overpower the intoxicating scent of her.
After a few minutes she hummed softly then turned back around, settling against him, picking up his arms and wrapping them around herself. He buried his face in her hair and pressed a kiss to the top of their head. And they sat together in silence for some time.
The rain began to soften, settling into a steady drizzle, the faint droplets like the tingle of static along his skin.
Matt took a long, centering breath and gathered his focus; letting it settle beyond the rain, beyond the heat of Karen’s body against his. And he surveyed his city once again. He knew, vaguely, what it looked like; remembered the sight from his childhoods, on muggy nights when his dad would bring him up to the top of Fogwell’s and sit with him under the twilight sky. The city sparkled, he remembered; it shimmered and shivered, in the heat and in the cold. The skyscrapers stood like solitary black ghosts in the darkness, silhouetted, and glittered with yellow and white lights.
It looked, he remembered, like a starry sky.
Somehow, though, it was even more beautiful now; fiery and smoldering in his “vision,” his world on fire like something from beyond this life. Something waiting for him after. And even now, blind as he was, he could “see” the city as his father had shown it to him—pockets of heat and sound, pinpoints of life within the city; sticking out in his mind like stars across the dark cityscape.
He opened his mouth, intending to describe the image to Karen, and paused. She was breathing slowly and evenly against him, her heart beating steadily. She was so peaceful. She was… asleep. Matt let out a small, disbelieving huff of laughter. Here, even in the rain, in the cold of the city, she had fallen asleep against his chest.
Somehow—impossibly, miraculously—she felt safe with him. Safe enough to sleep in the devil’s arms, in the middle of the night, in the rain, far above the swirling danger of Hell’s Kitchen… she trusted him to keep her safe.
He swallowed. He didn’t deserve this. This strange, swelling, beautiful, maddening, safe, peaceful, warm, fiery, quiet, roaring, reverent love.
He burrowed his face into her hair, trembling, losing himself in the smell of her, the feel of her. He shouldn’t have this. And yet, somehow, he did.
“I’m going to marry you,” he whispered. She stirred slightly in her sleep, giving a small hum of contentment. He laughed, a little shaky, and pressed a kiss to her hair.
At home, hidden in the chest where he once kept his Daredevil suit—in the chest with his father’s old boxing gear—was a small velvet box. A gift, a family heirloom, he’d inherited from his father. A silver ring, a small diamond. A future.
“I’m going to marry you,” he repeated.
He let her sleep for a few more minutes. But the rain picked up again, and she began shivering in her sleep. He gently nudged her awake. She stretched against him, sighing, and he pulled his mask back down over his head and helped her to her feet. He guided her down the ladder. And, splashing along the puddled pavement, dreamily through the chill spring rain, they walked home together.
#####
Peter Parker landed heavily atop his apartment building, the sticky strings of his web still floating featherlike in the early morning air. The sun was just beginning to rise over the horizon; a soft white glow that crept like a cloud over the cityscape. He took a long breath in. There was something nice in it; crisp and bright, hints of rain from last night’s storm, and high enough above the grime of the city that he could imagine, for a moment, that Queens was actually pleasant.
He’d been patrolling through most of the night. Queens wasn’t generally too rough of an area; still, though, there was never a shortage of things to do. Helping drunks get home safely, stopping petty thefts, helping old ladies cross the street…
Okay, maybe he didn’t do that in the middle of the night. But the principle was the same.
Either way, Peter was exhausted.
He crept down the side of the building and slid open his window, dropping with a thump to the floor of his cold studio apartment. He took a deep breath and looked around himself.
It was the same as he’d left it; his sewing machine littered with scraps of red and blue fabric from a patch-up job he’d been working on, an empty can of Spaghetti-Os on the counter, and a stack of bills on top of the fridge that he’d been doing his best to ignore.
And, piled haphazardly on his bed, a stack of job applications.
He was quickly running out of money. And he didn’t have a whole lot of job options; after the fiasco with Dr. Strange, all his records had been wiped. His high school transcripts. His social security number. His birth certificate. And besides that, jobs were hard to come by these days, in the chaos after the blip. Especially for someone as unqualified and scattered as he was.
He was a few months behind on rent, and growing desperate.
Peter crossed to the pile of cardboard boxes stacked against the wall, which he used in lieu of a closet. He rummaged through them until he found a shirt and pants that were unwrinkled—or, at least, less wrinkled than the rest—and put them on over the top of his Spider-man suit. Then he crossed to the kitchenette and opened up the fridge.
Half a brown banana. An opened carton of yogurt. A quarter block of moldy cheese and a styrofoam box of two-week-old Chinese takeout. Peter sighed, ignored the rumbling of his stomach, and closed the fridge again.
He figured he’d hit the pavement today and try to pick up a few more applications. And maybe stop for a coffee—he had just enough coins for a small cup from his favorite place.
He grabbed his keys and his thin wallet, then paused in the doorway, looking at his few treasured possessions sitting on his windowsill. A LEGO Palpatine, an empty coffee cup, and a small black shard of glass from a broken Dahlia necklace. Then, straightening his posture a little, he left—through the door this time, not the window.
45 minutes and a subway ride later, he found himself outside a sad, stooping little coffee shop on the borders of Hell’s Kitchen. The bell tinkled in a weary sort of way as he let himself inside.
“Welcome to Bean’s Corner,” came a very bored-sounding voice from behind the counter. Peter’s heart stuttered. It always did. He heard that voice several times a week; that’s why he came here, after all. And still, the sound of it sent shivers of longing down his spine.
“Morning,” Peter said, fishing out a wallet. And he snuck a glance up into her face.
MJ was leaning forward, cheek resting in one hand, drumming black fingernails along the countertop. She wasn’t even looking at Peter, her gaze instead somewhere over his shoulder, like she was thinking about something else.
She’d been working here for a few weeks now, and she seemed to like it even less than her last place. Peter did, too. The last place had been a lot closer to his apartment. Still, she was worth the extra half-hour. The sight of her face, just hearing the dry monotone of her voice, was worth it. Even if his heart cracked a little every time he saw her.
He grabbed a fistful of change and dropped it onto the counter, carefully counting it out. “One black coffee, please.”
She shot out a hand and slid the change toward herself, dropping the coins one by one into the register. Clink. Clink. Clink. Then, sighing, she turned around and started pouring his coffee. Peter dug through his wallet until he’d found a couple spare dollars, and dropped them into her tip jar.
So, he’d say to her. If things were different. It’s been a while since we’ve talked. Really talked. I’ve missed it. Oh, you don’t remember me? Right, right—let me remind you. I’m Peter. Peter Parker. Your boyfriend.
And I’m also Spider-man, if that’s at all relevant.
Yeah, see, there was a whole thing with Dr. Strange, crazy magic, this goblin guy—but it’s all over now. Everything’s taken care of. The only thing left, really, is to talk to you. You and Ned. To tell you all about it and get you to remember…
You remember? You remember me? It’s all coming back?
I’m sorry I didn’t tell you sooner, I know I should have—I was just scared, I guess. Thought you might not remember. And I thought, you know… it might be dangerous. Given what I do, all the people I piss off… I was scared. Scared for you.
But you remember, MJ, you remember—and everything’s okay now—everything’s perfect—
MJ turned around, coffee in hand, and set it on the counter. Peter swallowed and looked up into her face, giving her a hesitant smile. She returned it, though it didn’t look all that genuine.
“Thanks,” he said.
“Yeah.”
He opened his mouth to say something else, but—like he usually did—he caught sight of the scar on her forehead. A tiny white line, cutting through her eyebrow; a scar she’d received in the fight at the Statue of Liberty. Because of him.
She’d been lucky to escape with her life. Lucky that the scar was the only souvenir she’d kept from that fight.
Lucky, honestly, that she’d forgotten him.
Trying to suppress the nausea rising in his stomach, Peter grabbed the coffee and took a sip. It was pretty terrible—but, again, worth it. “I’ll, uh… see you around,” he said.
“Yep.” She waved him off half-heartedly, already turning away. Peter closed his eyes, nodded, then turned and walked back out of the shop. Feeling better than he had this morning—and, at the same time, feeling much worse.
He spent the rest of the day wandering from place to place, trying to find a job; bookstores, restaurants, gas stations, grocery stores and delis. Joe’s Pizza was promising, though the pay was abysmal. And, according to their website, The Daily Bugle was looking to hire a photographer. He had little experience, though; and besides that, the thought of working for J. Jonah Jameson made him want to puke.
So, after a long, unproductive day, Peter made his way back to his apartment.
He planned to drop off his civvies and patrol as Spider-man for a while. A night of fighting off criminals, of helping the city, would probably lift his spirits. Besides, he was itching to get back on the trail of a gang he’d been working lately. He’d caught a bunch of Russian guys a few nights ago, passing weapons, talking about some sort of shipment. Drugs, Peter assumed. He figured he could spend some time tonight tracking them, maybe follow the chain and find out who the leader was.
He opened the door to his apartment, and found that someone had slipped a letter under his door. Nonplussed—who would be writing to him?—he bent down and picked up the letter, ripping open the envelope as he straightened.
Dear Peter Parker,
RE: Notice to vacate
This letter serves as formal notice of eviction pursuant to the terms of your rental agreement for the premises located at Wilbur Heights in Queens, NY. It has come to our attention that you are in violation of the terms of your lease agreement due to non-payment of rent.
As a result of this violation, you are hereby required to vacate and surrender the premises to the landlord no later than 30 days from the date posted. Failure to vacate the premises will result in further legal action.
Peter stopped reading, a tinny sort of ringing in his ears. His mouth went slightly dry. He swallowed, hard, and looked up, staring around himself—at this sad, stupid, ugly, cold, shitty apartment.
An apartment, apparently, that he couldn’t even keep.
“Great,” he said to himself. He laughed unsteadily. “That’s—that’s awesome. I’m gonna be homeless. I’ve been to space, and I’m about to be homeless.”
It wasn’t fair. Damn it, it wasn’t fair. He was Spider-man. He spent his nights, gave up his sleep, his blood, his very skin for this city—and now the city was leaving him behind, kicking him while he was down. It wasn’t fair, it was bullshit.
He skimmed through the rest of the letter, but it devolved into incomprehensible legalese. A headache started pounding behind his eyes, which compounded the aching of his empty stomach, which sent flares of pain back up into his head, on and on and on. He needed someone else to look at this—someone who could translate it, could maybe help him fight it.
If he wasn’t broke, he’d probably hire a lawyer.
A lawyer…
Peter frowned, a memory stirring somewhere. He didn’t have a lot of experience with this kind of thing—but he’d met with a lawyer once, just a few months ago. He was blind, Peter remembered that much. What was his name? Matt something. Matt Murdock? Yeah, that was it—Matt Murdock—
His eyes widened as he remembered. A shattering glass window. A brick. And lightning-fast reflexes, faster even than Peter’s… tingle.
In all honesty, Peter hadn’t thought much about that moment since it had happened. He’d had other things on his mind; world-ending things, life-changing things, deaths and losses and things forgotten and a life to rebuild. The mystery of his weirdly cool lawyer had sort of faded into the background.
He shook his head. It didn’t matter; he didn’t have the money to hire a lawyer anyway.
Still…
Aunt May was the one who had found Mr. Murdock, Peter was relatively sure. He thought harder, straining to remember, to push past the lump of grief in his throat and think practically. May had hired a lawyer she knew, someone she trusted, to protect Peter from the sharks circling him. She knew Mr. Murdock… through F.E.A.S.T., maybe? Through her charity work? She’d talked to Peter about it, sometimes, the work she organized there—offering food and shelter, help with unemployment and childcare…
And free to low-cost legal services.
Peter reached for his phone, navigating to the abandoned F.E.A.S.T. webpage. Sure enough, Matt Murdock’s name was there, under a long list of resources and referrals. And next to him, his law partner: Franklin P. Nelson. Maybe Peter could find their office, and visit tomorrow morning. They might be able to give him some advice, or at least refer him to someone who could help. Another quick Google search brought him to their simple, outdated-looking website:
Nelson and Murdock: Attorneys at Law.
#####
Matt could smell Foggy before he heard him; the hours-old over-priced cologne, the cheap beer he’d drunk last night at Josie’s, the droplets of sweat he’d accumulated on his five-minute walk from the subway station. That, and the box of powdered donuts he was carrying. The air around him shifted as he opened the door, and the floor vibrated as he walked jauntily inside.
“You’re in a good mood,” Matt said, not bothering to remove his hands from the stack of papers in front of him. “Marci have something to do with that?”
“Always does,” Foggy said. “Morning.”
He dropped the box of donuts onto Matt’s desk, and Matt felt a few specks of powdered sugar settling onto his paper. He brushed it away, the braille bumps tingling along his fingertips.
“Have a donut,” Foggy said, brandishing one in front of Matt’s face.
Matt wrinkled his nose. “You’re getting powdered sugar all over my suit.”
“Relax, it’s not like you can see it.”
“I can feel it.”
Foggy rolled his eyes (something Matt couldn’t sense, but he knew Foggy well enough to imagine it) and ate the donut himself. “Morning, Karen,” he called, voice muffled through the pastry.
“Hey, Fog.”
Karen was in the next room over, in a small office space they’d dedicated to the investigation side of the firm. She split her time most days; unwilling to leave her work at The Bulletin, but equally as invested in the work they did here. She was juggling more than most—and still, handled it with an ease and a grace that sometimes left Matt breathless.
“Want a donut?”
“Save me one for later,” she said, poking her head out of the doorway. She paused for a minute, and her heart rate rose just a little, the temperature rising slightly across her skin. She was looking at Matt, biting her lip. Smiling at him.
He felt the corners of his mouth twitch upward, and shook his head, returning to the documents in front of him.
Foggy looked back and forth between the two of them, his mouth stretched into what sounded like a wide grin. He knew what Matt was planning. He’d helped Matt plan it, actually. Matt had spent a few hours in his apartment last week, more nervous than he’d been in years, lost and uncertain how to proceed. He was new at all this, to be perfectly honest. He’d dated around, sure, but only casually. His one real relationship had been with Elektra, and that had been… less than healthy, to put it mildly.
What he had with Karen was different. Almost sacred. He couldn’t afford to mess it up.
So Foggy was more than happy to help him through it; planning the date, picking out Matt’s outfit, helping to organize the restaurant and the music and everything. It was only a few weeks away now. Foggy was almost as excited about it as Matt.
“So,” Foggy said, dragging a chair from the corner of the office and setting it up next to Matt’s desk. “What’s on the docket today?”
“Not much.”
Foggy groaned. “We’re going to go out of business, Matt. I’m serious. Us, the badasses who took down Wilson Fisk— twice —we’re gonna be bankrupt.”
Matt sighed and scrubbed his hands over his face. “The blip really screwed us.”
“You can say that again.”
Before Thanos had snapped half the world away, Nelson and Murdock were swimming in clientele. Clientele, but not money. Matt, much to Foggy’s chagrin, focused the firm’s efforts almost entirely on the underprivileged; the tired, poor, huddled masses that made up the majority of Hell’s Kitchen. They didn’t pay much—pastries and fruit, mostly—but there was a satisfaction to that sort of work. A middle finger, as it were, to people like Wilson Fisk; people with money and privilege and enough power to crush New York City under their boots. Each downtrodden client Nelson and Murdock took on was another poke in Wilson Fisk’s eye, and Matt was satisfied.
But that was before the blip. Now, people had other things to worry about. Stranger things. The city, state, and even federal government had bigger fish to fry than the woes of a neighborhood like Hell’s Kitchen.
“So what now?” Foggy asked.
Matt leaned back in his chair and drummed his fingers along the desk. “I’ve put in a request to the DA, to see if he has any backlogged cases. I know he’s overloaded lately.”
“Blake Tower,” Foggy muttered derisively under his breath. “Great.”
“In the meantime,” Karen said, coming out of her office, “Maybe we could all organize some of the old case files. This place is a sty.”
Matt smirked. “I don’t know, looks fine to me.”
Foggy opened his mouth, confused, then scoffed, punching Matt lightly in the shoulder. Karen, meanwhile, crossed to a large filing cabinet near the door and pulled the top door completely off its track, bringing it over to Matt’s desk and dropping it with a loud thunk.
“Let’s read through them, reorganize, see if any of these need any follow-up,” she said. “We’ve got them alphabetized, but I think sorting by date might be better.” And, when neither of them moved, she crossed her arms. “Come on! Get moving!”
Matt and Foggy groaned, but acquiesced, digging through the files.
Within minutes the office was bustling, a haze of sound and activity. Scratching pens, the screech of the braille printer, the rustling and shuffling of paper and occasional bad joke from Foggy. Karen was right; it was an unorganized disaster. Still, they steadily made their way through; and within an hour or so they’d made it halfway through the alphabet, all the way to the P’s.
“Page” was the first one in that drawer. Matt ran his hands over it fondly. Karen had been their very first client; it was how they’d met.The circumstances had been… eventful, to say the least; Karen, framed for murder, and almost strangled by the prison guard at the jail—all under the orders of Wilson Fisk. He’d never forget the traumatized lilt of her voice, the scent of salt as she held back tears, her trembling fingers and the war drum pounding of her heart.
From the very beginning, she’d put her life into his hands—both as Matt Murdock, and as the Devil. She’d trusted him, instinctively. Trusted him to care for her. To protect her.
“Taking a long time with that file, buddy,” Foggy said, and grabbed it from him. “What’s this one?”
Matt cleared his throat uncomfortably. “It’s, uh… Karen’s file, actually.”
Karen looked up, her heartbeat spiking slightly, but she didn’t say anything.
“Lovesick freak,” Foggy snorted. “It’s a murder case. Not a photo album.”
“Not like a photo album would do much for me anyway,” Matt said, irritated, and yanked the file back. He set it aside to reminisce over later and reached for a new one.
Then another. And another. He flew through them, partly to distract himself and partly to mask his slight embarrassment. Paine. Palmer. Parish. Parker.
As he hastily skimmed through this last one, he stopped confused.
He went over it again.
“What the hell?” he murmured. He laid out the entire file in front of him and started from the top—thoroughly scanning his fingers across it, line by line, page by page. He had to have missed something; had to have skipped over something by mistake.
The file was… wrong, somehow. Baffling. Almost corrupted.
He ran his fingers over the braille at the top: a name, familiar, tinged with a touch of loss. May Parker.
He’d worked with her for a while, helping out with F.E.A.S.T. when he could. She’d died months ago; he’d read about it in the news. Heard the bomb go off, actually, even from his apartment in Hell’s Kitchen. She’d died in an explosion in Long Island, the circumstances of which were still under investigation.
This file, though… was unrelated to all of that.
“What’s wrong?” Foggy said.
Matt shook his head a little, some sort of hazy confusion still fogging up his brain. “What?”
“You have a look on your face.”
“I don’t have a look.”
Foggy set down the file he was looking over and folded his arms. “It’s the same look you get when you’re about to rush off in your suit. It’s your—” He put on a gruff, mocking tone. “—‘I’m gonna fix this city and everyone in it’ face.”
Matt raised his eyebrows. “I don’t have that face.”
“Yes you do,” Karen said, looking up from her own stack of papers. She placed a warm hand on his arm. “What’s going on?”
Matt hesitated, then passed Foggy the mysterious file.
“I, uh… can’t read braille.”
“It’s a case we took a few months ago,” Matt said. “Dated here at the top. And it sounds like everything’s wrapped up, loose ends tied… we got paid and everything. A case in Queens, with May Parker. Do you remember?”
“May Parker… why does that name sound familiar?”
Karen pulled up a chair next to Foggy. “She ran F.E.A.S.T., right? And she died a few months ago, in that bombing. I wrote a piece on it for The Bulletin. ” She craned her neck to look at the file in Foggy’s hands. “I forgot we took a case for her.”
“So did I,” Matt said. “Even now, I barely remember any of it.”
“May Parker…” Foggy said. “Now that you say it, I remember. A little. But what was the case? What’s the chief complaint here?”
“Give me your hand,” Matt said. Foggy, nonplussed, held out his palm. Matt guided his fingers over the bumps on the page. “Look here—May Parker. Non-disclosure agreement. Charges of criminal neglect. And down here, first-degree homicide.”
Foggy felt the paper a little more. “There’s a lot of blank spaces on this sheet.”
“Exactly,” Matt said. “Whole paragraphs missing. Sentences cut in half. And a name, too—whoever else was involved with this case. ‘May Parker and…’ the rest of it’s gone.”
“Like it’s redacted?” Karen said.
“More like… erased.”
Foggy frowned. “First-degree homicide? That’s huge. How is so much of it missing?”
Karen took the document too, and Matt guided her fingers over the strange blank sections. “It makes no sense,” he said, deftly moving Karen’s wrist along the page. “It never went to trial; May Parker wasn’t even the chief defendant here.”
“Who was?”
Matt took the document back and scanned it over again. “No one. That’s what’s missing.”
Foggy paused for a minute, and Matt could practically hear the wheels in his head turning. “There’s something else there,” he said, nodding. “You’re right. It’s like, I remember, but I… don’t.”
“So none of us remember,” Matt said. “And this paper… erased. You can’t really erase braille.”
“They sell braille erasers,” Foggy said helpfully.
“I’d still feel the impressions. This document, this mystery defendant—it’s just… nothing.”
The three of them were silent for a few moments. Karen searched through the stacks until she’d found the corresponding printed copies. A quick look revealed that the sighted copy, too, was erased. Corrupted.
“There’s no reason to dwell on it,” Foggy said slowly. “Obviously, it’s a mystery that’s gonna drive us insane… but I don’t think there’s anything we can do about it. I guess flag the file, keep it on hand in case something comes to mind. But for now…”
“Back to organizing,” Karen agreed, though she kept out the Parker file—carefully placing it into a folder and sliding it under the door to her side office. Matt tried to join them, but found himself reeling; his head aching slightly, as though overstuffed. As though there was something inside it—something hidden behind a brick wall inside his brain. Some memory, some sort of knowledge… locked away.
He did his best to shake it off, and returned to the task at hand.
They worked for another hour or so before Foggy declared that he was losing his mind and needed a break. So, while Karen and Foggy headed to the kitchenette to brew another pot of coffee, Matt crossed to his desk and sat on top of it. Then he closed his eyes, trying to clear his head. Centering his focus, gathering it in, smoothing out the wrinkles through meditation. To try and get his mind off of that strange file.
He caught the sound of three flies in different corners of the room, scraping their legs together. He could feel the subway rumbling far beneath them, six different trains at varying speeds rushing through a labyrinth of tunnels. He tasted nicotine drifting up through the vents, someone smoking in the office below them.
And footsteps on the staircase outside, heading for their door. Whoever it was sounded light, young; probably just a kid.
“Karen, there’s someone at the door,” Matt said. Karen nodded and moved closer, hand hovering over the knob, waiting for a knock.
“That will never not be creepy,” Foggy said, shaking his head.
The knock came, and Karen swung the door open. “Nelson and Murdock,” she said brightly. The kid nodded, his shoulders hunched slightly, his heart beating a little fast. “Come on in.”
He stepped through the doorway. He was short, Matt could tell, but strong. His gait seemed confident. And there was something to his scent—under the laundry detergent and coffee smell, a hint of something like… latex, maybe. And beneath it all, a scent Matt recognized well; dried blood. Antiseptic. The smell of healing wounds.
“Matt Murdock,” he said, standing up, holding out his hand.
“Peter,” the kid said. He stepped forward and shook Matt’s hand; Matt was struck by the strength in his grip. “I heard, uh… this was a good place to go if I have a problem.”
“Who told you that?” Foggy asked, shaking Peter’s hand too.
Peter paused, like he was thinking. “Word gets around,” he said eventually. “I heard some people talking about you in my building.”
Karen guided Peter to a chair. He sat in it, tense, as though waiting for it to collapse beneath him—waiting for something to go wrong. After a minute, he pulled a scrap of paper out of his pocket. “I’m getting evicted,” he said, handing it to Foggy. “Sorry—I don’t have a braille copy or anything—”
“How old are you, Peter?” Matt said.
“Seventeen. But I’ll be eighteen in a few months," he added quickly. His stomach growled suddenly, loud enough that Matt was sure even Foggy and Karen could hear it.
“Damn.” Foggy passed Peter the box of donuts; he grabbed one and tore into it as though he hadn’t eaten in days. “Shouldn’t your parents be dealing with this?”
“They’re dead,” Peter said through a mouthful of powdered sugar.
“Guardians? Relatives? Friends?”
Peter shook his head, already eyeing a second donut. “I’m kind of on my own. That’s why I need help; I thought you could send a letter or something. I know you help people without a lot of money, and I just—I need to fight this eviction.”
Karen turned to look at Matt. Though he couldn’t see her expression, he knew what her face must look like—eyes wide, brows high, mouth downturned in worry. Then she turned back to Peter. “You’re a minor. How did you even rent—”
“The blip,” Peter said. “People think I’m five years older than I am.”
Matt seriously doubted it. The kid was young—sounded even younger than his measly seventeen years. Still, there was something in his ease of manner, his resourcefulness, that was reassuring. He seemed like someone who could take care of himself, even if he did need a little help at the moment.
Foggy took the letter and got started with the braille transcription. Matt, meanwhile, cleared his throat. “Well, Peter, we’d be glad to help you. There’s currently a city-wide eviction moratorium—”
“I don’t know what that means,” Peter said, voice muffled through the donut.
“It means it’s illegal for your landlord to try and evict you," Matt said. “It’s a temporary measure that was put in place after the blip. Tell us a little about yourself, and we’ll see what we can do. Karen, you want to take notes?”
“On it,” Karen said. She grabbed a legal pad and clicked her pen.
“So, where are you living?”
“Wilbur Heights, in Queens.” He was still staring at the donut box. Foggy handed Matt the newly-printed braille copy of Peter’s eviction notice, then sighed loudly, passing Peter another pastry. He tore into it with gusto.
“And your legal name?”
Peter’s heartbeat spiked slightly, and he took a quick breath. Almost like he was reassuring himself. “Peter Benjamin Parker.”
Parker.
A Parker from Queens. He could sense Foggy and Karen looking at him, clearly thinking the same thing. Matt tilted his head, considering him. “You wouldn’t happen to know a May Parker, would you?”
Peter was silent for a moment, his heart now beginning to pound.
“Peter?”
“No, I don’t think so,” he said. “What was the name? May Parker? Doesn’t ring a bell.”
Thump THUMP thump.
He was lying.
“Why?” Peter asked.
Matt hesitated, frowning. “It’s… nothing. A case we took a few months ago—I was just curious.” He adjusted his red glasses, trying to reign in the surprise on his face. “So, Peter. Are you going to school?”
“No. Another blip thing. I think my records got lost or something.”
His heartbeat stuttered—lying again. Matt frowned. “So what are you doing? Do you work anywhere?”
“No. I’m getting my GED, though.”
“How did you get an apartment if you’re unemployed?” Foggy asked. Peter swallowed.
“I… may have fibbed a little on my application,” he said. “Am I gonna be in trouble?”
Foggy snorted. “If you do, I know a couple good lawyers.”
Matt ran his hands over the eviction notice. “And you’re being evicted for unpaid rent?”
“Yeah,” Peter said. “I sort of… ran out of money.”
Karen turned to look at Matt, biting her lip. Matt pretended not to notice this. “Well, we can send your landlord a letter, and remind him of the moratorium. In the meantime, though, you’ll need to find a job. Our help can only do so much.”
“Yeah, I’m—I’m working on that.” Peter shifted uncomfortably in his seat.
Matt, Foggy, and Karen all watched him for a few moments. After a beat Karen crossed her arms and stood up. “Matt, Foggy. A word?”
Matt grabbed Foggy’s arm and let him walk them both across the office, but before Karen could launch in the spiel he knew was coming, he cut her off in a whisper. “No, Karen.”
“Look at him! He’s just a kid!”
“What’s going on?” Foggy asked. Matt sighed.
“Karen wants us to hire Peter.”
Foggy sputtered for a minute. “Wh—no—Karen, we don’t have the money for that!”
She scoffed. “You hired me the first week you were in business. And you were a lot worse off then.”
“And, may I remind you, you were supposed to work for free. Look how that worked out for us.”
Peter coughed slightly and reached for another donut. Matt cocked his head in his direction, listening for a moment, then turned back to Karen. “Your heart’s in the right place—and I love you for it—but we just don’t have the money.”
“Give him my pay!” Karen said. “I have my work at The Bulletin to fall back on. He can be my replacement.”
“And what? Not have you around anymore?” Foggy sounded scandalized.
“Obviously I’ll still work here. I’ll just be… pro bono.” She turned back to look at Peter, hand on her chest, then reached for Matt’s face. “Please,” she said softly.
The battle was lost already. He was powerless against Karen.
With the Kingpin safely behind bars, he was finally free to share his life with someone; with everyone. Foggy, Sister Maggie… and Karen most of all. He could freely explore what it was to love someone, and to be loved in return. Karen’s love wrapped around him, protected him, like the mask he wore in the shadow of night. And she was so wonderful; compassionate, brilliant, stubborn…
Infuriating, sometimes. Matt listened to Peter’s heartbeat, quick and nervous, and closed his eyes.
“I mean, I’m okay with it if you are,” Foggy said after a minute. “We could use an intern. He can take care of the rest of that mess.” He nodded toward the mountain of paperwork still sitting on the floor.
“And he’s a Parker, from Queens,” Karen said. She gestured her head back toward the mysterious file she had slipped under her office door. “You can’t tell me the mystery isn’t tempting.”
“We can’t pay much,” Matt said finally.
“Is that a yes?”
Matt sighed, but he couldn’t help a small smile. “It’s a yes.”
She grinned at him and moved closer, catching his chin and tilting his head toward her. And she kissed him—long enough for Foggy to make a disgusted sort of noise. Matt laughed, patted him on the shoulder, then stepped past him. He faced Peter directly and cleared his throat.
“Mr. Parker,” he said, and Peter looked up. “How would you like a job here at our firm?”