This actually started as a claim for the unloveyou challenge over at LiveJournal (and continues to be). This series is predominantly Peter/Matt, though there are mentions of Peter's past with Mary Jane and Matt's with Karen. There will be no woman-bashing here; I happen to adore the hell out of MJ and Karen, myself.

Enjoy!

It started with Karen Page.

He still heard her dying in his sleep: the rush of her footsteps as she put herself in front of him, the sound of the billy club burying itself in her chest, the way she choked as she fell back. Trying to block out her breathing, erratic and dying, the affirmation of her death that he wasn't ready to face. The warmth leaving her body when she told him that she would miss him.

Matt had changed. Everything had changed now; sounds seemed a bit duller, laughter a bit quieter. Time itself seemed to slow, as if the earth had stopped when she had died and was taking its time catching up with itself. Or perhaps ... perhaps that was all in his head. And Matt really didn't care at the moment. He didn't care if he was with people, ones he did or didn't know, couldn't bring himself to a reaction when Foggy announced they had a new client. Matt worked diligently, but his spirit wasn't in it. He felt the same in a crowded room as he did alone. Even Foggy's voice seemed painfully far away.

And then, there was Peter. Peter's was the only voice that came in loud and clear; perhaps it was because Peter was different. He never talked about court cases or lunch dates or normal people things, the way other people did. And after a while, he'd stopped talking about losing people; he knew that constantly talking about Karen's death would keep the wound wide open, and it was clear Peter was helping Matt to heal. He stopped in more often now, sometimes to tip him off on something that was going down -- and sometimes, just to sit. Not say anything, really, to avoid accusations, regret, or simply just dwelling. Things Peter did regularly, but seemed determined to keep Matt away from. He was just there, letting Matt know he wasn't alone in any of it. He rarely stayed more than an hour, but Matt appreciated it, and he was recovering, coming back to life on his own time. Peter still swung around, less and less to just be with him, more and more to tell him about illegal shipments, gang wars, plots. Things they would always be able to talk about, no matter what.

Tonight, though. Tonight was different the second Peter slipped through the window; he could taste it in the air, and when Matt didn't immediately ask him what was wrong (he always assumed there was trouble, right off), Peter just eased himself in, leaving the window open.

"Matt...?"

"Go home, Peter. Not tonight." Matt's voice carried from the living room, quiet but harsh now.

Peter's brows furrowed beneath his mask; tugging it off, he made his way to the living room, expecting, perhaps, to see Matt injured. The way he'd spoken said he was out of breath or in pain, but there was no blood. No suit. Just Matt, in his boxers and wifebeater, sitting on his couch, forehead cradled in his hand. Rocking gently back and forth, he accidentally let a sniff slip out, thinking that Peter hadn't heard it.

"I said go home." But Peter didn't really seem to be listening to him; Matt rarely got upset in a rock-back-and-forth-with-a-runny-nose kind of way, and he was too busy processing it. It had been weeks since Karen's death, and Peter hadn't seen Matt cry once. Brood, rant, rave, hit things, or yell, yes, but never cry, and it was setting Peter off balance.

"Matt, are you--"

"Just go. I don't need you here," Matt hissed, swallowing hard. Trying to keep it together, stiffening when he felt Peter's hand on his shoulder, his weight settling down on the couch in direct opposition to what Matt had asked. Peter never listened to Matt; why would he start now?

Peter's hand was gentle and warm, lightly rubbing Matt's back, placating. And Matt, for all his efforts, found it hard to stay stiff. People tended to misunderstand what his senses meant, what his blindness meant; for weeks, he'd gone without much contact with another human being, as much avoiding them as they avoided him in his grief. But here Peter was, offering up that human contact, allowing him an affirmation of life itself. If Matt could feel something, listen to its heartbeat, its breathing, it must have been alive. Wonderfully, gloriously alive.

The way Karen had been.

"You don't have to do this alone," Peter told him quietly, still trying to think of the best way to handle a Matt on the verge of tears. For all he knew, Matt cried all the time; he'd just never let Peter know it.

Those words were enough, upset as he was, as good as Peter was being to him -- that was enough. Enough for Matt to lean in, rest his head against Peter's shoulder, and finally just cry. They were hard, bitter tears, honest ones. Bottled up for weeks, given up to a warm body and a kind voice. Peter cradled Matt's face against his chest when Matt clung to him, almost seeming afraid to let Peter go. Afraid that if he stopped hearing that heartbeat, he'd lose someone else, too. And Peter, God bless him, took it in stride, holding him like this was nothing out of the ordinary, murmuring to him the way Matt imagined Aunt May did to Peter when he cried. Letting Matt lean, break, cling, sob into the fabric of his suit, neither caring if Matt dirtied it.

Matt couldn't pretend those hands were Karen's, or that heartbeat or that scent. He couldn't pretend she was there now, brushing his hair back and murmuring about how everything would be okay. He couldn't pretend the body he so fervently clung to was hers in any way. Everything about it screamed Peter, but Peter could be enough. Nothing would ever be Karen ever again, but Peter? Peter would do. For now.