Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Peter woke to the sound of traffic bleeding through thin walls and the low hum of a neon sign outside the window. For a moment he didn’t move, letting the unfamiliar ceiling remind him this wasn’t Queens, wasn’t his room, wasn’t May’s apartment. He pulled the blanket tighter around himself before the thought had time to turn sharp.

Memory trickled back in pieces—the cold bite of snow last night, the scrape of exhaustion in his bones, Matt’s voice steady but not unkind. The smell of soap, borrowed clothes soft against his skin. And the bed. Matt’s bed. Peter had argued for the couch, but Matt hadn’t given him the choice.

He sat up, hair sticking up from sleep, guilt prickling faintly at the thought of Matt stretched out on the too-short couch.

When he padded into the small kitchen, the table was already set: two bowls, milk sweating in a carton, a box of cereal pulled close. Matt sat opposite, tie half-done, a mug of coffee cradled between his hands.

“Morning,” Peter said, voice rough.

Matt tilted his head toward him, a faint smile tugging at his mouth. “Good morning, Peter. Hope you like cereal.”

Peter gave a small nod as he sat down. His eyes flicked briefly toward the sunglasses on Matt’s face. “Uh—yeah. Cereal’s great. Thanks.”

Peter toyed with his spoon, then finally took a bite. The crunch echoed louder than it should have in the quiet. He hesitated, then added, a little sheepish: “And thanks again… for last night. The bed, the clothes… all of it.” He ended lamely.

Matt’s mouth quirked. “It’s nothing.” Then, after a pause, softer: “But you’re welcome.”

They ate in near silence, broken only by the scrape of spoons and the occasional sip of coffee. Matt listened carefully—Peter’s heartbeat was steady now, but too quick for someone at rest. His chewing was efficient, almost rushed. The kid was hungry, but he didn’t want to draw attention to it.

Matt leaned back slightly, trying to find something lighter. “So. You’re actually sixteen?”

Peter looked up, surprised, then let out a small laugh that cracked halfway through. “Yeah. And you’re… actually a lawyer?”

“Believe it or not,” Matt said, a smirk tugging at his mouth. The easy rhythm of banter lasted only a breath, but it eased some of the tightness between them.

Peter stirred his cereal again, not eating now, just moving flakes around. “I don’t get it,” he said finally, voice low. “How do you see? I mean—” He gestured vaguely, words stumbling. “Daredevil. Blind. Lawyer. Doesn’t make sense. I saw you do flips before!”

Matt lifted his mug, voice calm, practiced. “It’s a long story. One we don’t have to tell right now.” He paused, adding more gently: “All you need to know is, I see more than you think.”

Peter didn’t answer, but he started eating again.

The radiator knocked in the corner. The city moved outside their window. For a moment, it almost felt like morning anywhere else.

Then the lock rattled.

Matt was so focused on Peter he didn’t hear it until the door banged open.

“Matt!” Foggy’s voice filled the apartment. “If you called in sick again because you were out playing Daredevil last night, I swear—”

He froze halfway inside. His gaze fell on Peter at the breakfast table.

“…Oh.”

Peter nearly dropped his spoon.

Matt cursed under his breath.

“Okay, wait.” Foggy pointed between them. “Who’s this? Why is there a teenager eating cereal in your apartment?”

Peter shifted in his seat, panic written across his face.

“Foggy,” Matt began, standing quickly. “He needed a place to crash, so I gave him one.”

“Matt, you can’t just—what is this? Some kid you…? No, don’t tell me. Actually, do tell me. Because right now, this looks—” Foggy sounded exasperated.

Peter jumped in fast. “I didn’t… really have anywhere else to go. It was cold outside, so Matt said I could stay.”

Foggy looked short of an aneurysm. “Kid, you saw him and went home with him? A stranger? Him?” He jabbed a finger at Matt.

Peter blurted out, “I know him. From… uh, we met on a rooftop.” His voice cracked on the word. “I trust him.”

Foggy’s eyes darted back and forth. “Rooftop? Wait. No. No, no, no…” He scrubbed a hand over his face. “You’ve gotta be kidding me. The kid knows you’re Daredevil?!”

Peter froze.

“Foggy.” Matt’s voice was sharp now.

“Sorry! Sorry, sorry, sorry—” Foggy waved his hands wildly, words tumbling over each other. “It’s just—you bring home some random kid, and he knows—oh my God.” His gaze snapped back to Peter, really looking at him now. “Wait a second. You’re not just some random kid, are you?”

Peter swallowed, shoulders tense, saying nothing.

“There’s only one other guy your age swinging around rooftops…” Foggy trailed off. “…You’re Spider-Man, aren’t you?”

Silence.

Peter clenched his jaw, staring hard at the cereal bowl. He didn’t confirm it, but he didn’t deny it either.

Foggy exhaled sharply, dragging a hand down his face. “Oh, great. Perfect. I just said all of this out loud, didn’t I? Fantastic. Nelson, world’s worst secret-keeper.”

“Foggy,” Matt said again, sharper. “Enough.”

For once, Foggy shut his mouth. His eyes, though, were serious now. He looked at Peter—calculating, but not unkind.

“…Okay,” he said quietly. “Alright. We’ll sort this out. At the office. Now.”

Peter’s head snapped up, startled. “What?”

Foggy pointed at the door. “If you think I’m letting the two of you stumble through this without paperwork, you’re insane. Come on. You both need legal cover yesterday.”

Matt gave a small nod toward Peter. “Get your jacket.”

Peter obeyed, slipping into the hoodie Matt had found him the night before and pulling on his jacket. He walked close at Matt’s side as they headed out, the city morning pressing in around them.

Foggy muttered the whole way—half scolding, half panicking—his words spilling in quick bursts. Every so often, his tone shifted, softer, automatic: “We’re gonna need forms, affidavits—hang on, manhole cover’s missing its lid, step right.” Then right back into muttering about paperwork and superheroes.

Peter followed.

Chapter Text

The stairwell crunched faintly under their steps as they made their way up to Nelson & Murdock. Matt’s cane tapped lightly ahead of him, each sound mapping the worn stairs.

“Doorframe to your right, Matt,” Foggy murmured.

“Yeah, I’ve got it,” Matt answered, shifting just enough to avoid clipping his shoulder.

Peter trailed behind, hoodie pulled tight, hands stuffed into the pocket. The building smelled old—dust, paper, burnt coffee—but compared to shelters and group homes, it felt strangely safe.

When Foggy pushed the door open, Karen looked up from her desk. Phone ringing, files scattered, pen tucked behind her ear. Her sharp eyes flicked from Matt to Foggy, then landed on Peter. Foggy hesitated a beat too long.

“This is… uh, Matt’s nephew,” he said, voice pitching high. “Twice removed. Complicated family tree, you know how it is.” He waved his hands vaguely, aiming for casual and missing by a mile.

Karen’s brow arched. The phone shrilled again, forcing her hand. She covered the receiver just long enough to shoot them a look that said we’re circling back to this, then picked up.

Foggy muttered something under his breath. Matt’s mouth twitched like he almost smiled. He tipped his head toward his office. “Come on.”

The three of them settled around Matt’s scarred wooden desk. Coffee steamed in mismatched mugs for Matt and Foggy. Peter had only asked for water, both hands wrapped around the glass as if the coolness anchored him.

Foggy leaned forward, elbows on his knees. “So… Peter.” He glanced at Matt, then back. “Help us understand. How’d you end up at Matt’s place last night?”

Peter shrugged, voice stalling. “We, uh… knew each other before. Kind of. Not… like this.” His eyes dropped to the glass, words slipping thin.

Foggy nodded.

Matt tilted his head, listening. “Where were you staying before?”

“Nowhere.” The word landed sharp. Peter swallowed. “Couple group homes. Too loud. I couldn’t—stay.”

“And your family?” Foggy asked, tone gentler now.

Peter’s jaw worked. “My parents… died, a long time ago. I stayed with my uncle after that. Then it was just me and my aunt. May. She—” His voice cracked, broke apart. He blinked hard, but tears still slipped hot down his cheeks. “She got sick.”

Silence filled the room, broken only by the uneven hum of the radiator and Peter’s ragged breath.

Matt reached across the desk, resting a steady hand on his shoulder. “You don’t have to go through this alone,” he said quietly, every word deliberate. “We’ll figure it out.”

Peter nodded fast, swiping at his face, embarrassed. Foggy slid a crumpled paper napkin toward him and poured more water without a word.

They talked through possibilities. Foggy, always the practical one, rattled off options—temporary foster care, maybe guardianship, group homes.

Peter shook his head hard. “No group homes. Please. I can’t… I can’t do that again.” His hands twisted tighter. “Can’t I just be emancipated? Just sign something and be done?”

Foggy exhaled, leaning back. “That’s not really how it works. New York doesn’t have a neat emancipation law like some states. A court can treat you as emancipated if you’re living on your own and paying your way, but… Peter, you’re sixteen. You’d have to prove you can support yourself. Rent, food, school. It’s a lot.”

“I can get a job,” Peter said quickly. “I can figure it out.”

Matt’s voice cut through, calm but unshakable. “Peter, It's too much.” His hand curled slightly against the desk. “You’ve already carried more than most adults. You shouldn’t have to carry this too.”

Peter shook his head, blinking hard. “I'm fine.”

Matt just smiled sadly but didn’t argue.

A knock broke the tension. Karen leaned in, handing Foggy a folder. “Hate to interrupt, but there’s a case that needs your attention.”

“Thanks, Karen,” Matt said.

Her eyes softened when they fell on Peter. She smiled, warmer than her professional mask. “By the way… you wouldn’t happen to know how to fix a fax machine, would you?”

Peter blinked. “…Probably.”

“Perfect. Come with me.”

When Peter had drifted off with Karen, Foggy closed the office door behind him. “So,” he said, arms crossed, folder forgotten on the table. “You want to take him in.”

Matt sat behind his desk, fingers laced together like he was holding something fragile. “He’s sixteen, Foggy. He’s lost everyone. If we don’t step up, he’s going to fall through every crack this system has.”

Foggy sighed, running a hand over his face. “Matt, I get it. I really do. But this isn’t just another case. This is your life changing overnight.”

“I know.” Matt’s jaw tightened. “But I can’t send him back into group homes. Not when I know what that does to people. He needs stability. He needs—” his voice softened “—someone who sees him.”

Foggy studied him for a long moment, then dropped into the chair opposite. “Okay. If we’re doing this, we’re doing it smart. Kinship care, guardianship, whatever keeps him safe. But Matt—” He leaned in. “Be sure. Because once he trusts you, you don’t get to walk away.”

Matt nodded once, quiet but firm. “I know.”

The hours passed with unexpected ease. Peter coaxed life back into Karen’s temperamental machines, tightening wires, fiddling with jammed trays. Karen hovered nearby, amused and impressed, handing him tools and chatting like they’d known each other for more than an hour.

From Matt’s office, low voices carried—Matt and Foggy talking. Peter caught just enough to know it was about him. Guilt pricked, and he bent harder over the fax machine, refusing to listen.

Later, Karen reappeared with a sandwich and a grin. “You’ve earned lunch. And possibly my eternal gratitude. Fax machines hate me.”

Peter smiled, shy but real. “They hate everyone.”

By late afternoon, the office felt different. Files stacked, phones buzzing, Foggy cracking jokes, Matt leaning against his desk with that stillness of his. Peter moved through it quietly—fixing, fetching, helping—and for the first time in weeks, his chest felt a little lighter.

Chapter Text

Peter woke twisted into the couch cushions, one arm dangling toward the floor. The blanket had slipped halfway off during the night, and his spine protested the dip between the cushions. He blinked against the neon glow bleeding past Matt’s blinds, the hum of the sign sawing through the quiet.

He shouldn’t have insisted on the couch. Matt hadn’t argued much, but Peter still felt the choice like a weight. A guest takes the couch — that’s the rule. May had drilled manners into him, and letting someone else give up their bed... no. He pulled the blanket higher, the thought of her tightening in his chest until he forced it away.

From the kitchen came the sound of running water, the scrape of ceramic on counter.
“You didn’t sleep,” Matt said, voice even.

Peter shoved his hair back, trying to sound casual. “I’m fine.”

“You’re not.” A pause, then softer, almost to himself: “I’ll find a second bed.”

Peter shot upright. “No, you don’t have to—”

Matt’s silence was pointed enough to shut him up. He set a plate on the table: eggs, toast, a few slices of sausage. The smell rose warm and steady.
“Breakfast.”

Peter stared at it. “You don’t have to cook for me either.”

“You’re sixteen,” Matt said flatly, with a hint of exasperation.

Peter bristled. “I can handle cereal. Or… nothing.”

Matt nudged the plate closer. “Eat.”

Peter muttered something under his breath, but the fork was in his hand before he realized it.

By mid-morning, Nelson & Murdock was in motion. Phones rang, papers shuffled, Foggy sighed dramatically about deadlines.

Karen appeared in the doorway, a stack of files balanced against her hip. “Peter, think you could look at the printer again? It’s doing that… chewing thing.”

Peter knelt beside it, screwdriver in hand. He only nodded, jaw tight, focus narrowed on the jammed rollers. His hands moved automatically, but his face stayed tense.

Karen crouched next to him, brushing her hair back with her wrist. “You’re quiet today. What’s on your mind? You alright?”

The lavender note of her shampoo hit him like a memory—May leaning down to hug him after school, the warmth of her voice in his ear. For a second, the air closed in.

“I’M FINE” Peter snapped, too sharp, the words ricocheting in the small office.

Karen froze, eyes wide. Foggy glanced up from across the room, brows lifting. The printer hummed uselessly, rollers half-exposed.

Peter scrambled to his feet. “Sorry—” his throat caught. He bolted for the door.

Outside, the street noise slammed into him. Peter pressed his back against the brick, head tipped up, eyes burning.

“That was convincing,” Matt’s voice said dryly. Peter startled.

Matt stood beside him, cane angled lightly against the sidewalk.

“I’m fine,” Peter said quickly.

Matt raised a hand, calmly.

“You’re not fine. And that’s… normal. Losing someone doesn’t stop hurting overnight.”

Peter’s throat locked.

“Don’t carry it all by yourself,” Matt added, steady, quiet. “Let us help.”

For a long beat, Peter just stared at the cracks in the pavement. “I don’t want to be a burden.”

Matt’s jaw tightened. His reply was simple, firm: “You’re not a burden.”

Peter swiped his sleeve across his face, forcing a rough laugh. “I should get back inside. Printer won’t fix itself.”

Matt hesitated—like there was more he could say—but only nodded. “All right.”

Back inside, the printer sat open, its guts exposed. Peter crouched again without a word, shoulders hunched. Karen handed him the screwdriver, gentle but careful not to press.

He took it, fingers brushing hers. “Sorry,” he whispered, barely above the machine’s hum.

Karen smiled faintly. “We’ve all yelled at the printer. Trust me.”

The corner of Peter’s mouth twitched. He bent back to work, hands steadier now, as the office noise rose and settled around them.

Chapter Text

Foggy

The bed came in pieces. Big, awkward, way-heavier-than-they-looked pieces, and Foggy was half convinced Matt had timed his absence on purpose.

He wrestled one end of the frame through Matt’s former home office, muttering, “I swear, this wasn’t on the bar exam.”

Karen, red-faced but grinning, shoved from the other side. “Pretty sure they’d have fewer lawyers if it was.”

“Yeah, well, I didn’t sign up for Bed Assembly 101.” Foggy nearly tripped over the rug and groaned. “Matt owes me so much takeout for this.”

Before they could collapse the parts onto the floor, Peter was already there. Sleeves shoved up, determined. “I can take that,” he said, grabbing the side of the frame. His voice was tight but steady, like refusing help would physically hurt him.

“Careful, it’s heavy—” Foggy started, but Peter had already dragged it across the room with sharp, purposeful movements. He didn’t stop until the frame was propped neatly against the wall.

By the time the mattress was in place, Peter had smoothed the sheets with crisp, exact corners that would’ve made a drill sergeant proud. He stepped back, brushing his palms on his jeans, face unreadable. “There. It’s fine now.”

Foggy let out a low whistle. “Kid, you work faster than an IKEA instruction manual. And with fewer arguments.”

That earned him the smallest flicker of a smile before Peter ducked his head.

Peter

The new bed creaked faintly when Peter shifted. He’d spent most of the night staring at the ceiling, tracing plaster lines like maps.

The mattress was soft. The sheets smooth in a way that felt expensive. Matt had insisted on it, brushing off Peter’s protests with a muttered, “You’ve got sharp senses. Might as well be comfortable.”

It should’ve felt like a gift. Instead it felt too new. Too deliberate.

He rolled over, grabbed his phone. Ned’s name sat at the top of his messages. His thumbs hovered.

Hey, man. You awake?

The cursor blinked. He erased every letter.

The silence got loud again. He set the phone face-down on the nightstand and dug the heel of his hand into his forehead.

Tomorrow, he’d find something else to fix. Another cabinet. Another machine. Something useful. Something that would keep his hands moving.

Karen

Early morning, the office smelled faintly of dust and burnt coffee. Karen pushed the door open, juggling a folder under one arm, and stopped.

Peter was already there.

He sat cross-legged on the floor by the filing cabinet, surrounded by piles of folders, his pen scratching neatly across a fresh label.

“You beat me here,” Karen said.

Peter glanced up, startled, then shrugged with a quick grin. “Couldn’t sleep. Figured I’d help.”

Karen crouched beside him. The folders had been alphabetized, re-labeled, stacked in perfectly even towers.

“You don’t have to do all this, but thank you” she said gently.

“It’s fine,” Peter replied, sliding another folder into place with mechanical precision.

Karen watched the way his shoulders curved inward, like he was holding something off. She thought about nudging him toward a break, but instead handed him another file.

“Your handwriting’s neater than Foggy’s, I’ll give you that.”

That earned a soft huff of laughter, small but real.

Matt

Matt rubbed at the bridge of his nose, Foggy’s steady stream of legal jargon filling the office. The words drifted in and out; his focus had shifted to the next room.

Peter’s heartbeat ticked restless, irregular. Paper rustled in sharp bursts. A stapler clicked, paused, clicked again—measured, almost obsessive.

“Matt?” Foggy prompted.

He straightened in his chair. “Yeah. Go on.”

The hinges groaned as the door opened. Peter’s footsteps crossed the floor, careful but quick. He set a stack of papers on the desk; the edges rasped against the wood in a perfectly squared thump. Ink clung faintly to his skin, metallic and sharp.

“Printer works now,” Peter said. His voice was polite, even, but it carried a thin strain underneath.

“Thanks, kid,” Foggy replied warmly.

The boy shifted back. His shoes scraped once, then the sound of him receded down the hall, steps slightly unbalanced.

Matt tilted his head, listening to the echo trail off. Something in it snagged at him, a wrongness he couldn’t name. But another folder landed on the desk with a paper-heavy thud, and Foggy’s voice tugged him back into the case. The thought unraveled, slipping away like smoke.

Chapter Text

The office was quiet after the week’s chaos, just the low hum of the city through the window and the faint rattle of the old radiator. Karen dropped a menu on the desk with a grin.“Consensus says no one’s cooking tonight. Thoughts?”

“Consensus is just you being bossy again,” Foggy muttered, though he was already flipping through the menu. Peter was perched on the arm of a chair, hands folded awkwardly in his lap, trying not to look like he’d never been invited to end-of-week takeout before.Matt leaned back, rubbing his temples. “Order whatever you want. As long as it’s not from the place with the questionable chicken.”

“You loved that chicken!” Foggy shot back.

“I said it had flavor. I didn’t say it was chicken.”

Karen laughed, shaking her head, and Peter found himself smiling before he could stop it.

They ended up with cartons of noodles, dumplings, and enough rice to feed a whole block. The desks were shoved together to make a makeshift table. Foggy passed cartons around, narrating for Matt—“that’s the lo mein, the dumplings are still too hot, don’t sue me”—and Peter caught himself reaching automatically to help.

“You sure you want me to eat in the office?” Peter asked, hesitating with the chopsticks.
Karen waved him off. “Trust me, these desks have seen worse. Coffee spills, ink explosions, once a pigeon—”

“Don’t,” Foggy groaned. “Don’t bring up the pigeon.”

Peter laughed, and this time it came out loud and unguarded. Foggy grinned, pleased with himself.

The noodles were good. Really good. Too good. Familiar. Halfway through his carton, Peter froze. His hand clenched around the chopsticks, the steam carrying the memory before he could stop it: the same smell, the same greasy cartons on Aunt May’s kitchen table, her voice teasing him for eating too fast. Movie night. Warmth. Safety. He blinked hard, forcing the food down.

Karen was telling some story about a client, Foggy was snorting into his drink, and Matt sat quiet but comfortable, listening. The laughter twisted in Peter’s chest. He shouldn’t be laughing. He shouldn’t be sitting here, safe and fed, while Aunt May was—

Foggy clapped him on the shoulder, jolting him. “See, kid? You fit right in.”

Something cracked.

Peter shoved the carton away, noodles spilling onto the desk. “No. No, I don’t.”

The room went still.

“Peter?” Karen’s voice softened instantly, concern cutting through the quiet.

But he was already on his feet, words spilling out too fast, too raw. “What am I even doing here? Eating takeout, like this is normal? Like everything’s fine? It’s not fine—she’s...” His voice broke. “She’s gone. And I’m sitting here laughing like it doesn’t matter!”

Foggy opened his mouth, panicked, but Peter’s gaze darted from person to person, wild and wet.

“Peter—” Matt started, calm, steady, but Peter cut him off.

“I can’t just pretend she never existed! I can’t sit here and… and act like I belong here!” His breath hitched, too sharp. His hands shook as he grabbed his jacket from the back of the chair.

Karen reached out, gentle, but he flinched away. “Don’t—just don’t.”

And then he was gone, the door slamming hard enough to rattle the glass.

Silence.

Foggy’s chopsticks clattered to the desk. “Oh my God. I—Matt, I didn’t mean—”

Matt lifted a hand, stopping him. His face was tight, jaw set. “It wasn’t you.”

He stood, steady despite the tension in his shoulders. “I’ll find him.”

Karen hovered near the door, torn. “He’s all alone out there—”

“He’s not alone,” Matt said quietly, already reaching for his cane.

They exchanged a look—Karen’s full of worry, Foggy’s full of guilt—but they didn’t stop him.

The door clicked shut behind Matt, leaving the cartons of food cooling on the desk.

Outside, Peter ran until the blur of the city swallowed him whole. The taste of noodles still clung to his tongue, heavy as guilt.

Chapter Text

The night air cut sharp against his face as Peter ran. Streetlights blurred past; neon signs smeared into colors he didn’t care about.

He didn’t stop until his legs gave out, until the burn in his chest forced him to stumble up the nearest fire escape and collapse onto the iron steps.

The city was loud beneath him—horns, shouts, the hum of a thousand lives—and above it all he heard Aunt May’s laugh echoing in his ears. The smell of lo mein clung to him, cruel and familiar.

He pressed the heels of his hands into his eyes, hard, like maybe he could push the tears back where they belonged. He wasn’t supposed to cry. He was supposed to hold it together. Fix things. Be useful.

But he wasn’t useful. He was broken.

“I shouldn’t be laughing” he whispered into the dark.

“I shouldn’t…” His throat locked. “Shouldn't be happy without her. She should be here.”

The words stuck, sharp and jagged. His breath came too fast, stuttering, and he curled tighter against the railing. He wanted to vanish into the noise, into the steel and stone, into anything that wasn’t this raw, hollow ache.

Matt followed the sound of Peter’s heartbeat through the city. Fast. Ragged. Like a snare drum beating out of time.

Foggy’s guilt still echoed in his ears, Karen’s worry too—but it wasn’t them he was angry at. It was himself. He should’ve seen Peter unraveling sooner. Should’ve stopped him before the dam broke.

The rhythm pulled him down an alley, up a rusted fire escape.

He stopped, one hand braced on the cold metal. Peter was there—curled up, small despite all that restless strength in him.

The sound of his heartbeat cracked something in Matt’s chest. It was too familiar. Too much like himself as a kid, when he’d bolted from the orphanage, furious at the world, Stick nowhere to be found. He remembered waiting, hoping someone would come after him. No one had. Stick had just waited him out, as if pain were a lesson to be learned in solitude.

Matt still remembered how empty that had felt.

He wouldn’t make Peter learn that same lesson.

“Peter,” Matt said quietly.

The boy flinched, swiping at his face like he could erase the evidence. “Go away.”

“I can’t do that.”

“You don’t get it.” Peter’s voice was sharp, trembling. “I’m sitting there laughing while she’s dead. What kind of person does that? What kind of—” His breath broke. “She was all I had. And now she’s gone and I’m—”

He couldn’t finish. The words crumpled into a sob.

Matt set his cane aside and lowered himself next to him, close but not touching. He kept his voice steady and soft.

More steady than he felt. “You’re not wrong for laughing, Peter. You’re not betraying her by being here. You’re grieving. And grief… it doesn’t make sense. It’s messy. It hurts. And it doesn’t mean she mattered any less.”

Peter’s hands shook against the railing. “It feels like if I let myself… if I let myself live here, with you, with them… I’ll lose her completely.”

Matt exhaled, long and slow. He reached out, resting a hand lightly on Peter’s shoulder. Peter didn’t flinch, he leaned slightly into it.

“You’ll never lose her,” Matt said. “She’s a part of you. Always will be. I can’t replace her—none of us can. But Karen, Foggy, me… we can give you something else. A home. A place where you don’t have to carry it alone.”

Peter bit his lip, trembling. “…What if I mess it up? What if you decide it’s not worth it?”

Matt’s grip on his shoulder tightened. “I won’t. Karen won’t. Foggy won’t. We’re not going anywhere, Peter. You don’t have to earn a place here. You already have one.”

For a long moment, Peter just breathed, uneven and shaky, but slower than before. His forehead tipped forward until it rested against Matt.

Matt stayed still for a second, not sure what to do, then he put his arms around him. Silent but solid. Peter cried into his chest.

Above them, the city kept moving, lights flickering, horns blaring. But on that fire escape, for the first time in a long while, Peter let someone else hold him together.

Chapter Text

The first real warmth of spring spilled into the apartment through cracked windows. The radiator finally quiet for the first time in months, the air carried the smell of pretzels and exhaust from the street below.

Peter was curled in the corner of the couch, balancing a textbook on one knee and chewing distractedly on the end of a pencil. He hadn’t realized how much he missed the feeling of studying just because school expected him to. Not fighting. Not running. Just… normal.

On the coffee table, Foggy slid a familiar blue wrapper across the pile of papers with a conspiratorial grin. “I heard a rumor these were discontinued, but don’t tell the deli guy I bought out his stash.”

Peter blinked, then grinned as he recognized his favorite candy bar. He tried to hide how quickly he tore the wrapper open.

Karen shook her head from the desk where she was typing, lips curved into a small smile.

“You’re going to rot his teeth, Fog.”

“Better his teeth than his soul,” Foggy said lightly, and Peter laughed around the first bite.

The office had changed. It wasn’t just Nelson & Murdock anymore. A second chair tucked permanently at the corner desk. A steady stream of coffee mugs, now abandoned in every room because Peter kept forgetting to bring them back.

Little things that said: Peter was here.

The paperwork wasn’t simple, but Foggy had wrangled something close to a miracle: kinship guardianship. Matt wasn’t a foster parent. He was viewed as a family friend, by court definition, no one was left alive to prove them wrong. He was responsible for Peter until he turned eighteen. It wasn’t the kind of family anyone expected. But it worked.

That morning, Peter stood at the window with his backpack slung over one shoulder, ready but reluctant. The strap tugged at him like a weight. The idea of school hallways and chatter made his stomach twist, though not quite the way it used to.

He opened his phone. A message sat unsent in the text box to Ned. His thumb hovered, heart pounding.

“Take your time,” Matt said quietly from the armchair, head tilted as if he could feel Peter’s hesitation in the air.

Peter glanced over, startled, then huffed a little laugh. “You always know.”

Matt’s mouth curved. “Occupational hazard.”

Later, as Peter ducked out the door, Foggy lingered in the kitchen, leaning on the counter. “You think he’s… settling?”

Matt’s hand brushed the top of the table, fingertips skimming the grooves in the wood where Peter’s textbooks had already left faint dents. He thought of his own youth—the silences Stick left him in, the cold absence where a parent’s warmth should’ve been. He thought of how May’s absence pressed on Peter like a shadow.

“He still hurts,” Matt said finally. “But he laughs here. He lets himself… belong.” His voice softened. “That’s something.”

Foggy nodded, eyes flicking towards another left candy wrapper still on the coffee table.

“Yeah. It is.”

Outside, Peter stood on the sidewalk, the spring light spilling over the city like something new.

He tapped the screen.

Hey. Been a while. Want to hang out after school?

Sent.

The tightness in his chest was still there—grief never fully gone—but it didn’t strangle him this time. It was softer, like a scar.

He breathed in. The city roared back, and for once, it didn’t drown him.

And when he thought of heading home later, to Matt and Foggy and Karen, it didn’t ache with guilt. It felt right.