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writingfics-passingtime · 1 year

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Off the Record (Part 3/3)

Synopsis: The clock is running out and the leads are going cold. Desperate to expose the truth, you, Nelson, Murdock, and Daredevil hatch a dangerous plan.

Required reading: Part 1 - Part 2

Word Count: 22,000

CW: swearing, innuendo, murder, injury, assault (not sexual), mentions of crimes against children (not sexual), abusive marriage, mentions of suicide, making out

Author’s Note: There are over 70,000 words in this story, and it’s finally done. Thank you for sticking with me. I hope you like the end as much as I do. Not beta-read, all mistakes are mine.

Several dozen white roses had been paraded through your office on a fateful Monday morning, and they had long since wilted. The crisp, snowy petals lived out the remainder of their beauty in an old beat up dumpster beside your office building.

It was now five weeks since the Reynolds article printed and it had mostly been buried. Sure, it was the buzz of the journalism community… for a week or so… until the Avengers blew up Sokovia and created a massive refugee crisis that The Stark Foundation was scrambling to rectify. Vera had just handed over Stark Watch to the next person on the list, an old guard named Manny who thrived on superhuman drama, so she escaped relatively unscathed.

You? You were just happy to get the promise of a year-end bonus and for all the Reynolds gossip to get overshadowed; it was much easier to investigate when people weren’t thinking about him.

However, five weeks on, you were running out of leads, and running out of reasons to talk to Murdock.

Once or twice a week you’d meet in person, usually at his office. Keeping him at an arms length was becoming easier and that was its own special kind of grief. Not one you’d really processed. You’d stopped asking about the cuts and bruises on his fists and lips after he’d brushed it aside the first couple of times. He seemed so blasé about so much and you tried not to feel hurt when he’d dodge a question. On lonelier nights, you let yourself imagine that it was simply the distance being too much for him too.

He was still like the first sip of coffee on a rainy morning.

Still, he was something you looked forward to. Something you craved. Murdock, with eyes like fresh new earth and a gaze that saw straight through you. His touch, now almost always accidental, still felt like galaxies colliding under your skin.

He was still here.

It didn’t take long for you to realise that you hadn’t withdrawn completely. There may well be a line in the sand but you hadn’t quite commanded the retreat. Instead you stayed in the ring, circling each other, wondering who would duck under the ropes first. You didn’t know. All you knew is that the struggle between you wasn’t the one blooming dark purple hues behind his glasses.

You didn’t like the unsteady ground. How you knew he could read your unsaid frustration in your foot’s idle tap against the couch in his office, and then in how you would consciously stop it. How you’d sometimes hesitate when he asked if he should order dinner. Now, five weeks on, you’d stopped staying for dinner. There wasn’t enough new information to talk through to justify staying.

But you were still here.

Maybe you needed a vacation. Somewhere warm, like Cancun. Or fucking Venus.

Ophelia’s End was sitting in a long-term storage locker an hour out of town. It cost an arm and leg to move but you needed it gone. The key to the unit was bright red so you had to take it off your keychain and hide it in a drawer because every time you saw it you were reminded of everything you still didn’t know.

At least Harold Avery made bail for the bodega fire. The cops either thought he did it, or they were just desperate to be tougher on crime. Either way, the state was handing out indictments like Halloween candy and Avery’s charges were going to trial.

And Reynolds? Radio silence.

Reality hung over you like an impending storm, making the air thick and muggy but not giving you any sort of relief. A droplet. Anything. Just one hint in the right direction was all you needed. But Reynolds’ charitable accounts were public and clean, all the schools and customer service lines associated with his charity were friendly and scripted. Too friendly and too scripted, mind you, and the sort that felt impenetrable.

So now, five weeks on, you finally admitted to yourself that ego was no friend.

It was time to ask for help from a real one.

Trying hard to not drudge through the doorway, you eased into a break room chair next to Vera as she scrolled on her phone and nursed a peppermint tea. She didn’t look up.

“Okay,” you sighed.

"Okay, what?" She let out a curt breath through her nose, lips ever-so pursed, eyes fixed to her phone. "Okay, you've decided what you want for lunch or okay, you're finally going to tell me what's been bothering you for the past month and a half.”

"Vera-"

"Don't Vera me," she snipped. You deserved it. You hadn't been the greatest friend while being so consumed by... well, everything. Even so, she tapped a button and her screen became a black mirror. "You've been off."

"I know."

"Is it a man?

"A few, in fact."

She raised an eyebrow at that, but there was no smile in her glance so you sighed and digressed. “Reynolds is a snake in the grass. And there’s no proof.”

“What do you need?”

“A lead,” you leaned forward and held your forehead against both palms, releasing the tension of keeping this inside for so long. The pressure mounted behind your eyes and you swore under your breath, desperately not wanting to cry but the sleepless nights were adding up.

A gentle touch met your forearm. “How can I help?”

You sniffed, thankfully holding in the tears, and clasped your hands on the table in front of you. You looked at your fingers, intertwined to ward off fidgeting, not bearing to look up at your friend when you knew your eyes would have the beginnings of glassiness Vera would pick up on.

“You don’t know anyone in Haiti, do you?” You almost laughed, albeit bitterly, because it was such a long shot that-

“I do, actually.”

Angels may as well have been singing in the room. Not caring about your reputation, you looked her dead in the eye in a beg for her to continue. “A guy I went to college with. Jorge… something, I can’t remember his last name, but we’re definitely still connected on socials. He works for an NGO based out of Port-au-Prince.”

“Vera,” you all but gasped and reached out for her, catching her forearm, tangling you two together. “Please, I need to talk to him now.”

“Sure,” she nodded, but her face contorted into something worried, something in conflict. “Right after you tell me what’s going on.”

Information for information. It was a trade made often enough to not be unexpected but it still felt hard when it came to this. You knew it wasn’t healthy to keep it all in like you had been. So you nodded and sat back in your seat.

Where to begin? Where did this mess start?

You could start with Avery, the bodega fire, the gala, the Thai food and faded basketball shorts. Murdock’s hands and the safety of his touch. How it opened your heart, your mind, dulled your sensibilities. How he unwittingly left you prone for Reynolds. How desperately you wanted to shut yourself off, for nothing to reach so far inside your heart and mind and sensibilities ever again.

Right now, all you wanted to do was call Jorge with the forgotten last name and ask if he knew anything. To see if people down there were suspicious. Maybe you’d have to go down there yourself.

But for now, you looked over your shoulder to make sure you two were alone in the break room. Then, you hung your head and sighed again.

“Remember that guy who I said was too good?”

She nodded. “Let me guess, too good to be true?”

The grief of the Almost hit you like a thunderclap, striking hard across your chest, sending a surge of numb resignation coursing through your skin and bones. You shook your head and bit down hard on the side of your tongue in an effort to stop the tears before realising you were too full of static to cry in that moment. At least that was a corner of respite in this whole situation. Even talking about him you felt prone, vulnerable, it was too much and not enough all at once.

“No,” you croaked out and then cleared your throat. “He’s every bit as good as I thought when I met him for the first time. Briefly, two years ago, outside a court in mid-town,” you admitted. You’d been thinking a lot about that day, recently. Maybe it was some last-ditch effort to hold onto memories of him as you drifted and let life pull you apart. Still, it’d been on your mind. “He’s a defence attorney.”

A kaleidoscope of memories flashed across your mind, bringing a sad half-smile to your lips. As quickly as it came, it went, and you felt your face screw into something uncomfortable.

“I’m in the thick of it, V,” you sniffed again. “Can we talk when this Reynolds thing is done? I promise I’ll tell you everything over an expensive bottle of red and-”

“Of course,” she ducked her head to catch your eye, so you looked at her, still feeling numb but now feeling the very real threat of tears. She picked up her phone, “Let me get you Jorge’s number.”

“Thank you,” you whispered, nodding, looking back at your lap.

“Don’t cry here.” Her advice was firm and kind; she knew the sharks were circling. They always were in a place like this.

“I won’t,” you blinked them back, then saw your phone light up with a shared contact from Vera. “Thank you,” you said again and stood. Before it could get too awkward and emotional, you left the room, retreating to your office with a call already outgoing to Jorge’s number.

Jorge Estrada worked for an NGO based in Haiti’s capital, focused on rebuilding and strengthening the city’s infrastructure as they faced increasingly intense climate and weather events. Jorge was in charge of marketing, communications, finding funding, the like, and you were convinced he was your lifeline.

He didn’t seem at all surprised to hear that someone thought a charity was up to something shady in that part of the world. “You’d be surprised how hard it is to get things done,” he’d told you, “Even though the whole island’s at stake, corruption and cartel violence regularly gets in the way of us helping people.” Jorge also quickly dismissed the idea of you visiting by rattling off several names of journalists who were never seen alive again after poking around in all the corruption business.

While on the phone, you sent him a dossier on all of Reynolds’ known activities in Haiti, and talked about your conversations with the charity offices. He said he’d do some subtle digging, shielded by the local relationships he’d formed, and get back to you when he could.

Seriously. A lifeline.

Filled with a renewed energy, you typed notes from your call with Jorge, already thinking of a thousand more questions you had when you and he talked next. You were so engrossed in the work that you almost missed it when your phone lit up with a text.

In fact, you did miss the first time it happened. And the second.

Thankfully, Jonah was a triple-text kind of guy.

GUESS WHAT?!

GUESS WHO’S COMING IN TODAY?!?!

TAKE ONE GUESS

The shock of the out-of-the-blue message forced you to your feet, snatching your phone in your hand. You tried calling Jonah but he declined it after one ring. The slacker must be in a meeting. You typed as fast as your fingers would let you.

Izzy Reynolds

BITCH YES

When?

2. She has a meeting with my dad.

Jonah… I love you.

I’m taken.

You scoffed a laugh and checked the time. 1:34pm. There was time to talk to Murdock. Time to tell him the events of the morning.

With your thumb hovering over his name, you made the impulsive decision to click your screen to black and do this on your own. It felt like an important first step, considering the circumstances between you and him. Or maybe it was an excuse to talk to him more later. To have more to say, to have a reason to stay for dinner.

Almost on autopilot, you grabbed your coat and made your way down to the lobby to wait for Izzy.

The towering ceilings of the downtown building always seemed like an unnecessary waste of space but added a sense of looming power to the structure. Besides, the lobby wasn’t to be enjoyed - if it was, the couches would be more comfortable - instead, it was to make an impression; the people here have money to spend. They can burn the cubic feet of central New York real estate and fill it with modern chandeliers that matched the blocky backless leather couches dotted around the swirling marbled floors.

It always echoed so intensely, it was hard to get a quiet thought in here. Hell, you’d had no time to prepare. You had no idea what you were going to ask, or whether or not you’d even get the chance to be alone with her.

You pretended to take a call while you scanned the room for the form and face of one of New York’s most in-demand models. If you timed it right, you’d finesse your way onto the same elevator as Izzy Reynolds made her way to the top floors for a meeting with her financial advisors.

As two o’clock approached, heads began to turn.

A tall, slender woman walked confidently through the lobby, ignoring all the stares and whispers she was sure to be used to. Her porcelain skin, a trademark feature, practically glowed in a way you didn’t think was possible in a building like this. Her hair, currently platinum blonde and impossibly long, moved and shimmered along with everything about her.

Izzy had dressed for the occasion, in a white tailored pantsuit and a black leather bag you were pretty sure was made just for her. At least, one of the articles you’d read had mentioned something about Gucci’s new creative director using her as a muse. Her dark brown, almost black, doe eyes were hidden behind large-framed sunglasses.

Not wanting to waste a second, you stood still and kept the phone to your ear, trying to look as casual as possible as you matched her step towards the security desk. If you called an elevator while she was being cleared, she might trust the look of you enough to get on the same lift with you. I mean, it’s not like you looked at all threatening… right?

With tunnel vision, you set out towards the elevators. The blood rushed around your ears, the breath shallow in your chest as you made sure to not look too hard at one of the best leads you’d had in weeks.

Within feet of Izzy, you mumbled some nonsense into your phone about “billable hours�� or some other bullshit, and tapped your keycard against the sliding gate.

You stepped past security just seconds before Izzy.

She was alone.

You continued on and called the elevator.

After “hanging up” the phone your eyes slid to the chrome double doors, two steps to your left, that had immediately opened. Without looking in Izzy’s direction, you walked over and stepped inside. She followed.

She fucking followed!

Your heart beat a mile a minute. You pressed your floor button, and she pressed hers on the keypad on the other side of the elevator and then slotted her sunglasses into a case she’d pulled out of her purse.

The doors closed at a pace you were convinced was a thousand times slower than usual.

Close. Fucking close, you urged it silently, begging the universe and Murdock’s god that no one would ruin this. They slid closed, your heart all but stopped, waiting to see if anyone would catch the second or two of delay and crush every dream you’d formed in the past half an hour.

But they stayed shut. And the elevator started moving.

There wasn’t a second to waste.

You turned, without a hint of wavering in your voice.

“Izzy, I need to talk to you.”

She was intimidatingly tall, almost all tall as her ex-husband, her stare intense as it met yours with a sort of ice you hadn’t been anticipating. Annoyance, you’d maybe thought, but not hatred. Her dark brown eyes held no warmth towards you as her ruby lips curled into a sneer. “Tell Arthur to fuck off,” she seethed, turning to face you to bear her height over yours. “I haven’t talked to any journalist and he has no right to-”

“I’m a journalist,” you interrupted, realising what was going on. “I think that’s me he’s talking about- please,” you held out your hands to calm her, watching as her expression quickly changed from anger, to realisation, to fear.

“Stop,” she whispered. “You have no idea what he’ll do if he thinks I talked to you. I can’t- I can’t do this,” she shook her head. “Not right now. I can’t risk it with him leaving so soon, he might-…”

“He’s leaving?”

“To London,” she snipped. “In like, a week. He…”

“And he’s threatening to take Malcolm with him, isn’t he?” You let your voice fall. Her eyes flashed in fear and you nodded. “I know about Malcolm. Izzy, he doesn’t want you to talk to me because he knows I’ll believe you. Whatever you say, I’ll believe you.”

“How could I even help you?” She choked out, looking up and around the elevator for cameras. They were hidden. She wouldn’t see them, which felt unfair. “He never let me in on his business.”

“Anything,” you breathed out, dropping your hands. Your floor was approaching. “A name, a word, anything I can look into.” She shifted uncomfortably so you risked it: “That little nagging thing that just popped into your head? That’s the thing you should tell me.”

The elevator began to slow for your floor. You pled with your gaze, knowing you were asking her to risk too much for someone she’d never met. But maybe Reynolds telling her to keep her mouth shut would work against him. Maybe he showed his hand, and maybe, just maybe, she’d have a little faith in the woman who rattled the man she so clearly hated.

She winced and looked up, then looked back at you with a level stare. “OneWorld.” She seemed close to tears of anxiety but she held them back. “He was only ever nervous about OneWorld.”

You nodded and didn’t patronise her with a smile as the doors opened to your floor. “Thank you,” you mouthed and stepped off the elevator. The second your feet met solid ground you heard her hit out at the button to close the doors. You turned back, and saw only resignation and regret. There was no hope in her eyes.

She set her jaw, steeled her glare, and spoke her final words to you:

“Never contact me again.”

The door then closed on the most beautiful woman you’d ever seen.

Less than ten minutes after the doors closed on Izzy you’d bundled up your laptop, notebook, all the extras, and jumped in a yellow taxi to Hell’s Kitchen.

You genuinely had no idea if Murdock would even be at his office. He could be in court for all you knew, but there’d been nothing for weeks and now there was something, and he was the only person you wanted to talk about it with. He was the only one who would understand how this puzzle piece would be a hit straight to your vein, how you’d surge with determination.

After all, he could hear the passion in your voice. He’d said as much, one of those late nights when the only thing keeping you on opposite sides of the room were the open blinds and the contract you’d signed.

Neither of you had dared to dipped a toe into the no one would have to know conversation. You knew it would be too tempting, or maybe because you knew you’d never risk it and there was no use torturing yourselves with the very thought. But damn him, if every word he spoke wasn’t an invitation to step into his space, and if every thoughtful tilt of his head didn’t make you want to kiss the exposed skin above his collar.

You had that, at least. The fantasies, memories, the whirlpool of daydreams and the reprieve of an overactive imagination… bzzt!

The phone in your pocket vibrated harshly, making you jump and blush at the thoughts you were getting lost in. It was Jorge.

“Hey, already?” You answered the phone, taking care to sound impressed.

“You’re not gonna believe this,” he was breathless. You sat up a little straighter. “I just left the OneWorld office. You’re right; there’s definitely something shady goin’ on.”

“Tell me everything.”

Though the phone you heard the closing of his car door, the click of his seatbelt and the start of an engine while he relayed his experience. “Said I was in the neighbourhood and had been meaning to stop by to see how we’d go about sourcing our volunteers through their services, yadda-yadda. The woman on the desk freaked. Said I couldn’t be there without an appointment and told me to leave.”

“And did you?”

“Well the armed security made it a pretty easy decision,” he chuckled. You smiled, understanding why Vera was friends with this guy. “But look, four years down here and I’ve never had an interaction like that with a non-profit.”

“Yeah, that’s shady,” you agreed, and then paid your cab driver with a quick thank-you.

As you exited the car, Jorge dropped the bomb.

“That’s not all.”

Now, he sounded unsteady.

You adjusted the bag on your shoulder and looked up at the concrete steps, eyes landing on the plaque that held Murdock’s name. The waver in Jorge’s voice turned your tongue to cotton.

"What happened?"

You. Matt's ear prickled, and he twitched at the familiar sound of your voice coming through a sliver of open window. You were here. Around, downstairs, in front of the building.

A subtly as they could, his fingers found the time indicators on his accessible watch. Foggy shifted next to him while their client slowed their words for the tail-end of their sentence. Shit. He'd been seen checking the time. But you were here. Unannounced.

You listened intently as Jorge told you what he thought he saw, and your mouth fizzed into an excited smile. More clues, more pieces of the puzzle, more mess Reynolds left behind.

"Be careful, will you?" You wished him well after thanking him profusely and promising to call if you had any more information to share.

He promised the same and vowed he'd watch his back. "And, hey, you too," his voice turned solemn. "If these guys are who I think they are, you're not in the clear just because you work on the Upper East Side."

You chuckled once, bitterly, remembering the death of Ophelia splayed across your bedroom wall. "Believe me, I know."

Who were you talking to? Matt couldn't make out the voice on the other side of the phone but he could hear you approaching. Your shoes tracking down the hallway, the melodic clink of keys in your purse, your hand on the doorknob, Karen's shift upwards to greet you, your insistence that you needed him right away. His heart drummed along. After all this time, you still came here.

You, with the fire in your belly and the laugh like a Saturday sunset. With the touch so precise and longing, the scent of orange blossom lingering against the pulse point below your ear, with an intoxicating steady breath that made him forget his own name.

"Matt?"

"Hmm?"

Foggy's voice turned his attention back towards the client and he suddenly realised he'd been zoned out during something that was probably important. "I'm very sorry, Mr Smythe, I have another client meeting I've just remembered," he stood and buttoned his jacket before making a show of reaching around for his cane, and cracked an apologetic grimace. "I sometimes have a hard time noticing things on my calendar, you understand."

"O-of course," Mr Smythe clearly didn't feel like he was allowed to be annoyed. Foggy, on the other hand... Matt cringed internally and apologised once more before ducking out of the room, sure to be read the riot act by his business partner the second Smythe was gone.

Matt entered the main room and closed Foggy's office door behind him just as Karen was explaining that the attorneys had a busy afternoon. "Karen," Matt soothed with an outstretched hand. Two heads turned towards him with remarkably similar tension. "It's alright." That outstretched hand then smoothed down his tie, making sure it had found its way inside the jacket when he had hastily buttoned it up. "It's the middle of the day," Matt said just loud enough for you both to hear. "You must have something."

You watched that eager, desperate lick of his lips. By his god, he wanted you to have something so bad. For the first time, you considered he might want this almost as much as you do.

"I do," you confirm with a small nod and a meaningful look at Karen. "I got two sources today. Both highly credible."

"Who?"

With a firm shake of your head in a resolute no, you said, "You know I can't tell you that."

"Attorney-client privilege," Matt reminded you.

"Not with me," Karen piped up, and you half-smiled.

"She's right," you started, "But I'm not telling you either.” He opened his mouth to protest so you finished, “I don’t roll on sources, Murdock. You're gonna have to trust me." …For once, swelled bitterly on the tip of your tongue. But you held it in.

His jaw set and his hands slowly met his hips. He wondered if this was revenge - a little payback for all of his secrets - or if this was just you. Either way, he knew it was a losing battle. A good journalist never revealed their sources, and you were the best he'd known. So:

"Fine," he titled his head towards his office and turned, gesturing for you to enter. "But you're telling me everything else."

You smiled and stepped towards him. “Well I’m not here for the Costco coffee.”

“Here he comes,” Matt interrupted you, getting to his feet to stave off the charging bull of Franklin Nelson. As expected, the door to Matt’s office flew open and in stormed a sure-to-be red-in-the-face Foggy. “Foggy, I can explain-”

“Oh, this’d better be good,” he laughed in rage, his domineering stance demanding an explanation.

“It is,” you cut in, standing so you wouldn’t be the only one who was four feet tall. “We have a lead on Reynolds. The best in months,” you implored without a hint of sarcasm or wit or anything to antagonise Nelson right now because this was too fucking important.

Nelson looked defeated, and then looked at the ground. “How many times do I have to tell you,” he turned his head towards Murdock, “that Reynolds is a dead lead?! The guy is squeaky clean!”

“If that’s true then why does he have armed gang members acting as security for OneWorld?”

“What’s OneWorld?”

“It’s a volunteer-placement company. Supposedly matching college kids with the chance to do a summer of good. Something for their resumes,” you handed Nelson your notebook, opened to a double page with a bunch of names scratched out. His face screwed up as he tried to decipher what you were showing him, so you didn’t make him ask. “But I’ve talked to two hundred and thirty-nine randomly selected charities in the past five weeks and not one of them uses OneWorld.”

“So?”

“So don’t you think it’s strange that this company apparently contracts exclusively to schools set up by Reynolds? And that when an employee of a local NGO enquires about using their services he’s told to leave immediately?”

He? Matt shifted. Is that who you’d been talking to outside? Who’s… he?

Nelson sighed and looked up at you from the notebook. “What are you saying?”

“I’m saying this is shady shit, Nelson!” You urged with your patience hanging by a thread. “And I’m saying that we’ve spooked Reynolds so bad he’s moving back to London in a week and we have to do something now!”

Matt moved around the desk, coming up behind you to place a hand on your shoulder. Your temper was rising with every doubt Foggy threw your way. “Hey,” he said, low and close to you.

“No,” you turned to him and shook your head. You turned to Nelson but he was reading his best friend, so you turned back to Murdock. They both looked defeated. Unwilling. “We have to do something.”

“Do what?” Foggy challenged. Matt was relieved to hear no bite in his voice, but the flatness of the tone seemed to irk you even more than his venom would’ve.

“Did you two fake your degrees from Columbia or are you just playing dumb?!” The thread snapped and you burst at their complete lack of urgency. “Let’s figure it out.” Murdock’s hand met your shoulder again and you almost pushed it away. He stepped to your side so you tried to control yourself. Closing your eyes, with slow even breaths, you reminded them, “You owe me. Six weeks ago I was on the other side of this and I helped you.”

You looked up to see Murdock’s distant stare under frown lines, and then looked over to see Nelson with his hands on his hips and his gaze fixed on his shoes.

Matt knew he needed to do something, lest you go rogue and get yourself hurt in a desperate attempt to do this on your own. “Let’s talk then,” he nodded, voice so calm it made you twitch in annoyance. “Sit down.”

“I’m fine standing-”

“Sit… down,” he whispered with no room to debate, so you relented, and he thanked God that you did.

From somewhere close, Foggy subtly cleared his throat and Matt knew his friend was beginning to crack. About you. To let himself admit that maybe you actually cared. That you weren’t just chasing the next scoop for attentions’ sake.

“I could go to him,” you started spitballing and Matt heard the flame still stoked inside you even though you tried to hold it down. “Wear a wire, get him to admit to something-”

“Admit what?” Foggy cut in. Challenging you the way Reynolds would. “You’re gonna need a hell of a lot more than ambiguous shady shit to confront him.”

You shook your head. “I can bluff. Push him- I can use something else to get in the door and record enough to make someone listen-”

“Terrible plan,” Foggy shook his head.

“Asshole,” you muttered.

“He’s right,” Matt cut in. From the way your shoulders dropped, you knew they were right. “Besides,” he continued, “The walls.”

You paused, sucked your teeth, nodded. “The walls.”

Foggy’s ears perked. “What about the walls?”

You needed to get him outside.

“I could get him onto the balcony,” you said to Murdock, ignoring Nelson.

Ophelia.

Murdock’s head lowered towards you. “How’re you gonna get him out there?”

Ultra-rich guys like him, the ones into arts, tend to be big on symbolism.

You didn’t answer, knowing he’d hate the place your mind went. But, based on the way his whole body tensed in disapproval, you got the gist he had an inkling of the idea.

Matt opened his mouth to tell you how stupid it was and how he’d never let you put yourself in danger like that, but “Hey! Walls?” Foggy snapped his fingers between the two of you. Matt had hardly realised how he’d leaned closer, his protectiveness having unwittingly drawn him into your pull.

Your stare didn’t leave Murdock’s. You couldn’t back down because he’d know if you had. But you answered Nelson. “Reynolds has signal jammers in his walls. He can’t be recorded inside. Thankfully, he has a balcony…” You knew it was bad, but you wanted to see his reaction, “And I’ll give him a reason to make a point.”

And there it was. Like the hit of a glorious addition, you watched as Murdock’s shoulders drew wider, broad and strong. His knuckles paled underneath layers of bruises at various stages of healing and pain he refused to disclose. The tension in the breath he held and released was a song you couldn’t get enough of.

Five weeks of doubt, evaporated.

He longed, he cared, he felt. All for you.

“I won’t let you do this,” Matt pushed out through a tension-locked jaw, no longer trying his best to make you feel like an outsider. “It’s too risky.”

“I’ll go in with a wire, confront him about the investments in Malcolm’s name, rile him up and-”

“And what?” Matt raged. “Antagonise him into hurting you- are you out of your mind?!”

“You don’t get to tell me how to do my job,” you fired back far too calmly. “I know how to get information out of people.”

Father Lantom would give a sermon-length lecture if Matt, sitting in confessional or on a park bench or in the shadows, told him how fast his mind turned to the Devil. That part of Matt that wanted you close, that nagging part, reached in and whispered the idea, convincing him it might not be as bad as it seemed on the surface. Foggy might throw a fit, you might refuse, but it was the only play that made sense. And it was the only plan that gave him a chance at protecting you.

“We need back-up.” He turned slightly towards Foggy. “I’m calling our friend.”

You watched Foggy’s eyes go wide. His hands flew out in shock. “You told her about our friend?!” Matt held out a hand that said we’ll talk about this later.

You found your feet in an instant, full of objection. “Oh, no way in hell are you bringing Daredevil in on this.”

“Why? Hmm?” Murdock’s jaw rippled with impatience.

You scoffed. “Because I can’t trust someone I don’t know.”

A thick, humid silence sucked the atmosphere from the room the second the words left your lips. Freud would be proud.

The seconds that bated breaths and the old air con unit held dominion of the sound space were finally relieved by a sharp knock at the office door, then Karen poking her head in to call Foggy away urgently. He left, stewing, without another word. The deep-space lack of anything was left in his wake.

Murdock slipped his tongue out to wet his lips but didn’t otherwise move.

His voice was deceptively soft for how much of an answer it demanded. “Who’re you talking about?” He didn’t let you bide time by asking the obvious question. “Hmm? Who can’t you trust?”

You scoffed again and pushed some wayward strands of hair from your skin before shaking your head. You answered with a question, almost like a parable in his holy book.

“What happened to your eye?” He was still as stone, so you nodded. “That’s what I thought.”

“You don’t trust me,” Matt lamented.

“I can tell when I’ve been shut out,” you said with tortured finality in your voice, “There’s so much about you I’ll never know. Maybe you don’t know it yourself, or you just won’t tell me, but honesty matters to me and-”

“I’ve always told you the truth.”

“Half-truths don’t count.”

Silence hung in the air as Matt didn’t deny it, because you were right. The existence of a Goliath secret was obvious in the way he danced around words, prevalent in carefully chosen synonyms and omissions of certain details, showcased by the slowness of his responses clashing with the quickness of his wit.

How he couldn’t tell you what happened to his eye.

He hated doing this to you. He hated that he could feel how much it hurt you to not be allowed to understand him the way you felt he understood you. You’d been open. Giving him the whole truth and nothing but the truth. You let him know you so well.

Even now, he knew what you were about to say before you said it:

“With this whole Reynolds thing coming to a close, I’ve been thinking.”

Don’t. Matt thought.

“I don’t know what this is,” you started, and he heard you gesture between the two of you, from the pure habit of how you communicate, “but it’s too complicated. I love being an investigative journalist, Murdock. I really do.”

Who am I kidding? She has to. Matt thought.

“But I can’t be expected to figure you out when you clearly don’t want me to. And, believe me, I’ve tried,” you laughed, bitterly, and looked at the stupid wooden floor.

Your heartbeat said truth and pain, and hope you wished you didn’t have. You wanted him to argue. To tell you that he was sorry, that it was that contract, that he was afraid of getting disbarred or that he didn’t know how to let you in. Your heart pounded in his ears as you waited for the fight. Because at least that was passion. Passion you could take. You couldn’t take nothing.

Matt nodded, still with his hands on his hips. He sniffed once, and fought the urge to fight with you.

You were so easy to fight with, because it was always about the problem and not the person. You were fun to fight with, because you brought ethical passion to any argument. He longed to hear more of that passion poured out over morning cups of coffee as you defended your love for a losing sports team, or went on the offence and told him he hogged the sheets all night.

Instead, he knew he had to say:

“You’re right. This won’t work.”

The blow of his words surprised you; he was so good at arguing, you thought he would have fought for it. He had bruised knuckles and cheekbones, split eyebrows poorly concealed by glasses, so you thought he may have fought for you to stay.

You willed your churning stomach to calm, knowing there were more pressing matters to be anxious about.

“So, uh, now that that’s settled,” you cleared your throat so your voice wouldn’t wobble but hiding anything from him was a losing battle at this point. Which just pissed you off.

“Um…” You shook your head, trying to clear it, it’s over it’s over it’s over, trying to find your bearings. Daredevil. Opening your eyes, you looked to Murdock. “Daredevil. How can you ask me to trust that he won’t go after Reynolds himself?”

Matt took a second to realise how quickly you’d changed the subject and, again, didn’t fight you on it.

“Quid pro quo. I’m trusting your sources,” he stated, and the pit in your chest knew he had you there. “Give me tonight to talk to mine. We can meet in the morning, talk it through, and then make contact with Reynolds.”

“Early. Seven,” you demanded. “We’ll meet here at seven a.m. and finalise a plan. We can’t risk him putting this off so you only have tonight.”

He nodded in agreement. “That’s all I need.”

You nodded in defeat and bent to pick up your bag, taking note of the dozens of hues of brown in the floorboards. It probably wasn’t worth taking in all the tiny details you’d forget in a few years when you’d be trying to fall in love with some poster-child for nepotism because, hey, he’s hot and not a total dumbass.

All at once, you wondered if you’d remember the way this office sounded beneath your jokes with Murdock, or the way the terrible coffee would linger on your tongue when you couldn’t tear your eyes from Murdock’s lips as he talked through your ideas with you. The smell of the old tweed couch would be replaced by the sea-spray on your next fling’s father’s yacht, Murdock’s touch would long be a ghost you consciously ignore.

It already hurt to look at him. So you didn’t, as you turned to leave. With one hand on the doorknob, you sighed and said, “It’s not some ego thing, you know,” you held in a sad and bitter laugh. “I just wanted to know you. That’s all I wanted.”

Matt was silent as you left. The haste of your exit indicated no desire to continue the conversation and every desire to leave him with your confession. Your heartbeat confirmed you were honest as ever, and it revealed your inner conflict and the strength it took to leave instead of stay and fight.

But you also told the truth one night, many weeks ago, when you said you never wanted to know Daredevil’s identity.

An unstoppable force meets an immovable object. It’s an impossibility.

However, it certainly wasn’t any threat to you right now and none of it would matter if Matt couldn’t ensure your safety. So his mind turned to the locked trunk in his closet, the suit, and some rumours that’d been milling on the streets for the past couple of months.

Perched on the corner of a dirty rooftop near the docks, Daredevil listened.

The wind rustled discarded trash along the concrete roof. A few cans, some crushed, some still whole and rolling and rattling, fresh cigarette butts slid with them. They still smelled like the smoke exhaled days ago. The pigeons in the nest on another corner were sleeping soundly. The Devil of Hell’s Kitchen hadn’t disturbed him as he listened for his target.

There was a new guy on the block causing headaches for… well, everyone. Interfering with the Koreans’ meth operation, leading police on wild goose chases, disrupting the Irish, knowing where people would be before they got there. Matt had heard stories, out here, of the equipment he used to intercept drugs and money and evade the cops. No one knew who he worked for.

If you were facing Reynolds at his penthouse apartment, Matt knew he needed the technological advantage. If his worst fears had even the smallest chance of manifesting, there may not be any other way.

There.

His head tilted and he listened.

There. Three blocks over. Yelling in a dialect Matt couldn’t discern. A scuffle.

He turned his body towards it, and tracked the young street runner with his covered eye-line. The Devil’s hollow gaze followed the runner as he weaved in and out of buildings, losing his tail with a relative ease. He was holding something. It rustled and clinked, bunched in his fist.

Matt sighed. A bag of meth had a very distinct sound. “Typical,” he whispered to himself.

The thief was still on his way, zig-zagging in a path to further lose any pursuant, unwittingly heading straight for-

He stopped. About a hundred yards away.

Matt listened hard again, and he kicked himself for not realising how close one of the hums of the street lamps was. He was, most likely, bathed in light. Crouched like a menacing gargoyle on the edge, staring straight at the young criminal who’d interrupted a drug deal.

Knowing he’d been spotted, hearing the breath of the meth-stealing runner, Matt held up a hand towards him, hoping it would show him he meant no harm.

The fist around the bag of drugs tightened, muscles tensed, the fabric of the hoodie shifted on his head.

“Wait,” Matt called.

He didn’t know why the runner hadn’t moved. Maybe he was curious. Or… no. His heart was beating harder, the breaths quicker through his nose. He was afraid. Matt held back a smirk, and was careful to not make any sudden movements as he climbed down from the three-story building. He listened the whole way, and the runner stayed rooted but the way his feet dug into the asphalt told Matt that he was ready to run at the first sign of provocation.

“I’ve heard about your tech,” Matt said, approaching slowly, pointing vaguely towards the bag of drugs he could still hear twinkling against the plastic. “That’s a nice score it got you.”

Still as a statue, the hooded figure stood in caution, only tensing when the Devil got close enough for him to truly see the power and fury of the mask. There was something about it, about the strength, the imagery, the legend, that made people wary. Even if they didn’t believe in the Devil as a myth, they knew this one was real, tangible and unrelenting.

“You know who I am?”

The runner nodded.

“Good,” Matt stopped, still twenty or so yards from his mark, and said, “Then you know I’m not interested in some low-level thief.”

The fist around the bag loosened, ever so slightly. He still didn’t speak. Maybe he didn’t know what to say. Maybe he didn’t want the Devil hearing his voice.

“I’ve seen what your technology can do,” Matt half-lied with all the command he could muster. He squared his shoulders and bored the mask into the runner’s watchful stare and thumping heartbeat. “You have some things I need.”

The following morning at 7:04 a.m. You and Nelson stood, arms crossed, next to an all-too-casual Murdock who'd just opened the duffle bag on his office desk to reveal a mass of surveillance equipment.

Finding your footing after realising how advanced some of this gear is, you asked him "Where did you get this?"

Murdock raised his eyebrows in challenge. "Are you asking me to reveal my source?"

The low hum in his voice was apparently enough out-of-character to prompt Nelson to look up and snark, "Stop flirting and focus, Matt. What's the plan?"

Ouch, you thought, but continued by pulling your phone from your pocket.

“Time to find out if Reynolds blocked my number,” you let out a tense breath and pressed on the contact you’d saved the first time you called, immediately putting it on speaker. The phone started ringing. You didn’t know if you were relieved or not.

It kept ringing and ringing.

Your gaze was fixed on the phone.

Maybe he was busy.

Maybe he was ignoring you.

Then, just as it sounded like it would ring out, he answered.

“Hello.”

You rolled your eyes at the amount of self-satisfaction he projected from a single word. “Hi. How are you?” You asked sarcastically.

He gave a snide laugh. “What do you want?”

“I want to know what you thought of my article.”

“Splendid. Fantastic,” he also replied with sarcasm. “You have a wonderful way with words- am I doing this right? Does it sound like I’ve read it?”

“You’re too much of a narcissist to not have read it,” you laughed back.

Nelson’s eyes went wide and he mouthed, “WHAT ARE YOU DOING?!” You held up a hand to tell him to chill out.

“I’ll cut to the chase,” you swallowed. “I need money.”

The laugh on the other end of the phone was incredulous and confused. “You’re seeking payment for writing a little article about me? My, you certainly have some gall.”

“No, Arthur. What I have is information I’m sure you don’t want out there,” you talked to him like a child. “So here’s the deal: call your lawyer, have him draft a non-disclosure agreement with a generous settlement for me agreeing to not discuss what happened at our dinner. I’ll sign it tonight, you transfer the funds, and then we’re forever rid of each other.”

“I didn’t threaten your life,” he replied casually, probably assuming the conversation was being listened into.

“I’m not talking about Ophelia,” you smirked, then let malice drip from your voice. “I’m talking about Malcolm.”

There. A violent, deafening silence sucked the air from the office. No one moved as you heard Reynolds’ initial response to your threat to expose the truth of his son’s existence. Of course you’d never do such a thing, but you had no trouble using the possibility as a pawn with this human piece of garbage. Let him believe it. Let him squirm.

“How profoundly disappointing,” he swiped back. It didn’t sound like he was breathing, or moving. There was something eerie in his profound lack of anger or any sort of emotional response. “I have a dinner. Come by at ten.”

He didn’t wait for a reply before ending the call. You let out all the air in your lungs and shot a grimace to Nelson, who was looking at you like you were insane.

“Great job antagonising him,” he lauded sarcastically. “Are you trying to get yourself killed?”

“He’s not gonna kill me,” you deadpanned. “He won’t even try.”

Even as you said it, you started to doubt it. It was a different ballgame, threatening someone’s kid. Now, after the fact, it left a bitter taste in your mouth. The only thing that made it okay was knowing you’d never do it. No matter what happened.

Murdock stayed silent with his arms crossed, appearing to hold back some kind of comment of disapproval. You didn’t wait for it.

“Great!” You clapped your hands once and picked up your bag from the office. “Are these all for me?” You gestured to the duffle bag and Murdock stayed still for a few seconds longer. Right before you could ask again, he reached one hand it, sifted around, and pulled out a small box. It was about half the size of a deck of cards and had a long, thin wire attached to it.

“This is yours,” he held it out to you. You reached out and closed your hand around it. “The rest will be on the roof with Daredevil.”

“What?!”

“WHAT?!”

You and Nelson both started arguing at the same damn time, furious that Murdock was throwing this last-minute addition into the ring.

“You said you were just talking to him. G-getting equipment- give me that!” You yanked on the box but his grip didn’t relent and you stumbled towards him. Thankfully, you managed to stop yourself before your body crashed against his. Not so thankfully, you were now close enough to feel his breath on your skin. Through clenched teeth, you demanded, “Give it to me.”

Matt held on for a few seconds longer, intoxicated by the heat of your body so close. The anger in your rising pulse was a hypnotic rhythm forcing his hand to stay in place to keep you close.

He took control of himself and released the device, allowing you to shove it in your bag before taking a step back. “This isn’t fair. This wasn’t the plan,” you argued.

“This is us finalising the plan,” he countered.

“You said you were just gonna talk to him.”

He shook his head. “I never said that was all I was going to do.”

You scoffed a laugh and shook your head, looking anywhere but him. “You’re such a fucking lawyer,” you whispered in spite before demanding him to “Call him off.”

“He wants to be there.”

“Bull-shit,” you doubted. “Daredevil operates around here in Hell’s Kitchen and Reynolds lives on the Upper East Side.”

“So did Fisk.”

Murdock was infuriatingly calm.

“Murdock, I-”

“I’ll call him off if you tell me right now that you’re one-hundred percent Reynolds won’t hurt you.”

He’d leaned in a little closer. You released a curt breath through your nose. Not wanting to lie to him, you stayed silent. Murdock let out his own breath, bumped his eyebrows and nodded. No words needed to be spoken. You swallowed thickly and adjusted the bag on your shoulder.

“I’ll call you when it’s done. We can meet here.”

Murdock shook his head. “I’ll be outside.” You had no idea how close he’d really be. “I’ll be right there the whole time.”

You rolled your eyes but didn’t have any more will to fight with him. “Fine.”

With a quick, sullen glance to Nelson, you took your leave to let them fight it out.

The office stayed quiet for a few moments after you left, Foggy knowing that Matt would indicate once he was certain you’d left earshot. A sigh was the sign, and Foggy crossed his arms.

“What are you doing, Matt? If she finds out your secret it’s all over.”

Matt raked one hand through his hair and took a deep breath in and out.

“He was too calm.”

Foggy cocked his head. “How do you mean?”

“He doesn’t suspect anything,” Matt stood and turned to the equipment. “She’s going in there, blindside him, it’s a recipe for disaster-”

“Hey.”

Foggy’s hand met Matt’s shoulder, immediately feeling a rock of tension underneath. Matt let out another deep breath and turned his head ever so slightly towards his best friend, suddenly realising he’d raised his voice.

Before Foggy could conjure some kind of reassurance, Matt zipped the duffel bag shut and hoisted it off the desk. He walked pat Foggy and slid the bag under his desk just as Karen was arriving for the day. The strong aroma of three extra-strong coffees filled the room, along with a vanilla-based perfume Matt was too distracted to dissect.

There was a smile on her voice. “Alright, it’s a busy day ahead so I thought we could all use some extra-strong coffees this morning.”

Foggy sighed, then put on a smile to turn and greet Karen with the enthusiasm she deserved and to keep her away from Matt for the next couple of minutes. Foggy was good at knowing when his best friend needed some space to collect himself.

Matt just hoped that his secret safety net wouldn’t unravel in the next fifteen hours. Because he was convinced Reynolds was going to attempt to kill you, and he was starting to doubt that his back-up plan would work.

It was nearly ten on the dot when you dared to enter the lobby of the Golden Empress. You’d been outside for almost fifteen minutes, too focused to notice the cold. The jacket you wore was thick enough to conceal the recording device clipped to the inside of it, towards the middle of your back, and it kept you warm as you squinted upwards to catch a glimpse of the balcony.

From the pavement, you could barely pinpoint where it started.

You pulled your hands from your pockets as you entered the building. Usually, you’d be hyper aware of sticking out like a sore thumb, woefully under-dressed for a place like this, but none of that mattered right now. Black jeans and sturdy winter boots were perfectly acceptable wear for confronting a criminal.

After the same dance with the concierge as last time you were back on the elevator, alone, not looking up for cameras because you didn’t want him to see you looking. As the elevator climbed, you wondered how in the hell Daredevil was planning to get on that roof.

An unwelcome surge of panic struck through you when you realised you might truly be doing this alone - if Daredevil couldn’t come - and you made a mental reminder to tell Murdock he’s an asshole for springing the plan on you, but he was right. If Daredevil shows, that is.

When the elevator arrived the first thing you noticed was that the double doors to Reynolds’ penthouse dwelling were wide open. Had Daredevil beat you here? You made steady footfall towards them, determined to not show one hint of hesitance. Not even when Reynolds appeared in the doorway to begrudgingly greet you.

No smile, from you nor him.

“Evening,” you nodded as you approached, stopping in front of him with a sigh like you hated having to be here. He stood in the middle of the threshold, blocking your entrance.

He looked you up and down, scanned the hallway behind you, saw your hands by your side. “I don’t need to have someone search you for weapons, do I?”

You smirked. “I don’t need a weapon when I’ve already got you by the balls, but be my guest.”

He didn’t react. Tilting his head towards where you knew the kitchen would be, you followed him inside. You didn’t glance behind you, but you were burning with curiosity about how Daredevil was supposed to get in here. The doors were open. Surely he was already here.

“Let’s get this over with,” Reynolds said to you without looking in your direction.

Entering the dining area with the long table for the second time ever, you saw some things that weren’t there last time. First, a man. Balding, late middle-aged, wearing an impeccable suit, expressionless behind black-rimmed glasses. Second, paperwork on the table. Third, two pens.

“Patrick is here to explain the contents of the agreement, and to moderate any unpleasantries,” Reynolds slunk into a chair and rubbed his eyes. It’d clearly been a long day. “But I believe you’ll agree that a quarter of a million is fair payment for your silence.”

You approached and picked up a contract. “What happens if I break the NDA?”

Patrick spoke up. His voice was higher than you’d expected. “We’ll sue for damages.”

Scanning the page, you wondered if you could swing making a quick call to Murdock under the guise of checking with your counsel. What you really wanted to know was where the hell Daredevil was at this point in time. Did Murdock know? It was eating you alive.

“This is the fifth time this has happened. You’re not special,” Reynolds lounged in the chair, making no effort to hide his boredom. “There are no nasty little clauses hidden in the fine print. It’s simple one-page agreement for all those out there who lack the integrity to stay silent.”

You scoffed through your nose. “Hypocrite.”

He smirked in challenge. “How so?”

“Don’t engage, Arthur,” Patrick warned, placing a tanned hand on a pen to slide to his client.

You bumped your brow and didn’t look up from the paper you were pretending to read. “You know, accusing me of using your son.” You sniffed and turned the paper over to find it blank on the other side.

Arthur sat up a little straighter in his seat and eyed you dangerously. “What d’you mean by that?”

“Arthur.” Patrick’s voice cut through Reynolds’ glare. Reynolds held up a finger to silence his counsel. You looked at him and saw he sported a burning look that demanded an answer. You looked at Patrick and saw him glaring at his client, breath bated.

Oh. You suddenly realised that “moderating any unpleasantries” meant keeping Reynolds’ temper on a leash. Your confidence starting waning with the knowledge that Reynolds’ lawyer didn’t want him alone with you.

Still, it was too late to back out now, so you started unravelling his plan to his face.

“Using Malcolm’s name to protect your financial interests,” you said, beginning to apply pressure. “It’s pretty disgusting.”

“Investing in my son’s name is perfectly legal,” he reminded you. You laughed dryly, and then met his eye as he stood to his full height in front of you. “I’m sure your little attorney friends could tell you as much.”

“Oh, I’m not talking about the investing,” you said casually. Looking unbothered was paramount. “I’m talking about you using him as a red herring.”

Finally, Arthur looked caught off-guard. In micro-expression only. You looked back at the paper and pretended it was more interesting than watching him take in what you were saying.

Patrick stood. “This meeting is over.”

Reynolds didn’t move. Stone-faced, fire flickering behind his eyes, he stared you down as you continued.

“You know, hiding your son so carefully so if anyone got suspicious of you and did just enough digging, that’s what they would find…” you shrugged and looked up, “ It’s pretty clever. Especially since you get the moral high ground of looking like you just wanted to keep your kid safe.” You let the contract fall to the floor, like the worthless piece of paper it was, and bored your stare into his own. “But you don’t really care about Malcolm, do you? Or any kids for that matter.” You lowered your voice to a malicious whisper. “Do you know what they call you in Haiti? La Vipere. The Viper. Are you proud of that?”

His beady hazel eyes watched your every move. It was almost scary, how still he was. You did your best to not look over his shoulder, out towards the balcony, towards the stupidest, maybe most brilliant plan you’d ever come up with. If you thought about it too hard you may have wimped out, but he was leaving in less than a week.

This was your last chance.

“I know all about OneWorld,” you let yourself smirk in fake confidence. His eyes flashed in fury at the mention of his weak link. “Soon, so will everyone.” You smiled wider and watched as he cocked his head and readied to threaten you.

“What do you want?”

Patrick was observing, perhaps ready to step in, but he was too silent for someone who was supposed to keep a lid on Reynolds.

“Nothing,” your smile retreated back to a smirk.

He broke into his own smirk and slipped his hands into his pockets. "Women like you always want something," he eyed you up and down, then took a step, and another, until he was perched on the side of the table. You didn't move. You didn't want to even flinch. His glare was alarming and intense and now level with your own. "It's killing you, isn't it," he whispered, eyes darting back and forth between yours. Fighting the urge to squint, you let him continue. "You've got a little whiff of something and you've no idea what it is... so desperate... but how desperate are you?"

You narrowed your eyes and watched as he stood from the table to fake interest in the glittering cityscape.

"I'll answer any question you have," he started, tossing it all too casually over his shoulder.

“Why,” you challenged, “You think I can’t prove it?”

He chuckled again, then turned to show an unsettling smile. Walking back towards you, he explained, “Every question you ask is three years Isabel will be kept from her son.”

You stuttered, “W-hold-what?!”

He nodded. “That’s one question. Up to three years already,” he clicked his tongue and faked a pitying glance.

Your mouth went dry and you stammered to protest. “Sh-she has nothing to do with this.

“You’re in the same building as Jacobs and Keen, are you not?”

Hot anxiety surged through your stomach.

“Am I supposed to believe it’s a coincidence that I receive a call from you the day after she visits her financial planners?”

This can’t be happening. You can bargain with your own life, but not Izzy’s.

“My ex-wife has a small security team she feels very safe with. All of them report her whereabouts to me, but at least she feels in control," he shrugged with an evil indifference and took his place, again perched at the edge of the table, and he leaned closer to you. "Here's my offer: you take this settlement, leave here now, keep your mouth shut, and for the next three years I'll allow Isabel to see her son on his birthday. Or, you can continue digging and she may never see him again."

You gritted your teeth and crossed your arms. "This isn’t about Isabel."

He shrugged. "I fail to see your point." His stare was hollow and devoid of any humanity. "I've presented you with a choice.”

He was too dangerous. You had to do something. You couldn’t leave him to terrorise Izzy, or anyone else.

You had to act.

“No,” you shook your head and picked up the other contract on the table.

This was the moment.

You tore it in half and laughed with as much anger as you could muster. “Fuck you, Arthur. I’m going to burn you to the ground.”

“Calm down, both of you,” Patrick ordered as you both firmed your stances.

You tore the contract in half again. “You think all I have a little whiff?!” You shouted, tearing the papers in half yet again. “You think you scare me?”

Arthur seethed and took a step towards you as you crunched the papers in your fist. “You think I haven’t made people disappear?”

Patrick was yelling over the rage-induced tunnel vision you and Reynolds were trapped in. Careful to not be the one to touch him first, you stepped forward and gave a crazed look. “You’re done,” you spat. “You hear me? Hang all the paintings you want, Arthur. We both know you’re too much of a coward to actually-”

He struck.

Just as you’d hoped.

His palm collided with your throat faster than you could dodge it, his fingers closing tight as you choked out a breath and he turned and began walking you backwards. Your hands flew to his wrist and tugged from self-preservation but he was far too strong. Sure, you’d anticipated it, but you were biologically driven to survive and a hand around your neck was sending your humanity into overdrive.

“Control yourself, Arthur!” Patrick shouted and swore.

But Arthur was controlled.

Scarily controlled, because he let you breathe just enough to not cut you off completely. He kept walking you backwards, pausing only to wrench open the sliding glass door before forcing you over the threshold onto the balcony, and no one did the damn thing to stop him. In fact, Patrick left the room altogether.

Something inherent in you knew he wasn't planning to kill you, but that didn't stop your heart from beating out of your chest as your lower back roughly collided with the balustrade on the thick glass balcony wall. An involuntary grunt of pain left your constricted throat, and you removed one of your hands from his wrist to slap him hard on his temple. He flinched, to your delight, but then looked back at you with darkened eyes and a cold killer stare. Your free hand was subdued and pinned to the rail in matter of seconds. His grip around your throat tightened just enough to make it feel like you were sucking air through a straw.

"I would be delighted to take care of problems myself," he hissed, leaning in close. His proximity only increased your anxiety. You tried your hardest not to show it but there were too many things to focus on right now. He pushed you backwards just enough to keep your toes on the ground, but your torso now sat suspended over the pavement seventy-odd floors down. "I'm afraid it gets a bit messy when I do it. Far too messy for the likes of a humanitarian. So Patrick in there," he jerked you to the side to give you a view of where his lawyer had sat, to show you he’d abandoned you for plausible deniability, "He very kindly organises the logistics of what needs to be done. Who knows you’re here?”

Even though you could feel the fuzziness rushing to your head, you choked out a strangled laugh. This only served to infuriate Reynolds, who then leaned you further back to tip your feet completely off the ground. But he'd showed his hand; he couldn’t kill you here and now when you’d probably told someone where you were going.

When you started feeling the white static creep into your peripherals, when your head became dangerously light, when your grip on his wrist loosened, he pulled you back onto the balcony and released you. You fell to your hands and knees, gulping in air before laughing once or twice again. You settled back onto your knees, swaying a bit from the lack of oxygen.

"W-wahay," your voice was hoarse, so you coughed. "Wahay to ruin a mo-homent, Arthur."

"That'll be Mr Reynolds to you."

You coughed again, and smirked to his face. "Last-name basis implies respect. You have none of mine."

"You act as though your respect has any value."

"Oh, I'll show you how much value it has," you sneered, placing a fist on the pavement to push yourself up. You didn’t have the strength or stability so you had to stay down. "Just you wait for Sunday's paper."

He huffed a snarky laugh. "Your career will be long over by then,” he promised. “What should we plant, drugs? Evidence of blackmail? What else might turn up in your home?”

Keep talking, asshole, you thought, thankful that your collision hadn’t touched the recording device.

“You’ll be too busy mounting a defence” You shot back, holding a hand to the throbbing tendons in your neck. “Assault is a crime, you know.”

"Oh, darling," he laughed like the smartest person in the room, and crouched to be just above your eye-line. He whispered, "You can't possibly imagine the police or the public will believe a word of what you say."

"They might not believe me," you sniffed, then turned your head towards the flat patch of roof above the balcony. You lifted your eyes, looking for the person who was promised to you.

Matt had stayed in the shadows, fists clenched so tight around a long piece of stone architecture he was surprised it hadn’t broken. He’d had to hold himself back, not step in too soon, force himself to listen to Reynolds hurting you. But now, you were looking for him.

He stood and walked out of the shadows, towards the place where the roof dropped onto the balcony. From his vantage point, he stood and let Arthur Reynolds see who’d darkened his doorstep. Matt listened to the man’s heartbeat as he realised who was there, and as he realised the stakes had drastically risen.

This wasn’t good. Reynolds’ pulse and breath told the story of a rabid animal backed into a corner; the only thing that can make such a powerful man irreparably dangerous.

Meanwhile, pure relief washed over you. There, reigning over this rooftop, was the Devil of Hell's Kitchen. Hidden on him, a camera recording the entire encounter. With a victorious half-grin, you nodded up at Daredevil and explained to Reynolds, "They’ll probably believe him."

Matt heard the rage swelling up in Reynolds. He sensed the shift in the air as the man’s arms tensed, his nostrils flared with his sneer, and heard the low grunt as he lunged to grab you. Matt didn't have the chance to shout a warning before Reynolds' hands were around the collar of your jacket.

The viciousness of his swift snatch caught you off guard. The only reaction you had time to perform, as your knees and feet scuffed the ground in the struggle, was to grab Reynolds’ wrists as he hauled you to your feet.

“No,” you gasped in a whisper as he wrenched you back towards the edge with a brutal force.

Matt heard your sharp inhale, the spike of your heart rate, and the sound of your shoes leaving solid ground. He heard the whimper you barely held in, and your fingers clutching at anything on Reynolds that they could.

“Let her go.” Matt tried to sound level, like a man in charge, but there was a lump in his throat as your frantic breathing filled the night sky around you.

"Come down, Devil," he taunted, leaning you even further.

Suddenly, all that confidence you had - the confidence that Reynolds would never even consider throwing you over - all but evaporated when you caught a look of pure, emotional anger in his eyes; his fury had overcome his calculated game plan, and he was mad.

Mad enough to be careless with the way he was holding you.

You didn’t want to look down. You winced, your breathing picked up as you scrambled to get a better hold on his forearms but his suit jacket made that too hard. You were too far out to try gripping the edge. Your life was, truly, entirely in his hands. If he let go, you'd be gone.

Casting a glance up to Daredevil, you shook your head as he started coming down. No. He couldn't bargain. This was worth so much more than just your life.

"Get out of here-" You were cut off by an involuntary scream as Reynolds cut you off with a cruel jolt downwards. He didn't even look at you as he played with your hypothetical death.

Matt's heart was in his throat as his feet landed on the balcony. He held his hands up in apparent surrender. Between him and you was a divide of around twenty feet, and he didn’t dare take another step closer.

"Stay there," Reynolds demanded, once again letting you slip down a few inches.

Anger and fear struck a bolt across Matt’s chest when he heard anxiety force a gasp from your lungs. Just as it had that first night at the gala, in his bed, your breath called out to him for help.

"Stay!" He said again, bellowing in a gravelly shout. "I won't say it again, Devil. Stay right there or she dies." Matt watched Reynolds look him over and put the pieces together of your plan far too quickly. “Clever,” he turned to seethe at you, “Getting me out here where he can capture evidence-” He snapped his head back to Daredevil, “Now, show me the camera.”

You knew you had to pretend like the footage on the camera was the only evidence that existed, or else he'd have no reason to not let you die. So you started fighting to make him drop you, in some hopefully not hopeless effort to make him believe you were sacrificing yourself to take away his pawn in this barter. He looked back at you with malice as you tried to pry his fingers from around your jacket, then yanked you back up to stand in front of him. You tried making a run towards Daredevil but Reynolds arm closed around your waist, trapping your back against his body before his other arm snaked around your throat.

He applied just enough pressure to force your hands up to push at his arm, to keep them occupied. He was too good at this, and the sad realisation dawned on you that you probably weren't the first person he’d ensnared like this.

"Don't," you choked out towards Daredevil. "Take the tape and- shit!" You cried out in pain when Reynolds crunched his heel against the side of your foot, making you crumble just a little. Your ankle throbbed with searing pain in your ligaments, giving you yet another thing to focus on when you were already overwhelmed.

"Now, Devil," Reynolds growled.

This was the worst case scenario. Matt calculated the distance, calculated the risk, and knew he couldn’t be the one to save you if Reynolds snapped. Your feet were on the ground but you were still dangerously close to the edge.

As hard as it was, Matt knew he had to trust himself. He had to trust his judgement, that his plan would work, that he could trust he knew someone's intentions and their abilities.

“Leave,” you quietly begged Daredevil, sighing in defeat as you watched him unclip a small camera from the waist of his suit and hold it up, declaring it. “Fuck,” you whispered, hanging your head. The audio you were recording wouldn’t be enough. Gritting your teeth, you snarled up at him, “He said I could trust you to do the right thing!”

And finally, Matt could tell you were looking at him. Really looking, taking him in. He felt exposed.

Before you'd run off on this crazy reckless mission, you'd told him - Matt Murdock - that you wanted to know him. All of him. He hadn’t had a way to tell you that your desire to be close to him was the antithesis of your desire to stay far away from the Devil of Hell's Kitchen. Now, with your demise entirely possible, he did not know what to do.

If he didn't give Reynolds the camera, he might throw you over out of anger. If he put the camera down, Reynolds could throw you over anyway and there'd be no hard evidence of your murder - just the word of a vigilante against the word of a billionaire. And billionaires never went to prison.

Even with the footage of him hanging you over the edge, you could imagine a world where his top-paid defence attorneys could spin it as something that would get Reynolds off the hook.

Either way, you’d be Ophelia.

You felt your breath hitch against the crook of Reynolds' elbow as you got your first good look at Daredevil. His suit was impeccable, well-made, covering his body except the lower half of his face. His powerful demeanour was lit from behind, from the soft light of the vacant dining room.

The glow from the window streamed over his silhouette… it was familiar. The light behind his body spilled around the edges of his strong stance as he tilted his head and faced it towards you. You blinked away the déjà-vu and swallowed hard before narrowing your eyes to try and place why this felt like something you’d seen before.

There was something about his presence that was more than not being alone, something about him that put you at ease.

“You have five seconds,” the threat rumbled through Reynolds’ lungs and into your spine as he shouted at Daredevil. “Destroy it, or she dies.”

“Don’t!” You yelled as Daredevil dropped the camera with no hesitation. “We need to have pr-” renewed pressure on your windpipe made it hard to continue, so you watched on as the camera was crushed under Daredevil’s foot.

The arm around your throat loosened and tears sprung to your eyes, knowing the most crucial piece of evidence no longer existed.

Reynolds laughed an ugly, victorious laugh, cocking his head in pity. "What happens now, Devil? Are you going to take the mask off?"

Matt stood still and far back, fists clenching with your every move and wince. Fuck. He knew where Reynolds was going with this.

"You'd have to eventually, wouldn't you," Reynolds smirked and tightened his grip. You fought harder but the man had too much of a physical advantage. "Tell me," he lowered his lips to your ear and taunted, "do you think this man will unmask himself to testify on your behalf?"

"I rather like my chances," Reynolds stiffened and tightened his hold. You felt his feet plant firmer, Matt heard the shift. "Here's how the story might play out. You seduced me at the gala for your own career gain. Threatened to expose the existence of my son so I bartered the painting for your silence. Then, you show up here tonight to extort me further. Your career had hit a standstill, you felt like you were at a dead end and wanted notoriety by any means necessary.”

Matt took a step forward. “Reynolds-”

“Stay back!” You winced as his volume stung your ear. You were pulled closer to the edge so you shoved harder at the arms around you. Looking at the masked vigilante, you gave him a warning glance, begging him to step in so you both could run away and have a chance to come up with another trap.

The white halo around his silhouette made it too hard to see any of his features but you knew him. He felt so out of place. The look of him, this balcony, these wicked arms around you, the pieces were confusing and they didn’t fit. He was a strangely comforting presence in a hostile environment. You couldn’t trust people you didn’t know… but your gut told you to trust him.

Daredevil held his hands out and opened his mouth to speak, just to take a sharp breath in. The way his shoulders moved, his gait, the way he held his hands. The backlit body which stood tall and resolute. It was all some song you had stuck in your head, but just the melody. The lyrics were elusive, just out of reach, dangling there for you to try and hold on to.

“…I’ll be right there the whole time.”

The truth was here, you could feel it, you could feel the way he pushed the air from his lungs and leaned his head, conflicted.

You could feel it, because he taught you how to feel it. And he was still here.

No louder than a breath, you spoke the truth.

"Murdock."

Then, almost imperceptibly, he nodded.

“It’ll be your word against mine,” Reynolds’ venomous whisper slithered into your ear, his lips uncomfortably close to your skin. How? What the fu- how is the possible? How did he get up here? What the fuck is going on? You were too focused on Murdock to hear what Reynolds said next.

“On second thought… perhaps you’ve said enough.”

Matt heard it. He heard the fucking words and he felt the murderous intent through the ground, through the atmosphere, tensing up from the fire stoked in Reynolds’ belly as the man leaned down.

Matt was too many strides away, so he had to listen, to feel, as if in slow motion:

Reynolds holding his breath.

Your gasp. The racing of your heart.

The arm scooping up your legs.

His own feet moving to dash forwards.

The twist of Reynolds' torso.

Your scream.

Reynolds' grunt of exertion as you were swung you over the edge.

His heart pounding in his ears.

His feet pounding against the ground.

The fabric of a sleeve slipping through your fingers.

His own shout of panic.

The void where you once stood.

Where you once hung.

His fist colliding with the back of Reynolds' head.

A noise of pain before Reynolds crumpled to the ground, his brain shutting down to protect itself.

Matt halted, and listened. But you weren't there.

He fell to his knees.

You were falling through the sky.

Maybe if your brain moved as fast as your instincts you'd be hit with a myriad of thoughts in the number of seconds it would take you to hit the pavement.

You'd know that if you were falling from a plane there'd be time to ponder, to go through the stages of grief, to accept your death, to process the truth of Daredevil's identity, to wish you'd picked up the phone and called your father just once in the last three and a half years since he'd told you to go to hell. You'd wonder if he'd regret defending the army more than he sought to understand you, and you'd wonder if this would change anything for him.

But you'd been thrown off the top of a skyscraper, and you only had seconds before it was all over.

There was no time for your brain to catch up. There was only instinct. And your instinct said Arthur Reynolds would be brought to justice.

So it was okay.

Now, after you felt the last bit of something else slip through your fingers, you closed your eyes and tried to not be afraid; being afraid would help nothing, and it would stop nothing.

You didn’t want fear to be the last thing you ever felt.

The atmosphere roared past your senses as you fell quickly. Everything else fell silent against sound of the rushing air, and the final breath you'd ever exhale.

Just a few seconds longer. It would probably be too quick to hurt.

Matt stayed kneeled with a white-knuckled grip on the bannister, his head hung, and he was suddenly twelve years old again with his knees against a velvet cushion and his fingers wrapped around the dark oak pew in front of him, crying out for a saviour.

Here, now, he did not have time to consider praying. He did not have time to consider whether or not he should’ve asked God for an angel instead of trusting the Devil inside himself.

He held his breath, and listened, as you plummeted down the side of the Golden Empress, unable to discern what was the wind and what was your breath.

Then, you hit hard.

Matt flinched at the impact, and he breathed a sigh of pure relief.

He hadn't been wrong to trust himself.

The shock of the mid-air collision forced a scream from your lungs as something wrapped around you, and your course was changed from a vertical drop to a horizontal arc. Having nothing else to hold onto, you held onto it. You willed your eyes to open, and then you held on tighter. It wasn't an it. It was a him.

"You're okay! Please, uh, please remain calm, ma’am. You're okay!" He stuttered as he tried to comfort you through his grunts, through the tattered repurposed hoodie concealing his face, and through his one-handed manoeuvring as he somehow swung you down from the air and towards a nearby building.

You hyperventilated from the sheer shock of still being alive and wound your arms more tightly around his neck, only giving a few thoughts to young he sounded. In only a few more seconds than you had been falling, your feet touched down on the flat roof he'd aimed for. You hissed in pain at your injured ankle and nearly fell, but he kept his arm around your waist.

“Who the fuck- how did you- what the he-hell-” you panicked and pulled away. He let you shuffle back and lower yourself to sit, taking the weight off your ankle. You got a better look at him. If he hadn’t just saved your life you would’ve laughed at his slapdash disguise.

He wore what looked to be pieces of different hoodies stitched together to conceal his identity. His patched sleeves were blue, very blue against the red torso of his zip-up hoodie. There was some black design printed in the centre. Squinting in the low light, you made out the shape of the identity he’d chosen.

A segmented body. Head, thorax, abdomen. Eight legs.

A spider.

There was thick red fabric over the front of his face, the same as the hood which came up the back of his head. There were some patchy goggles inserted into the front of his costume to let him see and he wore some cuff devices on his wrist which, you assumed, was how he swung between the buildings. You swallowed the nausea you felt rising in your sternum. “Who the hell are you?”

"Me? Oh, I'm- uh, I'm just the friendly neighbourhood watch- but look- I'm sorry, you're hurt, oh gosh," he winced and still pulled you to stand. "He asked me to take you somewhere safe and he'll meet us there, so we gotta g-”

“Who’s he?”

"The guy in the mask. Uh… Daredevil?"

You sucked air as your ankle throbbed in a sharp ache when you were back on your feet, brain kicking into fact-finding mode. “He told you to come here tonight?”

"He came and found me," the young hero started to explain. "He found me last night when I was on my way to dump some drugs in the river and-and said there was something happening at Golden Empress tonight and he’d seen my tech and knew what I could do and- look, I’m sorry, he was really clear that I had to get you somewhere safe. We gotta go, I can explain when we get there.”

“Get where?” You tried to steady your nerves as he motioned for you to wrap your arms tight around him again. His strong hold wrapped around your back as he stepped up to the ledge, carrying you as if you were weightless. He looked between the buildings, down to the streets, mapping his route. “Hey! Where?”

“It’s a church. In Hell’s Kitchen.”

The unseen angelic presence of several dozen voices filtered through the air vents, along the walls, bouncing and reverberating down stone corridors and staircases as the cathedral’s choir practised in the nave and you took refuge in the basement. Or maybe it was a crypt. It was hard to tell. The light was low but you could see stone tombs and carved angels guarding the entrance to the expansive area. It was cold, but not unpleasantly so as you pressed your back against the wall and stretched your foot out in front of you.

Daredevil had-… Murdock, had given this young hero exact instructions on how to enter the building without being detected. You guessed it would be easier tonight with the harmonious, celestial voices filling the church with blended gothic tunes. Your grunts of pain from your ever-swelling ankle were perfectly masked by people singing upwards to heaven. Singing their praises as, unbeknownst to them, a miracle limped through their hallways.

You shouldn’t be alive, and it felt weird to be here after defying death. You knew there’d come a day when you’d overthink it on an existential level. For now, the kid was spinning some strange thick web between his hands.

“What are you doing?”

“Trying to make a bandage to secure your-”

He trailed off, then slowly turned his head towards the staircase bathed in shadows. He twitched as if he heard something, or sensed it, and after a few more seconds of silence another person, not seen to you, spoke.

“There’s a first-aid kit in the cabinet. It’ll have bandages.”

The new yet familiar voice didn’t scare you, or the kid. Maybe it should have, but it didn’t. The tall, masked and suited figure emerged from the darkness with sure steps down the staircase and approached where the teenaged hero was kneeling in front of your swollen ankle.

“I can take it from here,” he spoke in his rough gravelly voice. It sounded different when he looked different, and you didn’t like that.

Matt placed his hand on the kid’s shoulder after he stood. From the way his heart raced, Matt could tell the young web-slinger was nervous and excited and proud. As he should be.

“Thank you,” he nodded sincerely, then heard the kid swallow hard. “I’ll find you soon, and we can talk.” The kid nodded, sensing the power in Daredevil’s confidence, and clearly sensing it was time for him to clear out.

“Uh, y-yes sir,” he stammered, and you maybe would’ve smiled if there wasn’t so much wrong with such a young kid being out in the world of New York crime. He couldn’t be more than fifteen, could he?

As he moved to dash out the door, you saw Daredevil call after him. “Hey.” The kid looked over his shoulder. “Don’t get too close to The Avengers Tower with that those webs of yours. The last thing you need is to get caught up in one of their messes.”

The hooded figure just nodded, gave an awkward thumbs-up, and then got the hell out of dodge. You didn’t blame him - the reports didn’t do Daredevil justice. Of course you’d heard the stories, read the details, but if you were part of organised crime in Hell’s Kitchen you’d seriously reconsider a career change if you caught one glimpse of this guy in a dark alleyway.

Of course, he wasn’t just some guy. Some nut in a mask. Or, maybe he was. Either way, he was still Matt Murdock.

Even though you knew that, you still instinctively pressed a little harder into the wall as he approached. He crouched in front of you and gently took your ankle in his hand. Despite yourself, you hissed at the movement. He stood, and you watched as he crossed the room to a cabinet, shuffled through it, and emerged with a roll of white gauze bandage in his hand. You watched as he returned to the place before you, knelt, and removed your shoe as carefully as he could.

The choir built in their noble tones, projecting their reverence as if they thought if they just sang a little louder, God would hear. And He would be pleased.

The choral melody grew and you had the wry thought that maybe they could sense the devil had crossed their doorstep. Maybe the darkness of the crimson-clad vigilante in all his power and fury had spurred them into higher worship. Because - power and fury - that what you’d heard he’d held. Yet here he was, patching you up after he’d executed a wickedly genius scheme to save your life.

Why the Devil? Why is that how he saw himself? Here, taking care of you while praises were being sung by loving followers to their Heavenly Father, in the depths of this cathedral, he was the furthest thing from the devil.

You so desperately wanted to understand, to offer him some sort of explanation to use, to have your brain move as fast as your instinct. Maybe he felt as if he’d fallen from grace, like Lucifer. Maybe he felt abandoned by his father, maybe he felt as if his god was his adversary. Maybe he felt evil. Maybe you’d never know until you asked.

“There’s a bed in a side room,” he said, tucking the expertly wrapped bandage into itself and moving to take you into his arms.

“I’m okay here,” you whispered, since that was all you could manage at the moment.

There wasn’t any resistance in your voice or your body, so Matt slotted one arm under your knees, another behind your back and stood to carry you somewhere more comfortable.

The room was small and dingy but you could still hear the choir. Echoes of it, really, but it was still there. And that was nice. It was beautiful, and you got unexpectedly choked up when a minor chord was struck and the voices lifted while you were lowered onto the bed to be sitting up with your back against the wall.

The pillow was nice and cool, the comforter soft beneath your fingertips as you took in the feeling of it. The sound of the angels singing, the softness of the well-loved fabric, the scent of some burning candle in the corner, the taste of the crisp night’s air. You took it all in, and it suddenly hit you how close you came to never experiencing any of that ever again. In something as simple as a four-part harmony filtered through several walls, you found the most appreciation for life that you’d ever held. The tears filled your eyes and you felt too numb to stop them. How do you even process something like this?

You stared into space in front of you, vaguely aware of a cabinet, vaguely aware of your companion kneeling beside the bed as you drew absent patters with your fingertips into the comforter. Had anything ever been so real?

Is this real? This couldn’t be real.

“You’re panicking,” his voice told you. Were you? You felt too calm to be panicking but nothing felt real. Or, everything did. Everything felt too real.

Reynolds threw you off a building. You should’ve died. It was the top floor. Matt Murdock was the Devil of Hell’s Kitchen. Everything was impossible yet still the choir sang hosanna as the devil held your hand.

Your hand. He’d taken it in both of his.

You stole a brief glance at him. He was hard to look at and the mask was freakier up close, with its hollow red eyes and threatening spiked horns. His lips were parted, they were familiar, they were the only thing in this entire world that made sense. As the crescendo mounted throughout the holy church, you turned to face him and leaned in.

Matt knew your mind would be moving a million miles a minute, so he didn’t stop you from reaching out and tenderly touching the sides of the mask, right were his cheekbones were. Your fingertips shook ever so slightly, another person may not have noticed.

Right now, it wasn’t so. That’s the white lie you told yourself as you traced the edge of the hard, scaled piece that protected his identity and his head from bullets. You squeezed your eyes shut at the realisation that it wasn’t perfect protection and this is why Murdock never told you where the bruises came from. Why he dodged the question.

Right now, it wasn’t so. You knew, but the mask hadn’t come off. There was still plausible deniability. Maybe Daredevil was a liar, or Murdock had a secret twin, or-

Matt felt your breath shake as your fingers trailed a familiar pattern over his ears and to the back of his head.

He knew it was important for you to do this yourself.

You finally found what you were looking for, undoing the clasp which held his headpiece in place. He didn’t move as you pulled away and removed the mask and cowl. With his identity in your hands, you looked into Matt Murdock’s eyes. His gaze was fixed in some semblance of shame, somewhere well past you.

“You really are blind,” you whispered in relief, then started feeling your breath pick up against your will. “How d-” The words were caught in your throat. “I don’t under- Murdock,” you whispered his name, begging him to fill in the blanks before you went mad.

He placed his hands over yours and over the thing that kept him hidden. “You need to calm down,” he soothed, his voice low. “I understand this is a lot to process but you need-”

“I need a drink,” you choked out, startled to become aware of your shivering when Murdock began placing a blanket around your shoulders. The chill of New York’s late autumn bit at your nose, ears, fingers and the toes of your neatly-wrapped foot. The blanket hadn’t started doing its job yet, considering Murdock was still wrapping it around you, but a warmth surged through you at his closeness and you couldn’t tear your gaze from his eyes.

His glance was hollow but true. His fingers ran down the hem of the white woollen fabric as he brought it to overlap in front of you. You lifted your hands and took the task from him, settling the blanket snugly across your front. His hands moved but didn’t leave you, because after your fingers brushed over his he made sure your shoulders were covered. With great care, he ran his hands up your arms and then along your collar to the base of your neck. Slowly, intentionally, he squeezed once and let out a sad breath. Before you could muster something to say, he stood and walked out.

You didn’t call after him because you could hear him opening cabinets and searching through shelves for just under a minute before he returned with a bottle of wine in his hand.

You smiled uncomfortably, even though smiling felt entirely wrong right now. “Is it sacrilegious to drink holy communion wine straight from the bottle?”

Matt smiled back and he felt uncomfortable doing so, but there was something in your voice that wanted to grasp at a distraction so he tried to move your mind away from the panic. “It’s just wine,” he explained as he approached the bed. He untwisted the cap and sat down next to you with both feet planted on the floor. He sat side-on to you, his glance now fixed at a spot across the small room. He held the freshly opened bottle towards you in an offering. You accepted it and noticed he’d taken off his gloves. He feels safe here.

He continued explaining. “There’s nothing holy about the wine until the Eucharist. Besides,” he listened as you took a sip. “I’m sure your research would’ve told you I’m not ordained. I can’t give communion.”

The dark and rich flavour burst in your mouth. The wine wasn’t necessarily bad, or good, it was just alcohol. You chuckled once through your nose and bumped your eyebrows. “There are a lot of things my research didn’t tell me.”

Silence fell for a few moments as you looked down at the bottle and ran your fingertip against the edge of the label. “So the wine is made holy through communion,” you said, more of a question than a statement.

“Not exactly,” he held his hand out for the bottle. You passed it back and watched as he took a messy swig himself. He pressed the back of this other hand against his mouth to catch any stray drops. “It ceases to be wine, all but physically.”

“Then… what does it become?”

“The blood of Christ.”

“How?”

“Prayer.”

The thick glass vessel was once again in your hands. The earthy, fruity aroma filled the space between you two. From the bottle. From your breaths. It was so cold that you could see your wine-laced exhale bloom and dissolve in the divide between you and him. You had to ask.

“The mask. Is it your prayer?”

He turned his head more towards you so you could see his eyebrows knit together in thought. You elaborated as your thumbnail picked at the label and the paper bunched under your touch.

“Do you, all but physically, cease to be Matt Murdock when you put it on?”

Heaving a deep sigh, he took another draw from the bottle to afford himself the time to think. The mouthful burned on the way down. With wine lingering on his tongue, he gave a one-shoulder shrug. “I’m still figuring that out.”

“Figuring what out?”

“If Daredevil is part of me, or just…” he waved a weak hand in thought and his shoulders curved in with the weight of all he’d done. “… me.”

“If you become yourself by taking the mask off, or by putting it on,” you rephrased to better understand. He nodded. It made sense.

You searched your mind for the few times you and Murdock had discussed Daredevil and it all made sense. All at once, like a smack in the face.

He said Daredevil wanted to be there: true. He never said he was talking to Daredevil, he said he was talking to a contact: true. Over and over you realised how carefully he danced around the subject, catching your thoughts faster than he catches your hands those times you’d playfully shove his shoulder.

“Defence attorney by day, vigilante by night,” you sighed and took the wine from his hand. Almost sadly, you admit, “You’re one hell of a hero.”

“No,” he shook his head, sounding disgusted with himself. “Heroes don’t play with innocent lives.”

You winced and disagreed. “You didn’t-”

“I didn’t know if he’d catch you,” he cut in. “When Reynolds threw you over.” He passed the bottle back to you, then ran a hand through his hair. “I didn’t know if the kid would catch you.”

Your thumb ran over the bottle’s peeling label, your glance on Murdock’s profile. “How did you know he’d throw me over?”

“I didn’t trust your judgement. You were being reckless.”

Hearing him say it out loud stung more than you thought it would, and your cheek burned with the shame of him being right.

He didn’t dwell on it. “That’s why I had to track down the kid.”

You were thankful he didn’t dwell, and he didn’t seem to hate you for your recklessness. “Who is he?”

“Calls himself Spider-Man,” Matt chuckled once through his nose. You did too, and you bumped your eyebrows. “I’d heard about him. Out there,” he pointed to the ceiling, but more to the streets. “He was causing headaches to dealers, petty crooks, car thieves, the like - he’s been interfering for a few months now. I’d heard about what he could do. Seemed to be worth a shot,” he hung his head, then tilted it towards you.

You took a deep breath in slowly through your nose. Your heartbeat still demanded to be felt but it was calming. Your silence let him continue.

“I never should’ve let you go in like that.”

“That’s not your-”

“Yeah, not my decision,” Matt scoffed, then shook his head again before mumbling, “Should’ve locked you in this crypt.”

“Hey,” you warned. “I don’t regret it.” He didn’t respond, so you digressed. “In fact, I’m glad it happened the way it did.”

“Don’t say that.”

“I’m being honest.”

“I know you are,” he sighed and turned his attention to ceiling for a moment or two, listening, before levelling his head again. “You almost died.”

“If my death led to saving those girls then it would’ve been worth it.” He opened his mouth to argue but you laughed, knowing the very place he brought you proved your point. “Look where we are, Murdock,” you urged, sitting up and placing a hand on his forearm. “Isn’t this whole… thing- this church, your religion, everything you believe in, everything you do… isn’t it all about sacrificing for others?”

“No,” he screwed up his face, not knowing how to make you understand. “It’s never been about sacrifice,” he heaved out with effort to hold back his emotion. “It’s about protecting what I love. This city, the people I care about…”

He made a point of each word as he slowly explained, “I will make sacrifices to protect what I love.”

His earthy brown eyes were on you as if he could see every thought in the pained expression you felt twisted into your skin. You wondered if letting you leave was a sacrifice he made, but it felt entirely selfish to ask right now.

“So now you know,” he said, eyes still on you. “Can I trust you to keep this quiet?”

You wanted to laugh and tell him he was being ridiculous. Of course you’d never tell anyone - you obviously didn’t want him and Foggy and Karen to end up dead in a ditch because Fisk caught wind of the truth from your loose lips. You wanted to say you’d go to the end of the world to bury this secret because letting this out would be the greatest injustice imaginable.

And he cared about justice.

There was too much to say. Too much was making sense as your mind placed pieces together faster than you could speak. So you opened your mouth to try and say something comforting or useful or true. All that came out was:

“I’d never reveal a source.”

Matt nodded, his head settling downwards again before he turned towards you. “I’m sorry I put you in this position.”

A tense breath entered your nose and you felt your heart rate kick up a notch as you remembered, in quick flashes, photos of criminals who’d found themselves under the fists of the Devil. ‘Brutal,’ was the first word that came to mind when you’d seen his handiwork.

“I don’t get it,” you admitted. “This… balancing act you do. Defending criminals by day and beating them to a pulp by night, I-”

“That’s not fair-”

“No,” you cut back in. “It’s not.” You exhaled sharply and continued. “You wanna know the truth, Murdock? Why I can’t stand Daredevil? Tony Stark? All those Avengers assholes?” The words tasted bitter, stinging up your throat like an angry hornet desperate to escape where it’d been suppressed for years. You winced as you said it. “I’m so fucking jealous.”

Matt didn’t flinch at your admission. He wasn’t smacked or warded off. No. You were letting him in.

“Stark is protected by his armour and billions of dollars. Rogers, by a super-serum, you… by the mask. You can all do anything you want, and with such little consequence.” You paused and placed the wine on the bedside table. “I became a journalist because I wanted to expose the truth about bad people hiding in plain sight. I didn’t want there to be a shadow of an offshore account they could hide in, or a corrupt move they could make without someone knowing. But at the end of the day, my real name is below the headline and above the facts. And I can’t help but wonder if there’s going to be a day I choose to not speak up because I’m afraid of what’ll happen if I do.”

His warm hand slid over yours, his thumb drawing comfort on your frost-kissed skin. Immediately, your cheeks warmed in abashment. He probably thought you were pathetic, petulant, petty. Maybe he’d suggest you needed a mask too - a pen-name, a secure server.

“That day will never come,” he declared, low and true. His mouth turned downward and he tilted his head towards your throbbing ankle. “That fracture will remind you for a long time coming.”

You grimaced at the thought of a cast and physiotherapy and, fuck, dealing with insurance. Still, more pressing matters. Everything you wanted to say felt like too much and not enough. There was so much to process before your life was about to get, legally, hectic.

You knew there’d be fallout from your plummet down the side of a building, from the Reynolds confrontation, from you discovering Murdocks’ secret- or, was it Daredevil’s secret?

“I need you to know that meant it,” you twisted your hand to hold his, lacing your fingers together. “When I said I wanted to know you.”

“I know you meant it then,” he squeezed your hand. Matt Murdock had conquered fear and pain long ago. With every strike of his cane and slice of his words, Stick had made sure of that. But this was a new sort of sickly pain and gut-wrenching fear. Because what if now, after you’d figured him out, you decided he wasn’t worth knowing?

He held on like someone deciding whether or not to let go.

You thought hard, pieces began falling into place. He’s not half-man, half-devil.

He tensed. “And now?”

There’s no prayer, no Eucharist, no ritual. Matt Murdock and Daredevil are the same man in different disguises.

You could feel the unease in his touch and hear the shaken earth in his voice as it all came to a head. Carefully, as if he might break, you removed your hand from his grasp.

A just man.

Defeat struck across his face, until you took his hand in both of yours. The wool blanket slipped off your shoulders as you lifted his palm to rest it above your heart.

“A curious woman tempted by the devil... doesn’t your Bible start like this, Murdock?”

Matt wants to smile under your words and gaze. And touch. How did he go without it for so long? But he needs to hear you say it.

“I went to Sunday School when I was a kid,” you furrowed your brow, pulling up memories, remembering that those times long passed. “I always felt like everyone was so unfair to Eve. I mean, she just wanted to know everything.” You licked your drying lips and gave a small shrug, holding his hand in place.

Beautifully, steadily, your heart beat against his touch. Like the sure rhythm of a song you’d danced to your whole life, one you knew well, one you’d never abandon. As always, you told him the truth.

“I want to know everything about you. Will you let me in?”

You barely finished your question before he kissed you as an answer. Sweetly, lovingly. He sighed into you, filled with relief when your hand slid back and your fingers tangled in his hair. He found his own hands lifting to take either side of your jaw in the most delicate hold, his gentleness saying I’ll be careful with you, I promise. His lips trailed along your skin, his fingertips pulsed once against the sides of your neck, and he kissed the soft place below your ear.

Your hands travelled and roamed each other’s bodies but could never get too far without holding on tight and pulling the other close. By the time you were coherent enough to remember that taking his suit off was the only thing you wanted to do in that moment, you found it was too hard to locate a button or zipper or anything.

Matt felt your fumble around and laughed against your lips, making you frown in frustration and pull back. “Don’t laugh at me when my foot is fractured.”

He melted into a smile and propped himself up with hands planted either side of you. “We should get you to a hospital.”

You groaned, knowing he was right, and let yourself slump back against the wall. Just because he was right didn’t mean you couldn’t give him an annoyed look. “You’re fired, by the way.”

He stood and grinned. “Good to know,” he bumped his brows. “The Offices of Nelson in Murdock will need that in writing though.”

You accepted the offer of both his hands to pull yourself up and turn to plant your good foot against the ground. Before you could stand, he knelt in front of you and checked the bandage and reassess the damage done to your bones. He was gentle, with his touch and with his voice when he said “You know it’s going to be you and your name up on that stand to tell a jury what Reynolds did to do. No billions, no super-serum. No mask.”

The air suddenly felt colder. “I know.”

“It’s your choice whether or not you want to speak up.”

“If they believe him, that I jumped to stage a scene, I’ll lose my credibility. My reputation will be ruined- ah shit.”

His hands weren’t on it, but a sharp pain shot between the nerves your fractured bones. You winced and swore under your breath, and in that moment you knew that you would not let Arthur Reynolds’ true self stayed hidden in the shadows.

The first night you talked to Murdock, truly talked, before you knew the identity of the Devil of Hell’s Kitchen, you’d cited the vigilante as evidence for your claim that New York City ran on compromises in the name of the greater good. Sometimes those compromises stung. Sometimes they wouldn’t feel worth it and onlookers wouldn’t understand.

It was hard for Murdock to understand - why you were so okay with Reynolds effectively getting away with throwing you off a building. Yet, here he was holding your hand in both of his, and he’d accepted it too. The rough and comforting callouses on his palm smoothed over your fingers. He leaned close and whispered encouragement as the judge readied to call you to the podium.

It was even harder for your parents to understand. Because of the legal jargon, of course, but also because trying to tiptoe around the narrative seeped in vigilantes was no small task. Explaining what happened while protecting the Daredevil secret was difficult. It was tough emotionally too, but you couldn’t keep all those thoughts that’d flashed across your mind as you fell all bottled up. At least, that’s what the therapist said.

People knew a falling woman had been caught by a web-slinging hero. New York was covered in cameras so in less than two days it felt like the whole world knew. They started calling him Spider-Man after that.

When you’d reported your attempted murder to the police they couldn’t ignore you. After all, there you were: falling backward off a building.

But those brief seconds of wind-whipped acceptance weren’t the reason you were in the courtroom today. Because, at the trial against Arthur Reynolds, the jury couldn’t come to a unanimous decision on who’s story to believe. Hence - the therapist. The court-ordered one who swore under penalty of perjury that, in his professional opinion, nothing in his assessment would suggest you would have willingly jumped from that building.

Reynolds’ lawyer Patrick was a real bastard and he was good at being a bastard. He convinced at least one person on that jury that you’d conspired with Daredevil and Spider-Man to frame Reynolds and gain fame with your name on the headlines. Your own lawyer countered with half a dozen articles of yours that’d already made front page; your career didn’t need any help.

It also didn’t help that some of the key evidence was destroyed, and that the mere idea of Murdock testifying as Daredevil was so far off the table that it wasn’t even entertained.

In the end, even you had to admit there was reasonable doubt.

Everyone walked around you delicately for days. As many times as you said you were at peace with the verdict, they’d rush to say that they trusted you and couldn’t believe he’d gotten away with it. Tabloids swore up and down that Reynolds had bribed someone, or that there was a bitter woman-hater on the panel, or any number of things, and that you should file a civil suit.

But you? All you wanted was for Tony Stark’s gang of supers to fuck up so badly that people stopped talking about you.

You knew, and Murdock knew, the prosecutors couldn’t get him for everything. How could they? If it had been easy to prove it would’ve unravelled years ago.

They didn’t get him for the arson of Harold Avery’s store, but Nelson and Murdock proved at a pre-trial hearing that the evidence was shoddy at best, so the charges were dropped and the insurance funds released in full.

They didn’t get him for threatening you, assaulting you, or attempting to kill you. Because of that, a cynical nag in the back of your mind often tried to lure you towards discontentment.

On the worst days, since that night he’d meant to end your life, while the prosecutors charged him with fraud, delivered subpoenas and mounted a case, on the days it looked like he was about to find some legal loophole, you’d shed angry tears and shout at the ceiling that if New York City cared more about crimes against money than they did crimes against your body, couldn’t they at least get that right? Murdock’s steady hands would anchor you, hold you, remind you that you were the reason Reynolds was deemed a flight risk and kept in custody while awaiting trial. Murdock would tell you the legal theory when he thought you needed it, and shut up when he knew you didn’t.

Those days were hard.

But on those days, when you languished in the reality that they couldn’t get him for everything, you reminded yourself: they got him for Isabel.

So it was okay.

As soon as the news broke of her ex-husband’s arrest, Izzy Branson had her lawyers contact the Attorney General’s office. She told them everything. About how he falsified drug tests from a private investigator. How he’d threatened to get her sent away to some facility in Eastern Europe. How he’d promised she’d never see her son again if she tried to get help.

Reynolds tried to settle out of court. Izzy declined and pressed charges. Thankfully, they got a member of her security team to roll on Arthur for an immunity deal.

In his state trial for domestic violence, Arthur Reynolds was found guilty.

Izzy was called to testify. The brave and beautiful Isabel. Her stare didn’t leave her ex-husband as she undressed him in front of judge, jury, and public opinion. She recounted the way he threatened to fabricate evidence, to shut her completely out of Malcolm’s life, to get her sent off to “rehab” somewhere in Siberia if she ever spoke his name in the press. There were at least five occasions, she recalled, when he became physically violent with her. There were at least two occasions, she recalled, when he’d held her over the edge of the balcony.

In her victims impact statement, she looked to the judge and explained that as a result of this abuse she still has trouble with trusting people, with sleeping, with paranoia, and has developed a debilitating fear of heights even after years of therapy.

The State of New York sentenced him to six years, with a non-parole period of four years, credit for time served. It wasn’t nearly enough for all he’d done.

But then came the federal charges.

The United States of America v. Arthur Reynolds.

In the end, Arthur Reynolds as a criminal mastermind was… disappointing. You’d never say that out loud, considering the unimaginable pain he caused and countless lives he ruined, but you were used to chasing a story with so much more grit and gravitas, and, in the end, it was all about money.

How fucking disappointing.

No grand scheme to rule the world, or the universe, or any of the universes out there that Earth’s population had collectively become aware of years before. He wasn’t out for revenge, there was no wounded heart and soul behind the way he used and discarded people. There was nothing. Just another greedy, money-hungry… disappointment. He’ll be the talk of the town until the Avengers blow up another country. Then, he’ll fade into oblivion. Only to be remembered by those he hurt the most.

By Izzy when she steps onto a balcony. By the way your ankle still creaks when you step on it wrong. By Harold Avery when he obsessively watches the cameras in his new shop at two in the morning. By the hundreds of girls who would’ve remained voiceless.

Thankfully, those were the voices you’d been entrusted with. Those were the voices that brought you here today.

Murdock squeezed your hand as Judge Washington began her spiel.

“A key part of the sentencing process is giving victims the opportunity to share how the crime has affected them,” she began, then looked down her glasses at where Reynolds sat behind thick bulletproof glass. He wore no emotion on his face, save for a flash of contempt behind his hazel eyes. “A jury of your peers has found you guilty on multiple counts of fraud, scheming to defraud, embezzlement and blackmail.”

Albeit inappropriate, you couldn’t fight your smile. It felt just as euphoric as the first time Judge Jamila Washington had asked the jury if they’d reached their verdict after two days of deliberation, and the moment that foreperson in his powder blue jacket had stood and confirmed that yes, in the eyes of the law, Arthur Reynolds was a filthy criminal.

Judge Washington said your name, and you knew it was time. With their wounds and stories giving heavy weight to the folder in your hand, you stood.

A choir of whispers and glittering clicking cameras echoed through the room and bounced off the pews. You caught Jorge’s eye on the way to the stand, and he gave you an encouraging nod from the eighth row. He’d been the most incredible help on the ground in Haiti.

You placed the folder down on the podium, being careful with these girls’ stories, bringing a hush over the whispers. “Thank you, your Honour,” you acknowledged the judge and then took a dismissive glance at Reynolds.

You introduced yourself with your real name.

“Six months ago I was given the great privilege to speak via video link with a number of the students at Stark Foundation schools in Haiti, Guatemala and Colombia. These schools were set up to fulfil the need for education that, as has been proven in this court room, Arthur Reynolds so readily exploited for his own financial gain. The old structures were torn down and state-of-the-art facilities have been built. Experienced teachers and support staff have dedicated themselves to helping these girls through their trauma, and providing the education their parents were promised when they sent their girls off to Arthur Reynolds so-called “free” boarding school.”

Little did those parents know, their children were used as free labour to pack drugs for a local gang - an evil plan that’d begun to hatch when Arthur Reynolds visited Haiti in his late twenties and found his way to the outskirts of town. The gangs needed money to make more money. They needed labour. Reynolds invested.

A bittersweet silver lining was that the student were protected from physical harm, for the sole purpose of being photographed for press and fundraising.

“In dozens of instances, these girls recall, they were made to pose in school uniforms with donated items, or to act like they were in class. One instance was with brand new computers donated by a school in Ohio. Once photos were taken of these smiling children with their gifts, the uniforms went back in the closet and the laptops were ripped from their hands to be distributed among the gang. One girl recalls overhearing her quote-unquote “teacher” say how the laptops were a gift of thanks from Mr Reynolds for the great returns they’d made that quarter.”

“Your Honour, thank you for the opportunity to bring you the victim impact statements of Roseline, Fabienne, Jude, Esther, Maria, and many more girls. I have forty-six individual statements, and these barely scratch the surface.”

“Right here! Look here!”

“Can you tell us how it feels to watch justice prevail for everyone else but yourself?”

“Give us a smile! Thumbs up for the win!”

“Tell us more about the-”

“Look over he-”

Murdock guided you through the mess of journalists and paparazzi waiting outside the courthouse for the scoop on what happened inside. The sentencing was live on several news channels but they all wanted your comment.

He held your hand tight and pushed through the crowd towards the road, not afraid to use his cane on a few ankles that wouldn’t move out of his way. When they collectively realised they were impeding the path of a blind man, and you weren’t even looking at them, they moved aside to swarm the District Attorney as she exited the building.

Almost as quickly as they appeared, they vanished. Leaving you on the sidewalk catching your breath with Murdock, glancing up to catch the DA begin to answer some questions.

“Vultures,” you scoffed. Murdock laughed at the hypocrisy. You rolled your eyes and nudged him. “I’m not like that.” He smirked. “I’m not!” You started to protest, but his strong hand found a gentle place on your jaw, then slid over your ear until he’d once, soothingly, run his fingers through your hair and found a steadfast hold cradling the back of your neck.

“Hey,” he stopped you with a warm smile. “I’m proud of you.”

You felt yourself blush. Even now, after all this time, what he thought of you meant everything. “Yeah, well-“

“I mean it,” he nodded, dropping his smile just a little bit. Just enough to give you a glimpse into the emotion he was holding back here outside the courthouse.

“I couldn’t have done it with you,” you whispered back. You kept the tears in, having cried enough in the past few weeks. You sighed, but there wasn’t relief in it just yet. It was hard to believe it was really over. “I’m glad this is done.”

“You should take a break.”

“What- hell no! It’s a Thursday afternoon. I’ve got work to do.”

He laughed and dropped his hand to meet yours, giving you a playful yet firm smile. “I mean it. Let’s go away this weekend.” He tilted his head, letting his smile grow into a grin. “Get out of the city.”

“Well…” you winced and mulled it over, biting the side of your lower lip. “My parents have a lake house upstate we could use…”

“Great,” he smiled, and that was that.

Then, his phone rang with Foggy’s name over and over. Then, also, your phone vibrated in your bag. Both of you answered your calls and took a step away from each other to hear your conversations.

“What’s up, Foggy?”

“Hey, yeah it’s over. Reynolds was sentenced him to seventy-nine years in prison. Hundreds of millions in damages to be payed too.”

“Attempted kidnapping? Who’s the complainant?”

“Woah, slow down… what?”

You both continued your conversations, gathering the facts, mounting your internal plans of investigation, already coming up with a dozen defences and even more possibilities. Your calls ended at nearly the exact same time, and you turned back to each other.

“We have a client in custody. I have to meet Foggy at the station,” he replaced his phone in his pocket.

“The Avengers just had a major PR disaster in Nigeria,” you replied in turn. “One of their enhanced blew up a building with a bunch of Wakandan aid workers inside. I need to call my contact at Stark Industries, try to get a comment from Potts or their media team… this is going to dominate headlines for days.”

You both paused, holding your breaths, waiting for the other to protest.

Neither of you did, so you smiled mischievously and took a step towards him to close the gap between you two. Smoothing out his collar, straightening his tie, you asked, “Rain check on upstate?”

Matt himself leaned forwards and placed a loving kiss to your wanting lips, his hands meeting yours where they were now closed around his lapel. “Go get ‘em.”

You smiled and smoothed down his jacket. “I’ll see you at home, Murdock.”

Matt listened as your shoes made their way down the pavement in the direction of your office. He took in the wildflower field of your perfume lingering after you as you went in pursuit of the story, armed with the desire for knowledge and the conviction to share it. As he turned, extended his walking stick and started making his way towards the jail, he smiled at your parting words.

After all this time, you still called him Murdock. Even after he told you he loved you, after you told him you loved him, after you started leaving a toothbrush and then after you’d moved in and put plants in the living room you now shared.

Even after you finally knew where he kept the wine.

He wondered if you’d still call him Murdock after it was your last name too. Then again, who was he to assume you’d take his last name? That was a conversation to be had after he’d asked you the question he’d been planning to ask when the nightmare was over.

He’d been hoping to ask you away from the madness, out of the city, if you’d have him. All of him. Everything, forever.

But now that there was a client in custody and a superhero meltdown on another continent, it occurred to Matt that you two would always be drawn to the heart centre of New York. To its people and its problems.

So perhaps there was no better time than amidst the chaos, and no better place than the living room of your loft in Hell’s Kitchen.

He could order Thai takeout and somehow wrangle you into those red basketball shorts for old time’s sake. If he did that, you’d smell it from a block away.

Then again… maybe you’d already figured it out.

Because today, of all days, you were wearing that damn perfume.

EPILOGUE

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