you're gonna go far

Peter stared at his phone, thumb hovering over his landlord’s contact. The lump in his throat felt like it might choke him. This was his last shot, and he knew it. With a deep breath, he tapped the call button. The dial tone rang twice before a gruff, irritated voice answered.

“What?”

“Hi, Mr. Kowalski!” Peter’s voice came out way too bright, and he winced at how obvious it sounded. “Uh, it’s Peter Parker. I was just calling to - um - talk about the rent?”

“Yeah, Parker, I know who it is. Look, I’ve given you chances already. And you’re late. Again.”

Peter winced. “I know, I know, and I’m really sorry, but-”

“Save it,” Kowalski interrupted. “I’ve heard all the excuses. I’ve been more than patient with you, kid. This isn’t a charity.”

“I swear, this time it’s different!” Peter pleaded, pacing back and forth in his tiny apartment. “I’ve got a new job lined up. I can cover the rent, I just need-”

“I’ve heard that one too,” Kowalski cut in sharply. “You’re out. I’ve got bills too.”

Peter very wisely chose not to snap that he owned the damn building. 

He was running out of options, running out of time. He pinched the bridge of his nose, trying to keep his voice steady. “Please. Just one more chance-”

“Parker.”

“-I’ll pay you double,” he blurted in a last desperate attempt. “I’ve got that new job lined up, and it’s got great pay, and it's such a hassle to move out and I'm sure its an even bigger hassle to find a new tenant, right, and-” he sucked in a sharp, panicked breath, “It’ll be different this time, sir, please.”

Silence.

“Double,” Peter repeated, the words tumbling out faster now. “I’ll pay you double next month. Just - please. I’ll have the money by the first. I promise.”

Another long silence stretched between them, and Peter held his breath.

“Fine,” Kowalski said grudgingly. “Last chance, Parker. If the rent isn’t in my hands by the first, you’re out . Got it?”

“Yes! Yes, absolutely,” Peter said, relief flooding his voice. “Thank you so much, Mr. Kowalski, I swear-”

The line went dead before he could finish. Peter stared at the screen, letting out a long, shaky breath.

“Fuck,” he muttered, running a hand through his hair. 

He really needed to land this job.

—

​​Peter stared down at his phone, thumbs hovering as he typed and retyped the message before finally settling on something vaguely coherent:

Peter: Hi! This is Peter Parker. I saw your flyer about tech support and was wondering if the position was still available.

It wasn’t his smoothest opening line, but it would do. He hit send and spent the next hour pacing his apartment like a caged animal. When the reply pinged back, he practically fell over himself reaching for the phone.

???: Hi, Peter! This is Karen from Nelson, Murdock & Page. Are you free to come in for an interview on Thursday at 3 PM?

“Karen,” Peter muttered under his breath as he squinted at the message and updated the contact info. “Cool name.” Thursday. 3 PM. Easy. Plenty of time to get his act together. 

Peter: Thursday at 3 works for me :D 

Was it unprofessional to use faces when texting potential employers? Probably. He also wasn’t going to stop it, though.

Karen: Great. See you then.

—

Peter ironed his shirt for what felt like the first time in his entire life, nearly burned himself, and gave himself a haircut with a pair of scissors and unearned confidence. The results were… fine. He spent the rest of the morning crossing his fingers and practicing how to sound like someone who had his life together. 

By the time he ended up standing in front of the address they’d given, he had spent at least three minutes psyching himself up.

“Are you here to see Murdock?” a voice came from behind him, and Peter whipped around to see a blonde woman behind him.

“Oh, sorry!” Peter said, moving out of the way. He’d been too busy thinking about how to enter without actually moving, leaving him blocking the doorway. The woman just cocked her head and shot him a small smile. “I… think so? I have a job interview, and I think that this is the right place, but I haven’t done this in ages and I really can’t screw this up,” Peter gave a stuttery laugh. “Like, really.”

“Peter?” the woman asked, and his stomach dropped.  “You’re here for the interview, right?”

Fuck. Oh, he already fucked up so bad. That wasn’t a client, that was Karen. Her last name was in the title of the law firm. 

“Yes! Um - Peter Parker.” He stuck out a hand, which she shook warmly. 

“Nice to meet you, Peter. I’m Karen Page.” She gave him a smile that made his chest warm despite his nerves before shouldering the door open. “Give me a sec; I’ll get the other two.”

The office wasn’t what Peter expected. It was a little rundown, the kind of place that felt used, with coffee stains on the desk, a printer that looked like it had waged war against humanity, and a couch in the corner half-covered by a fraying blanket. But it was cozy, and the mismatched charm made him feel a little less out of place.

As Karen disappeared into the back, Peter rocked nervously on his heels, listening to the muffled sounds of conversation through the thin office walls.

“Matt, Foggy, there’s someone here to fix the printer,” Karen said, garnering a small snort from one of the men.

“Yes, I’m aware of that,” he said dryly. “I’m blind, not deaf.”

A man with cropped sandy-blonde hair poked his head out of the door Karen had walked through, before quickly ducking back inside. Their conversation was unintelligible for a moment, and Peter strained to hear. 

“I don’t know what you want from me, Matt,” came a loud whisper. “Why the hell is there a teenager in our office? You know I’m terrible with kids.” Shoes squeaked, suggesting Foggy had pivoted to face Karen. “You didn’t ask this guy any pre-interview questions? Maybe - I don’t know, would it be considered child labor to employ you?”

Peter blinked. “Hey, um, Mr. Foggy, sir?” he called toward the office. “I’m eighteen soon. The labor age in New York is conditionally fourteen, and technically I can do everything except…”

Dead silence.

“...operate heavy machinery.”

Shit, Peter thought miserably to himself, realizing immediately that he wasn’t supposed to have heard that. “Uh, sorry! Ignore me!”

The door creaked open a moment later, and Peter straightened up like someone had shot him with a taser. He stuck out his hand again because that’s what adults do, right? “Peter Parker,” he said, forcing a smile. “I’m here about the, uh, printer-fixer ad. Well, it’s for more than that, I guess – the coffee runner intern fixing odds and ends handyman,” he said, attempting a friendly smile. “And, um, I’m handy!”

Foggy gave his hand a quick shake, then stepped aside for Matt. The man adjusted his dark red-tinted glasses. He was wearing a white button-up and a suit jacket, ironed to perfection. 

And then it clicked. Peter knew there had been something familiar about his voice. Matt Murdock was the lawyer May and Happy had hired when his identity had first been leaked. He couldn’t hide the surprise and excitement that spread across his features. 

A little part of him thought that it might be a bad idea to work with someone he’d known before his identity had been erased. But another, larger part of him couldn’t bring himself to care. He was already trying to get Ned and MJ back. What was working with a lawyer he’d met once or twice gonna do to the multiverse?

Wait. The guy was completely blind, right? If the cane and glasses were something to go by – but he’d caught the brick. How would he have done that if he had been completely blind?

Peter paused, blinking at the man. How had he done that?

“Peter,” Murdock said, head tilting in his direction. “Nice to meet you.”

“Mr. Murdock!, Oh wow, you guys are th-” he paused, stamping down some of his incredibly over-excitement at seeing a familiar face, “- very good lawyers,” Peter finished awkwardly, shaking Matt’s hand over-enthusiastically before shoving his hands into his jacket pockets. Way to make an impression, Parker. 

Matt raised an eyebrow, and Karen stifled a laugh. “Thank you,” he said, his tone measured. “We’d like to think so.”

He seemed normal enough. He was supposed to be some sort of genius, anyway - the guy won pretty much all of his cases. Thinking back on it, Peter couldn’t name one that he’d lost; although that might just be more his ignorance than anything else.

Damn. Maybe he was just a really good lawyer.

“You’re definitely something,” Foggy muttered under his breath.

Karen shot him a look before gesturing for Peter to sit. “Let’s start the interview.”

It was, to put it gently, a train wreck. 

Tu-dum… Tu-dum… Tu-dum… Tu-dum…

“Do you live nearby?” Foggy asked, handing Karen a notebook and a pen. “Sometimes we need people on call. Obviously, it’s not anything against you if you’re not, but it’d give us an idea of how long it’d take you to get here if the printer tries to kill itself again.”

It took Peter a second to settle on a response. “Yeah, no, I’m… nearby,” he said, biting the inside of his lip. Matt frowned, and Peter’s heart jumped in his throat. Did he sound that unsure? Get it together, Parker. “Well, not nearby nearby, but like. I can get here super quick. Don’t even worry about it.”

Tu-dumTu-dumTu-dumTu-dum-

“Oh? Whereabouts are you?”

Peter bit down harder, the coppery taste of blood developing on his lips. “I can get here fast, Mr. Nelson. Trust me.”

Foggy nodded, moving on to the next question despite any doubts he may have had. “You take the subway?”

“Yep,” he said, lying through his teeth. “It was late today, but I promise I did try to be on time.”

Tu-dumTu-dumTu-dumTu-dum-

Peter looked over the trio’s faces, trying to gauge their reactions. Foggy seemed unbothered by his answers, as did Karen. She gave him a small smile. Matt, on the other hand, was stone-faced, a frown playing on his lips. He let out a small breath, adjusting his position in his chair and sliding his folded-up cane back and forth in his hand. 

Peter had ruined his chances already, and he didn’t even know what he’d done.

“So, Mr. Parker,” Matt said, clasping his hands together on the table and leaning forward. “What work experience do you have?”

This was easy. He didn’t even have to lie. “I was a dishwasher, and I worked as a freelance photographer for the Bugle. I volunteered at FEAST for a while, but it… it didn’t pay the bills and I moved to bartending.”

Tu-dum… Tu-dum… Tu-dum… Tu-dum…

“Let me get this straight.” Peter could’ve sworn he saw Foggy elbow Matt under the table, but the man didn’t flinch. “You were a bartender at age seventeen? Without a GED.” 

Peter swallowed. “Well, I technically didn’t serve the drinks, it was more of a dishwashing job again. Just at a bar.”

Tu-dumTu-dumTu-dumTu-dum-

“Where you’re legally not allowed to be employed.”

Peter chewed his lip again, looking at his lap. If he cried now, he would never forgive himself. 

Thankfully, Karen stepped in. “Matt, stop grilling him. This isn’t an interrogation, it’s an interview for a tech support guy.” She stood up, closing her notebook. “Peter, do you want a glass of water?” 

“Yeah,” Peter said automatically, breathing a sigh of relief. He caught himself quickly. “I mean, yes, please, that would be great. Thank you, Karen. Er- Ms. Page.”

“You can call me Karen,” she confirmed, returning with the cup and placing it in front of Peter. “So, can we talk about your GED?” Peter nodded. “You never graduated high school?” Peter nodded. 

“Can you tell us why?” Foggy said, his voice softer than it had been previously. Matt still didn’t look impressed. 

“I was blipped, and so was my aunt. I went back to high school after that, but I didn’t stay for long. I needed to work because my aun-” He paused. “...because I was unable to stay with my family anymore.” He took a sip of water, hoping it would camouflage the lump that had developed in his throat. “I’m going to take the test to get my GED in the fall. I just haven’t had the time.”

This explanation seemed to please Karen and Foggy. Matt’s expression seemed to be permanently plastered to his face. 

“We appreciate your honesty,” said Foggy. Weirdly, Matt had a coughing fit at that exact moment, ending with him excusing himself to the kitchenette to probably grab a glass of water. Karen and Foggy just exchanged tired glances.

“So, do you wear cologne?” Karen asked.

Peter blinked at her like a deer in headlights. Cologne? Peter wanted to laugh. Or cry. I’m way too poor for cologne. “Uh… no? Is… that a requirement?”

“Not for you,” Foggy chimed in. “Matt has… sensory issues, and sometimes strong smells set him off.”

Peter nodded a little too enthusiastically. “Gotcha. No cologne. I’ll just stick to, you know… deodorant.” 

When Matt appeared a moment later, sliding back into his seat, he had an exhausted expression on his face. “Peter,” Matt began, and he tensed in his seat. Here it was. The rejection, or something like it. The way that the man leaned over the desk, still frowning, gave him a bad feeling. “Why Nelson, Murdock, and Page?”

Peter blinked. 

“You live a fair distance away,” Matt continued. “You have a working record that is wildly varied, and there’s nothing that indicates you have a strong desire to work in law. Why here? Why not somewhere closer?”

Karen and Foggy shot each other a look that he couldn’t decipher. “Um,” Peter started, glancing between the three of them. “I… I like what you guys do.”

It sounded dumb just to say it like that.

“I know someone who you guys helped. You tried to do the work pro bono, even though they had the money to pay you. You guys are known for being generous and taking cases that not many other people will.” He still didn’t even know how they’d managed to get him cleared of any charges, including those against May and Happy. The fact that they’d tried to refuse payment afterward had almost made Peter cry. “You guys… you’re making a difference. I’d like to help you do that, too.”

The three of them looked pleased at that. Karen’s smile widened, and even Foggy seemed to brighten at the compliment. Matt, who had spent most of the interview with his arms crossed and brow furrowed, actually looked… less grim. Not exactly cheerful, but it was something. 

“That’s nice to hear, Peter,” Karen said warmly.

Matt tilted his head slightly before the pensive frown reappeared. “What did you say your last name was again, Peter?”

“Parker,” he answered. Matt frowned again, and Peter held his breath.

“Well, I think that’s everything for now,” Karen chimed in, and the spell was broken. Peter scrambled to his feet as Foggy stood, mimicking his movements. He felt oddly gangly in his own body, like a kid trying to imitate adults, but at least no one seemed to notice.

“Thanks for coming in,” Foggy said, offering a firm handshake. “Karen will show you out.”

Peter followed Karen to the door, his mind already running through his next steps. He’d probably bombed this, but maybe-

“Wait, Peter,” Matt’s voice cut through the air, and Peter turned back reluctantly, chest tightening. Matt had stepped closer, his expression unreadable. “You wouldn’t happen to know a May Parker, would you? Was that the case that we’d helped with?”

Peter smoothed his expression out into that practiced, careful neutrality. “I don’t know a May,” he said, trying to keep his voice even. “Sorry, Mr. Murdock.”

Peter’s chest twinged at the denial, and also at the pensive expression the man wore. It was more displeased than Peter had seen him. His head tilted again, lips downturned, as if he could hear the lie threading through Peter’s words. But he didn’t push.

“Well, anyway,” Matt said after a beat, his tone neutral but clipped. “Thank you for coming. It was nice speaking with you.”

Karen smiled, opening the door. “Take care, Peter. We’ll be in touch.”

“Thanks,” Peter muttered, his voice tight as he stepped into the hallway.

The door clicked shut behind him, leaving him alone with the company logo etched into the frosted glass. He stared at it for a long moment before sighing and scrubbing at his face.

He’d butchered that. Time to keep looking.

—

Matt sat down at his desk, sliding off his glasses and stowing them in his shirt pocket – he’d lost too many pairs by carelessly setting them on the table. Yawning, he pressed the heels of his hands into his eyes. 

“Who pissed in your cheerios?” Foggy asked as he tossed a pencil at Matt, who batted it away unthinkingly. “I mean, sure, he’s a little weird.” Matt’s lip quirked. “But he seems genuine. I like him.”

“Of course you like him,” he sighed, leaning back in his chair. 

“What’s that supposed to mean?” Karen asked, pulling out a chair and sitting down.

“I just don’t trust him.”

“You don’t need to trust him yet,” Foggy groaned. “Just let him fix the braille printer.”

“He lied,” Matt muttered at last.

Foggy raised an eyebrow. “About what?”

“About living nearby. And not serving drinks. And that previous case. When I asked him about it, his heart rate spiked.” He cleared his throat and picked up a pen, clicking it absently. It helped him think. "He smelled... strange."

“Matt, man, who cares?” Foggy groaned, throwing his hands in the air. “So what if he doesn’t live next door? Or about old cases that we may or may not have had? The kid’s eager, handy, and I bet he’ll work for cheap. He’s like… a poor man’s intern.”

Karen smirked. “I like him. He’s awkward but sweet. I say we give him a chance.”

“All in favor of hiring Peter, say aye!” 

Matt frowned as he was clearly outvoted, sighing in resignation. “Fine. But I’m keeping an eye on him.”

—

It had been a long night.

If the way that Mr. Murdock had been glaring at him was any indication, he’d screwed that interview so hard. It had been two days of radio silence, and he’d accepted it at this point. He needed to start looking elsewhere - but a lot of the places in his area weren’t exactly high-paying. Perks of living in a cheaper neighborhood.

At least he could patrol to take his mind off it - although it was probably more like procrastinating, at this point. Good job, Parker. You want to go homeless again?

“Whoa, buddy, calm down!” Peter jumped onto the wall, narrowly avoiding a knife that was thrown his way. “That’s no way to play with your friends.”

“You’re not my friend,” said the knife guy, throwing another blade in Peter’s direction. “And I’m not your buddy.”

He sighed exasperatedly. “If you’re not even going to banter with me, I don’t see the point. I’m doing improv here, and you refuse to say ‘yes, and .’” The man in front of him lunged, swinging a rusty pipe he’d pulled from someone in the alleyway. Peter ducked, the pipe narrowly missing his head as he spun out of the way. His phone buzzed in his pocket, and he groaned. Not now.

Another swing, another dodge. Peter webbed the pipe out of the guy’s hands and kicked him into a stack of boxes. The phone kept buzzing.

Sure. Whatever. Why not?

Peter would accept any excuse to stop fighting this altogether boring criminal. Sure, he may have a cool schtick with the knife-throwing, but he wasn’t someone Peter would choose to fight on the regular, even if he was given only a few choices.

His phone continued to vibrate.

​​“Okay, okay!” Peter muttered, shooting a quick web to pin the guy to the ground. He yanked his phone out, glancing at the screen. His heart caught in his throat when he saw the caller ID. He eyed the guy shoving himself to his feet as he clicked to accept the call. “Karen?”

“Hi Peter,” came her somehow cheerful and professional voice drifting out of the speakers. She kind of reminded him of Pepper, in a distant sort of way. “Is this a good time? Sorry for calling so late, I promise this’ll be quick.”

He looked over at knife guy, who had since crawled out of the web and was currently hunched in the corner of the alleyway, presumably sharpening his tools. “Yeah, a great time, actually.” 

She took a deep breath, and Peter could hear some shuffling in the background. It seemed that Matt and Foggy were crowded around the phone. 

“Okay, so I wanted to talk to you about-” Peter ducked another knife that was sent his way, rolling out on the pavement. “-your interview.”

He gritted his teeth, suddenly not ready to face the rejection he knew was coming. “Yeah, no, it's okay. Thanks for the opportunity, and I completely understand why you didn’t choose me. It was really nice to meet-”

“No, Peter,” Karen interrupted, and for a moment he swore he could hear the smile in her voice. “Peter, you got the job.”

He sent a right hook into knife guy’s temple, immediately knocking him unconscious. 

“ What? ”

There was no way he heard that right. He’d screwed that interview so badly, there was no way he’d heard that right. “Wait, really?”

“Yes, really,” Karen said, and this time Peter could definitely hear the smile in her voice. “You start Monday.” Peter looked down at the unconscious man sprawled at his feet, barely processing her words. 

“Oh. Uh. Cool,” he said lamely, before kicking himself. “No, wait, I mean - thank you!” 

Karen laughed. “You’re welcome, Peter. I’ll email you the details. Have a good night.”

“Yeah, uh - thanks, you too!” he said, ending the call. He stared at his phone for a second, then at the mess he’d just made. “I got the job?” he muttered to himself, disbelief coloring his tone. The guy on the ground groaned, and Peter sighed. “Great. Let’s wrap this up before I ruin my good mood.”

—

When Peter first knocked on the door and pushed inside, he could feel his heartbeat in his throat. He could not screw this up. Karen seemed nice, and so did Foggy - he just really, desperately needed Matt to like him. Or even just tolerate him . He wouldn’t survive someone glaring at him for an entire shift. 

He honestly thought he’d rather get stabbed. Having his boss already hate him so openly kind of made him want to cry.

Peter steeled himself, inhaled sharply, and smiled at Karen when she came into view. “Peter!” she greeted, dropping the files she was holding onto her desk as she stood to meet him. “Foggy, Peter’s here! Did you want to show him to the braille printer so he can get started on that?”

“Coming!” comes the muffled response, before a thunk, and an even more muffled, “...ow.”

It was only a moment or two before the sandy-haired man appeared and waved Peter into one of the smaller rooms. The space was filled to the brim – wall-to-wall bookshelves of what Peter could only assume were books on law, and filing cabinets that were so full he could see the corners peeking out of the top. Peter spied a long-forgotten stained coffee mug on the side table.

It was cozy, in a chaotic, sprawling kind of way.

“It’s over here,” Foggy said, pointing, and Peter's gaze flicked over to him.

 He stood before the ancient machine, its beige casing discolored with age and speckled with faint ink stains. It let out a wheezy rattle, as though resenting its very existence. He squinted at it, his lips twitching into a half-smile.

“What… even is that?” he asked.

“Behold,” Foggy gestured to the machine. “The beast.”

Peter snorted, taking a cautious step closer. “This looks like it was built before I was born . Does it even-”

“Print?” Foggy interrupted, shrugging helplessly. “Not currently. And when it does, it’s more of a ‘spit ink and hope for the best’ situation.”

“Does it - does it do both braille and ink?” he asked, peering a little closer. Foggy made a noise of confirmation. Peter crouched slightly, peering at the printer’s stubborn frame. “Do you have any tools to fix it?”

“Um,” Foggy hedged, glancing at Matt’s office like the lawyer might miraculously appear with a toolkit. “Define tools . We have, uh…” He rummaged through a drawer, pulling out a single phillip's head screwdriver. “This?”

Peter raised an eyebrow. “Right. I think I’ll just use the stuff I brought from home.”

Foggy looked relieved. “Sure. You do your thing. I’ll just… be out there. Shout if you need me or if you set something on fire.”

Peter didn’t know if said tools he’d brought – a smaller set of precision screwdrivers, and a set of tweezers he’d scavenged via dumpster diving – would even work for this. He hadn’t used them to fix printers. But they were the same tools he used for web-shooter maintenance and suit repairs, and that was basically the same thing, right?

He unscrewed the back panel and tried to poke around in the mess of wires as Foggy disappeared into the other room.

“Okay, so… that’s a wire that shouldn’t be loose,” he muttered, jabbing at a frayed cable. “And that’s probably not supposed to be sparking…”

It didn’t take long to correct the problems. Electrical tape and precision work with the tweezers covered most of his bases, and once he dusted out the machine and replaced the ink cartridges, things seemed pretty promising.

Peter leaned back with a sigh, wiping his hands on his jeans. “Alright,” he muttered to himself. “I think it’s ready. Please don’t explode on me.”

He hit the power button, and the machine groaned to life. For a tense moment, it whirred and clanked, its innards shifting noisily. Then, with a victorious beep, it began to print. Actual, ( hopefully ) legible braille emerged from the tray.

“Yes!” Peter crowed, throwing his hands in the air. 

Karen popped her head into the room, a grin already on her face. “Fixed it?”

“Fixed it!” Peter echoed, grin on his face as he wiped at his cheek, accidentally smudging blue ink across the bridge of his nose. Karen snorted.

“Great,” she said brightly, holding out a paper bag. “These are for you. We wanted to get you something for your first day, and I passed a French patisserie on the way here, so…” She handed him the bag, clasping her hands together. “We hope you like it.”

Peter peered into the bag he was given, mouth dropping open at the fancy pastries stacked inside. Macarons, eclairs, cream puffs, and– he hadn’t had a chocolate croissant in years . “Whoa. Thank you so much, Karen, these are amazing.” He held back the urge to stuff an eclair into his mouth, whole.

“Don’t mention it. You’re going to have to navigate our insane filing system today – it’s the least I could do.”

And an insane filing system it was. The old, creaky cabinets filled with folders seemed like they explode at any moment. Cases were arranged alphabetically, but that was the extent of the organization. Although the cabinets seemed far from full, paperwork still managed to spill out of the drawers. 

“So, if you have any organizational ideas that these two,” – she jerked her thumb toward Matt and Foggy – “could keep up with, let me know. They just shove their stuff in here after they’re done with it. It’s a wonder I’ve been able to keep this alphabetized.”

“Noted,” said Peter, nodding. “You could keep the alphabetized cases in one stack of cabinets, and fill the other with generic legal documents and contracts that we could photocopy. And we could label each cabinet door with braille and English.” 

“That could work,” Karen said, mulling over Peter’s idea. “You know what, I’ll get back to you on that. It might take a little while, but I’m sure Matt and Foggy could get on board.”

Peter couldn’t hold back the grin that spread across his face. 

—

The money he made that day didn’t even make it to his wallet. It went straight to his landlord. Literally all of it, save about four dollars and seventy cents. Damn.

Peter groaned as he stared at his empty bank app before flicking his phone shut and shoving it into one of his zipper pockets before the sight of ​​it could depress him further.

He’d be fine. Whatever, he’d been through worse. But maybe he shouldn’t have jumped to ‘Please, Mr. Kowalski, I’ll double what I owe you because I’m not an idiot or desperate!’ Maybe he could have gone for an extra fifty percent instead of doubling it. Although, the guy wasn't really in the mood to negotiate.

Patrol didn’t improve things. 

He’d been so hungry and distracted thinking about how he was going to pay for food this week – real food, not a cup of cold ramen or a handful of dry cereal – that he hadn’t noticed a mugger’s knife until it nicked his side. It wasn’t bad; just a shallow cut, but it stung enough to add insult to injury. It was just deep enough that he knew it wouldn’t heal overnight.

Great. Now he was wasting his limited medical supplies because he wasn’t paying attention.

By the time he swung into the alley where he and Wade had agreed to meet, he was cranky, sore, and starving. 

“Spidey-baby,” Wade called from his perch on the rooftop. “You’re late. I’ve been waiting here for like, a solid three minutes. Food’s getting cold. I’m dying. Starving. Decaying as we speak.”

“You’ll survive,” Peter said as he dropped down into the empty space beside him, half clamoring over Deadpool's lap to grab the pizza box next to him. “Gimme.”

“Rude,” Wade snorted, before reaching into the box and handing Peter a slice of pepperoni with one of the corners already missing.

Peter raised an eyebrow beneath the mask. “Did you eat part of my slice?”

“Only the best part,” Wade replied unapologetically. “You looked like you could use fewer calories anyway. Don’t want the carbs to damage your rockin’ bod.” Peter snorted, and Wade’s head swung around to squint at him through the mask. “Actually, ignore that. Your spandex abs will be fine. You were drinking asparagus water last I checked.”

“I was not!” Peter defended. “It was soup! I was on a budget!”

Wade gave a full-body shudder. “That was not soup, Petey-Pie. That was an abomination . Ratatouille would be disappointed.”

“His name was Remy,” Peter corrected idly before rolling up his mask and promptly shoving the rest of the slice in his mouth. The bright orange grease practically melted into his gloves, but he didn’t care.

As they ate, Wade gestured toward Peter’s side. “You’re leaking, by the way. What’s that about? Didn’t your little spidey sense give you a heads-up?”

Peter scowled, chewing furiously. “I wasn’t paying attention, clearly.”

“You’re telling me you were thinking about me so much you risked your life? You wound me, babe.” A pause. “And yourself, apparently.”

“Can we not?” Peter sighed, slumping against the brick wall before reaching for another slice.

Wade took a contemplative bite of his slice, cheese stringing dramatically from the crust. “You know,” he said through a full mouth, “if you’re this distracted, you’re probably gonna get your butt handed to you next time. Lucky for you, I’m here to keep you alive. And well-fed. Pizza Pthursdays, forever.”

“You’re still pronouncing the ‘P,’” Peter muttered through a mouthful of food as he rolled his eyes, but couldn’t hide the small smile creeping onto his face. “Yeah, yeah. Thanks for the life-saving pizza, Wade.”

“Don’t mention it,” Wade said, already reaching for another slice. “Literally. Don’t. Ruins my whole ‘dark and mysterious mercenary’ persona.”

Peter didn’t have the heart to tell him his whole ‘dark and mysterious mercenary’ persona had been ruined a long time ago.

—

Peter pushed open the door to the office with his side, balancing a cardboard tray of drinks in one hand and his work bag in the other. “Sorry,” he got out, attempting to catch his breath. “The line was so long, and they mixed up the orders, and-”

“As long as you brought coffee, it’s no big deal,” Matt interrupted, massaging the bridge of his nose between two fingers.

“Seriously,” said Foggy, standing up to get his drink. “It’s allergy season. They should start making Benadryl with caffeine in it.”

“It’s usually the diphenhydramine in Benadryl which makes people drowsy, which is the active ingredient. Adding caffeine would just be kind of dangerous and would probably cause a lot more adverse reactions than Benadryl does…” Peter trailed off at the sight of Foggy’s blank face. “Never mind.”

Thankfully, the topic changed quickly. “Oh, come on,” Karen said, peering into the cup Peter had just handed over to Foggy. “That’s basically a milkshake. How much sugar is even in there?”

“Your taste buds are either five years old or completely dead,” Matt muttered, and Peter snorted.

Foggy held his cup defensively. “I don’t see the problem. This is a perfectly balanced coffee order.”

Karen raised an eyebrow. “Balanced how? Half sugar, half coffee?” she scoffed. “Your coffee order has a calorie count higher than my rent.”

“Hey!” Foggy cried. “It’s good coffee!”

"That’s not coffee,” Matt scoffed. “it’s liquid candy in a cup." The corner of the man’s mouth twitched, and Peter could see his eyes crinkle behind his red-tinted glasses. “You either eat sugar cubes straight or garlic cloves. There’s no in-between, is there? You have no taste.”

“My family owns a deli!” Foggy protested, his tone incredulous.

“If your taste is hereditary,” Matt began as he settled into his seat behind the desk, “I have no idea how that deli is still in business.”

The comment was so quick and deadpan that Karen snorted into her coffee. Foggy narrowed his eyes, grabbing the nearest book off the desk and lobbing it across the room. 

—

Really, Matt should have seen it coming.

He did, in fact. The issue was with Peter here, he couldn’t actually do anything about it. He could practically see whatever object Foggy had picked up and thrown – a book, if the sound of pages fluttering through the air was anything to go by – but he could hardly dodge. 

Peter knew that he was blind. That was also currently all he knew about Matt's senses, and it would stay that way if he had anything to say about it.

So he squared his shoulders, sucked in a breath, and tensed before the thing smacked him square in the forehead.

“Foggy!” Karen gasped, and Peter let out a shocked noise.

Matt, unfazed but clearly unimpressed, tilted his head in Foggy’s direction as the book tumbled to the floor. “That was unnecessary.”

Matt knew Foggy didn't mean to hit him. It was a habit he'd developed after he realized that he did, in fact, perceive the world around him, even if it wasn't through sight. While it had started smaller - tissues, empty coffee cups, scrunched-up papers - the routine had quickly developed to include heavier objects.

Foggy knew he'd see it coming, and react quick enough to catch it. The problem was that having someone in the office who didn't know his identity prevented him from doing that.

Peter stood up quickly, making his way across the room. “Are you okay, Mr. Murdock?”

“I’m fine,” he said smoothly, rubbing the spot on his forehead the book had impacted. “And please, call me Matt.”

As Peter moved closer, Matt paused. 

The smell hit him first – faint but unmistakable. Blood. Bandages. A metallic tang mixed with a faint whiff of antiseptic. It wasn’t strong enough to suggest a serious injury, but it was there, lingering beneath Peter's usual scents: soap, sweat, and a strange, fresh ozone-like smell Matt couldn’t quite place.

Peter stepped back, oblivious to Matt’s scrutiny. “Okay, just making sure,” he said, flashing a sheepish grin before he set something on Matt's desk and the smell of coffee hit him. “Your drink’s on the desk in front of you,” he said, before retreating back to his space by the unused desk like everything was fine.

It was not fine.

Peter was injured. And he was hiding it.

That was rarely a good sign. 

As Peter sat down, Matt turned over the name Parker in his mind. He thought back to the May Parker case – that had to be the connection. Peter had lied when he'd asked about knowing her. He said he couldn’t stay with his guardians after the blip anymore, either…

Maybe May was that guardian. Maybe she wasn’t a good person. Maybe she was part of a case he wanted to forget. But if that was the case, why would they have represented her?

There was someone else involved back then, too. But Matt had just skimmed the documents, and as such, couldn’t remember their name. He didn’t exactly recognize the name Peter, but that was probably because it was so common. He’d have to dig through their archives later.

They each settled back into their routines - Foggy was scraping through another legal book on tenancy laws for one of their newer clients, Karen was filing through reception documents, and Peter was trying to fix a keyboard that refused to type about a third of the keys.

“Peter,” he said suddenly, and he could feel the boy’s head snap up. “Are you doing anything after this?”

There’s an inhalation of breath, a nervous uptick of heartbeat. A hesitation. “...No,” the answer came after a moment. “Why, did you need me to stay back?”

“Would it put you out? Do you have anyone at home who’d be waiting for you?”

Another beat of hesitation. “No,” he says, and his heartbeat flickered. “I can stay back for a while if you’d like.”

Tu-dumTu-dumTu-dumTu-dum-

“I’m not sure right now,” Matt said after a moment, and Peter’s heartbeat slowed slightly. “Just in case. You’re still finishing at your normal time, for now.”

There was no nervous uptick in his heartbeat, like he wasn’t scared to go home.

He wasn’t going to get anywhere with casual questioning, but he knew if he was too direct, it would raise suspicion about his motivations, and he risked the kid shutting him out completely. Fuck it. This contemplation was wasting time. Just ask him generally about his family, Matt.

Peter remained standing in front of him, rocking back and forth on his heels. “Anything else before I go?”

“Peter,” he started, leaning casually on his cane. “You mentioned your guardians were gone. Do you have any other family?”

Peter hesitated for a split second, then forced a casual shrug. “Nope. All dead.” He paused, before giving a wry, muttered, “Just me now.”

Matt frowned. His heartbeat didn’t indicate a lie. That meant the kid had no family, but nevertheless had someone waiting for him at home. 

“Is that for like… paperwork or something?” Peter questioned, adjusting the bag on his shoulder. “Do you need anything else?

Matt waved him off. “No, nothing else. Don't worry about it.”

“Right,” Peter said before quickly turning toward the door, and Matt was hit with a faint smell of antiseptic, blood, and rooftops . “See you tomorrow!”

Peter's voice lingered in Matt's ears even after the door closed behind him.  

It only took a moment, though, for Foggy to swivel his chair around to glare at Matt. “Dude. What the hell was that?” Foggy leaned back in his chair, arms crossed as he watched Matt’s furrowed brow deepen. “Seriously, man, spit it out. What’s got you acting like a bloodhound with trust issues?”

Matt’s lips pressed into a thin line. “He smells like rooftops.”

“...What?” Foggy blinked. 

“Ozone. Fresh air,” Matt explained, almost muttering. “Like he’s been outside all day. Why doesn’t he smell like the subway, or a bus, or… I don’t know, anything else a normal kid from New York would smell like?”

Foggy stared at him. “Do you hear yourself? You’re analyzing the kid’s smell now? What, are you going to sniff him out of a lineup next?”

 Karen didn’t look up from her papers but let out a long-suffering sigh. “Foggy’s right. You’re overthinking this. He’s just a kid who needs a job, wants to fix our printer and not get hit with a book when you two start arguing over coffee orders.”

Matt didn’t respond. 

“No, wait, that’s not - stop sidetracking me!” Foggy snapped, pointing a finger in his direction. “Look, Matt, I get it. You’ve got a sixth sense or whatever, but you can’t just grill the poor guy about his dead relatives on his first day. That’s not concern; that’s crossing a line. I mean, Jesus, Matt, have an ounce of sympathy.”

“I wasn’t grilling him,” Matt countered, though even he didn’t sound convinced. “And I do,” he defended. “I’m worried.”

“Doesn’t seem like it,” Foggy muttered. “You asked him, what, three questions about his family? He was clearly uncomfortable, too - no one wants their new boss grilling them on their lack of living relatives, man. You’re lucky he didn’t bolt right then and there.” Foggy jabbed a finger toward him. “You can’t solve every mystery by being weirdly intense at people.”

Karen finally looked up, her expression unimpressed. “He’s a teenager, Matt. They’re awkward, evasive, and – newsflash – they lie. Constantly. Probably about dumb things. It doesn’t mean he’s hiding some dark secret.”

Matt’s jaw tightened. “He also smells like blood.”

Foggy paused. “What?”

“He was injured,” he said, shoulders tightening with unease. “Not dangerously, but something was wrong. He smelled like antiseptic. I’m worried about him.”

“Why? What…” Foggy trailed off. “You were thinking it was a guardian. That’s why you were asking about his relatives.”

Foggy wasn’t stupid. Matt was thankful for that fact every day.

“No, I just wanted to hear about his dead dad to relive some childhood memories,” Matt said sarcastically, shrugging his shoulders. “Of course that’s what I was thinking.”

“You don’t have enough evidence to go from ‘smells like blood’ to ‘child abuse’! That’s a huge leap to make, Matt!”

Karen let out an exhausted noise.

“Maybe he’s just a clumsy kid,” Foggy suggested, throwing up his hands. “Or, I don’t know, maybe you smelled him wrong. Not everything has to be a case, Matt.  Besides, if the kid was injured too badly, he wouldn't be here, right? Who wants to miss their first day because they fell off their bike?”

Matt leaned back in his chair, rubbing his temples. “I’m just saying we should keep an eye on him.”

Karen raised an eyebrow. “Why? Because he smells like ‘rooftops’ and lied about his second cousin twice removed?” she sighed, reaching for her coffee. “You’ve been weird about him since he got here. Give the kid a break.”

Foggy sighed, leaning back as well. “Let it go, Matt. Maybe it’s just a one-off, and he’ll show up tomorrow smelling like hand sanitizer and bad coffee like the rest of us.”

Matt frowned, his fingers tightening on the edge of his desk. But there was nothing else to say.