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writingfics-passingtime · 2 years

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Off the Record (Part 2/3)

Synopsis: More determined than ever to help Murdock prove a beloved humanitarian is a criminal and a fraud, you step into the snake pit.

Required reading: Off the Record (Part 1/3)

Word Count: ~26,800

Content Warnings: Swearing, sex (steamy, not smut), talks of murder, suicide, violence and misogyny.

Author’s note: I am wholeheartedly sorry for how long this took, and I appreciate all your kind words expressing excitement to read this next part. Part 3/3 is already halfway done. I had to write them concurrently to make sure the important details in Part 3 were set up here. It’ll make sense soon.

The second act of a story is the part that usually contains around 50% of the plot; this is a doozy. I hope you still find it fun to read, and I hope you hold out for Part 3 (it’s my favourite by far).

Happy reading 💜

Frank Sinatra was onto something when he called New York’s capitol “the city that never sleeps;” whether it was Thursday at eleven a.m. or Saturday night at ten, the streets bustled with life and with hurry.

Now, currently, it was right before eight on a Monday morning and you’d just paid for a coffee at the cart on the corner of the block that held your office building. As you stood off to the side of the pavement to wait for the perky barista to call your name, you pulled out your phone and did your best to avoid the masses manoeuvring around you. Something about Monday mornings made everything that much busier, more rushed, more urgent to start another week of work even though half the people on the streets nursed poorly-hidden hangovers. Your phone in your hand felt heavier than usual.

You selected the contact you meant to call and immediately started second-guessing yourself in a way you hadn’t in a long time. You certainly had reason to talk to him, considering the research you’d done over the weekend, but something about calling Matt Murdock created a mental hurdle that felt hard to overcome. Maybe because you hadn’t talked since you’d left his apartment late Saturday morning, but more likely because it’d been hard to not think about him all weekend.

That was uncomfortable - thinking about someone so much - not because you’d never thought about someone that much before but because, if you were being honest with yourself, you knew what it meant.

Deciding it would be much worse and much more obvious to not talk to him at all, you pressed on his contact and held the phone to your ear.

The phone buzzed on the bedside table and called your name over and over again in that mechanical female voice, rousing Matt from his sleep right near the end of his cycle. Half-bleary, he answered the phone.

“Hi,” he cleared his throat and propped himself up on one elbow, lending half an ear to trying to gauge what time in the morning it was.

“You’re not seriously still asleep,” you joked, looking at your watch. “Murdock, it’s quarter to eight.”

“Long night,” was all he offered in explanation, because he couldn’t really go into details of the fist-fight he’d had with some Korean gangsters near the docks.

He wondered how you’d react if he dropped that kind of information on you. To tell you what he’d been up to, how he was disrupting their crystal meth operation, how his head still ached from the elbow that’d met the base of his skull before he managed to knock the guy unconscious. It was a pipe dream, being able to talk so openly like that, so he instead turned his curiosity to musing over whether or not you could hear the smile in his voice when he’d answered your question. It had been uncontainable, really, which was an uncomfortable reality.

“Uh, what’s up?” He sniffed and sat up fully, resting his back against the headboard to keep himself upright and alert.

“I did a little digging over the weekend,” you started, then accepted the coffee after your name had been called in your peripherals. “Thanks,” you nodded to the barista and started making your way towards your office building. “Into shareholders, investors, everything I could legally get my hands on. He looks clean.”

“But we know he’s not.”

“Exactly.”

Matt had to let himself feel somewhat honoured that you hadn’t asked the obvious question. “What makes you so sure I didn’t mishear the bodyguard at the gala?”

You laughed once or twice, before answering, “Murdock, there aren’t a lot of things I know for sure, but I know you have some crazy keen perception. Far more than you let on.”

“You callin’ me a liar?” He teased with a grin.

“That was a compliment, actually,” you teased back. “Anyway, I have a bunch of files for you but they’re physical copies and not in Braille. Do you have some kind of copy-machine-type device that I can run them through to translate?”

Matt considered suggesting the obvious - send them with a bike messenger - though, since it was obvious, he knew you’d have done that if that’s what you wanted to do. “Looking for an excuse to see me?”

“Oh, I’m sorry,” you laughed again. “Tell me how the Avery case is going without my help?”

Matt bumped his eyebrows and let himself smile again. “Thank you, for your help. Swing by the office around six?”

“See you then,” you said, fiddling with the lid of your coffee, desperately trying to not sound like you were in any way more than a normal amount of looking forward to seeing him.

Once he bade you farewell and you replaced the phone in your pocket, you got to work on putting yourself into the zone of thinking about your job.

Your footsteps brought you closer to the building and your mind suddenly whirred with all the things you needed to get done today, all the files you’d poured over throughout the weekend, the heat of the coffee against your fingers through the thin paper cup. Then, you walked through the glass revolving door and into the marble lobby of the building which housed the offices of the New York Weekly Herald.

It was a nice office building, some may call it luxury, home to various law firms and business firms and all kinds of firms where the employees wore six-thousand-dollar suits and ate sushi for lunch every day. Your boss, the well-respected Darren Flynn, liked being surrounded by it all. The other tenants of the building didn't seem to hate on the only news agency around. Sure, there were a few awkward times you'd step into an elevator with a CFO you'd just raked over the coals in a third-page expose on a shady deal they'd invested their company's shares in, but the non-execs seemed to like you. Some would give you approving smiles when you took their bosses to task. The cynical part of you knew it was because you'd just added another strike to the ledger of someone who stood on the coveted higher rung of the career-ladder. It was better to not trust any of them.

Except the kid, Jonah.

Jonah Keen was a 20-year-old reluctant intern at his father's investment banking firm - the one that owned the top four floors of the building. Jonah hated everything about capitalism and banking (as much as one could while still actively benefitting from it). So sometimes the charismatic young lad would slip you a compliment on an article, or a piece of insider info on the world Jacobs and Keen Investments. Anything to get his mind off the numbers.

This morning, it was just you two on the elevator.

"Good weekend?" You asked, taking the careful first sip of your coffee. It was still a little too hot.

"I think I met the one," he smirked sweetly, brown eyes twinkling behind his messy sandy blonde hair. He slipped his hands into his pockets, self-satisfied. You rolled your eyes.

"You say that every other week. What's this guy like? Wait, let me guess… tall, curly hair, glasses, sparse tattoos, quotes Nietzsche. His name is Theodore or some liberal arts shit like that."

"No need to be a bitch," he joked, then clicked his tongue. "His name is Carson.” He paused, then added, “And he prefers Freud."

"These philosophy students are gonna ruin your life," you warned with a chuckle. "Hasn't anyone ever taught you about safe sex?"

"God, you need to get laid."

You scoffed a laugh, then fell silent as you tried to not make it obvious that you’d most definitely been laid on Friday night. And Saturday morning. Several times, in fact. Jonah could sniff these things out in awkward silences, so you quickly asked, "Hey, do you guys do any trading for Arthur Reynolds?"

“No, but,” he turned to you excitedly, “Izzy Reynolds recently brought her post-divorce fortune to us, so she might actually be in the office sometime soon.”

You gave him a firm look. “Don’t harass the poor woman. She’s recently divorced from one of the richest men in America. I doubt she needs a super-fan drooling over her, pestering her to sign the cover of whatever magazine she was recently on-”

“It was Vogue Japan, actually. And she’s the most iconic high-fashion model of our era.”

“That’s not true.”

“Well she is to me,” he rolled his eyes before settling them on his phone. "Oh yeah, you had the gala thing. Did you get the interview?”

"No," you sighed. "I kinda blew it. That'll be a fun one to explain to Darren in approximately two minutes." The elevator slowed and dinged for your floor. “Hey, will you let me know if any info on Reynolds comes up? Arthur, not his ex-wife.”

He shrugged. “Sure.”

"Thanks Jay," you sang sweetly and stepped off the elevator, into the hallway before the internal lobby of the Weekly Herald.

The "Weekly" thing is what made the job so good; instead of rushing to get information out first, your readers, both dedicated and casual, had faith that the stories coming from the Herald were well-researched and not rushed. There was time to dig and to fact-check and make sure it was all well and good before publishing. You weren't sure you could work for one of those fast turnaround regimes. Dealing with the retractions would be hell enough without a boss breathing down your neck to find the truth in less than twelve hours. It always took longer than that.

Darren Flynn was a good boss with high standards and a penchant for not micromanaging his investigative journalists. He had a lot of faith in you, mentored you closely in your earlier years, and took care of you security-wise when some stories were looking hairy. Only once or twice had he pulled the plug, and in hindsight you had to admit he was right to do so. One of those times was with Fisk. A writer from The Bulletin turned up dead not too long after. That probably would've been you. Darren had to nearly force you to write some middle-page puff piece of Fisk's art collection after your dinner with him, just to make sure he'd stay off your scent. To thank you for the kind words you’d written about his collection, Fisk had sent a four-hundred dollar bottle of wine and a hand-written card - both of which you promptly hurled into a dumpster. Later, you cursed yourself for not saving the card to have a sample of his DNA available, just in case.

You applied your lipstick in a reflective part of the elevator's frame and made sure your hair looked perfect. Today, dressing like you dressed every day, for the first time in a long time, felt more like a convincing ruse than it felt like yourself. Once again, your phone felt heavy in the pocket of your sleek charcoal grey blazer. You inspected your black slacks and pull-on boots to make sure no coffee had dripped from the lid and stained any part of your outfit, then took a deep breath in and out before approaching the sliding glass door to the office.

As you walked into the lobby and smiled at Samantha on reception, who gave you a fake smile back, you thought about when you'd started here those four years ago. The way you dressed like a Powerful Woman On A Mission had always been following the "dress for who you want to be" rule. It felt good to wear pantsuits and red lipstick, to feel both sexy and professional. It was fun, to see people shift from not taking you that seriously to realising you were out for blood in the form of undeniable hard-hitting truth, not just out to one day become a news anchor that read things other people had written.

You had a few rules which got you through: Don’t talk shit about colleagues out loud, don't sleep with anyone you work with, stand up for the truth, stand up for yourself, and do your own proofreading.

As you walked through the cubicles to your office, you saw Darren emerging from your door. You stopped in your tracks and gave him a curious glance. It's not like you were late - you didn't have "hours," just stories. Though, you tried your best to always be here on Monday mornings as a gesture of good faith, to get emails answered, to be around for general office stuff, et cetera.

Shit. Maybe Reynolds called him and told on you.

You took a deep breath and kept walking towards your boss, opening your mouth to begin explaining why you blew it at the gala.

"Great job with Reynolds.”

Once more, you halted in place. Darren’s demeanour was sincere, his eyebrows raised behind his glasses. "I don't know what you said to him, but you must've said something good."

You squinted, furrowing your brow. “I didn't think it went that well,” you admitted. “We barely talked.”

Darren's eyebrows lowered, then a smile broke out as he shrugged and nodded towards your door. "You should check your office."

Still confused, you walked past, ignoring the stares and whispers from the mass of cubicles, nicknamed the Bull Pen, full of interns, proof-readers and lower-level writers who were either working their way up or stuck in the trenches of tiny columns on the sides of pages.

After a few steps, that confused look stayed on your face but your heart pounded hard in your throat as you caught a glimpse of what sat on your desk: one of the biggest bouquets of flowers you'd ever seen.

There must have been at least a hundred and fifty white roses in a cylindrical crystal vase sitting on top of the dark oak work table. You walked over and picked up the card poking out from between some petals. The thick, pearl-finished card contained two things printed on it, foiled in silver: a cell phone number, and the name Arthur.

You turned the card over. Nothing else.

Dumbfounded, you turned to where Darren was standing in your doorway with his arms folded and his eyebrows raised. “I insulted his taste in art," you further admitted, looking back down at the card. "This is… very unexpected."

"Maybe he liked your honesty."

"Or maybe he wants something."

"Find out.” Darren left little room for debate and then left you alone with your thoughts, several dozen roses, and the personal phone number of a man who was notoriously hard to contact.

Brain kicking into overdrive, you walked over and shut the glass door to your office. Maybe you could still see the snarky glares between the employees who you never got along with anyway, but you didn't have to hear them too.

You moved the flowers to sit on top of a small filing cabinet in the corner of your office and played with the card between your fingertips. The uncomfortable thought surfaced - rude of it actually, considering you didn't want to think about what he'd think - and you wondered if you should tell Murdock. Then, that stupid high-school insecurity clenched in your stomach and you wondered if that would be talking to him too much. What would he think if you called? You'd already called him that morning. Literally ten minutes ago. What if he thought you thought you two were something more than a hookup, or two people working a case kind of together? Why did it matter?

Promptly shaking it out of your mind, you instead distracted yourself by pulling out your laptop to answer some unrelated emails. You stayed on top of them pretty well so there were less than a dozen. But with every reply it became harder to not see the ginormous mass of petals staring at you from the other side of the room. It was also hard to ignore the card sitting on your desk, holding your golden ticket to your name on the first page. As much as you did this for yourself, you couldn’t shake the temptation of knowing you were the one to get his words on paper.

A knock at your door brought you out of a minor spiral and back to the present where your Work Best Friend was letting herself into your office.

“Spill,” Vera said, closing your door behind her and immediately walking over to the flowers to take in their grandeur. Her sleek black hair fell like silk just below her slender shoulders, her dark brown eyes gave you a stern glance as if she’d just caught you hiding something major.

“Arthur Reynolds,” you said, not trying to disguise how flat your voice sounded. Your phone buzzed and you immediately grabbed it. Just an email. You calmed the blush that arose when you realised who you’d hoped it was.

“Yeah, that much is obvious,” she gave you another look.

It was no secret you were on the Reynolds story - there was a large board in the Bullpen of every writer and their assignments. In theory, if someone stumbled upon a source, or some information unrelated to their own work, then they’d know who to send it to. In practice, it bred jealousy and contempt. You got the gist Darren didn’t mind the competition it instilled in some of the newer writers. Vera was at a similar enough level to you that you two could be friends without there being too much weird drama or resentment. Sure, sometimes one of you would get placed on a story the other had wanted, but it’s not like either of you were at fault, so you dealt with it as it came. Still, she was human, so she had to ask: “Did you sleep with him?”

It was a joke, so you gave her flat look before turning back to delete a spam email. “No. He’s off.”

“Off what?”

“Like… milk two days past its expiration date,” you winced at the bad metaphor. “Not trustworthy, hopefully harmless.”

She had to laugh as she turned to rest her back again the wall opposite you. Then, you met her eye and she saw something sincerely uneasy in it. “Woah,” her face fell. “You’re actually spooked.”

“It’s fine,” you sniffed and looked back at your laptop. “No way will Darren let me ignore all that,” you nodded towards the flowers.

“If you don’t feel safe-”

“I don’t feel unsafe,” you interjected, then gave her your full attention and stopped being rude. Allowing yourself to take in the sight of the flowers, you fidgeting your fingers in front of you with your elbows resting on the arms of your office chair. “Ultra-rich guys like him, the ones into art, tend to be big on symbolism so-” Your phone buzzed again, and you grabbed it a little too quickly. Again. It wasn’t- … it wasn’t anyone. Just a breaking news notification from the New York Times.

After catching the headline you looked back up to Vera. “Aren’t you on Stark Watch this month?”

“Yeah,” she turned a single white rose between her fingers. “Why?”

“The Avengers just ran some kind of operation in Eastern Europe,” you slid your phone across the desk and she walked over to look at the headline. “Looks like they broke into some kind of scientific research facility. A few casualties.”

She sighed. “See you in three days.” You laughed, knowing how all-encompassing these stories could be. Vera would be deep in sources and research for the foreseeable future. “When I come up for air, I want to hear all about the reason you keep looking at your phone,” she said slyly, standing and walking to your door. You opened your mouth to protect, but she turned just before she walked away and smiled cheekily, “and I want his name.”

There was no point in denial or protest; Vera was far too perceptive and in too much of a rush to stay and listen to such useless words like What are you talking about. She winked through the glass as she absconded from reality and into the world of trying to report on superhuman conflict. You didn’t envy her. You’d had a handful of run-in’s with Tony Stark, even a Martini-fuelled proposition on his part, before his assistant-turned-CEO-turned-girlfriend(?) inevitably would come in, apologise for him, and give you the card of the official press contact for Stark Industries. You’d never called the line. Granted, those experiences had been before the Iron Man Revelation.

Vera had her work cut out for her.

Still wanting to distract yourself, you scrolled a baby apparel website to send a gift to Richie. After fifteen minutes of looking through the options, very effectively distracting yourself, you ended up two onesies in your cart. Then, there was a knock at your open door and Darren stuck his head in. "What did Reynolds say?"

You paused, sat back in your seat, then met him with a blank look. You shrugged. "Haven't called him."

"Why not?"

You wondered if you should tell him about... everything. About Nelson and Murdock, about Avery and the bodega fire, the conversation, the fucking painting. Instead, you decided to hold your tongue on the details. "There's something off about him."

Darren's brow furrowed and he waited for more information.

"He has shitty taste in art," you offered lamely. Your boss looked unimpressed.

"Any journalist would kill for the chance to talk to Arthur Reynolds," he reminded you of the obvious with an unknowingly poor choice of words. You looked back at the card and sighed as Darren instructed, "Call him," before closing your office door and walking back to his own. You sighed and picked up your phone, wondering what the hell you were in for.

As you put in your wireless earbuds and dialled his number, you stood and moved across your office to look out onto the streets below. The weekend’s storm had mostly subsided but the skies remained grey with the early-mid autumn crisp. It wasn't too cold yet, though winter was starting to peek into the mornings with a chilled reminder that sleet and early sunsets would soon be here. The phone rang four times before Reynolds answered.

"I was wondering when you'd call," he laughed his greeting. "I was starting to wonder whether or not I should send another bouquet."

He was smooth, and his innate English charm brought an involuntary half-smile to your lips. "How did you know it was me?"

"Not many people have this line," he explained. You smiled again.

"Yet you entrust it to a journalist you met for five minutes, and in those five minutes she insulted your favourite painting."

He chuckled again, a warm sound. "In my position, there aren’t many people brave enough to say a truth I may find insulting. I liked your honesty."

"In that case, the flowers are a bit much."

"Duly noted," he said with a smile in his voice.

You paused, smiled, and played with his card in your fingers. "I like honesty too. Why the flowers? Why the private line?"

"I'd like to see you again. Perhaps show you more of my collection, restore your faith in my tastes."

"Are you offering me an interview?"

"After that bouquet, I suppose your boss will be champing at the bit to have you sit down with me."

The card stilled with its points held delicately between your fingertips. "So it's just business?"

"You sound disappointed," he braved a tease. You smiled and bit the side of your tongue. You blushed too. Why were you blushing?

"Not at all," you cleared your throat. "You haven't done an interview in three years. I'd be lying if I said I was in any way disappointed."

"Over dinner, then. How does tomorrow evening suit?"

"Just fine."

"I'll send a car to your workplace. Eight o’clock?"

"Wonderful," you replied coyly, hearing the satisfied smirk in his voice. Looking over at the white roses, you knew a returned gesture of good will was necessary. In a split-second decision, you said, "I’m assuming I won’t have the need for my private security.”

White roses symbolised purity. Loyalty. Innocence; Reynolds was trying to tell you he was good, he wasn't a threat, he'd never do anything to hurt anyone. In your experience, anyone who'd spend a couple hundred dollars as a gesture of their goodness was the furthest thing from it. So it was a risk, offering to go there alone, but you knew he wouldn't do anything to you. He wouldn't even have a way of knowing you were onto him. It was probably about sex. Or even just about not feeling alone. He was recently divorced, after all.

"You may bring your own people if you wish," he said casually. "Though I am more than capable of ensuring your safety."

"Your guys are probably better than my rent-a-cop," you drew and forced a small laugh. "I'll see you tomorrow, Mr Reynolds."

"Arthur,” he urged. “Until then," he signed off and you ended the call.

Your shoulders immediately dropped their tension as you did, and you breathed a little easier now that it was done. You stayed looking out the window, deep in thought. Some renegade dark clouds scattered large raindrops across the panes of glass for a few minutes before it cleared again. As the grey clouds ebbed and flowed over the skies of New York City… that sound of the rain hitting the window, the gentle onslaught hitting the pavement below, it brought about memories of feelings which flushed heat through your cheeks. With an involuntary lick of your drying lips, and a heave of a deeper breath, you thought of him. Of Murdock. Of the rain against the windows of his loft, of the billboard bathing your skin in red light, the music of the storm framing the rhythm of his skin against yours. The way his fingers tangled and tugged through your hair. His impossibly strong arms wrapping around your waist as he pulled you on top of him and-

Interview! You scolded yourself with a clearing of your throat and snap refocusing of your vision. Tomorrow night. Important interview. It shouldn’t be that easy to get lost in thoughts of someone. Arthur Reynolds. You needed to focus. So you swallowed your apprehension and returned to your desk to begin crafting your questions.

The billionaire had done a lot for the world… allegedly. Mostly things you were vaguely aware of. However, you needed to appear like an expert in him - which, you were certain he’d enjoy far too much. So you made yourself another cup of coffee and immersed yourself in the world of Arthur Reynolds.

Amidst clients, current and new, Matt found himself with an annoyingly small amount time to ponder what you might tell him later that day. All he wanted to think about was the way he could hear your smile through the phone that morning.

Some strange fondness bloomed within him when the first (real) voice he’d heard that morning had been yours. Maybe because it reminded him of waking up on Saturday morning tangled in the sheets and you, or maybe because your voice felt like something he’d gotten used to a long time ago. Which, of course, he hadn’t. But it felt right, and that was uncomfortable - having it feel so right to talk to you.

All of those thoughts and feelings had to wait. Mrs Helena Friar’s landlord was trying to evict her for not paying a plumbing bill from a pipe that was already broken when she moved in, and Matt was listening intently to her every word. It was hard, though, thoughts of you aside, because the double-mint gum she’d chewed to mask the cigarette smoke on her breath couldn’t remove the soot settled into her sweater. She fidgeted her fingers too, which was either a Nervous Thing or a Her Thing, but not a Thing that could be commented on. All that mattered to Nelson and Murdock was that there was no deception in her voice, and there was sure-fire evidence they would win this claim.

Mrs Friar was the third new client Matt had seen that day, and the last who’d been in the waiting room when he re-opened his office door late-afternoon.

You’d be here soon.

To talk about Avery. The case. Reynolds. All of it.

Based on the way you spoke earlier, Matt knew you were coming with something to bring to the table. He knew things too, but not things he could explain knowing. Because while you’d been pouring over documents and calling sources, he'd been pursuing a different route. One which ran outside the course of the law and the confines of what you knew.

Matt Murdock perused other sale offers on smaller businesses, looking for that one little store that would decline the development's big money offer just like Harold Avery did. Whether it be another small grocer, or a bakery, a barber, an Asian vegetable market - whatever it was, it had to be out there. Matt doubted Reynolds would be brash and stupid enough to order another torching, but there was a long list of ways to make someone comply. Many, if not most of which, involved inflicting pain and suffering.

Daredevil went out in the dead of night and scoped out his top pick - a thriving vegetable market owned by a Japanese couple in their late fifties. Their teenage son and daughter helped out after school and on the weekends. They had a customer base who loved them, valued their convenient location and their charming hospitality. Matt Murdock had gone in the day and was offered warm advice on the best way to roast the lotus root he’d picked up to inspect with his senses.

They were good people. With a store sitting right in prime development territory.

The Devil waited. He listened. Nothing happened for the few hours he sat atop a nearby roof in the early hours of Sunday morning. People walked past, sure, but no one stopped to look in the now-darkened windows (the neon lights had stopped humming). No one tested the doors. No one took photos of the store front or surrounding streets. No one messed with the security camera out front that had this little whirring auto-zoom whenever someone stepped into its range.

A strange scuffle on a roof a block away then took his attention, and he left his post to go break up the fight. There had been a lot of weird fights lately. A lot of talk about new people on the street with new technology. Every once in a while Matt would come across some criminal with some weaponry way too advanced for it to be of here. But it’d been that way since the Battle for New York.

The military tried their best to take control of it all but it would’ve been impossible to get it rounded up completely. It was a headache for Matt though. Literally; that alien technology emitted some low frequency that oscillated through his skull like nothing else on Earth could.

Saturday night was one of those nights. Even though he managed to remove the blaster from the gang that’d come across it, probably during a burglary, and evidently wanted to test it, that low frequency stuck in his head for a few days. That would explain the offensive throbbing in his head.

That, or Mrs Friar’s double mint gum.

Or perhaps it was the ticking of the clock in the small finance firm next door. It clicked on in the back of his soundscape, reminding Matt that every second passed was a second closer to being with you.

You finally came up for air around 5:30pm when Vera sent you a message saying she’d be here late - did you want dinner too? You checked the time, politely declined, wished her luck, and started packing your things to go.

An intrusive blush prickled against your cheeks when you remembered where you were going. A damn schoolgirl, he had you like. You wondered if he knew what he did to you. You mulled it over, overthinking it while you closed up your office and made your way down the corridor alongside the half-empty Bull Pen. When you stepped into the elevator you wondered if he didn’t know. How would he know? Maybe you didn’t get enough sleep last night.

You had no idea what came over you, so you told yourself to snap out of it, play it cool, focus on the facts, the entire cab ride over to Hell’s Kitchen.

Schools in Guatemala. Haiti. Honduras.

Charity offices in New York and Haiti.

Expanding across Central America.

All girls’ schools to address education inequality in-

“That’ll be fifteen twenty.”

After thanking and paying the cab driver, you stepped out of the backseat and onto the pavement. Standing before the few stone steps which led up to the front door of the office building, you thought back to last Thursday when you came here for the first time. You mentally mapped the wooden floors and painted doors, the forgotten swing tags under tweed chairs. This time, you told yourself, you’d gather more information. Sounds, smells, feelings- no, fuck, not feelings.

You were getting distracted, so you clutched the stack of papers against your chest, walked up the stairs and entered the ground floor of the building.

Matt sat up straighter when he heard the undeniable sound of your footfall. Perfect timing; Foggy and Karen were making noise about dinner and it would be better if they weren’t around. Fuck- no, not that you and he needed privacy… it just-

“Hey,” Karen’s sweet voice, with the final echos of a laugh from the joke Foggy just told her, resounded through his office after her fist gently rapped on the door. Matt lifted his head and smiled in response. “We’re gonna get Chinese. You in?”

“No, thank you,” Matt cleared his throat and kept it casual. “I’m actually expecting-”

“Ah, I thought I felt a chill in the air.”

Matt sighed and hung his head at Foggy’s less-than-welcoming greeting when you walked into the waiting room.

“Don’t think that’s my fault,” you scoffed. “It’s fall and your windows are hardly up to code, Nelson,” you shot back with something smug in your voice. Matt rolled his eyes but found himself fighting a smile. He heard Karen turn and try to compensate for Foggy’s icy demeanour.

“We’re just getting dinner,” she said. Matt heard Foggy let out a curt breath. “Matt said you two have a meeting?”

“In the books?” You stepped further in and peeked to where Murdock sat at his desk. He didn’t wave. “How official. You two have fun,” you shrugged off Foggy’s under-the-breath comment of relief and walked into Murdock’s office around the same time Karen had gathered her coat and rushed Foggy out the door; she, evidently, was on the same page as the more level-headed lawyer about keeping you and Nelson out of arm’s reach of each other.

“Sorry about him,” Murdock tilted his head with a sheepish grunt. You waved it off, then responded verbally too.

“Tame, compared to some other subjects of my pieces,” you placed your bag down beside the couch. It struck you immediately that you had no idea what to say first. Should you ask how his weekend was? Or if he’d heard from Avery? Had he thought about you since Saturday early afternoon, after round three, when you regretfully pulled yourself from his apartment? How his Monday was?

“What do you have there?” He broke the awkward silence first by gesturing to the papers rustling in your hands.

“Some research,” you said, thankful to let your mind grasp onto what you were best at. “Too much for me to talk you through but there might be something in here of use. You can copy these into Braille?”

Matt nodded and held his hand out for the stack. He wished he could say it didn’t matter how long it would take, he’d rather sit and listen to you read every single word. But the papers met his palm, and he took them from you.

“What stuck out to you?”

“Well…” You twisted one of your plain golden rings between your fingertips and let out a long exhale, wondering where you should start. “I’m sure you know the basic things about Reynolds, like everyone does: he inherited family money from his father’s patented products, he invested in things like clean energy and software development, he invested well, and couldn’t stop making money if he tried.”

You began pacing around the room, taking in how the floor felt beneath your feet. It gave more in certain places.

“On a trip to Haiti in his late twenties, he was made aware of the gender education gap and felt compelled to help address the problem. Since then, he’s set up four girls’ schools in Haiti, then two in Honduras, one in Guatemala. He sources all volunteers through a global recruitment organisation called OneWorld. He’s looking at some places in Mexico…”

You paused, the room smelled like cologne and fabric softener, black coffee, and that paper smell no office was immune from. You digressed with a shrug.

“… but I’d guess cartel activity would make that difficult right now.”

“What else?”

“He’s squeaky clean,” you said. Tentatively. “On paper, that is.”

“But you’re not buying it.”

“I don’t know,” you admitted. “He stopped doing interviews three years ago, after a particularly twisted piece on his marriage. He married his now-ex-wife Isabel when she was twenty-three and he was thirty-nine. Some outlets called him a creep but most of the negative press was directed towards her and he went… nuclear. His office released a statement that he wouldn’t engage with any media, in retaliation for their unfair comments about his wife.”

“But now they’re divorced.”

“Now they’re divorced,” you confirmed, nodding to yourself. “Honestly, Murdock, I don’t know where to start. All of his operations are based overseas, he has no motive to torch a convenience store.”

“Yet…”

“Yeah, I believe you,” you laughed nervously. “And I don’t trust him. I can’t explain it.”

Matt smiled, and flirted a little. “And here I thought you were supposed to be so good with words.”

“Oh, shut up,” you muttered with a laugh and an eye-roll. “You know you need me and those documents.”

“You could've sent a bike messenger.”

There was something intrigued in his voice that didn't match the unimpressed nature of his words. It brought a small smirk to your lips, hearing the way he matched your tone from a few nights before when you told him he could've just asked your size. Instead, he had to go and put his hands all over you and make you breakfast the next morning.

"I know what you're implying," you smirked wider and stepped further into his office. "I don't need an excuse to see you. I know how to ask for what I want."

"Oh, I know you do." His turn to smirk. Damn him, for looking so good in a suit. Damn him for being a lawyer and forcing you to look at his rugged features in a clean-cut package.

"Before you so rudely interrupted, I was going to say… I couldn't link any of the development companies to Reynolds," you swallowed and moved on, lest he dare assume he had some kind of upper hand in this situation. "There were a few names that came up again and again, across multiple companies. Some competitors."

"Shareholders or partners?"

"Shareholders."

"It's not illegal to have a diverse portfolio. It's not even a red flag," Matt pointed out, taking extra notice of how the room felt more complete with you in it, and how you'd walked in like you knew the place like the back of your hand. Probably because you did. Because you'd clocked every nook and cranny upon your first entry and built some kind of world in your mind.

"These names," you continued. "R. Hayworth, M. Branson, P. Patel, R. Madison..." You trailed off from rattling through the common names you remembered. "I don’t know, maybe you’ll find something I missed."

Matt had to grin at the way you'd swapped so easily from talks of pleasure to talks of business.

“What?” You challenged, seeing his smile. He sat up a little straighter and nodded his head to the machine on the cabinet against the wall behind his desk, telling you what he was going to do with the files you gave him.

“Nothing,” he cleared his throat. “That scanner transcribes from text to braille.” He swivelled in his chair to roll over and start the process.

Your eyes followed him as he turned and you noticed his collar was slightly bent up at the back. Without giving it much thought, you stepped between the back of his chair and his desk, saying "Oh, hey, your shirt..." and then took the fabric between your fingers to fix it.

Matt could hear what you were going to do before you did it, before you said it, and he cursed himself for not taking more care this morning with his tie. As much as he tried not to flinch, he couldn't help it when a few of your fingers very innocently brushed along the skin above his collar.

Your eyes and smile widened, your hands paused in place, you shot a glance to his hands. One had a stack of papers, the other was on the switch. "Payback's a bitch, huh?" You smirked and danced your perfectly polished nails along the side of his neck. He let out a spluttered, breathy laugh and scrunched up his shoulders.

"You-hou're insane," he twitched and slammed down the papers on top of the scanner and made a swift reach for your hands that'd travelled up his neck. "Hey!" He called out and flinched harder when your fingertips fluttered against the sides of his ears. You laughed, even though your revenge was cut short by his grasp closing around your wrists.

He yanked your hands down in front of him. You gasped through your laughter as the force of his pull made you hinge at the hips, bringing you forward, down to where your chin would be rested against his shoulder. Your cheek brushed against his and you pulled on your wrists, finding his hold strong and unrelenting. He turned his face towards you, and he wore an antagonised half-smirk. "Really?" You couldn’t help but look at his lips. It was impossible to not notice how close they were to yours.

You swallowed the remainder of your giggles and promised, "I was just doing you a favour."

"Mmm?"

"Mmm," you nodded, letting your cheek brush against his once again.

He felt the warmth of your skin. The deep, slow exhale through your nose. The flex of your hands in his iron grip. Your heart thudded through your chest and against his shoulder. He released one of your hands, letting it hang just by his hips - perhaps to tempt you into trying something more, or simply to test the waters to see if you were foolish enough to egg him on further - and his hand lifted up to your face. His fingertip found your lips and your heart pounded faster as your warm breath rolled against his skin. His half-smirk widened into an almost-grin.

"Do you wear lipstick often?" he asked.

"Most days."

"Not today.”

Your mouth went a little dry but you couldn't lick your lips with his hand still there. You cleared your throat, "I haven’t touched it up in a while."

"Right," he laughed, and then pressed the back of his fingers against your cheek. It licked heat against his skin. "Why are you blushing?"

"Murdock," you growled and made to stand but he didn't let go of your wrist. In an impressive manoeuvre, he turned his swivel chair without painfully twisting your wrist or waning his hold, then stood up toe-to-toe with you. Your words caught in your throat at his proximity and the damn smirk he still wore, and you took an instinctive step backwards. He matched it, forwards, and lifted his free hand to once again caress your cheek.

"Still blushing," he taunted in a low rasp. You scoffed and took another step back, he matched it again, then again. The backs of your upper legs hit the edge of his desk. "You could've sent a bike messenger."

No. No, he wasn't allowed the upper hand. He wasn't allowed to turn you into some fawning blushing girl with a crush. So you gathered your confidence, and your will to defy, you stood straight up and started pulling your wrist from his grasp with a casual indifference. "Well, if you're not happy to have me here, I can-mmm-"

He cut you off, stealing the words straight out of your mouth with a deep, decisive kiss. After kissing him back for just a few seconds, you pulled away and turned your head to the side to say, "Seriously, Murdock, I can just go."

"Stop talking," he ordered with a frustrated sigh before his lips met that place where your shoulder became your neck, pulling a satisfied breath from somewhere unreached within you.

You smiled through your heavy breath. “It’s not my fault you look hot when you’re exasperated.”

With a grunt of aggravation he wrapped his fingers around the lapel of your blazer and tore it away from your shoulders before silencing you with his lips back on yours. In the process of working your arms out of your sleeves you felt your hand knock a mug that sat on his desk. Before you had the chance to gasp, he caught it pre-disaster and lifted it away from the table.

Breathless, you narrowed your eyes as he pulled away. "How... how did you..."

"I heard it," he panted back, turning to place it on the filing cabinet alongside his own cup.

You winced in confusion. "You caught it so fast." But any thoughts of the cup soon left your mind when his fingers slipped through the gap between his top button and his dark grey tie. He slid his knuckle through the knot, loosening it with a suave ease. He, slowly, stepped back towards you. You clicked your tongue and teased, "I just fixed your collar and now you've gotta go do a thing li-... like that." The last words came out in a whisper, cause he'd given you a look that made your knees weak. It was so perfectly him: strong, playful, domineering, gratified.

He stepped his body against yours with his tie loosened. His rough hands met your waist and he used that grip to lift you several inches to sit on the table. His palms shoved, sliding you back so your knees bent over the edge. Murdock then stood between your legs and pulled you back forwards so you'd crash into him. The impact knocked the breath from your lungs, but not because of the force. You opened your mouth to speak, to say anything, to snark at him or say something sarcastic but he took of his glasses and worked his suit jacket off before you came up with anything good.

He half-grinned. "I didn't think you'd actually stop talking." He tossed his jacket behind him, landing it on the chair, and then leaned down to plant his hands on the desk either side of your hips. His closeness forced you to lean back the smallest amount. "For the record, you could've just said this is what you came for,” he poked with an almost-wink.

You scoffed and adverted your eyes, feeling your pulse racing at his proximity. “For the record, you… you can just-”

He cocked his head and took your chin between his fingers to make you face him. He couldn’t see you, but you felt like he could, so it worked all the same. “You’re adorable when you’re speechless,” he slid his hand down to gently grasp around the front of your neck, then leaned in to silence any comebacks you’d formulated. Your pulse pounded against his fingerprints, his palm, as you deepened the kiss and got to work on the buttons of his shirt. You only managed to undo three of them before he suddenly gave a low, hungry growl against your lips and hoisted you off the desk.

“Woah there,” you laughed breathlessly. A frankly undignified noise fell through your mouth and into his as your back was braced against the wall with enough force to almost be painful. It didn’t hurt. Instead, it sent a wave of carnal desire coursing through to the tips of your fingers, so you buried them in his hair and pulled him in to kiss him in a way he’d never forget.

Matt felt a noise of pleasure mount in his throat as you took his lower lip between your teeth and caressed your fingers through his hair. You kissed him with passion, your nails against his scalp sending pleasant waves of bliss down the back of his neck to make him shiver. You felt it, and you seemed to like the reactions you were able to pull, because he felt your mouth tense into a smirk against his.

The salacious struggle for the upper hand was part of the fun, and at least half of the pleasure when it came to the two of you, so he shoved you more securely against the wall and prepared his next move.

He kissed you too, eagerly. His steadfast hands stayed planted on the backs of your thighs to keep you secure above the ground. His body kept your back flush against the wall. Murdock then began, every so often, along with a satisfied deeper breath, kneading his hands further into your skin.

The contracting of his fingertips was slow and strong, just the right amount of tension to pull a groan from you too. After several fun, breathless minutes, it changed. You flinched when his right hand suddenly squeezed faster than it had before, and then the left. Murdock picked up the pace of his movements, his hands slid further down towards your knees. One particularly quick dig made your leg twitch, and made you break the kiss with a gasp.

"H-hey," you panted, letting your head fall against the wooden wall as Murdock took the chance to breathe deep against your neck. His warm exhale was starlight against your skin. You closed your eyes and smiled. But his hands squeezed again and you jolted. "Wahatch it," you scolded in a whisper.

He chuckled against your skin. "Watch it?" Then, he dug his fingers in again, this time pulsing them once or twice. You squirmed against him and kicked yourself for your poor choice of words. Then, you realised what he was doing so you decided he wasn't owed an apology.

"Muhurdock," you sniffed, then managed to hold in what was sure to be an undignified squeak when he dug his fingertips in again. You opened your mouth to protest, to swear at him, to antagonise him further, but his lips against the place below your ear made your words turn to mush at the tip of your tongue. You clutched the back of his shirt and hummed in agreement, then heard him sniff a laugh.

He wasn't done.

He suddenly dug his fingers into the sensitive muscle at the back of your legs and this time, instead of stopping after one or two second, he took to running his kneading hands up and down the length of your thighs. You yelped and immediately unhooked your ankles from around his waist. Thankfully, he had a good enough hold on you to keep you from falling as you silently writhed for a few seconds before your ticklishness got the best of you and you burst into laughter.

His warm smart-ass chuckle rumbled against your neck. You could hear and feel the way his lips were spread into a grin. As much as you were enjoying this playful side of him, he was still tickling the shit out of you, and you didn't have much control over your reactions.

“H-HEY!” You gasped for breath and tried to hold in your laughter, leaning your neck away from his lips and giving a sustained push at his shoulders. Another embarrassing squeak burst through when his middle finger found a particularly sensitive point of muscle in your leg. You slammed your head into the wall, just enough to feel but not enough to injure. Apparently, enough for Matt to stop, laugh and ask if you were alright. “I’m fine!” You urged in a higher-pitched tone that usual. “What the hell?!” You growled and squirmed even though his cursed hands had stopped. For now.

He suddenly pulled you away from the wall. The instinct was for you to wrap your legs around his waist again, so you did, as he strode over to the couch in one or two steps and placed you down beneath him. He hovered over you with a strong arm planted on the back of the seat, the other just beside your head. “Next time you try to do the whole cutesy, flirting your way to sex, it’s not gonna work out for you,” he said, voice sincere and dangerous. “That’s a promise.”

You laughed once, jaw slack from his call-out. Instead of addressing it, you cheeked, “Are you saying.. it’s gonna work this time?”

His smirk widened and regained some warmth now that he knew you were in for sure. Before you could see him break into a grin, he was kissing you, and that hand on the back of the couch was making its way towards the buckle of your belt.

The air felt thicker, warmer and sweeter as a bare-chested Murdock collapsed against you, both of you panting to catch your breaths. A smile stayed coy across your lips while the haze turned to clarity, and before you knew it you were laughing and so was he.

His stubbled jaw moved gently against yours in a move for him to press a tender kiss to the side of your neck through his chuckling. You felt his lips part to say something snarky.

“Don’t say it-”

“You could’ve sent a bike messenger.”

“I hate you,” you deadpanned and brought your arms up to half-heartedly push at his shoulders. Unfortunately, it worked. He propped himself up to hover over you, perhaps afraid the bulk of his body was making it harder for you to breath. It was, but not in any way that was unwelcome.

If you hadn’t known his gaze was hollow, you’d have called it adoring. Then again, expressions were so much more than eyes. It made your smile turn shy seeing the content look on his face. It looked like… more than just sex. And that made your stomach turn - the idea of this being more. “You’re lucky you’re cute.”

He tilted his head, his lips slightly pursed in thought, his stare fixed at the place just above your left ear. His eyebrows bumped as he said, “It’s a lucky day in general.” The grin had curled into his lips before he finished the sentence. You laughed and reached up to tap his cheek once in a gentle scold, which only made him grin wider. He opened his mouth to say something else, but then flinched and went silent.

“What?” You whispered, sensing the shift in tone.

He turned his ear towards the door.

“Shit,” he whispered back, and then stuck his hand down to feel around the ground for his pants. The shift in him from exertion to urgency made you sit up and instinctively fumble for your own discarded pieces of clothing.

“What?”

“Foggy. Karen. They’re-,” he gestured with his hand towards the main part of the office, “coming back up.”

“Shit,” you agreed and rushed to put your clothes on as fast as you could. While you worked your pants back onto your legs you recalled something you’d read about blindness during your weekend research. “Where are they?”

“Coming up the stairs.” He slotted his arms into his sleeves and shrugged the white fabric over his shoulders.

You pulled the pants over your hips. “I heard the soundscape for people who are blind is like… I don’t know, an X-ray of a building.”

Evidently hearing the question in your voice, he half-shrugged and then nodded, “I wouldn’t disagree with that.”

“That’s incredible,” you admitted, throwing your shirt on and tucking it in before letting out a seethe of frustration at your intricate belt buckle.

“That thing’s like a padlock,” he commented, doing his final button, smirking sexily as he heard your buckle tighten.

“Could‘ve fooled me. You made quick work of it.”

“Hurry,” he rushed, then kicked over a shoe to you. You kicked his back, managing enough accuracy to nudge it into his socked foot.

“I’m hurrying. Hey, isn’t it supposed to be a red flag when guys leave their socks on during sex?” You teased.

“You tell me,” he slipped his foot into his shoe. “You’re the one who reads GQ.”

You pulled on your own shoes, thanking your past self for not opting for lace-up boots today, and hurriedly pulled the blazer around your shoulders.

“Your other shoe’s by- yeah,” you tried to slow your breathing and fix your hair to make it look like it wasn’t just tangled up in Matt Murdock’s fist.

Matt pulled his other shoe on and moved around to sit behind his desk, opening the computer, beckoning you to come pretend like you were looking over his shoulder, just as he heard the front office door open and Karen and Foggy step back inside.

“No, but there are some developers who have similar shareholders even though they’re competitors,” you said, seamlessly dropping into conversation. Matt suppressed his smirk as he heard you pick up that stack of papers from behind his desk and leaf through them. You pressed a few buttons on the copy machine.

“So you were saying shareholders don’t have conflict of interest, so they-”

The door to Matt’s office opened with that familiar way Foggy did it. There was no hesitation, no knock, just an air of suspicion entering with him.

“Hi Foggy,” Matt leaned back and stretched like he’d been there since his friends left. “Good dinner?”

“How does this thing work?” Matt heard you mutter and slide a batch of files into the tray to be copied into Braille.

Foggy was silent. Matt could feel the tension in the room as his best friend analysed the scene before him. The continual beeping on the printer said you were trying to figure it out, and then the subtle encouraging chime told him you did. Once the paper was in the tray, you turned to both the men.

“Where’s the restroom?”

“Down the hall, third door to the left.” Foggy’s voice came harsh and accusatory. If you’d responded to his unspoken skepticism, it wasn’t verbal or with your body language, so Matt couldn’t quite be sure. He only heard you murmur a quick ‘be right back,’ and then go in search of what you needed.

The room was silent, or, Foggy was silent, until you’d closed that front office door.

Foggy spoke slowly, in a low and dangerous question. “In the sacred offices of Nelson and Murdock?”

Matt swallowed, trying to play it off like he didn’t know what his friend was on about, but clearly something in the room had given him away.

Still, he tried. “What d’you mean?”

“Oh, come on, Matt!” Foggy called with a loud, exasperated sigh. The noise brought Karen into the room, which brought Matt’s hand to his forehead resignedly.

“What’s going on?” She demanded.

“Matt had sex with her.”

“Foggy, I-”

“In this very office.”

“Wha- really?” Karen scoffed, a little shocked. “Wait… just now?”

Matt shifted uncomfortably and adjusted his glas- oh. He wasn’t wearing his glasses. He’d taken them off to… He gave Foggy his best part-scolding, part-pleading look. “This really isn’t a conversation we need to be having.”

“Like hell it isn’t!” Foggy yelled again. “Talk about conflict of interest, Matt. Is that what you were talking about when I came in?”

“No,” Matt took the chance to change the course of this conversation. “We were talking about the research she’d done on the businesses who made offers to Avery.”

“And?”

“And she found more than a few dozen. We were going to cross-reference names, survey other businesses on the block and maybe identify Reynolds’ next target.”

“So Reynolds’ name is on some of these companies?”

“… No, but-”

“It’s a waste of time, then!”

“-Foggy, listen to me, he’s probably operating under a false name or-”

“Or maybe you heard wrong.”

Foggy doubt dropped like a bomb, releasing an awkward silence into the room. Matt clenched his jaw, trying to contain his agitation. “I didn’t hear wrong.”

“Maybe you were distracted.”

“I didn’t hear wrong.”

Locked heads and horns in their argument, the only thing that made them flinch was the sound of you reentering the premises. Matt had heard you coming but didn’t feel the need to placate Foggy before then; you knew what he could be like.

“What’s going on?” You asked upon approach.

Foggy spun on his heel to face you and say with an obviously fake cheerfulness, “Thank you so much for your help on the Avery case, but we’ll take it from here.”

Your eyebrows raised at his sudden, though not entirely unexpected, affront. “Really,” you deadpanned.

He tried to fake smile but it looked more like a sneer. “Really.”

“How are you going to talk to Reynolds then?”

“We don’t need to,” Foggy declared. “The Reynolds lead is dead. We’re going to get our client’s charges dropped based on lack of evidence against him.”

“Right,” you scoffed, then got personal. “Isn’t your client still in custody? Exactly what other leads are you pursuing?”

“That’s privileged information.”

You crossed your arms and spat back quietly. “We both know the Reynolds lead is the only one you have, and I now have a direct line to him.” You walked past him back into Murdock’s office, seeing the weight of your most recent declaration take hold. “Lucky for you, I want to take him down just as bad. So how about we do this together.”

Silence casted across the room. The air felt thicker again, but not in that pleasant way it had a mere five minutes before. Nelson’s jaw clenched and released in a myriad of seconds before he let out a big sigh through his nose.

“Am I supposed to really believe you’re here to help?” He scoffed and gave you a scathing look that stung a bit more than you’d like to admit.

Matt started to speak up from behind you. “Foggy-”

"Nuh-uh, no," Nelson held his hands up and shook his head. "We are not jeopardising our case with your- your philandering!"

Your cheeks burned but you held in any overt reactions. How did he know?! You quickly scanned the room for obvious signs as they continued with their back-and-forth.

"Foggy, we need her-"

"We managed just fine without her until now and we'll-"

“-think rationally-”

"-Manage fine now that she's leaving!" He ignored you and directed all his frustration towards his partner.

"No," the darker-haired man shook his head and stood. "I'm sorry, Foggy. No. This isn’t about any of us. Avery needs her."

Murdock sure could give a solemn and final look for someone who didn't... well, look. Nelson's defiance puffed his chest as he clenched his jaw and looked between the two philanderers he caught near-red-handed. Then, he settled. His head turned to the side in thought, and he looked back up between you two with some plan in his head.

"Fine. But we're doing this right."

He walked out of the office, leaving the door open as he went. Karen followed.

You whipped your head towards Murdock and whispered, “How did he know?!”

A confused shrug was all he gave you before Matt heard Foggy open the door to his own private work room, then shuffle around some papers, then put something in the photocopier. Matt swallowed, sighed and rubbed his temples between his fingers.

"What?" You asked, picking up on his deductions.

Matt lifted his head so you could see his flat and sullen expression. "Foggy's gonna-"

"Sign it!" Nelson declared as he strode back into the room with an air of victory, his head held high and a few sheets of paper in his hands. He slammed them in front of Murdock. You weren't too far away so you could see there was one copy which held both text and braille, and you could then see Murdock's fingertip running along the page. He paused and stuck his tongue against his cheek. Something told you whatever on the page is exactly what he'd expected it to be, and it didn't make him happy.

"Seriously?" Murdock scoffed. "This is unnecessary."

"This is the only way I allow it," Nelson said with rage just below the surface. "Sign it, or I'm handling Avery on my own."

Murdock sighed again and reached for a pen with one hand, the other finding the place for his signature. "It's a contract," he told you as he closed his hands around a blue ballpoint.

You lifted an eyebrow towards Nelson. "A no-sex contract?"

"Effectively;" Matt mumbled, and dropped: “This will make you our client."

"Your client?"

"Attorney-client relationships aren't allowed in New York," Nelson turned to you, ever-smug, crossing his arms and smiling to the sound of his friend's signature scratching across the page. "So sign the document to hire us as your legal firm,” he raised a pointed finger towards the door for dramatic effect, “or get the hell out."

"Foggy!"

Matt surprised even himself with more protective anger in his voice than he'd anticipated there would be. Maybe because he was frustrated that he was now legally obligated to not do the thing he was thinking about all weekend, or maybe because he felt like Foggy was being unfair on you; he'd never do this if he liked you, and he didn't have good reasons to dislike you. Either way, Foggy was out of line talking to you like that. Matt wouldn’t stand for it.

Murdock's defence of you surged something new in your chest, making your heart beat quicker and giving you the need to suppress a grateful smile. Still, you were unwilling to create a riff between these best friends. "It's okay, Murdock," you assured, keeping your voice low but strong. "I want to help."

So you walked over, picked up the pen and the paper, and skimmed through the basic contract. There wasn’t much to it. You read every word. Then, you nodded, silently asking yourself what the hell you were in for, and leaned over the desk to sign away the right to act on the only spark you’d felt in years. But there were lives at stake.

This wasn’t about you.

No sooner had your pen left the page did Nelson whisk it away to file, shutting the door after himself as he left.

You let out a laugh through your nose and clicked the pen shut, fiddling with it in your hands as the strange silence ebbed between you and Murdock. Perched against his desk, you watched as he let out another sigh and leaned back in his swivel chair.

“I guess that wasn’t the smartest idea,” he cleared his throat, referring to the philandering you’d just done.

A smile played at your lips. He looked kind of cute, all bashful like that. “Guess not,” you shrugged, twisting the pen around your knuckles. After letting it stew for a few moments, you added, “It was fun, though. I’d do it again if it wouldn’t get you disbarred.”

He gave a bright laugh before standing up and grabbing the copies from the printer behind him. “Good to know,” he said so quietly, it may have been just to himself. Still, it made your cheeks even warmer. “Hey, what did you mean when you said you had a direct line to Reynolds?”

Oh.

Matt’s face twitched into a frown when he heard how you reacted to his question. Your heart started beating faster, anxiously, your breath stopped for a second or two before it sounded like you were making a conscious effort to measure it. There had been a pen twirling gracefully between your fingers but it was now still and- ah, you put it down. You stood, away from his desk, so he turned and let you see the displeasure on his face. He got the gist that you saw his look, because you tried to sound casual and unbothered when you told him what had transpired that morning.

“He got in touch with me.”

“What?”

"In the form of about a hundred and fifty white roses. Delivered to my office, along with his phone number. He’s granted me an interview tomorrow night. Over dinner.”

Matt’s jaw tensed, he tilted his head towards the ceiling in exasperation. “Are you out of your mind?”

“Delivered to my office,” you repeated. “There’s no way I was getting out of meeting up with him after that bouquet was paraded through the Bullpen, right in front of my boss."

“He’s cornered you into it,” Matt scoffed. “It’s a trap. How on earth could fall for it?”

“I didn’t fall for anything,” you argued back. “You think I don’t know what he’s doing? He chose white roses for a reason, Murdock. What exactly do you think is going to happen to me? The entire staff of the Weekly Herald knows I’m going to dinner with him, he- he’s not gonna do anything.”

“Who knows, hmm?” Matt let out a frustrated huff, then shook his head before letting it hang. “You’re smarter than this.”

“Thanks for the vote of confidence,” you snarked, now having lost your patience. “You know, I thought you’d be happy about this, considering it’s maybe the only chance to clear Avery’s name?”

“Harold Avery is my responsibility,” Matt’s jaw set in stone, his right hand met his hip. He lifted his head and cursed himself for getting you involved in this. “Let me do my job.”

“Okay. Let me do mine.”

“I’ll come with you.”

“What for?”

“Just-” Matt had to stop himself from gripping the papers too tight, lest the stack crumble under his fear which was poorly disguised as annoyance. “I’m coming.”

“No. You’re not,” you said finally. You were both silent for several seconds, then you spoke up again. Your question and tone didn’t seem to be searching for a rise from him - instead it was genuine wonder: “Do you really think I can’t handle myself?”

What a complicated fucking question, Matt thought. Of course you could. Of course you couldn’t. Of course he could protect you. Unless he couldn’t.

He could, though… maybe he- no. He couldn’t get the devil involved. Not now. Not yet.

You both ruminated in thick silence. It was a complicated question, perhaps an unfair one, and maybe you wouldn’t have asked it if your temper hadn’t flared at the assumption he thought you weren’t strong enough to do this. Then again, if he didn’t think you were, maybe you weren’t.

What- no. He’s not… he’s just a one-night-stand. His opinion doesn’t mean anything. … It doesn’t.

“Murdock,” you prompted. “Do you trust me?”

“Yes.” His response was instant, and it put your heart at ease. Wait- mind. It put your mind at ease. The heart had nothing to do with this. It was just sex. Still, you smiled softly at the papers in his hand, and you asked him a favour.

“Then trust my judgement.”

You could tell he didn’t want to. The rational side of your brain said he just didn’t want you screwing up his case, and the hopeful part said he didn’t want you to put yourself in danger.

Matt couldn’t stand the thought of you walking into Reynolds’ home. Being surrounded by his things and his people and paintings that set you on a steep edge, but you’d asked him to trust your judgement. But he couldn’t.

“I can’t.” His rough voice came from his slightly-tilted head, and your heart sank as your eyes lifted to catch the worried look on his face. “I can’t condone this after hearing the fear in your voice after you met him at the gala. How can you ask me to forget that?”

“Well, I don’t need your permission,” you sniffed, ignoring his plea. Hot tears threatened impending arrival but if he wasn’t going to trust you then you weren’t about to allow him another piece of your vulnerability.

“You’re being reckless.”

You snapped. “And I didn’t ask for your opinion.”

You stood in silence yet again, this time a new, tense, uncomfortable one. Full of so much unspoken fear, frustration, longing and a new breed of separation brought about by the paper you’d just signed. You rolled your eyes and brushed past him to grab your own files from the copier. “By the way,” you gritted your teeth as you passed him again and picked your bag up from the ground, “Since you’re the one who brought up Fisk last time,” you shoved the files in your bag and hoisted it onto your shoulder, and then your coat over your arm, “Let’s not forget his incarceration created a power-vacuum. Think about that, as you think about Reynolds. I do.”

Murdock’s face softened in confusion for a few seconds before he opened his mouth to speak, but you cut him off.

“I need to do more prep for the interview.”

Matt could hear the hurt and the emotion building in your chest, so he didn’t try to stop you. Better to err on the side of respecting your decision to leave.

Frustration swelled around your beating heart as you made a hasty exit, wondering if he was going to stop you. You hated that selfish part of you that wanted him to stand between you and the door, to not let you go, to say he cared too much to let you do something so reckless. It was a stupid, unfair internal test - some kind of defence mechanism that immature part of you set up to make him fail, to prove he wasn’t right.

But he let you go, and so you went.

Armed with your stack of files and fierce determination.

“You look like shit.”

You laughed through your nose at Vera’s sarcasm thrown from the doorway of your office. Your fixed gaze didn’t leave the small handheld mirror resting against your ajar laptop lid. Lipstick could be tricky business.

The sun had set a while ago. There weren’t that many people left in the office. Just the ones stuck on hard assignments.

“Stark Watch going that bad, huh?” You quipped back to your friend, who entered and unfolded her arms. She bumped her brow and nodded, motioning for you to stand up and show her the complete look. You obliged, fixing your hair and giving a quick view of the back of the navy blue dress.

“If I wore that I’d look like a mother of the bride,” she shook her head and refolded her arms as you turned to give her a scolding look for her self-deprecation. “You know that it’s not fair, right? That you look amazing in everything you wear?”

“Please, it’s laundry day.” You turned and checked the time. Ten minutes until the car would be outside to take you to Reynolds. “Really, though. How’s that Avengers story panning out?”

“About as well as you’d expect- oh, come here.” You, again, obliged and walked over to where she wanted to do up the clasp above the zipper on the back of your dress. She digressed. “I’m being stonewalled by Potts, the comms team has some cookie-cutter non-answer, and Steve Rogers still won’t return my phone calls.”

“He probably doesn’t know how to use a phone.”

“That’s it,” she chuckled once and you stepped away to finish collecting your things. “What aren’t you telling me?”

You paused, laughed once uncomfortably, then continued putting your things in your purse.

“Is it Reynolds, or the mystery man?”

“There’s no mystery man.”

“You’re a terrible liar-”

“Vera-” You stood up and let her see a flash of the cocktail of emotions you’d been feeling. “There’s… it can’t happen.” You turned back and shoved your hairspray and on-the-go makeup bag back into the drawer it came from. The snap closing of the drawer was a sharp enough sound that it made you stop for a second and just listen.

The way he taught you.

Car horns, office air-con, the clock in the corner, the silent scream of the white roses that still sat in the corner, Vera-

“I’m sorry.” Her voice was softer, and more grounded. You nodded in agreement and slipped on your coat, not quite meeting her eye.

“In another life,” you shrugged the sleeves on more comfortably and only then met her gaze. Some part of you detested the pity in her dark brown eyes, but you supposed only for prideful reasons. It was nice, to have a friend like her care about things like this. To notice. “You wouldn’t have liked him anyway. He’s too good.”

She let out a puff of air that sounded almost like a laugh, then reached out to fix the lapel of your coat. Vera took a step back and looked you up and down with a proud-yet-somewhat-sad friend smile. “I’m not the one who thinks you don’t deserve that.”

The only chance you had to protest was the beginnings of a severe look which was to be followed by denial, but there was something a little too knowing in her eyes. Before it got too heavy, she winked, “Don’t sleep with Reynolds.”

You rolled your eyes, smiled, and pushed past her, not dignifying her half-joke with an answer.

His ride was prompt.

A sleek, black private car with a dark interior and the undeniable scent of luxury glided through the streets, helmed by a driver who didn’t speak a word to you. Not when he opened the door for you, not while he was driving, not when he opened the door for you again. When you thanked him, his only response was a tight nod.

Before you knew it, you were on the sidewalk right before the grand entrance to the Golden Empress.

The building was fairly new in its own right, but had elements of Old American Money in its architecture, decor and branding. It certainly was an impressive building, all seventy-two stories of it, and Arthur Reynolds owned the entire top floor.

The first floor held a bar and restaurant and so was generally open to the public. Or, at least, the members of the public who could afford the extravagance of an eight-course meal and forty-dollar cocktails; getting inside was easy enough. The path was rife with good manners and hospitality and it wasn’t a mission to find your way to the reception of the residential portion of the building.

You approached the front desk and spoke to a man with dark brown hair that was perfectly in place. He was articulate and professional. He checked your ID, confirmed you were permitted into Reynolds’ property, and ushered you towards the elevators.

“This elevator is for the penthouse only,” he explained as he flashed a card in front of an RFID scanner to order the doors to open. “Only one stop. Please, ma’am, enjoy your stay.”

You half-expected him to mention the Golden Empress had a dry-cleaning service, or how wonderful breakfast could be downstairs in the cafe, or that Mr Reynolds would have a car here for you in the morning, but that would be far too presumptuous for an establishment of this caliber.

The elevator was spacious, giving just enough to look at with the dark brown patterned wallpaper that matched the feeling of the lobby and bar you passed. It was trimmed in dark wood, the carpet a rich forest green, a stained walnut-framed mirror adorned the back wall. You checked your reflection in it, and you felt beautiful. But for what? He wouldn’t know.

This is a long way up, was the tangible thought that pulled you from spiralling into thoughts of Murdock. He hadn’t called today. You hadn’t called either. You hadn’t quite figured out if you should give him a debrief after this whole thing. If you ever made it out of the elevator, that is. Seventy-two stories. Who would have thought it would take this long to get up there? You turned away from the mirror, and for a second you wished you were invisible.

The elevator came to a gentle stop and then opened towards an empty hallway. Already, it was a stark contrast from the rest of the building. You stepped onto smooth, white marbled floors. The walls were also white, sparsely fixed with a minimalist painting here, a vase there, a security camera in each corner.

Your heels clicked and echoed as you approached a set of large double doors. Before you could knock, they opened.

The first look at Reynolds’ home was like a perfectly curated first bite of a gourmet meal; there was a hint of all the flavours, and a glimpse at how they all worked together.

White marble coated the floors in a seamless transition from the hallway. A glance into the living area off to the left showed some rugs that looked too cozy to be in a place like this, but they added that touch of homeliness needed for a living room with thick angular architecture. Square pillars rose up from the ground, bordering the almost-archway from the front hall to where the room opened up to high-ceilings with two-story windows.

There was a blaze in the fire place. The whole room was warm, in noticeable contrast to the way it should feel. Clean and sterile, with that flicker of roaring flame spilling golden light across black couches and glass coffee tables.

Footsteps approached. Reynolds himself.

The way he smiled at you was warm, friendly, and disarming. But you weren’t quite without your wits just yet. His curly light brown hair was clean and styled but not perfect like the man at reception’s, and his navy blue suit didn’t look like he’d just put it on - hallmarks of a busy man who’d made time for you in his schedule. You wondered if he had more work to do after you’d left that evening.

“Beautiful home,” you greeted him with a polite smile. “Have I seen it in an issue of Architectural Digest?”

“Thank you,” he smiled back. “And no, I’d never allow such a thing.”

“Your coat, madam?” Another voice from behind you. Someone with an unsettlingly quiet step accepted your coat as you began shrugging it off your shoulders. They walked away and you met your host’s eye in time to catch him looking at the way the dress fit you perfectly.

“Did you design it yourself?” You asked, beginning to follow after he gestured with his arm off to the right. You fell into step with him and walked across the large living and entertaining room towards what sounded like a kitchen.

“No,” he laughed warmly and stuck his hands in his pockets. “Several creative minds with an eye far greater than mine answered my calls, much to my gratitude. We’ll need to have our meal outside but I’ve arranged for some heaters so it shouldn’t be too cold.”

You’ll need to?

He led you through the large, empty dining room that bordered on the kitchen and was surrounded by floor to ceiling glass windows and sliding doors. His hand met the latch, platinum watch glinting in the dim light, and he pulled the door open.

You were met with a gust of autumn air and the near-irresistible urge to ask why the hell you couldn’t use the perfectly good dining table that stood an arm’s reach away.

“I assume you’ll be recording our conversation,” he answered the obvious question as he stepped onto the balcony. You followed, this time with more reluctance, and you nodded. He digressed. “One aspect of the home I insisted upon was to place harmless signal jammers inside each wall,” he explained.

He stepped aside and revealed a beautifully laid table right next to the glass-fronted balcony wall. You smiled at the simplicity of it, and fought a knowing smile at how much it reminded you of a few dates you’d been on. No candles, though. So you supposed he had plausible deniability.

“Signal jammers,” you repeated, approaching the table in step with your host.

“No recording devices of any kind work within the walls,” he confirmed, and pulled your chair out for you.

You took your seat. “Smart,” was all you said. “Must be nice to know you can never be recorded without your consent. But what about security?”

He took his own seat with a dismissive wave of his hand. “I detest the idea of cameras inside my own home,” he gave you a sullen look. “Wouldn’t you?”

“I suppose I would.”

What was he doing in his home that he didn’t want recorded? Scandalous affairs? Shady business deals? Several untoward things, you could only assume. Perhaps it wasn’t proper to speculate.

“Thank you for this,” you said honestly. He didn’t need to know the depth of it. “I know you’re a private person and the media hasn’t always been kind to your family. I am very curious about your charitable work in Central America.”

He flashed a kind, bashful smile and sat back in his seat. A waiter who’d perfected the art of subtlety filled your glasses with water, and then placed a small starter between the two of you.

“This isn’t some expose on my failed marriage?” He narrowed his eyes in jest.

You smiled back and pulled the recording device from your bag. “Not at all.” You set it on the table, declaring it live, and clicked it on. “We don’t need to talk about any of that. Though, I’m curious to know if there was something from your past, from growing up, that set these countries in your sights. Why Haiti first?”

“That,” he began, reaching forward to pick up his glass. “Is a long story.”

Reynolds recounted his experience from nearly fifteen years ago, when he visited Haiti for the first time with his family. They’d been staying in the best part of town but he had an insatiable desire to see the parts the tourists shouldn’t. The twenty-eight-year-old Arthur paid a local a handsome sum for a dose of reality. Of the suburbs where gangs ruled brutally, the sickening sound of starvation only being overshadowed by bullets.

You asked question after question, leading him along his own story that you’d researched, looking for depth, searching for any clue that might unravel something hidden.

“Why elsewhere?” You finally asked. He raised his eyebrows through a bite of the seared chicken meal you two had been served. “Why not London?” You clarified. “Why not New York? Certainly people need help in your own backyard.”

“Who’s to say I won’t?”

“You’re beginning work here in New York?”

He paused under the guise of finishing his mouthful and you could’ve sworn his eyes narrowed for less than a second. “Not yet. I don’t currently have any business interests in town.”

There it was. There was the first obvious lie.

“None?” You raised your own wine glass with an air of innocence. “That’s unusual for a billionaire.”

“I suppose. Why do you ask?”

Just as you were about to brush it off as curiosity, the most peculiar sound reverberated through the hallway, then kitchen, then dining room, out onto the balcony.

Footsteps.

Little footsteps, approaching with a fast and young cadence and weight.

Arthur's jaw went a bit slack when his eyes landed on the source of the sound approaching from behind you. The second you saw the young boy, who could be no more than five or six, you immediately reached over and clicked the tape off.

Your host’s eyes flitted to your finger on the button, then to your sincere and solemn gaze, and as soon as you could see the thankfulness in his stare you heard the boy shout with a giggle: "Daddy!"

Arthur Reynolds didn't have any children.

At least, that's what the world thought.

But up ran a blonde-haired hazel-eyed little boy who wrapped his arms around his father's neck and grinned up and him. Reynolds stuttered for a second or two before his hand met the boy's hair to ruffle it affectionately. "My boy," he greeted in a low playful growl before leaning down to pick him up. His kid wrapped his arms again around his father’s neck, and Arthur looked at you nervously. "Affectionate wee thing," he muttered before pulling away to give his son a curious glance. "Where's Mummy?"

"She said she was on an island this week so I get to stay with you," he answered. The look on Arthur's face told you he'd no idea the boy's mother was planning it, and also that he was a strange mix of frustrated and used to it.

Could this be it? Could this be the deep, dark secret you were trying to uncover?

"Fetch Rosie from her room, will you?" Arthur called to the waiter, who nodded and dashed inside. Sitting down while turning his son to sit in his lap, Arthur gave you a glance before picking up a piece of chicken between his fingers. "Have you had your supper?" He held it out to the boy, who took it and popped it in his mouth.

"Yes, Mummy bought me chicken nuggets."

"Did she now," he sighed. "Do you tell her you far prefer grass-fed cutlets?"

"I like them both," he declared, chewing politely on the piece of meat. His accent was a mixture of American and British English, and was rather sweet. You didn't dare speak to the child directly, knowing this was definitely not something you should insert yourself into.

"Where's the restroom?" You asked quietly.

Arthur looked at you meaningfully, and his face softened. "You don't have to go."

Now that surprised you. You smiled shyly just as a young girl, late teens or earliest twenties, came onto the balcony.

"Rosie!" The boy shouted and squirmed off his father's lap.

"You've come back to play with me!" She grinned. "Let's leave your father to his dinner." He rushed over and grabbed her outstretched hand. As she led him inside, you heard the end of her saying: "Let’s get you ready for bed, Malcolm," before the door was shut again.

It was silent for a few moments as Arthur settled his chair back closer to the table and dusted his suit jacket. When he looked up at you, you raised your eyebrows and smiled patiently.

"You learn to keep a nanny on call after your ex-wife absconds to the Bahamas and leaves your child on your doorstep," he sighed, taking a swig of wine. "If she'll do it once, she'll do it again. Serves me right."

"He's a cute kid," you cradled your own glass and gave him a level look. "I understand why you hide him. The world won’t hear about him from me. That's a promise," you nodded sincerely. He smiled sadly and nodded back.

"You're not going to extort me for your silence?"

"Now there's an idea," you joked, Arthur chuckled once through his nose.

"I married Isabel for his sake," he suddenly admitted, playing with the end of the serrated knife which sat resting on his plate. "It was supposed to be a one-time thing, you understand. Then, it was twice and she was pregnant. Sweet girl from a good middle-class family, I thought, well, she'd fit in well-enough with my life and work... I'm afraid I may have corrupted her with the company I keep." He picked up the knife, turned it over once in his hand and the stuck it firmly into the table, before looking up at you and charming, "Serves me right for wanting a raucous night of fun with a 22-year-old high-fashion model."

You'd expected him to elaborate and say something like alimony, or child-support, or impromptu drop-offs but instead he said:

"I gave my child a broken family." His finger traversed the handle of the knife, and something more genuinely somber filled the space between you two. “I fear I’ve turned into everything I dislike in a father.”

“It’s not hard to tell that your son thinks the world of you,” you countered. Arthur replied to your comforting words with a mere smile. Then, he removed the knife from the table and set it down beside his plate.

“This is truly more than I bargained for, inviting a journalist into my home,” he joked.

You beamed a smile and shrugged, picking up your near-finished glass of wine.

“Since I did so generously invite you in, granting you an interview anyone in your position would kill for… might you do something for me?”

The wine ran hot down your throat as a pang of annoyance rang in your ears. Of course he wanted something. You tried to hide your disappointment, but not too much, as you swallowed that final sip and nodded. “Depends,” you looked up to lock eyes with him. His stare was intense, as always, but warm. Maybe. He hadn’t stopped smiling. He signalled for the waiter to come and top up your glasses.

You and Arthur were both silent as your cups were refilled and your plates cleared. The staff were silent. Professional. With a precision of those who didn’t tolerate mistakes. His eyes never left yours and so your stare also stayed firm. Then, you were alone on the balcony again.

He reached forward and picked up his glass. “You’re an exceptional storyteller, as I’m sure you know,” he started. Your heartbeat became noticeable but you didn’t show it. Did he know you didn’t trust him? You picked up your wine glass.

“That’s kind of you to say.”

“Oh, no need for humility,” he assured. “You carry yourself with the confidence of a woman who knows exactly what she’s capable of.”

“Thank you.”

He tilted his head in response as he sipped his wine. “So,” he looked at his glass and then back up to you. “Tell me your story.”

“My story,” you repeated, then leaned back in your seat. Maybe it was an automatic reaction to put distance between the two of you, to give you space to consider it, but he didn’t allow it to go unmentioned.

“You’re not used to being on the other side of your work.”

“Of course not.” You crossed one arm over yourself, another honest reaction. His eyes flicked to it and then back to yours.

“My, aren’t we suddenly very shy,” he teased. Your cheeks burned behind the wine glass and you gave him a bashful look, sitting up and not quite meeting his eye as you placed the glass down. You leaned forward, resting your arms on the tablecloth.

“I’ve never been accused of being shy,” you said with a small smirk. He returned that smirk, with an air of cockiness, and then placed his own glass down. “Because I’m not.”

“That’s yet to be seen,” he shrugged.

You scoffed, smiled wider, and rolled your eyes. “You’ll have to be more specific,” you egged, feeling your heart unexpectedly flutter at his undivided attention. Before you could wonder whether or not it was a bad idea, fuelled by two glasses of wine and the need to prove rich men wrong, you said, “Tell me what you want to know.”

He asked about your family and you told him, mostly. He asked about college, about journalism, and you told him. But you didn’t tell him about volleyball. You didn’t tell him about the shoulder surgery or the way it still ached when you were tired; that felt too intimate. He asked you about Fisk and your ears perked up. You told him about the dinner, about your boss refusing to let you take him to task. Reynolds laughed and made some joke about how he hoped you didn’t find too many similarities between himself and Fisk. You laughed along, and let yourself imagine the biggest secret in this man’s life was Malcolm.

“Fisk’s collection was impressive,” you conceded. “At least I didn’t have to lie about it in the article.”

“Speaking of,” Reynolds smiled and looked out over the city, then back to you.“I believe a tour of my private collection was due,” he spoke across the table while the waiter cleared your meals away. You smiled and nodded.

“That would be nice,” you agreed. “It’ll add some nice grounding to the story.”

You stood after he did, placing the recording device in your purse. Before you retracted your hand you made a split-second decision to subtly switch it back on, just so you’d know for sure if he was being truthful about the emitters built into the walls. “Where should I leave this?” You asked after you’d zipped the bag.

Reynolds signalled to another member of his staff, who came up and graciously, effortlessly, accepted the bag. You didn’t know where it would go but knew you’d get it back later. Then, you realised you maybe shouldn’t have switched it back on in case they looked inside. Ignoring that sickly pang of anxiety in your stomach, deciding to unapologetically stick to your decision, you followed your host as he stepped back inside his home.

You quickly learned that, though spacious, the home had many hallways. It was hard to believe all of this could fit on top of the building, even though the Golden Empress was titanic; it seemed to go on forever. You considered making some comment about why he’d bother to own a collection of art that was so hard to access, but thought better of it before the stained the pleasantness between you two. You followed on.

After a final left turn, you were faced with a long, slim room that somewhat resembled an art gallery. In fact, it pretty much was a gallery.

“This room was designed by Pat Laurent - a world renown gallery architect, and a dear friend,” he smiled down towards you and held an arm forward to invite you to step into the colourful world. “His expertise ensures the pieces are viewed in the best possible circumstances, and stored in the correct atmospheric conditions.”

A quick glance confirmed Reynolds certainly preferred bold colours. The collection ranged from minimalist to abstract, surrealism to hyperrealism. Still, all the colours were bold and brash and demanded to be seen. Yet, here they were, so well hidden down a maze of, dare you say clinical, white marbled hallways.

That had to mean something.

You became more aware of your breath as you walked down the aisle created by the row of flat leather chaises in the centre of the room. You looked at the pieces in the order which they were meant to be viewed. After all, who were you to question Pat Laurent and his expertise. Reynolds stayed one or two steps behind you and, notably, stayed silent.

You could almost feel his gaze dead fixed on your reactions. You noticed your heartbeat in his lack of comment… he was waiting for something.

Then, one piece in particular made your brow lower and the hairs stand up on the back of your neck. It was at the end of the line and had a few dedicated fixtures pouring white light on it from above, bringing out the intense crimsons, browns, blacks, a hint of purple peaked out from beneath the reds. Aware you were being watched, you lied with a small nod of approval. When you turned your head to look at him, he didn’t look away or hide that he’d been watching you. A smirk twitched at the corner of his lips, and he looked at the painting.

“Ophelia’s End,” he spoke the name of the work.

You looked back at it also. It was an intensely melancholic piece but, like with the rest of his collection, there was an underlying violence to it. Something painful and dreadful and downright sinister that put your nerves on edge with every slash of red across the canvas.

"One of Lind's great works," Reynolds told you as he took a few more steps to settle beside where you stood resolute. "Inspired by the untimely death of his fiancee."

You swallowed thickly as you took in the texture of the cuts of colours. "Must've been a violent end."

Reynolds hummed in agreement, then turned to walk a few, slow steps away from it. From you. Somehow, his presence was still there. Somehow, he seemed to fill the room. Maybe because it was filled with reflection of himself, his desires, his inner depths.

Your fingers found each other in front of your body and you fidgeted with one of your rings, turning it over between the pads of your fingertips in some kind of grab at reality. Instead of the metaphorical.

"How did she die?"

"A nasty fall,” he started. You heard him turn back towards you, and then approach your other side from behind. You hated how it made you feel. Once again, his art took grip of your throat. Of your breath. It didn’t seem fair, or right, that he seemed to understand that. “Too many glasses of wine and a tumble from their penthouse balcony.”

Your heart rose to your throat as you remembered the elevator ride. How long it took for such a streamlined piece of engineering. Even though it didn’t feel like it in this room, this… bunker, you were high in the sky. Almost definitely higher than Ophelia had been.

"She was drunk?" You could still taste Reynolds’ choice of wine on your lips.

"She had a reputation. For being reckless."

You looked closer at the painting and knew that Reynolds could see what you saw; there was nothing reckless and accidental on this canvas - even though it was made to look that way. The "random slashes" of paint had clean edges, clean starts and ends. They were supposed to look splattered, supposed to look like some random event or some outpouring of emotion and tragedy in an artistic medium. But just as each stroke was intentional, without a hint of accident, so was Ophelia's untimely end.

Her death was no wine-fuelled balancing act on a balcony's edge; this painting was Lind's confession.

The threat wasn't lost on you, not for one second. Not the way you were also in the penthouse suite. How you’d eaten dinner among the skyline, inches from the edge. It was probably just for this moment. The moment when he had you alone, looking at your fate should you continue. Maybe it was all so the words could truly, devastatingly, perfectly, sink in when his low voice would challenge you from just a step behind your shoulder:

“Tell me, does a legally blind attorney really make for that good a bodyguard?"

The humourless laugh burst once through your lips before you could stop it. It was pure shock. You stuck your tongue against the inside of your cheek and directed your glare towards the uppermost part of the painting. Gathering all the confidence in you, you said, “You’d be surprised.” You turned to face him, finding him far closer than you would’ve liked. His hands were still clasped behind his back and he looked down at you curiously, victoriously, as you continued. “Some people are more perceptive than you’d think.”

He narrowed his eyes the smallest amount, then tilted his head in thought. You didn’t dare break eye contact with him. He knew about Murdock. How much did he know? You obviously couldn’t ask him. Part of you wasn’t even that surprised, considering how many resources a man of his wealth might have. Still, here you were in his home, surrounded by his paintings, and you felt like you were looking over a very steep edge. Or, balcony. Now that he’d all but explicitly threatened to kill you and make it look like an accident.

That same charming smile broke out across his face after you gave him nothing to read. “It’s getting rather late, don’t you think?”

You watched his expressions for a few seconds, waiting for any sign of discomfort on his part. It didn’t come. So you nodded, not breaking your stare. Maybe you let your look linger. Maybe you played with it a bit. Maybe you were trying to gauge how tempted he could be, or appear to be. Still, nothing came. So you smiled and said, “I’ll call a cab.”

“No need,” he said, then turned and started walking away. Confounded, you started after him. “A car is outside. I look forward to reading your article.”

Idiot. You’re an idiot.

That’s what you told yourself over and over again as one of the house staff wordlessly led you back through the maze. Your bag was returned with your coat, the door opened for you, the elevator called. With a large slash across your dignity, you decided you hated Arthur Reynolds.

What just happened?

There were too many emotions slamming through your nerves, piquing every alarm bell you’d honed over the years. How could you let your guard down like that? The colours of the rooms and moments you were in all blurred together as your fight and flight responses were triggered. You had to get out of here.

Focus, just… focus.

You began trying to gather the pieces, to make sense of it all, to process why he was able to surprise you like this. You went in on high alert and he still came out with the upper hand. This wasn’t supposed to happen.

Weaving through the lobbies, past the scents of the bars full of heinously expensive drinks, under chandeliers, past mahogany desks, under the cover of dim light, you got the hell out of the building as fast as humanly possible.

After scurrying down the front steps you were flagged down by the same driver as earlier. “Ma’am!” He called as you almost walked past. It was the first time you heard him speak. His accent was Hispanic. Thick and heavy.

You turned to him and got close enough to be assertive. “Where are you supposed to take me?” You demanded, chest heavy with anxiety. He furrowed his brow and opened his mouth to speak, but nothing came out. You looked between his eyes for any sign of malice, then your eyes flicked down to his coat. No obvious signs of a gun. He was confused. You took a step back. “No.”

“Ma’am,” he said again, and went to open the back door. You shook your head and walked away.

“No!” You called over your shoulder, and walked over to the rows of taxis lined up to take people home. You opened the door of a random car, but not the one closest to you. The address of your office building fumbled through your lips as you shut the door behind you.

As soon as the taxi began moving you removed the recording device from your purse. It was still on. Your pulse pounded deep in your stomach as you pressed the stop button. You’d need to download the file to your computer in order to play it back but at least you’d know for sure if what he said about the jammers was true. It would be best to check tonight, while your memory was still fresh, just in case your conversation on the balcony wasn’t taped - you’d need to write down everything you could remember so there could still be an article.

Fuck. The article.

You leaned forward on your elbows and placed your face in your hands, telling yourself to keep it together. But he got inside. He got past your walls. All it took was the smallest amount of vulnerability on his part and you were eating out of his hand and off his stupid thin plates. You kicked yourself for the way you’d hung on his every word. The genuine interest you had. The way you actually thought he trusted you when he let you stay around his son.

He’d played you. Effortlessly, it seemed.

You sniffed and sat back up, looking out over the streets ablaze with Manhattan nightlife. It all became a blur through the windows of the cab. There was some tinny jazz playing through the radio. The driver was humming along. The seats had that new-car smell but- oh, yeah, that was definitely just an air freshener. Your fingers found the fraying seam of the seat cushion and you focused on everything this little world could tell you. Like he taught you.

Him. Murdock.

Suppressing any thoughts of calling him at the first sign of trouble, you paid and tipped your driver before exiting the cab and swiping into your office building. The recording device was still clutched in your fist. You held it tight but carefully as the elevator rose. Your fingers felt fixed to the thing but it was too risky to peel your eyes away or be driven off-course, so you ignored everything and everyone from the moment you stepped off the elevator to when you reached your office.

Your footsteps were heavy and decisive alongside the Bull Pen. Conversations halted when some people noticed that hard and determined look in your eye but no one dared to say a thing. Vera’s own glass-sided office was on the way. She was so immersed in her own work that she didn’t notice you marching past. You didn’t have time to explain anyway. You shut the door to your office and didn’t even put your bag down before opening your laptop and plugging the recording device in.

It took a painstaking amount of time to download the file. In reality it wasn’t more than a few minutes but it felt like hours. You paced, and ruminated, and kicked yourself over and over again for being so naive as to get surprised by him. This didn’t happen to you. Threats, sure, but not threats that caught you off-guard.

As you were trying to pinpoint the exact moment when you let your guard down, the computer dinged to signal the file had been transferred. You almost tripped trying to get to it.

You pulled your chair close to the desk, the arms of it clunked against the wood and shook the furniture but you clicked on the file to open it and inspect the shape of the wave forms. From the start it looked like standard dialogue audio - what you’d expect from a conversation - and towards the end it suddenly went flat. Not nothing, no, just… flat. Hovering the mouse over the file, you scrubbed the listening point until just before the line went flat.

There was the tell-tale muffled jingling and clicking of a bunch of things in a bag. In your purse, where you’d put the switched-on recording device before following Reynolds back inside for a tour of his gallery. Someone moved and carried the bag for a few seconds, there was the sound of footsteps, and then static. Just… static. A solid, steady-state white noise. It wasn’t overpowering anything - it’s all there was.

Reynolds hadn’t been lying about the walls and the signal-jamming devices.

You smiled, almost uncontrollably, because you knew what it meant.

“Hey,” a knock on his office door pulled Matt from his thoughts. If Foggy, who’d knocked, had asked what got him so focused, Matt probably would’ve pulled some random case file name out of his head and rattled it off. He’d have felt guilty about it later, maybe, but it had become second-nature to lie to his best friend after all that time he lived a double life without Foggy being none the wiser.

“Hey,” was all he replied. Foggy was silent at the door and Matt got the sense he had something on his mind, so he raised his eyebrows.

“It’s late.”

“It is late,” he agreed.

“You going out tonight?”

Matt listened for a second and determined that Karen hadn’t come back after she’d left an hour ago. He and Foggy were alone.

“No,” Matt shook his head. “Not like that.”

“Really? Cause you’ve got this look on your face like you want to hit someone.” Matt raised his eyebrows again and Foggy sighed. “It’s me. I’m the one you want to hit.”

“I’d never hit you, Foggy.”

“You’re pissed about the contract.”

Matt sighed and sat back in his seat. Yes, of course he was pissed about the contract, but it’s not like that was the whole story, so it wouldn’t be right to blame Foggy entirely for his current state. “Sure… but It’s not just that- She’s…” He sighed again and took off his glasses to rub his eyes.

“Infuriating?”

“Yeah.”

“A total pain in the ass?”

“That too.”

“And you can’t stop thinkin’ about her, can you?”

Matt didn’t respond, which was a response in itself. He held a thick silence in tandem with his best friend. Foggy wasn’t going to apologise - Matt knew that he wasn’t sorry for what he’d done. It’d been the right call.

“Looking out for people is who you are, Matt.” The strap shifting over his shoulder told Matt that Foggy was ready to leave. Of course, as always, he had to drop some profound last word. Allow it to marinate while they were apart, so maybe they were joined by some thoughts. “Has it ever occurred to you that she’s not the kind of person who wants to be looked after?” After letting out a long exhale, Foggy tapped the doorframe once and said, “Night, pal.”

Matt listened as he left. All he could hear was the silence of his phone, which still hadn’t said your name.

Your one-bedroom apartment was small but you had no complaints about it. You’d had alright experiences with roommates, though after sharing a home with particularly pedantic graphic designer named Mindy for an agonising year, you swore off sharing your living space. Even if it meant you’d be confined to a studio apartment with a cockroach problem for all of eternity. Thankfully, your job paid well enough and you got enough freelance gigs on the side, that you could afford a modest one-bedroom place just outside Manhattan.

It didn’t take too long to get home, unless it was rush-hour. Late on a Tuesday evening, less than ten minutes after leaving your office you could be walking in the front lobby of your building.

It towed the line between cramped and cozy, leaning towards cozy thanks to the furniture an interior-designed friend from college helped you find and arrange. The hardwood floors and high ceilings were added bonuses of the clean, relatively pest-free space. The kitchen had been renovated right before you’d moved in so it now featured a granite countertop island, polished gold fittings and brand new plumbing which hadn’t failed you yet.

Most importantly, it was yours.

So on nights like tonight, when all you wanted was a place to feel safe and settled, it greeted you with open arms when you put the key in the lock and pressed forward inside. Immediately setting your bags down on a stylish wood and metal table that sat beneath a barely-used key hook and a large mirror with a vintage golden frame, you locked the door behind you, switched on the lights, and made your way to the fridge to pull out a half-finished bottle of wine and take a swig directly from it. Unnecessary dishes be damned. Take that, Mindy.

After another sip, you set the bottle down and made your way to your room to throw on a comfortable set of sweats and get to work on writing out your thoughts. You picked up your clutch on your way and fished in it for your phone, checking to see if anyone had called between the cab and now. Or, not anyone. Him. He still hadn’t.

An instinctive hand met the light switch just inside your bedroom as you pushed the door open even further. The warm white light filled the room and something in your peripherals immediately caught your attention. You looked up, then dropped your bag from shock as that now-shaking hand flew to your mouth.

It took everything in you not to scream.

Matt turned his cellphone over in his hand and wondered if it had lost charge. He knew it hadn’t, but he wished a dead battery was the reason you hadn’t called. Maybe you were still there. With Reynolds. Maybe you would be there for several more hours. What if you stayed until the morning? Matt put his phone down so he wouldn’t crush it, and he tried to stop torturing himself with the far-fetched thought.

As if it were a lesson in ‘a watched pot never boils,’ the moment he placed his phone down and began wondering if he should don his bulletproof suit and break into Reynolds’ penthouse to find you, the device vibrated harshly against his desk. His heart beat harder and his hand was around the phone less than a second after the first declaration of your name.

“Hi,” he answered, trying to sound casual and unbothered. Instead of greeting him back, your voice sounded rattled.

"A-are you still at your office?"

Matt planted a hand on his desk and stood to his feet. "What's wrong?"

You were silent on the line, trying to form the words to explain the horrifying scene before you, not really understanding how you would even begin to describe the horror show you'd been met with when you walked in your bedroom door.

"Uh… Reynolds. He- he had someone break into my apartment."

"What?! Are you hurt?"

"No," you breathed out, feeling that familiar grip around your windpipe the longer you looked at the gift he left you. "I- um, I wasn't here.”

“Good, good,” you heard him sigh in relief. "Did they take anything?"

"Nuh-no," you stuttered, crouching to pick up the bag you’d dropped and slowly back out of your room. "It's what they left that's the problem."

There, right in front of you, above the white comforter you settled into each night, hanging from the wall with all her beauty and pain finding her resting place above your bed, was Ophelia's End.

It took a hell of a lot of convincing on your part to make sure Murdock didn’t jump in a cab and race through the streets to meet you. He was unwilling to let you be alone after you said you’d explain more later. In order to stop him from doing anything rash you agreed to meet him at his office and keep him on the line until you were there. You couldn’t say you were mad at the overprotectiveness, since your heartbeat was still racing dangerously.

His low, grazed voice came through the line every minute or two. “You still there?”

You’d feel an emotional smile pull at one side of your lips, and reply, “I’m still here.”

You threw a haphazard selection of clothing into a night bag, along with your toiletry pouch, all the while trying to simultaneously avoid and desensitise yourself to the painting which hung above your bed. It was sickening to have it so close. It was unnaturally large and it demanded attention, yet, until now, had stayed hidden in the depths of Arthur Reynolds’ penthouse abode. Laurent was right. It looked better with the proper lighting.

“What’s happening?”

“Almost done. I’m still here.”

It all happened so fast. Your mind was racing and attempting grabs at concrete thoughts while your subconscious took care of what needed to be done. Before you knew it, you were out on the street hailing a taxi with several bags in your hands. You were still in the navy dress from dinner and the straps of the heels were beginning to become noticeable. Murdock was still on the line when you slid into the backseat, even though you two weren’t talking much so he wouldn’t distract you from doing what you needed to do.

“Are you alright?”

“Yeah. Still here.”

The cab was mostly silent except for the reggae playing through the fuzzy car radio. Towards the end of the ride, the driver made eye contact in the rearview mirror and said, “All dressed up, ma’am. Somethin’ special on tonight?”

You smiled kindly and shrugged. “Something like that.”

“Well you have a good night now,” he nodded in thanks for the $20 you put in his hand with a small mutter to keep the change. Then, you were once again outside the offices of Nelson and Murdock, Attorneys at Law.

You took a deep breath, which you then held in your chest as you saw the front door of the building swing open and Murdock emerge. His look of both worry and relief was stark under the light from the lampposts bordering the stone staircase up to the front door. Laurent would think this light suited him. He released a tense breath and lowered the phone from his ear. You also relinquished your breath and took steps towards him, immediately feeling meek and out of place.

“I’m sorry, I-”

“Don’t apologise, please, it’s-”

“-I didn’t know who else to call,” you rushed to explain as you ascended the steps, trying to justify why he was the safest person you knew - someone you, in fact, barely knew. You finally stood on the landing before him and let your shoulders drop their tension.

Matt listened to result of the myriad of things which were currently making your heart race. He didn’t expect to feel the way he did; relieved, that you felt safe enough to find shelter in him again, to have you standing in front of him alive and in-tact, albeit scared out of your mind in a way you were yet to fully admit with words. He gripped his walking stick and used his other hand to reach out, find your shoulder and then slip his hand behind it to usher you inside, through the hallways, up the stairs.

“Tell me everything.” He finally said as you two made your way into his private office inside the firm.

You threw your bag down on the floor and then slumped down onto his couch. That couch. The lights were off, obvious as to why, but enough light from the clouded street lamps siphoned through the windows, through the blinds, casting lined shadows across the floor. You looked up at him. Passing cars and filtered light from nearby windows peeked through gaps and danced across his face in something striking and beautiful.

He was beautiful. In any light, and in none at all.

You stood up in front of him and resisted the urge to kiss him, though the gentleness of the moment dared to lull you into a trance.

“We had dinner,” you started. Matt listened as your fingertips played against each other. You were wearing a different perfume tonight and this all felt so different from a mere few nights ago. Yet, he still had that inexplicable desire to pull you into his arms. To feel your skin beneath his fingers and your pulse beneath his breath.

Foggy was right to make him sign that possibility away; Matt could feel the magnetism of your attraction and knew you were both craving a distraction.

“It was fine,” you said honestly. “He was a gentleman. Charming, polite…” you trailed off and bit the inside of your cheek. “We talked about his work, his charities, his passions. He asked me about mine. It felt natural,” you admitted. Murdock was silent, prompting you to continue. “He then asked to show me his art collection and there was this one… Ophelia’s End,” you sighed, feeling stupid. “Olivier Lind painted it after his fiancée fell to her death from their penthouse apartment. The police ruled it an accident but he just got away with it because he’s rich and they couldn’t prove anything.”

Matt felt his brow lower. “So he showed you a painting,” he repeated.

Indignation rose in your chest at his question. He’s a lawyer, you reminded yourself. He’s gathering facts. He’s not questioning your… is he? “Yes,” you sniffed. “A painting that depicted a murder made to look like an accident.”

“And this is the only painting he showed you?”

“No, he-” You folded your arms across your chest. “No. But it was the one he made a point of.” You saw Murdock’s forehead knit in confusion. He was clearly trying to work out why this was such a big deal. So you finished the puzzle. “It was hanging above my bed when I got home.”

His demeanour changed in an instant. All his doubt, dissipated. He stood taller and his jaw rippled as it clenched tight. He stepped past you and placed an iron grip on the door handle. Your hand was on top of his in a second.

Now… this was interesting. His instinct was to act. He was capable of acting.

Strange, for a blind man to hold so much confidence in a movement to do something he shouldn’t be able to do.

“Murdock.”

He heard the way you said his name, and it was a challenge. Your hand on top of his felt more like burning curiosity than an attempt at stopping him, which made him remember what you knew. More, remember what you didn’t know. His instinct to go, to take action, had been noticed. Of course it had. Of course you had.

Something conflicted was brewing beneath his skin. You could feel it in the way his grip around the door handle waned. He turned his head, his face only inches from yours. His upper arm was tense, pressed against your chest, but then relaxed and fell to his side. He didn’t move to step away, so you didn’t either. There was helplessness in him. He wanted to protect you, but he couldn’t. Could he?

A million excuses for him to leave rolled to the tip of his tongue and he swallowed them all. He wanted to protect you, but he couldn’t do so without letting you in.

“You’re staying with me.”

“I can afford a hotel,” you said. “I didn’t come here for that.”

“For what?”

“Sex.”

“Who said anything about sex?”

“Well, what else would it be?” You shot back. It didn’t feel right to direct everything you were feeling at him, but he was here, and he should know the kind of person you were. Not the person who deserved his help or kindness.

“I pulled you into this mess,” Matt breathed out, holding out his hands before dropping them in defeat. “I’d never forgive myself if something happened to you.”

“No,” you shook your head. “It was my decision to get involved. No one makes me do anything.”

“That’s for sure,” he let out a tense breath, and you cracked a sad smile. You leaned down to pick up your bag, still conflicted about leaving.

“I’ll be okay.”

You shifted your bag on your shoulder and watched as he stood silently, mulling something over. Half-expecting him to argue further, you reached for the door. The handle was pulled from your fingers as his hand planted against the frosted pane and forcefully shut the door with something just shy of a slam. You turned to face him, partially boxed between the wood, his body, and his arm.

“Is this what you wanted? Hmm?” He demanded. You opened your mouth to speak, but he continued. “For me to prove I care? For me to stop you?”

“I don’t want anything from you.”

“Bullshit.”

Pricks of blush sprung up beneath your cheeks as you swallowed and took in a shaky breath. “We can’t do this. You could get disbarred.”

Matt’s demeanour softened, he licked his parted lips, “It’s not-…” and he sighed as he took in the question, the hurt and the fear in your words. Matt’s heart ached at the lingering thought that it may have been far too long since someone asked for your company for any other reason than sex. What was worse, he got the feeling you felt like you didn’t deserve any better than that.

Your turned your head a little when the hand planted on the door you were backed against slid down and met your shoulder. He slipped his fingers under the strap and relieved you of the bag, tossing it off to the side. Your heart quickened as he took a step closer, already feeling the peace of his closeness.

Well, if he doesn’t care about his law licence… you thought as you anticipated the feeling of his lips on yours and his fingers tangling through your hair. You didn’t come here for that, but at least you’d be able to feel his strength and safety around you tonight.

He stepped closer, but he didn’t kiss you.

His hand moved across your shoulder to cradle the back of your neck, his other slipped over your waist and travelled up to the centre of your back as he pulled you into him. If you’d had any words, you were sure you would have stuttered them out. He was just... holding you.

Slowly, you wrapped one arm around his waist and leaned forward, onto your toes, to slip your other arm over his shoulder. He held you tighter, letting out a deep breath through his nose as you held him closer in turn.

The comfort was immeasurable, the feeling of it all somewhat overwhelming. Armoured cars, private security packing heat, a four-star General for a father and self-defences classes all paled in comparison to the indescribable safety found in a dark law office, wrapped in the arms of Matt Murdock.

You knew you were in trouble in so, so many ways. Yes, there was a billionaire who threatened to kill you but here you were falling hard and fast for someone you felt a million miles away from. Even though you could hear his heartbeat, you couldn’t shake the feeling that so much of him was hidden from everyone. Hidden from you.

“I’m a little scared,” you whispered your half-confession against his shoulder.

He squeezed the back of your neck before splaying his hand and running it down your back. “I know.” He pulled away, and you instantly longed to step forward and back into his arms. The saving grace was the hand he placed at your jaw, his stare focused on a place just below your eyes. “Stay with me. Just for tonight.”

Matt knew he needed you tonight. If you weren’t in his apartment he‘d put on that suit and Reynolds’ face would end up like something he could only imagine would grace one of his disgusting gallery walls. Not unlike the one hanging above your bed, warning you to tread carefully. He felt the urge to kiss you, he could hear your pulse begging for it, feel your eyes on his lips, but it didn’t feel like the right time.

“Okay,” you whispered, then cleared your throat and nodded. “Okay.”

“Okay,” Matt nodded back and then knelt to pick up your bags. “Let’s go.”

Sleeping separately didn’t feel necessary considering the somber cloud that’d fallen over you both on the ride back to Murdock’s loft.

You, with the threats and the questions. Him, with the pining and the answers. Ironically in sync, you two wrestled in tandem with your inner desires and better judgements, doubting and hoping this could one day come to fruition.

It was an easy break from thoughts of Reynolds and his impenetrable reputation, to reminisce on mere days ago when you thought Murdock’s air of mystery was a facet of his charm. But you’d never liked the mysteries no one had ever solved. The cold cases - they made you angry. They made your teeth grind and set you on the edge of your seat. You avoided them like reasonable people avoided the plague.

You had the terrible feeling that Murdock would be your cold case; the thing you looked back on in thirty years as the cypher you never solved. It was sure to haunt you worse than any threat could.

His sheets were still as soft and they smelt clean, fresh and inviting. They cooled your skin as you slipped into them, and they quickly warmed by the pleasant glow of two bodies expelling their heat, energy, and final waking breaths. His, at least. You couldn’t quite fall over the ledge.

So after what felt like several hours of his steady breathing nearly lulling you into something resembling readiness to sleep, you cut your losses and turned your thoughts to the files in your bag that you’d left on his couch.

The cold hardwood bit at your feet while you snuck as quietly as possible out of his bedroom. Your eyes had adjusted so there was no need for any lights, especially since the neon billboard across the alley had apparently been reserved for some drink brand all through the night. It wasn’t too erratic in movement so it was almost pleasant to have the purple light pouring through the windows.

It was easy to get lost in, as was the research you started doing on your laptop. You poured over facts you’d already read, and-

"Can't sleep?"

You flinched in place when his voice pulled you from your trance. “Jeez, Murdock.” Placing a hand over your wildly beating heart, you then sighed and pushed the hair away from your face. "Guess not."

He knew better than to try convincing you to come back to bed, or to at least not attempt to hide your worry from him, but he knew that was a useless course of conversation. The only way you'd be back there is if he threw you over his shoulder and forced you to abandon the laptop he'd heard you clicking away at. Which, if he allowed his mind to wander, he's pretty sure you'd enjoy a little too much. Another time. Certainly not now.

"Coffee?"

"No, you..." You sighed and hung your head, doing your best to not let your lack of sleep turn into a whip that would crack in his direction. "You should go back to sleep. Don't worry about me."

"I have a contentious relationship with sleep," he said, crossing the living room and into the kitchen. Your gaze followed him as he did, and you squinted a bit.

"You slept just fine on Friday night."

"I was a little worn out," he remarked with a smart lilt to his voice. The one that told you he was fighting a smile. You? You didn't fight your smile as well as he did. "Don't get me wrong, you're exasperating, but not to the point of exhaustion."

"Exhaustion?" You laughed. "That's a strong word for Friday night."

He half-grinned as he pulled a french press and a brown paper carton bag of ground coffee onto the bench. He had an electric kettle, which you didn't see all too often, but maybe it was safer for someone like him. Then again, nothing about him made you feel like he was in any way less able than you. If anything, definitely more able.

Instead of addressing your quip, he asked you what you were doing.

"The painting he put in my apartment is worth over six hundred thousand," you told him. "I obviously don't want the painting and I certainly don't want to pay taxes on it."

"New York doesn't have a gift tax," Matt explained as he poured a ballpark amount of coffee into the glass plunger.

The second you mentioned the painting, he heard the way your heart began to beat just that much faster. Fair, considering the freshness of the shock. But there was more. Something sinister tainted the air. He heard the unmistakable sound of your nervous swallow, and the undeniable care with which you tried to conceal your anxiety.

"Is a threat a gift?"

Matt would have laughed at the humour you tried to put into your voice - at the way you tried to make it seem like a lighthearted joke - but he’d read enough cases, sat in enough courtrooms and met with enough women to understand how many of them used an edge of humour in an effort to not come across as dramatic.

So he lowered his voice and answered your question. The water in the bottom of the kettle began a hissing bubbling in his peripherals. "Assuming you didn't exchange any funds while you were there, anything he could misrepresent as a payment or even a partial payment for the painting, you're in the clear. And six hundred thousand dollars richer."

"Hmm," you chuckled once, then shook your head. "Maybe it was a bribe. I'll see what my accountant says.

To you, the room may have been relatively quiet. To Matt, he could still hear your heartbeat, your unsteady breathing, the water was coming to a boil now, Mrs Gonzales was asleep but she’d left her TV on. Again. That leaky pipe in apartment 312 still hadn’t been fixed, your finger moved so fast around the trackpad, the wooden chair creaked as you adjusted and- ding! The kettle was done.

Matt left you to your distractions and let the water and coffee combine in that magical way. He wondered what to say. He knew what he wanted to ask but he wondered if it would be too far. Then again, you’d never seemed like a closed-off person. Not to him, anyway. Which didn’t seem fair to you, that here you were sitting at his kitchen table less than thirty feet away from a trunk in the closet that held New York’s greatest secret since Tony Stark revealed he was Iron Man through a mouthful of cheeseburger.

He walked over slowly, then placed the cup down beside your hand. He heard your head tilt up, no doubt with questions of where his walking stick was and why he even bothered with it. You didn’t ask, though, so maybe you assumed he knew his home well enough to fare without it. Perhaps it was a lie of omission to not tell you. So were a lot of things.

You watched as Murdock took the seat next to you with an unspoken question written all over his face. “What?” You asked softly, sliding your hand around the mug.

“Will you describe it to me?”

You raised your eyebrows. “The painting?”

He nodded. “I want to understand. What you saw. What he said.”

And so you told him the lead-up. You told him about Ophelia. He heard your fingers swipe around your laptop as you recounted some article on her “accidental” death, and then you explained the gruesome art of it all.

“The base of the canvas is a dark, grainy, grey. Like asphalt. It wasn’t hyper-realistic but you’d know what it is if you knew the story. The perspective was a birds-eye view, like someone painted it from above. But there was this… this movement to the piece that could only be captured by someone who watched the scene unfold. Lind doesn’t deny he was there, so that makes sense.” You’d said that last sentence in a voice barely above a whisper.

Against better judgement, Matt reached out and placed his hand over yours. He heard your heart pound for one or two seconds, and then settle. Relax. Because of him. Oh, he was in trouble.

“Then, um- …the colours,” you started regaining your composure. It was nearly four in the morning. You hadn’t slept. He didn’t blame you for your faltering words. “Dark reds and browns, splashes of this grotesque off-pink and flecks of shattered white. Some muted purples. All of it… flayed. Like a beautiful thing broken open. Like a final act of destruction. He wanted to destroy her. He didn’t even let her die as herself. You’d think that such a scene would emit chaos but it didn’t- it… it was so clinical. Ordered and intentional. I’d bet my new six-hundred-thousand dollar fortune that Lind murdered Ophelia.”

Matt squeezed your hand when he heard your mouth curl into a wry smile at the mention of your small windfall. It was a grasp at some kind of humour, or a lightening of the mood, but it didn’t feel right. And it didn’t feel like you.

“He knew I’d know what he was saying, I know it sounds crazy,” you rushed to justify yourself. “I know it sounds dramatic.”

“You’re afraid,” Matt said to you. You scoffed and then let out the rest of your breath.

“A little,” you conceded. “But more than that, I’m angry. I’m fired up, and all I want is to wipe that smug look off his face and every last dollar from his bank account.”

Murdock squeezed your hand again and then took a sip of his own coffee. The hand holding yours was strong and steadfast, warm and dependable. You were then faced with the uncomfortable reality that you did not want him to let go.

So you did, before he could.

You wrapped your hands around your mug and took a sip of the fresh, hot coffee. It was perfect and invigorating, the ideal companion to the fire now stoked in your belly. “We can do this,” you declared. Murdock tilted his head and you caught a glimpse of those dangerously inviting brown eyes of his. “He wouldn’t threaten me if there was nothing. People don’t go to those lengths if there’s nothing to hide. He showed his hand.”

Matt’s stomach flipped with the idea of you staying involved in this, even after Reynolds made it obvious he could get to you in your sleep. There was no sign of wavering in your ironlike statement, however, so he knew it was a choice between working alongside you or working against you. At least if he was by your side he had a better chance of keeping you safe. That was much more favourable than posting the Devil of Hell’s Kitchen on a nearby rooftop to listen for any threats.

So he said, “Where to from here?”

“I keep digging, you keep trying to get Avery acquitted.” He heard your smile grow with the realisation that he wasn’t fighting you. “We can do this, Murdock,” you said again, this time he could feel the way you truly believed it.

He half-grinned. “You have a nice smile.”

You were silent for a moment, perhaps collecting yourself and trying not to blush. “Shut up, you wouldn’t know that,” you muttered, drawing the mug back to your lips.

“I can hear it,” he motioned to his own mouth as he smiled. “In your voice. It’s nice.”

The hot coffee jarred your senses once again, as did the pulse of abashment which swarmed through your chest and into your cheeks. You cleared your throat as you set the coffee back down and gave him a level look, since apparently he could hear your expressions. “You shouldn’t do that.”

He smiled wider, his voice still soft. “Do what?”

“Saying things like that will get you fired.”

He chuckled and held his hands up in surrender, quietly satisfied that you were just as frustrated by the inability to act on your desire as he was. Maybe it wasn’t fair to flirt with you and tempt your resolve but he had the feeling you’d be doing the exact same in no time.

You noticed your heartbeat, the way you felt drawn into his atmosphere and the sudden dryness of your mouth. Fuck, this would be hard. But how much more amazing would it be to finally have him once you’d won. If he still wanted you then. Hopefully. Though, since he’d just opened the door for skirting the lines of temptation, maybe you’d flirt back and make it hard for him too.

Desperate to end the moment before it became too difficult to turn back, you turned back to your computer and clicked on the waiting tab that held a record of the owners of Ophelia’s End. “Let’s see who he bought this from,” you cleared your throat. “There’s an ownership directory and maybe there’ll be a hint in who he doesn’t business with so...”

You’d actually stopped breathing when you trailed off. Matt’s senses pricked. The shift of the energy in the room brought the hairs on the back of his neck standing up. You’d seen something, and you were putting a piece in place. After several seconds, he couldn’t bear to not be let in.

“What?”

“Ophelia’s End, he… I think bought it under his ex-wife's name," you said. “First name of the most recent buyer is Isabel.” You scrambled to open a new tab. “I know she took his name and used it when she broke into the socialite side of high fashion, cause everyone knows her as Izzy Reynolds but- fuck. Here!” Your finger jutted at the screen. Murdock’s eyebrows raised. "This directory of ownership says it was purchased by Isabel Branson. That’s her maiden name."

Matt froze. You froze.

If you'd had hearing as good as his you were sure you would've heard the cogs in your heads turning at a break-neck speed.

That name.

"Branson."

You said it at the same time.

Then, you raced to your bag on the couch and pulled out the stack of files you'd made to copy at Nelson and Murdock's text to braille printer. Leafing through in the mix of dim lamps and purple light pouring through from the neon billboard, you started taking out the pages with the last name Branson on it.

"How many?"

"Four so far. Make it five. M. Branson."

"I thought her name was Isabel."

"They have a son named Malcolm."

"What?"

"It has to be him."

“Wait, they have a child?”

You grunted as the papers slipped and shuffled. “Yeah.”

"And you didn't think to tell me this sooner?"

"I just found out during dinner when the kid came bursting through the door," you muttered, laying down three more pages each with a company invested in by M. Branson. "I told Arthur I wouldn't say anything. He keeps his kid hidden for a reason."

"Arthur?"

"What, is that a problem?" You challenged, pausing to underscore your annoyance. Now was not the time for this conversation. "That I call him by his first name?"

His fingers around his mug twitched, as did his jaw. "You don't call me Matt."

"It's not that deep," you sniffed, continuing to leaf through the pages until you'd gotten them all. “Eleven,” you breathed out, looking at the stack in your hand before tossing it down on the table by which you stood. “Almost a quarter of these companies and it’s Reynolds investing as his son. Why? Why wouldn’t he put his own name on these shares?”

“I don’t know.”

“Tax evasion? Hiding assets? Money-laundering?” You ran your hands over your head and then let them both drop to your side. “This is something, right? Tell me it’s something.”

“It’s strange.”

You huffed, then shook your head. “Okay, well I’ll take that. Thank you,” you dripped sarcastically. “What can we do?”

There was a clear and obvious answer at the forefront of Matt’s mind. The more he tried to come up with another solution, the more it seemed like the only viable option. He listened to you pace around the living room, both of you deep in thought. He longed to jump inside your head, to calm you, to hold you again and say it would be alright and he could handle it from here. But there was no way you’d back down, so he had to say it out loud.

“Fisk,” he spoke with reluctance. You turned to him. “He’ll need to be brought down like Fisk.”

“I agree,” you replied slowly, remembering the fanfare of Fisk’s trail mere months ago. “But we’ll need hard evidence to convince the state to charge him.”

“That’s not what I meant.”

Your brow lowered in thought. If not by the law, then- “Then what-”

Then, you realised.

Your head shook before you could stop it. “You can’t mean…”

He elaborated and confirmed your suspicions. “You said yourself there was no way the cops brought down Fisk without Daredevil.”

“Yeah, but-”

“We could leak information to him.”

“How?”

“Put the word out on the street.”

“How?”

He cocked his head and smirked wryly, trying to bring a little humour into the situation himself. “Not all my clients are innocent.” You groaned in discontent and shook your head. Your mind raced to list every possible thing that could go wrong with this plan. Murdock kept talking. “There are several people who owe me a favour, I could-”

“No, Murdock,” you winced and planted your hands on the back of his couch. Your hands gripped the worn leather, your body and mind conflicted by your knee-jerk defiance. You turned around to face him, to reason with him, “If he’s out there in back alleys beating the shit out of people to get dirt on the richest man in New York, how long do you think it’ll take for it to get back to Reynolds that someone else is onto him?”

“He won’t link it back to you.”

“I’m not worried about me; he knows who you are too.”

“What?”

You scoffed a sarcastic laugh, rolling your eyes as you remembered Reynolds’ words. The scoff was to distract yourself from remembering the chill that ran down your spine when: “He asked how good of a bodyguard you could be, considering you’re a visually impaired lawyer.”

“You can say blind.”

“Do you know Daredevil’s identity?”

Matt didn’t know whether his heart wanted to beat wildly or grind to a halt, but he felt himself noticeably flinch at your unexpected question. Which is maybe why you asked it like that. Suddenly. He exhaled slowly, picking up on the way you were keenly watching. He closed his eyes and he heard the beginning of the words form deep in your bones where you held your most sacred truths. Even though he already knew it was your sentiment, it scathed something delicate and new to hear it said out loud:

“I don’t want to know who he is.”

He turned his head away you. He couldn’t bear to show you his face, not completely anyway. He laughed sadly and let the sound of a minor car collision two blocks away bring his face more away from you, more towards the city he made an internal oath to protect. “I thought you wanted to know everything.”

“Not this,” you whispered. “I can’t know.”

“Why not?”

“Because I don’t know what the line is.” You took a gentle step towards him, and twisted the knife. “The line between vigilante and criminal has always been blurry.” You turned the blade again. “I don’t know how many people he’d have to hurt for me to turn him in, knowing what Fisk would have people do to his family. That shouldn’t be up to me.”

“Why would it be?” He turned to face you, betrayal lacerating his voice.

You looked at him. Really looked at him. Did he really not understand? This man who could hear your deepest fears in the shallowest breaths and feel the pain of long-past torn muscles beneath your skin - how could he not understand?

“Because that’s what I do. It’s who I am. I reveal truth, I don’t hide it. I… I thought you-”

“I do understand.”

“I thought you agreed. I thought the truth mattered to you.”

He clenched his jaw. “It does.”

“More than anything?”

Matt opened his mouth but just sighed and shook his head in confusion, shrugging along the way.

You pressed him. “What could be more important?”

Matt was confronted with the urge to unleash the reality of all he’d ever done into your open arms. To argue through disheveled justifications that every lie he’d ever told to was to protect and preserve life. Life, was more important than truth. In order to protect life, compromises must be made. Examples must be made of those who’d dared to threaten it.

How could you not understand that?

This woman who’d burst into his life full of uncompromising, unapologetic tenacity. How many hours of sleep had you already lost to his problems? How much longer would you stay, obviously unsatisfied by his apparent unwillingness to let you in?

It scared him to know that he would tell you everything if that’s what it took.

He’d open that chest in the bottom of his wardrobe and place that bulletproof mask in your hands. He’d guide your fingertips over the ridges, over the scales and horns. All his secrets, so willingly spilled through his fingers would seep into your skin and you’d understand. He’d help you understand.

He’d help you know.

Therein lay the problem. Here, as he wanted nothing more than to hold you in his arms, to breathe in the desire you felt and the peace you gave and took, he knew there was half of him you never wanted to know. So as recompense for all the truth he’d never be able to give you, he answered your question with resolute honesty.

What was more important that truth?

“Justice.”

The single word landed softer than you thought it would. Maybe because you were prepared for it. You could hardly say it was disappointing or surprising, considering his career path. Still, you hadn’t pegged him as the type to sympathise with vigilantes. You sighed and closed your eyes before rubbing them roughly, feeling your fatigue creep into your peripheral vision and your legs start to sway you where you stood.

Sensing you were on an brink, overtired and wired, Matt stood up from the table. The wooden chair scraped across the floor, bringing your gaze to him. He walked over and tentatively reached out, finding either side of your upper arms. He felt you shake your head, obviously knowing what he was about to say.

“No,” you said.

“You should try to get some sleep.”

“No,” you said again, shaking your head once more.

He didn’t give any signs of annoyance, anything that would antagonise or patronise you, he just said, “Please. There was a threat on your life, you can’t pretend everything is business as usual.”

“People have threatened my life before-”

“I can feel your fear.” His voice was a low rumble travelling through you. “The way you’re holding your tension.” You relaxed your arms, but you supposed that just proved his point, so you opened your mouth to argue. He continued, “I can hear it in your voice. The conflict. It’s different this time. Why?”

“Because I… I actually started to trust him and I-”

You stopped thinking about pulling away and lifted your head to look up at where he wore a good and decent disposition. And it hit you like a ton of bricks.

You trusted him. Murdock.

And that was the problem.

Trusting someone too soon is exactly how you got a convulsive canvas stretched above your bed. Letting your guard down is how a fucking painting was allowed in to terrorise your mind. That never would’ve happened if you’d reminded yourself that the people you investigate shouldn’t be trusted. But here you were, prone. Distracted. In his house and under his hands, yet again. Allowing him to feel intimate things like skin and fear. All of these feelings were a dangerous distraction.

Thank god for Nelson and his stupid contract.

Beginning to bury thoughts of “what if” and “maybe one day,” you started to shift the narrative. To build the world that would protect you. You reminded yourself that, when it came to Murdock, the questions were quickly outweighing the answers and you got the feeling he wasn’t willing to balance the scales. Whether that was because of you or him didn’t matter.

What mattered, in this world, is that you could feel a cavern of well-kept secrets below the surface of his skin. You could hear it in the words he avoided. You’d tasted everything unsaid. What a fool he was, to teach you to observe and to build the world with more than just sight. Because now you knew: his world was impenetrable. Fortified by a lifetime of making the decision to lay brick after brick of a wall so high maybe he thought it would reach his God.

“He fooled me,” was all you said to finish your sentence, before hardening your stare so you could feel yourself regain control. “Besides, you just gave me caffeine,” you reminded him with a dry laugh, then pulled away to walk past him. Your shoulder brushed his as you made the steps to take your place back at the table. The chair legs scraped against the wooden floor yet again, and you began to get back to work. “I’m not stopping until I figure out what he’s up to.”

There was a shift in the atmosphere between you two. A cool emptiness left hanging where you once stood right next to him.

Matt listened for a few moments to see if you’d change your mind. There was no hesitance behind your decision. Instead, there was something more determined. Like how you sounded the first half a dozen times you’d met each other.

Maybe you could sense the wall he’d put up to protect his other self from falling prey to your deductive skills, and maybe you’d taken it as a sign that he wasn’t being honest with you. He wasn’t sure. Whatever had happened, sometime between Monday and now, you’d decided that he’d gotten too close.

It wouldn’t be fair to question why you were pushing him away when he was keeping half of himself hidden. Your entire life was about the pursuit of truth, digging for facts, uncovering the hidden realities of everything and everyone you encountered. If he were to believe the best in your capabilities, which he did, he’d have to assume you could feel the devil in him even if you had no idea what you were feeling.

So he took his seat, picked up his documents, swallowed his languishing, and wondered if Arthur Reynolds had any idea what was in store for him.

It seemed unthinkable that someone could even dream of taking down a man as powerful, loved and revered as Reynolds. He was sacrosanct. Supposedly untouchable. Yet, there you were.

The laws of nature and of paradox dictated that if an unstoppable force exists then an immovable object could not. You told Matt you would not stop until Arthur Reynolds had fallen from grace, and you told the truth.

So Reynolds would be moved.

Hell, he’d be destroyed.

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