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Peter stood in the middle of his living room. He felt flushed all over, partially due to the blood soaking his suit, mostly due to his mounting panic.
“So this is usually the other way around?” Peter said. “Like, 9 out of 10 times I’m the one bleeding out on the floor, so I’m not sure what to do right about now. An ambulance is a—”
“—a no,” Matt managed. His mouth had fallen open as he struggled to gasp for air, lips shiny, the skin around it broken and bleeding.
“Definitely a no,” Peter agreed. “No ambulances. Um. I gave you towels already, and you’d probably just bleed all over my blankets. Do you want a pillow?”
Matt stared flatly in Peter’s vague direction, doing the best he could to convey how thoroughly unimpressed he was with Peter’s nursing skills.
“Okayyyyy,” Peter said slowly, glancing around the room for some sign, some indiction on how to help the injured person laid out in front of him. “Pillow is also a no. How about a glass of water? You don’t want to get dehydrated…”
Matt extended an arm toward the coffee table. His wounded side protested the movement, fresh blood rushing to the surface, slipping out around the fingers clasped tight to the injury. Matt gestured weakly at the table, where his phone rested.
“Claire,” Matt told him breathlessly. “Call—call Claire…”
“Who’s Claire?” Matt’s shoulders slumped, his eyes falling shut. He was no longer a coil of tension and pain, but a sprawl of useless limbs. “Double D? Matt!”
“Claire,” Matt murmured, the word breathed out on a tiny exhale, before he lost all control and passed out.
Peter stood in the middle of the room, Matt’s phone in the hand. None of the blood soaking his suit was his.
“Screw it,” Peter decided, and pressed the phone’s buttons at random.
When Matt swam to consciousness, a cotton bud was dabbing at his forehead. He winced as he registered the pain throbbing throughout his body, and worked on pushing it down, working through the pain as he tried to sit up.
“Oh no you don’t.” Claire’s voice. One of her hands gently pressing him back down. “You’re hurt pretty bad, Matt. Don’t move.”
“What happened?” Matt asked.
“You were hurt in a fight,” Claire said. “So, an average Tuesday for you.”
Matt could tell he was in an apartment, that much was obvious. It was small and unfamiliar, with a bedroom and conjoined bathroom, and a living room connected to an open kitchen. Through a small, open window, the sounds of New York drifted in; beeping traffic, police sirens, neighbours shouting at one another. He assumed this was a fairly poor area.
Matt was laid out upon a worn, likely second hand sofa. There wasn’t a TV, but books were smattered around the place, along with several pizza boxes, soda cans, empty packets of junk food. The artificial smell stunk.
“Where…?” Matt began.
“This place?” Claire asked. “Matt, you never told me you knew Spider-Man.”
“Oh,” Matt said. That was right. The fight. The thrown blades Matt had been too slow to dodge. Peter.
There were two heartbeats in the kitchen. Matt recognised them both immediately.
Foggy was a blip of bone-deep familiarity. His heartbeat was a little too fast, and he was throwing his arms around in the way he did when he got especially frustrated. That reaction was usually reserved for Matt.
Foggy’s ire wasn’t directed at Matt this time. It was directed at a second heartbeat, naturally faster than Foggy’s but steady. Peter was propped up on the kitchen counter, a First Aid kit sitting beside him. His scraps were being worked on by Foggy.
The calmness emanating from Peter assured Matt of the safety of the area in a way nothing else could. Matt trusted Peter’s judgement. If the other vigilante wasn’t worried or panicked, then Matt didn’t need to be either.
“You’d think,” Foggy was saying in the kitchen, “with all the ‘protect the people’ and the—the obsessiveness with making sure no one else gets hurt, you vigilantes would be better at not getting hurt yourselves! Reckless, the lot of you, and—and irresponsible—”
Peter winced as Foggy dabbed at the cuts on his cheek. “Sorry?”
“Shut up and let me rant,” Foggy told him.
“Foggy?” Matt called out, trying to sit up around Claire’s insistent hands pushing him down.
“Matt?!” Foggy abandoned Peter’s shallow scraps, and rushed out into the living room, skidding on socked feet. “Matt, you glorious bastard, you’re not dead!”
Foggy enfolded Matt in a hug. Matt smiled into his shoulder, because it was Foggy. Matt was always pleased to see Foggy, the man a beacon of sunlight in a burning world.
“Careful, he’s still injured,” Claire warned. Foggy reluctantly backed off.
“Glad to see you’re alright,” Foggy said. Then, his smile fell into a contemplative frown. Peter—having followed Foggy into the living room—murmured a soft ‘uh oh.’
“Matthew Murdock,” Foggy said slowly. “What the hell, man?!”
“Um,” Matt said.
“You got seriously injured! Again! And didn’t even come to me, this time! You went home bleeding with a teenager.”
“I resent that,” Peter interrupted. “I’m—okay, technically I am nineteen, but hey. Adult person over here.”
“Huh, nineteen? Really?” Claire asked. She was kneeling between the couch and the coffee table, medical supplies spilt out on the carpet beside her. She seemed a little tense, but far more calm than Foggy, who had blots of colour rising on his cheeks, hair messy and a little crazy. “You look a lot younger.”
Peter shrugged. “I get that a lot.”
Foggy waved his arms around frantically. “Sooooo not the point.”
“You’ve met Peter before, Foggy,” Matt said. “Ages ago. What’s the problem?”
Claire glared up at him. “Hi,” she said, raising a hand above her head. “Hello, your too kind nurse over here. I have not met this kid before.”
Matt gestured between Peter and Claire with a sweeping hand gesture. “Claire, this is Peter. Peter, this is the wonderful Claire.”
Peter offered a small, shy wave. “Hi, Claire.”
“Hey, Bambi,” Claire said. He may not have been able to see it, but Matt could feel the glower she was levelling his way. Peter was still wearing his iconic red and blue suit, Matt realised. Ah.
“Again,” Foggy interrupted, “not the point! Matt, dude, promise me you’ll stop getting yourself so beat up.”
Matt smiled a little, but didn’t answer. Foggy narrowed his eyes. “Matt,” he repeated, stern. “I’m serious.”
Claire was shaking with silent laughter on the carpet. She ducked her head to avoid the ensuing confrontation above her, and began to gather the medical supplies.
Peter crept around the two arguing lawyers, and bent down to assist her.
Peter had liked her immediately, and he was glad Matt had such good friends. Peter didn’t have any of those, these days. Just him and his empty apartment and the occasional visit from superhuman acquaintances—like the one laid out on his sofa—and his Aunt.
As Peter crouched down, something in his side twinged, some of the webbing on his suit tearing. He ignored it for the most part, and concentrated on winding up a roll of medical tape.
“Peter!” Claire said, moving closer to him. Her hands hovered over the growing wetness on Peter’s torso. Above them, Matt and Foggy fell silent.
“Peter?” Matt asked. He frowned and cocked his head to the side, focussing. “You’re injured?”
“Yeah, he’s bleeding pretty bad,” Claire murmured. She pulled at his suit, exposing a deep cut.
Oh. Peter had forgotten about that. He’d been cut deep by a rogue blade an hour or so ago, during the fight, but he’d been too focussed on Matt’s staggering and injured form to worry much about a small slice. He’d webbed the injury up, carried on fighting and trying to haul Matt back to Peter’s apartment, and forgot about the wound entirely.
“Huh,” Peter said. “Guess that didn’t heal by itself after all.”
Foggy’s glanced from Matt to Peter with growing horror. “There’s two of them,” he whispered.
“Help me get him level,” Claire ordered, falling into nurse mode.
“It’s really not that bad,” Peter tried.
“Two of them,” Foggy whispered again.
“Foggy!” The man jumped at Claire’s proclaim, and rushed over. He grabbed Peter under the arms and helped pull him into a horizontal position.
Claire tore away the rest of the webs and prodded at Peter’s wound. Foggy peered over her shoulder, grimacing at the mass of open, bloody flesh.
“So,” Peter said to the ceiling, “it’s nice to meet you, Claire.”
“Shut up,” Claire told him.
Claire’s hands were covered in Peter’s blood, brows furrowed in concentration as she worked. Foggy looked vaguely green. Matt, still laid out on the sofa, didn’t appear too concerned. He’d seen Peter with far worse injuries. This was nothing, really.
Foggy backed away from the scene when Claire pulled out a needle and medical thread, intend on stitching the wound close. He looked sick.
“I’m going to call Karen,” he said quickly, and disappeared into the kitchen.
Karen arrived less than half an hour later with wide eyes and a handbag full of Matt’s sweats.
“Oh, my god,” she said. “Matt!”
“Karen, I’m fine,” Matt reassured. He gestured toward his injured form. “It’s not as bad as it looks.”
Peter sprang up from his position on the floor, already spry and full of energy despite bleeding all over Claire less than an hour ago. He leant his torso and head over the top of the couch, and offered an easy smile. “Yeah, Matt’s tough. He’ll be fine in a couple of days.”
“Oh, my GOD,” Karen said.
Peter blinked at her. Karen blinked at him, mouth hanging open. Matt sighed, and said, “Peter. Mask.”
Said mask was still in the kitchen, where Foggy had wrestled it off of the young vigilante earlier, armed with disinfectant and cotton buds and a vicious need to nurture dumbass super-humans.
Peter sank low on his haunches, until only his huge eyes and fluffy hair could be seen over the top of the couch. “Whoopsie.”
Karen continued to stare.
“Karen, this is Peter,” Matt introduced. “Peter, this is Karen.”
“Hi, Karen,” Peter said.
“You’re Spider-Man,” Karen said. “You’re… oh, my god.”
“Is it really that surprising?” Matt said, frowning. “Daredevil and Spider-Man are known associates. Foggy said our team-ups are in the papers sometimes.”
“How old are you?” Karen asked, ignoring Matt.
Peter sighed and sat back down on the couch. “I wish people would stop asking me that. I’m an adult.” Karen looked at him, doubtful. “I am!”
“He is,” Matt agreed.
“He’s Spider-Man,” Karen repeated to herself. She shook her head and squeezed her eyes shut, as though unable to believe it. “Spider-Man…”
Foggy leant against the doorframe, crossing his arms and smiling at them. “Well, this scene is familiar.”
“You both know Spider-Man?” Karen asked.
“Er…” Foggy assessed the ire in Karen’s narrowing eyes, and tried, “Yes?”
“Franklin Nelson,” Karen said slowly. “How dare you not tell me how adorable Spider-Man is?”
Peter glanced between the three of them. “Are you guys always like this?”
From the kitchen, making herself a third cup of coffee—which she so, so deserved—Claire called, “I’m not! Ordinary, well-adjusted person over here!”
“Thank you!” Peter called back. “Glad to know normal people still exist!”
“But you are adorable, Spidey!” Claire said loudly.
Peter buried his face in Matt’s non-injured shoulder and groaned. The other man looked down at him, sympathetic. “To answer your question,” Matt began, “yes. They are always like this.”
Peter groaned again.
Peter awoke to soft snoring, and the distant sound of food sizzlingly. He kicked off his blankets and rolled over, ignoring the aching in his mostly healed body.
On the couch, Matt offered him a soft smile. Peter returned it, sleepy.
His four guests had stayed the night. Peter didn’t mind; he thoroughly enjoyed rare company, even if it meant he had to sleep on the floor. He offered Claire his bed, and she gladly accepted. Matt, in his thoroughly injured state, was given the couch. Somehow, Foggy ended up on the couch too, the space cramped between the both of them.
Karen and Peter had shrugged and taken the floor. Karen had frowned when she’d spied Peter’s injured side, and collected piles of blankets to layer over Peter.
Matt and Peter had both stripped out of their suits and into comfortable sweats under Foggy’s orders. Foggy and Karen, Peter had learnt, were a dangerous, mothering force to be reckoned with. He wondered how Matt coped.
“‘Morning,” Peter whispered.
“‘Morning,” Matt whispered back, equally quiet. Foggy was stretched out beside him, his socked feet in the vigilante’s lap, snoring softly.
Matt ran a finger over Foggy’s heel. The man had a growing collection of patterned, brightly coloured socks he enjoyed wearing under his suits. He was wearing a pair today. Matt could feel rounded shapes under his fingers; these were Foggy’s favourite, patterned with tiny avocados.
Karen bound into the room. She threw her hands over the top of the couch, grinning hugely, and loudly declared, “Good morning!”
Foggy snorted awake, bolting upright. He glanced around with blurry, unfocussed eyes. “W’at’s h’ppenin’?”
Matt pushed him back down. “Go back to sleep, Foggy.”
“Nope!” Karen reached over and poked the man’s cheek. Foggy made a protesting ‘nnngh’ sound. “If you’re up, then you’re up, sleepy head. Come on.”
“I’m not up,” Foggy argued, burrowing his head in the arm of the sofa.
Claire chose that moment to enter, placing a towering plate of pancakes on Peter’s small dining table. “Breakfast is ready,” she announced.
Foggy sat back up, eyes snapping open. “I’m up.”
Karen poked him in the cheek again, smiling. “Oh? I thought you were too tired—”
Foggy looked at her like she was crazy. “Pancakes,” he stressed.
Matt had already gotten up. Claire had to bustle him into a seat, ignoring his protests. “No, Murdock, you were bleeding out under my hands last night. I don’t care how impolite it is, someone else can set the table.”
Peter took up the task, returning with a handful of cutlery and a half-empty bottle of orange juice. Claire frowned at him. “I’m mostly healed,” he reassured her. He pulled up his baggy sweatshirt, showing off his injury. It was smaller, the blood clotted and the wound shrunk, the ends already a healed, shiny pink.
Claire levelled a meaningful look at Matt. “Why can’t you be more like webs, huh? Advanced healing.” She nodded her approval at Peter. “I like you.”
“Pancakkkkessssss.” Foggy slipped into a chair beside Matt, rubbing his hands together in excited anticipation. He looked at the pancakes, frowning a little. “Hey, wait. Aren’t these a little, you know… blackened?”
Claire took a seat. “Oh, so you don’t want them, then?”
“No, no!” Foggy made grabby hands for a plate and the maple syrup. He offered Claire an apologetic smile. “I happen to like my pancakes horribly burnt.”
“I ffink they’re gr’at,” Peter said, barely coherent around a huge mouthful of pancake. His cheeks were stuffed, and he looked like a fluffy haired squirrel.
“Don’t talk with your mouth full,” Matt scolded. He spread jam over the black top of his pancake with one hand, the other bandaged beyond use.
“Matt was raised by nuns,” Foggy whispered to Peter, mock-quiet behind a hand. “Don’t take his aggressive levels of politeness personally.” Matt kicked him under the table. “Ow!”
“We should all take his politeness personally,” Karen said, “and learn from it. Especially you, Foggy.”
Foggy squawked, indignant. “Why me?”
Karen reached over and wiped away a strip of maple syrup along Foggy’s jaw with her thumb. “This is the reason,” Karen said with a cheeky grin.
Claire cracked up laughing and Matt chuckled into his glass of OJ. Foggy pouted at them. “This is bullying,” he said.
“Shut up and eat your pancakes, Nelson,” Karen told him, not unkind.
It was cramped around Peter’s small table. The table was loaded down with plates and glasses and all the pancake-appropriate spreads Peter owned. Their chairs were crammed together in the small space, elbows banging together, legs tangled under the table. Nobody really minded.
Morning sunlight folded in through Peter’s small window, and the sounds of beeping traffic were distant, unnoticeable. The world was far off, and this moment was separate. Safe. Peter hadn’t experienced this sense of easiness and love over a shared meal since Uncle Ben had died. It was… nice. Peter had forgotten how much he had missed it.
Matt noticed how quiet Peter was. The teenager was gazing at the four of them with an unreadable expression. “You okay, Pete?” Matt asked quietly.
“Yeah,” Peter said honestly. The taste of pancakes and maple syrup was fresh on his tongue, and people he might call friends were laughing around him. A small smile tugged at his lips. “Yeah, Matt. I’m perfect.”