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If Peter cranes his neck at exactly the right angle, he can see the lights of the Rockefeller tree from his apartment window. They’re made faint by both the distance and the fingerprint smudges on glass, but Peter appreciates the view all the same. It reminds him of last year, when May took him ice-skating and they came home with scraped knees and wide grins.
It’s Christmas Eve, and Peter’s knees are scraped. His entire body is scraped, and bruised to hell, and stitched messily together like an off-brand Frankenstein. His head hurts, and his apartment is cold, and he is alone.
You did this to yourself, he reminds himself sternly. May would hate for him to throw a self-pity-party. And since she’s not here, Peter has to try and respect what she would have wanted, to the best of his ability.
There may be nothing to celebrate tonight, but at least there’s plenty of crime. (Not that he’s celebrating the crime— it just gives him something to do.) Peter listens to his police scanner app for a moment, trying to find something good. There’s something big going on near the tree, apparently— but it sounds like Hawkeye’s already on the scene, and Peter’s sure he can make do by himself. He’s even got a new sidekick now, if the rumors are to be believed.
Besides, Hawkeye certainly wouldn’t appreciate help from Spider-Man. They’ve only ever caught glimpses of each other, once in Germany and again when the world was fucked beyond repair. Peter wouldn’t exactly call them friends.
Peter listens a bit more, until he hears about a jewelry heist downtown. Doesn’t sound too bad, but from what Peter is picking up through the chatter, the police don’t have enough units available to drive to the scene. It’s Christmas Eve, and they’re stretched thin. Peter will help in any way he can. It’s what May would have wanted.
Besides, it’s not like he has anything better to do.
Peter tugs on his mask— and despite the sharp pang of loss he feels for his Stark suit, the new one is pretty comfortable— and heads out the window. He relishes the familiar free-fall, the comforting swing and release. The winter air nips through his spandex, and he fights off a shiver. Hopefully the robbery is inside.
He makes sure to wave to fans as he passes, tossing out a cheery ‘Happy Holidays’ when he swings closer to pedestrians. Peter hopes, if nothing else, that at least seeing Spider-Man has brightened their night.
That’s all he remembers before he’s lost in the throes of violence and fear, the routine punches and ducks and sarcastic quips that his heart’s not really in. The robbery isn’t too bad, just as he had predicted— a few new scrapes, and he’s on to the next. Peter feels his head going fuzzy, and he’s lost track of time, but he can’t stop. He has to keep going, because right now, home is an empty apartment and a lego Palpatine. Because if he’s not here, working overtime, who’s going to protect the city? The other heroes had better things to do, certainly. Families, and friends, and actual lives.
This is all Peter has.
The anger makes him sloppy, a little bit, and a touch more aggressive than he usually would be. His knuckles are raw, and he thinks he might have bruised a rib or two. But he doesn’t mind— it feels just, in a way. It takes a special kind of asshole to cause trouble on Christmas. Or a desperate one.
Peter hesitates from where he’s nearly broken his newest criminal’s jaw, and instead webs him forcefully to a nearby fire escape. He needs to get a hold of himself. With a start, he realizes that he’s not even sure where he is. He squints at the criminal (what had he done, again?), trying to figure it out.
“Remind me what you were up to?” Peter calls up, on a whim. The man, dangling precariously from his web cocoon, spits at him. Well, it was worth a shot.
Peter delicately wipes the spit off his eye lenses. “Thanks.”
Hearing the smooth whine of approaching sirens, Peter sighs heavily and swings up to the roof. Maybe he’ll take a little break. It won’t do him any good to fight crime in a state like this. He could kill someone.
Peter flops down against a power box, pulls off his mask, and rubs his eyes. He’s so tired, but god knows there’s more work to be done. He pulls out his phone from its secure pocket to check the time— just after midnight. Maybe he’d stay out til sunrise, this time.
“A little far from Queens, aren’t you?”
With a sharp, surprised exhale, Peter whips around to face the intruder, readying his webs. Damn, why hadn’t his tingle gone off? If it was on the fritz again, that might be Peter’s last straw.
Peter relaxes a bit when he identifies the other man— Daredevil, easily recognizable in his matte red suit and helmet. Then he remembers that his mask is still off, and he tenses all over again. Only a few weeks since the spell, and he’s already blown his identity. Good job, Peter.
“You’ve seen my face,” he croaks out. To his credit, Daredevil doesn’t seem surprised, and makes no move towards Peter. Instead, he smiles, as if Peter’s told him a joke. “What?” Peter asks warily.
Daredevil sizes him up, then seems to come to a decision. “Can I trust you with a secret?”
Peter hesitates. He doesn’t really know Daredevil at all— in fact, this is definitely the longest conversation they’ve ever had. “Sure?” he says hesitantly.
In a move Peter’s incredibly blindsided by, Daredevil pulls off his mask, revealing a handsome, slightly beat up, recognizable face. Is that— holy shit, it’s Peter’s lawyer. Mister Murdock, who had been all warm smiles and cool competency and Call me Matt; Mister Murdock who had believed Peter when no one else did, who had raked his name through the mud in his determination to clear Peter’s.
Well, at least that explains how he caught the brick.
“You’re blind,” Peter says, stupidly. He wants to hit himself. “I mean— That’s so rude, I’m sorry,” he rushes out, nearly tripping over himself to apologize.
Matt smiles at him, a little lopsided. “I am blind,” he says calmly. “But I’m not sure that’s what you meant, Spider-Man.”
Peter peers at him, running through scenarios in his brain. “You’re enhanced,” he says finally. “You have to be.” He pauses. “I mean— how do you even know that I’m Spider-Man?”
Gesturing to the street below, Matt takes a step closer. “You’ve got a low-level criminal tied up ten feet in the air, with some sort of tensile string. Your webs, if I had to guess.” He quirks an eyebrow, clearly enjoying the chance to show off. “Your base heart rate is faster than that of a non-enhanced human. Every time you breathe, your spandex rubs against your skin— full body, except your mask, which you’ve taken off. I could go on.”
“Woah,” Peter breathes out. “That’s so cool.”
Matt chuckles, and takes a seat on the edge of the roof. He gestures for Peter to do the same. “I may be blind,” he says carefully, “but there are other ways to see.” He turns to face Peter. “But back to your original point— No, I haven’t seen your face.”
Peter nods, then realizes Matt can’t see him. Or can he… sense him? How far do his abilities extend? Peter’s bursting with questions, but he’s not sure what would and wouldn’t be appropriate to ask. He settles with staying silent.
Listening to the soothing hum of city life, Peter swings his legs a bit, leaning back on his heels. Eventually, he turns to Matt. “Why’d you take off your mask?” he asks curiously.
“I asked if I could trust you, and you said yes,” Matt says easily. “And you weren’t lying.”
Peter raises an eyebrow. “Would you… know? If I was?”
“Yes,” Matt replies, and leaves it at that. That must be convenient for his day job, Peter thinks wryly. It’s honestly a more helpful skill than any of Peter’s. If he was able to sense when someone was lying to him… Well, a lot of his messes could have been avoided. A lot of pain could have been spared.
“You know it’s Christmas, kid?” Matt asks, nudging him.
“Christmas Eve,” Peter corrects, dodging the question.
“Past midnight,” Matt says firmly. “Christmas. What are you doing out here?”
“I’m sorry I’m in Hell’s Kitchen,” Peter says cautiously. “I didn’t realize—”
Matt stops him, a hand on his shoulder. “Hey. That’s not what I meant.”
Peter slumps. “I know. It’s just— I—” He takes a deep breath. “I’d rather be out here than at home. That’s all you need to know.” Then, a thought occurs to him. “You’re out here, too. Don’t you have people to get back to? I can take over for the night.”
Matt raises an eyebrow. “Bit presumptuous of you, Spider-Man. What if I didn’t celebrate? What if I was Jewish?”
“Well, are you?”
“Catholic,” Matt says, a small smile on his face. “I just came out to check on someone. An old enemy. Finally kicked the bucket tonight.”
Peter looks at him cautiously. “Oh. Did you…”
Matt shakes his head. “Not me. Someone else. I— I had the chance to, once. And I didn’t take it.”
Remembering the wreckage and the glider and the pained expressions of Peter 2 and 3, Peter squeezes his eyes shut. Rubs at them with the heels of his hands. “Do you ever… Do you ever regret it? Not taking that chance?” he asks hesitantly.
There’s a long silence, and Peter almost hates himself for asking. Finally, Matt ventures, “I don’t think so. I think, in that moment, it would have changed me. I would have become something that I can’t go back from.”
The sentiment reminds Peter so much of May that it hurts. He takes a deep, steadying breath. “Yeah, that makes sense,” he says hoarsely. “You, um— You going home, then? Now that you’re done?”
“Yeah,” Matt says kindly. “What about you? You can’t really be planning on spending the whole night out here.”
“Somebody’s got to,” Peter says stubbornly. “Might as well be me.”
Matt falls silent for a moment, then shakes his head. “There’s nothing else. The city is quiet.”
Eyes wide, Peter stares at Matt in open admiration. “You have got to tell me more about your powers,” he gushes.
Matt laughs, a little, a small smile pulling at his lips. “I will,” he promises. “Maybe… tomorrow? For Christmas?”
Peter bites at his lip. “Oh. I couldn’t— I’m sure you’ve got— places to be,” he rushes out. “I’ll be okay, really.”
“I have got places to be,” Matt agrees readily. “And if you want, you could also be there.”
That’s the thing, though— he can’t. Peter had sacrificed so much to make sure no one knew his identity, and it would be incredibly stupid of him, not to mention reckless, to compromise that so soon, for something as little as a Christmas party. He opens his mouth to give a polite rejection, but Matt swiftly cuts him off, as if he had read his mind.
… Can Matt read minds? Peter’s not sure he wants to know.
“You can come in the suit,” Matt assures him. “My friends won’t care. Foggy’s a huge Spider-Man fan, actually.”
Peter hesitates, considering the offer. He hardly knew Matt, and he didn’t know his family or friends at all. But it wasn’t exactly like he had anything better to do.
May wouldn’t want you to be alone on Christmas, a small, suspiciously-MJ-sounding voice whispers in his head. God, and she’s right, isn’t she? That’s the thing.
“Maybe I’ll just— swing by…” Peter says slowly.
Matt grins back at him. “However long you want, kid. We’d be happy to have you.”
Peter frowns. “Stop calling me kid,” he says petulantly, a hollow pang in his chest as he thinks of Mister Stark. “Superpowers or not, there’s no way you can tell how old I am.”
He pauses, flushing. “Not that… I am a kid. I’m not.”
Fuck, Matt could tell that he was lying, couldn’t he?
There’s a small silence, but surprisingly, Matt doesn’t protest. “Okay, Spider-Man,” he says instead, gently. “You’re not a kid.”
Peter stares down at the street below, at the lights and the trees and the big blur of family and warmth that seemed to ooze out of every apartment in the city.
Without thinking about it too much, he turns to Matt. “You were my aunt’s favorite superhero,” he says carefully. “Before she found out who I was, and then she always said it was me.”
“Not many people would call me a superhero,” Matt replies lightly, not commenting on Peter’s use of past tense.
“Hey, I get it,” Peter says. “I get a bad rap, too.”
“You don’t go around beating people half to death,” Matt counters.
Peter stares down at his hands, which he knows are bruised and bloody under the thin fabric of his suit. “Sometimes I do,” he says, hot with shame.
“You know who my favorite superhero is?” Matt says in response, not looking at him. Peter startles a bit at the non-sequitur.
“Um. Black Widow?” he guesses.
Matt laughs. “No. It’s you.”
“I— why?” Peter asks, dumbfounded. Certainly there were older, more established heroes that Daredevil could look up to.
“You’ve been doing this for a while now,” Matt says. “And you’ve been through a hell of a lot in that time. But you know what?”
“…What?”
“It hasn’t ruined you,” Matt murmurs. “You help old ladies across the street. You save babies and pets from house fires. You’re out here every night, even on fucking Christmas, working your ass off for a city that gives you scraps in return. You’re a good person, Spider-Man. And I don’t say that lightly.”
Peter blinks at him. “I didn’t know you kept such a close eye on me,” he says finally, unsure how to react to the praise.
“I listen to the news,” Matt says wryly. Peter smiles.
“My aunt always said you were a hero for the little guys,” he offers. “Someone who wanted to help the city, without the fame and recognition, someone who was willing to get down in the dirt and fix things.”
“Sounds like she was a very kind woman,” Matt says softly.
“She was,” Peter whispers.
They sit in a comfortable silence for a bit, watching and listening as the city wound down. Matt’s a warm presence at Peter’s side, safe and dependable. And as it turns out, he’s right. There’s no more threats.
Peter waits for a little longer, just in case something happens, but eventually he sighs in defeat. “I should probably go home, shouldn’t I.”
“Probably,” Matt agrees lightly. “Do you have something to write with?”
Peter furrows his brow. “Why?”
“Can’t come over for Christmas without an address, can you?” Matt asks patiently.
Flushing, Peter fumbles for his phone. “Alright, go ahead.”
Matt rattles off an address in Hell’s Kitchen, then a series of numbers, which Peter dutifully copies down into his notes. He squints at the numbers. “Is this…”
“My phone number? Yes it is,” Matt says. “Whether you come tomorrow or not, I’d like to see you again. I’ve always thought it would be nice to have a partner.”
“Oh,” Peter says, touched by Matt’s display of trust. “Thank you.”
Matt smiles, then, a real one that takes up his entire face. “Thank you, Spider-Man. I really hope I’ll see you tomorrow.”
“See ya,” Peter returns vaguely, watching with interest as Matt pulls his mask back on and scales down the fire escape.
For a minute, Peter considers staying on the roof. There had to be crime at some point, right? It was New York!
“Go home, Spider-Man!” Matt calls loudly from the street.
Surprised into a laugh, Peter gets to his feet. “I’m going, I’m going!” he calls back. He looks back to the address on his phone, and bites back a smile.
He’d lied to Matt— he wasn’t going home just yet. He had Christmas gifts to buy.