Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

It was night in Hell’s Kitchen, and the beasts that stalked its dark corners were quiet.

It was possible the weather had chased them all underground. New York City was riding the tail-end of a heatwave that had held the residents in its furnace-hot grip for weeks. During the day, the sun was intent on boiling the metropolis alive, the hum of a.c. units a never-ending chorus as stray dogs panted and sprawled in whatever puddles they could find. That same heat now clung like carnival taffy to the streets, lingering even under the relative respite of night, though the beginnings of a breeze tonight heralded a coming storm that promised welcome relief.

Of course, it was equally possible that the uneasy quiet was due to the whispers and slowly spreading rumours of the mysterious man in black, the man in the mask. He'd ruffled quite a few feathers in this little slice of NYC. Word was he’d even gained the attention of the Russian Mob thanks to his constant harrying of their criminal enterprises, along with his penchant for ferociously beating the ever-loving shit out of any other troublemaker he found along the way.

Reckless with anger issues. That’s a healthy combination.

Not that any of it was your concern. Nope. You tried to keep your head down when it came to things like mobs and crime rings and vigilantes in masks. You had no interest in drawing attention to yourself. That road led to things like capture and dissection. You’d give a hard pass to that. Instead, you rented your little studio apartment, paid your bills, kept to yourself, and did your job to the best of your ability.

Speaking of which…

You ran your thumb over the wood in your hand, stepping up to the roof’s edge and squinting out at the city as you did so. The wood was leading you in the direction of the water, that much you could tell, but whether your goal stopped between here and there was anyone’s guess. Despite the heat, you’d been doing this for a few hours already, working slowly and patiently like a hound following a scent. Technically you were on a clock, so your tortoise methods may have seemed counterintuitive, but you had to be careful. Taking a cab would’ve been too suspicious since you had no idea where you were going or where this would take you, and owning a car in NYC didn’t appeal to your wallet. That meant you were on foot, and hoofing it carried its own set of problems. If you followed the trail into the wrong alley, that was it. There'd be no iron suit or magic hammer to save you from a bullet.

“What I wouldn’t give for a shield…” you muttered. You tugged at your jacket and the sweat-soaked shirt underneath to loosen it from your skin. You’d contemplated ditching the jacket but frankly, you had too much shit to carry, and the light leather offered a little more protection than the simple cotton of your shirt. “Or at least some rain.”

“You’re not the only one.”

You startled at the stranger’s voice, dropping the hunk of wood and reaching for the tactical knife hidden in your jacket as you twisted to face him. Just the weight of the hilt in your hand would have been a comfort even if you didn’t draw it, but he was too quick. A shadow broke away from the darkness beside the rooftop bulkhead and just like that he was on top of you, his fingers closed in an iron grip around your wrist, preventing you from drawing your blade. Your free hand got twisted surprisingly gently behind your back, his body a hair’s breadth from your front. His stance, one leg close to yours, told you he was prepared to hook your feet right out from under you and send you to the ground.

“Please don’t,” the man in black warned, his voice dangerously soft like a blade wrapped in silk. “Don’t make this a fight. My night’s been going well until now.”

You glanced up, shuddering at the masked face. Only his stubbled jaw and frowning mouth had been left exposed, the rest of his features wrapped in black fabric that left you unsure of where his gaze lay. Even under the getup, you could tell he was lean and hard with muscle, though the steel in his grip was enough of a hint on its own. You sucked in a breath, catching snatches of scent: sweat, bloody copper, and faint cinnamon that did little to comfort you. He shifted just a little, his thigh unintentionally brushing yours. The positioning, close enough to feel the radiating heat from his body, close enough to press your mouth to his if you'd wanted, would have been mildly erotic if you weren’t scared shitless. That fear made itself known in the droplet of sweat that rolled down the back of your neck, though you were hoping he'd assume it was just the heat of the night.

How the hell isn’t he dying inside all of that?

“Alright, alright.” You winced, slowly unclenching your fingers from the handle of your knife, though he didn’t release your hand immediately. “Can’t blame a girl for being nervous.”

He let go of your hand before reaching into your jacket. Bizarrely, his hand made its way immediately into the pocket sewn inside, pulling your knife out as if he’d known exactly where it was all along. He stepped back, spinning the blade around in his hands as if examining it, though he didn’t actually appear to be looking at it. After a moment he nodded and, without turning to look, tossed the knife. It disappeared into the dark, vanishing as it arced across the rooftop.

You stared at him in disbelief, your mouth falling open. “Seriously?”

A tiny smirk tugged at the corner of his mouth. “Don’t worry. It’s still on the roof.”

How the hell did he know that when he hadn’t turned to watch where it went?

Question for another day.

You shook your head and cleared your throat. “Well, what do you want? I haven’t committed any crimes, and I’m kind of busy." You bit your lower lip before releasing it when you realized it made you look nervous—which you were—and instead crossed your arms, even if it drew an involuntary grimace as your shirt clung with sweat to your back. He hadn’t moved back towards you, content giving you your space for now, but you still didn’t trust him. Nobody knew much about this particular vigilante, besides his loathing for criminals.

Which you weren’t. Not entirely. Not in this city, at least. So in theory, you should be safe.

He tilted his head curiously, the cant of his mouth unreadable. “Do you do a lot of business standing on rooftops?”

“It’s cooler up here where the breeze can reach you,” you said stiffly. It wasn’t entirely a lie, at least. “And what about you? Find a lot of criminals and Russian mobsters up here?”

“You’d be surprised how many muggers would try to follow a lone woman onto the rooftop of a mostly-empty building.”

A cold chill ran down your spine. “You—”

“He started following you about six blocks ago," he said quietly, and your heart skipped a beat, the feel of it so sharp you felt it on your tongue. Someone had followed you for six blocks, and you'd been none the wiser, too caught up in tracking your target to notice the threat trailing along behind. Careless, far too careless with the people who were after you. “I persuaded him to find something more... productive to do with his time.” There was a brief flash of his teeth as a savage smile crossed his face, the snapshot glimpse of a sated wolf before the expression was gone.

Well, I guess he solved that issue.

You let out a sigh, reaching back to scratch the back of your head sheepishly. “I… thanks, I guess, then. For, uh… looking out for me.”

“You’re welcome. But it doesn’t answer the question of why you’re on the roof now, your path through my city, or why you have a…” He paused, and from the slant of his mouth, you were sure his brows were furrowed under the mask. His tone was more than a little baffled when he finished, “a wooden… ice cream sundae?”

Abruptly, you let out a snort of laughter. You couldn’t blame him for the guess. The shapes probably looked vaguely similar in the dark. “Ok. First off, I’m on the roof because I’m looking around. Same as you, I’d imagine. Second, I’m doing my job. And third,” you picked up the wooden object from the ground and held it up in front of him, “not quite ice cream.”

“It’s…”

“A duck, yes,” you finished, slipping it into your pocket for now.

“And what kind of job has you wandering Hell’s Kitchen carrying your wooden duck?”

"Does it matter? And it’s not my duck,” you said, suddenly feeling defensive.

“So you stole the duck?”

Your jaw dropped. “I did not! I—it’s borrowed. I’m not guilty of… of…”

“Ducknapping? You do know I take larceny very seriously, even if it involves wooden animals.”

Wait, was he… He was teasing you. You were standing on a rooftop being teased by the man in black—by all accounts a dangerous, terrifying vigilante—over a wooden duck. “The hell is happening right now?” you mumbled, rubbing at your temples.

“I’m trying to decide if you’ve committed a crime, obviously. Though I’m inclined to let you go with a warning if you swear to return your victim to his family.”

“Ok, that is—” You pointed a finger at his now-grinning mouth. “That is enough sass out of you. I’m—I’ve got a job to do, and you’re distracting me.”

"And what job would that be?”

This again?

“You really want to know, don’t you?” You narrowed your eyes at him warily. “Why are you so interested, anyway?”

“You’re not a cop, or you would’ve said something by now. You keep looking down at that duck as you walk,” he said, cool and collected as he ticked off a detailed list of your suspicious behavior. How long had he been watching you? “Not your phone, not a map. You’re heading in a clear direction, but you don’t walk like someone who knows where they’re going. You were upset someone followed you to cause you harm, but not enough to have never been followed by someone like that before. And you keep dodging the question about whatever it is you do.” He somehow managed to shoot you a look even with his eyes covered. “Consider my curiosity piqued.”

Well, when he put it that way, it did look a little shifty. And I was walking for what? You also really, really didn’t want him to think you were a criminal. That never ended well, from what you’d heard.

“Look,” you sighed, reaching up to rub the bridge of your nose. “I’m tracking someone. His wife hired me to bring him back safely. Tonight, that’s my job. Tomorrow it might be finding some rich guy’s lost poodle or an engagement ring that got pawned off.” You held your hands up helplessly in a shrug. “I find what or who people lose. That’s it. All I do. Not exactly a criminal mastermind here.”

“And the wooden duck plays into this…?”

“It’s complicated,” you said firmly. This part you would not budge on, no matter what threats he might throw your way. You had no interest in discussing your abilities with someone you didn't know. “Maybe it's a magic duck. Maybe it's a compass. Or maybe I just like holding it. We’ll leave it at that.”

He stood there silently for a moment, lips pursed and head tilted. You could feel his focus on you, and it was unnerving, to say the least. You were struck by the ridiculous, uneasy notion that could see under your skin, like he was peeling back the cloth and skin and nerves to examine the framework underneath. He was probably just trying to freak you out to see if you’d crack, but the hairs on the back of your neck still stood on end. Eventually, he nodded and stepped back. “Alright.”

“Ok," you agreed.

There was a moment of silence before he gestured towards you, as if indicating you should get on with it.

You arched a brow at him. “Well? Aren’t you going to leave?”

“You clearly intend to keep going until you find this man.” He shook his head, his stance just as stubborn as yours had been a moment ago. “I’m not letting you go alone.”

“Excuse the fuck outta me?” you blurted, not sure you’d heard that correctly. “Hold on, don’t you have a crime to stop somewhere? Maybe some actual duck-related larceny?”

“You can argue with me, or you can get started. If you’re really in a hurry, then I’d suggest the latter.”

You swore, stalking off to the corner of the roof to retrieve your knife. He followed you without a sound, silent as a cat’s paw while you grumbled and hunted for your knife. “I could just lose you when I get down to street level.”

“You could try.” The bastard wasn’t even smug about it, just factual. “Two feet to your left, then three steps forward.”

What the—son of a bitch, there it was. 

“You’re a strange dude,” you said in puzzlement as you picked up your knife, glancing over the blade to look for chips or fractures.

“Maybe. But you’re taking directions from a wooden duck, so I don’t think either of us has room to talk.”

“Touché.” You slipped the knife back into your pocket and drew out the duck once more, striding back to the rooftop edge. The man followed a few steps behind, clearly curious how this would play out.

You blew out a breath. As a general rule, you didn’t usually do this with people watching you this closely but, you reminded yourself, there was nothing for him to see. Even if he was suspicious, what you could do wasn’t flashy or obvious like turning into a green monster or lightning-based construction tools. All he would see was you, staring down at an ordinary, scratched-up wooden duck. So, you let your eyes fall half-closed, squeezed the duck tight in your hands, and opened up.

How it felt, in truth, defied explanation for you. The closest you’d ever come in your research were the descriptions of opening the third eye, but even that didn’t seem quite right. Whatever it was called, however, ultimately had no bearing on how it worked. All you knew was you pulled apart something inside your head and suddenly, you could… see.

Gleaming white threads raced out across the city, crisscrossing in complex tangles and weaves like spider’s threads in a web that spread as far as your eye could see. They pulsed brilliantly, as they always did when you first looked, before gradually weakening to something less tear-inducingly bright. After the typical dimming, the true colors, at last, made themselves known in glittering hues: vibrant reds and soft blues, rich greens and bold oranges and yellows. You’d long since classified all of these hues into types: shades from yellow to red for mutual affection between people or pets; blue for connections to inanimate, unfeeling objects; green for caring that was one-sided.

That last one always struck you as the saddest.

You glanced down at the duck, pleased to see the azure ribbon around its neck like a tiny leash had reappeared. That thread dipped down and trailed away into the distance, passing right through concrete and steel in an unerringly straight trail to your goal.

The duck meant something to the man you were after. It was a childhood toy, or so his wife had said. And the duck had eventually been gifted to his son. Needless to say, he had affection for it, and that meant you could trace it back to him.

Beside you, the man in the mask had stiffened, as if he could sense what you’d just done. Which... shouldn't have been possible. No one could see these threads but you as far as you knew. You resisted the urge to glance at him. You didn’t want to see what sort of connections he had. Even aside from the privacy issue, it was safer for the both of you if you had no way to identify him sans mask, and knowing the exact thread makeup tied to him was one surefire way to do that.

You headed towards the stairs, leaving him standing silently at the roof’s edge. Either he would follow or he wouldn’t. It didn’t matter. You had a man to find, before the cops could do the same.

-×-

You were unbothered on the rest of your trek. There was no evidence of the man in black that you could see, no hint of his presence looking down on you. Everyone else left you alone as you walked along, save for some asshole who began to follow you, catcalling and swaggering in his drunkenness. You shook your head, determined to ignore him. Your lack or response only made him louder, one more angry shout, before abruptly he fell silent.

You closed up, the threads temporarily winking out of existence before you turned, wary, fully expecting to find your harasser creeping up behind you. And yet all you saw were his legs slowly disappearing as he was dragged, unconscious, into an alley by unseen hands.

You cleared your throat to stifle a laugh, turning on your heel to go on your way, all while feeling a bit more carefree than you had a moment before.

-×-

You frowned at the duck and glanced up at the building as you let the threads fade out of sight. An empty warehouse, big and squat and forty years past its prime with its ancient brickwork, grime-covered panes and unsightly, orange-rust doors. Interesting. Your target hadn’t worked at the warehouse company in over a year, and certainly not at this particular warehouse on the outskirts of the shipping facility. He, along with just about everyone else in the company, had worked in the center section where the newer, more modern buildings sat. Or at least, that was what his wife had told you. Then again, she’d also mentioned how happy he’d been here amongst the old containers and ancient machinery where it was quieter, the surroundings muffling the usual clamor of the city itself. Maybe he’d come down here on his breaks.

At least it was cooler here close to the water, distant grumbles of thunder just barely audible at the edge of your hearing.

“Two people inside.”

You jumped, clutching at your heart before turning to glare at the man in black who'd appeared beside you. “God, you gonna give me a warning next time or do I have to put a bell on you?”

“One of them’s a kid,” he continued, ignoring your question. Maybe sneaking around like a ninja was just standard with the black costume. “You didn’t mention a child.”

“No, I didn’t,” you said quietly.

“The man has a gun, and he’s there with a child,” the man in black said sharply, a current of anger simmering just below the surface. You didn’t question how he knew about the gun. The wife had warned you that her husband was armed, and for all you knew, the man in black had scoped the building before you arrived. Without knowing where I was going? Unlikely. You were tempted to ask if he could do things, like you, but that felt too intimate, too personal a conversation to have with what was still a stranger. “I need to know what I’m walking into, and whether that child is in danger.”

“Except you can’t go in with me,” you warned him quickly. “A man in a mask will just spook him. That's the last thing we need.”

In truth, you hadn’t planned to go in either, not until now. His wife had prepared you just in case you needed to approach but had understood that you might want to keep your ass safe here outside. ‘If you want, you can just call me when you find him, but please, please find him for me.’ But now that you were here, now that you knew the kid was actually here with his father...

The masked man stepped in close and dipped his head, something like a fervent plea threading through his words as he lowered his voice. “I know you don’t trust me yet, and you have no reason to. But I’ve had a million chances to harm you, and I haven’t. That’s not what I do. A child’s life is at risk. Let me help, please.”

Shit, that was convincing.

His tone was so earnest, each note soft and soothing. And he’d helped you already tonight, even if it was just keeping people off your back. Your hands clenched. You wanted to trust him, because there were other rumors too—rumors far kinder, rumors of men, women, and children who'd been saved by him. That sort of skillset might just be what was needed here. But…

“This isn’t a fight,” you said, glancing up at where you thought his eyes lay behind the fabric covering them. He waited patiently for you to continue, tipping his head down towards you as he listened. “You can’t just punch your way through this. James is just having a rough time. He needs help. If the police came, all they’d see was a man with a gun standing near a kid.”

“That’s why you and your client didn’t call the cops,” he murmured.

You nodded. “He won’t hurt his son. He loves him, loves his wife. He’s never hurt anyone in his life. He’s not dangerous. Just afraid.” You pinched the bridge of your nose and exhaled slowly. “His wife just wants them both safe. She told me a lot about James, so I could try to talk him into coming home once I found him.”

“Is going home going to help?” he asked, his mouth tilting down into a frown.

You let out a bitter little growl. “No, but... Things were fine before. He’d been stable for years with the right therapy, right meds. But someone up the fucking chain found out at his job and decided they didn’t want his ‘type’ working for them. He lost his job, the insurance. He thought if he ran away with the kid, got somewhere safe, his wife could… Anyway, he’s better at home than here.” You hesitantly reached out and touched the man’s forearm, black fabric burning hot beneath your fingertips. The thick muscle tensed beneath your touch, and he made a soft noise of acknowledgment, or maybe surprise that you'd been bold enough to touch him. But you needed him to trust you, because you got the feeling that there wasn’t anything that could stop him from going into the building. “If you go in with me, you can’t go in looking to kick skulls in. This one’s a victim, not a bad guy.”

He considered your request pensively for a long moment before nodding. “We’ll get them out alive. Both of them.” He lifted his hand, and when you didn't back away, he settled it carefully on your shoulder, gloved fingers squeezing gently. “Thank you for trusting me with this.”

“Well.” You waved him away, trying to play it off as you took a few steps back, out of the strangely comforting corona of heat he seemed to radiate. “You did take out that guy who was catcalling me. And the mugger. Technically, I owe you. But I consider my debt paid after this.”

“Really?” He huffed a quiet laugh. “Even though I’m the one helping you?”

“You may be helping me, but I trusted you. That’s a huge step for me, you have no idea.” In truth, you spent most of your time alone outside work. You couldn’t exactly afford to get too close to someone now that people were on the watch for anyone that even sneezed like an enhanced. On top of that, there were all the ways your abilities could be used for if you were caught by the wrong people, especially if you had the dreaded red thread. You’d been moving every few years just to avoid notice, hiding under assumed names and false faces ever since you were sixteen. Call you crazy, but trust issues came naturally now. "So follow. Or don't. Your choice."

Then you stepped off across the street, taking advantage of the gaps between the streetlights to stay in the welcome darkness as you headed for the back of the warehouse. Either he'd join or he wouldn't, but either way, you couldn't stay here. You drew your phone out and fired off a text to James’ wife as you went, keeping one eye and ear open.

“Do you even have a plan?” the man in black asked as he appeared beside you, apparently done with roof-stalking you. You had to be careful, or you were going to start expecting him to pop up over your shoulder whenever you turned around.

“Go in, find him, talk to him.” Finished with your text, you shoved your hands in your pockets, hopping up onto the sidewalk and following the cracked cement to the ancient back door of the warehouse. “Then everyone goes home and we drink to our success. That’s the beauty of simplicity, my friend.”

He hummed in thought. “You should know, he’s on the second floor, west side of the building, in the…” He paused, tilting his head. “He's in the office, it sounds like. Pacing back and forth. There’s a staircase in the back that leads to the catwalks. You can use them to get to the office.”

Your steps faltered because there it was again. He couldn't have really heard that far, could he? He had to be fucking with you. “You haven’t been here before, have you?” you asked suspiciously. "Or did you you just see a light through one of the windows?" 

The only response he gave you was a smirk, the expression wolfish and smug, before he slipped back behind you and disappeared around the front of the building.

The back door was locked, but the set of picks you kept inside your sock solved that problem easily enough. They wouldn’t exactly splurge for high-tech security on an old, empty warehouse that rarely saw use. The remnant scent of cigarette smoke lingering in the stagnant air, and the way the steel door opened without shrieking in protest, confirmed your suspicions: at least one person who worked at the company used this place regularly for breaks. Ancient, rusted chains dangled like streamers from the ceiling while the streetlamps’ tea-rose orange light filtered in through the yawning broken windows, casting squares of color onto the cracked cement floors. You waited for your eyes to adjust to the darkness before taking the grated staircase you could see off to your left. And damned if it didn’t lead you right to steel catwalks that ran along the walls of the warehouse. From there, the office was easy enough to find: a dim light radiated through the glass windows that allowed the occupants to look down into the warehouse. You didn’t bother to pull the wooden duck from your pocket. Something told you that, like everything else, the people you were looking for would be exactly where the man in black had told you they’d be.

A gentle touch brushed at your back as you reached for the office door, and this time you managed to avoid leaping into the air like a startled alley cat.

“You go in first,” the man in black whispered from behind you. “I don’t want him to think I’m here for him. But if he aims the gun at you or the boy, I’ll have to—”

“I know,” you whispered back. “Just… let’s try it my way first.”

He was gone by the time you touched the bent handle of the office door, vanishing off into wherever it was ninja-people went when they wanted to hide. You blew out a breath, steeled yourself, and opened the door. It swung silently on its hinges, which was fortunate since it gave you a moment to look around. Old steel desks were scattered around the room, pushed aside in some places to leave a path towards an open doorway at the far end, where the light seemed to be coming from, and a door, cracked open, on the wall to your right. You rubbed your fingers over the nearest desk, just forward and to the left of the door you'd come through, and came away with dust. No one’s been coming up here for a smoke. You stepped further into the room.

Creeee-ak! went the floorboards.

You weren't trying to be silent, since the last thing you wanted to do was sneak up on a guy with a gun and a twitchy finger, but still. That was loud, even for you.

“Who’s there?!”

A hand grabbed the back of your jacket and yanked you down behind the desk just before the gun went off. The first round gouged a chunk from the door you'd come through a breath later. The man in the mask hauled you in tight to him, pinning you between the desk and his body as the second shot hit wide and high, striking the office window and shattering the glass. You buried your face quickly against the hot black fabric of his shirt, feeling more than hearing his hiss of pain as shards of glass struck his back. Both shots were apparent warning rounds not intended to hit you, but the message they sent was clear as James swore and a toddler began to cry.

“Ok?” you whispered into his shoulder. Jesus, he’d taken that glass for you without even thinking, and it left you feeling equal parts grateful, strangely guilty, and vaguely unsettled. Who did that for someone they didn’t know?

His head turned towards you, his mouth close to your ear as he let out a harsh, shaky breath, the exhalation stirring the hair not sticking to your neck with sweat. “I'm fine,” he breathed, and somehow you knew he was lying.

Well, that went well. Fuck, what am I doing?

You shifted in the man in the mask’s embrace, maneuvering until you were crouched beside him. You both needed room to move, just in case the next shot came low. “We’re not here to hurt you, James!” you shouted. The stifling air in the room was stagnant and heavy with heat despite the cracked windows, and you frantically wiped the sweat from your face, trying to keep your vision clear.

“Then leave! Please, I don’t want to have to hurt you. Just go away and leave us alone!” His voice was shaky, but you had no doubt his aim was steady. He’d had training once upon a time. He knew how to aim, and he’d have hit you if he’d wanted to.

“I was hired by your wife to find you two and bring you home safe,” you called out. “So I can’t do that, James. My name is Jane, and I'm here to help.” 'Jane' wasn’t actually your real name, but it was the name you’d chosen for your stay in the city, and you stuck to it now, but it was the only lie you told him.

“Bullshit! You don’t bring some masked guy with you to ‘bring me home safe,'” James chuckled, a broken sound just barely tinged with panic.

“James, I’m here to help just like her, and to make sure no one gets hurt,” the man in the mask said. He rolled his shoulders with a grimace, glass falling free from his shirt. You could just barely see the wet gleam of blood around his shoulders where the fabric had grown damp; no doubt it was even worse across his back.

“I’d never hurt my son.” James sucked in a breath across the room, the floors creaking as he began to pace in agitation. His son started to quiet now that the loud sounds didn’t continue. “Or my wife. She wanted me to wait, not leave but then, I can’t… I couldn't let them take him.”

“Who’s they, James?” you asked softly. The despair in his voice made you ache. You had, had to walk out of here with everyone alive.

“I… CPS. They… that asshole, he got me fired. And then he called CPS on me. They were gonna come for my boy, I just know it. I couldn’t provide and…” There was a quiet sniffle, the sound of his groan anguished. “I never laid a hand on my boy in his life. Never even yelled at him. But they wouldn’t've believed that. They’d be like the company, they’d just see how I can’t get good treatment no more and I can't find a job… I won't let them do it. I'm gonna get on a ship with my boy, and when we get somewhere safe where they don't know me, my girl, she’s gonna come to us. It's the only way.”

A victim, not a criminal.

He wasn't going to shoot you.

You drew in a steady breath, taking a moment to center yourself. When you spoke, your voice was calm, with only the faintest hint of shakiness. “James, I’m going to step out now. And so is my friend here. So you can see us, ok?” To his credit, the man in the mask must have come to the same conclusion, rising to his feet smoothly beside you, his hands up like yours. In the dim light—a nightlight for James’ son, you realized, plugged into the wall on the far side of the room—you could finally see James, a gun in his hand. He’d shifted his aim over your shoulder towards the wall behind you, ensuring he didn't shoot you by mistake. He was absolutely soaked in sweat, dark circles under his eyes and his skin drawn tight. God, he must’ve been exhausted. “We just want to talk. Neither of us wants to hurt you.”

“James, please,” the man in the mask said gently. “Your son is scared. So is your wife. We can fix this, all of this.”

He shook his head sharply, baring his teeth. “No way you can fix it, you’re just—”

The man in the mask gestured sharply. Another small shard of glass dropped and you winced in sympathy. “What they did to you? What they fired you for? It’s against the law. And I swear James, I’ll—I can put you in contact with a lawyer who will take your case. You have a case, you and your family. They won't take your son.”

“It won’t help,” James said helplessly, the gun wavering in his hand. “We’ve barely got money for food now; no way we can afford that.”

“It doesn’t matter,” the man in the mask said breathlessly. It startled you, the fiery passion in his voice as he spoke. And that fervent belief was affecting James, too, if his faltering stance was any indication. “He’ll take your case. James, you don’t have to do this. You can go home, be a family with your wife and son. Let us help you.”

“I’m going to pull my phone out, James,” you said, leaving one hand in the air. Both men tensed as you reached into your pocket, drawing your phone out slowly so James could see. “There. I think there’s someone you need to talk to.” You scrolled through the contacts, the man in the mask continuing in his efforts to convince James as you did so. You hit the number, and when the call connected, you switched it to speakerphone and held it up

“James, baby, is that you? Please, you gotta come home...”

That ended up being the last piece needed. James dropped his aim, voice broken as he spoke to his wife.

-×-

You watched the car disappear around the corner, and it was only then that you finally relaxed, tension draining away from your shoulders and down into the street like the rush of cool water.

“You’re going to have to give me the number of your lawyer friend,” you sighed to the man in the mask, glancing over at him. You knew he was probably planning to whoosh away into the shadows the second you looked away. All the hero types did.

And you could let him, let him fade back into the shadows and leave you here alone. It wasn't a bad idea, all things considered. Getting too friendly with anyone was ill advised. A few hours running around was one thing—what you'd done with him tonight wouldn't be enough to form a thread. Any more time after this, however, could be dangerous depending on whether or not Sir Ninja Zorro continued to be so god damned likable.

Yes, that's what you'd do. You'd let him whoosh away and you'd never see him again, other than on the news maybe. And in a few years you'd leave Hell’s Kitchen, and then in your twilight years, now and then, you'd fondly reminisce over the man in the mask and how you totally could have been bros. And that's settled.

“Are you looking for legal assistance, Jane?” Something about the way he said the fake name gave you the impression he found it funny, though you weren’t sure why. There was no way he could’ve known you'd lied about it.

You shrugged and said casually, “You’d be surprised at the number of people who want to sue me over being found.”

He chuckled at the way you threw his earlier words back at him, then winced, another shard of glass falling free to shatter across the street like glimmering bits of stardust.

Right. The cuts all over his back. I like my plan, but… He’d been injured helping you, so technically him being hurt was your fault. Could you really let him leave without at least offering to lend a hand? You didn't even know if he had anyone else to help, and he couldn't exactly stitch his back alone.

Ok, new plan. It's just a few more hours. I'll be fine. Then the old plan. This is fine.

“Alright, let me see it.” You spun your finger, mind made up. You tried not to think too hard about your decision. This was just debt repayment, and nothing more. “Give me a spin. I need to make a damage assessment.”

“I told you, it’s fine,” he said, his easy nature temporarily replaced with stubbornness and an apparent sense of masochism. His statement was entirely at odds with the blood that had soaked the back of his shirt enough to creep around the sides of it, too. Figured he’d balk at your help for something this minor. “I can’t stay, anyway. It's—”

“Come on,” you sighed. “You’re bleeding, you’ve been sliced up by glass, and something tells me you don’t do hospitals, and how the fuck do you look sheepish when I can only see your mouth!?” It was ridiculous, really, the amount of emotion you could get out of just the lower half of his face. At least it was a nice lower half. “Never mind. After everything you’ve done to help me out with this, the least you can do for my conscience is allow me to give you a drink while I pick glass out of your back and stitch you up. Then you give me the number of your lawyer friend, and you can run off and never see me again.” You forced the image of him shirtless out of your mind—God, what a sight that must be—as you finished your closing argument and shoved a hand in his direction. “Sound good?”

“There’s no arguing with you on this, is there?” He sounded amused, slipping his gloved hand into yours to shake.

“Nope,” you said, popping the p. “You’re stuck with me, at least for the next few hours while I clean you up.”

“I don’t suppose you’ll tell me how it was you tracked James here, or what your real name is?”

Damn it...

“Only if you tell me your name and how you sniffed out everyone in the building,” you muttered. “This is a quid-pro-quo thing we have here between us.”

“And here I thought we were friends,” he mused thoughtfully.

Your face grew hot at the reminder of what you’d said earlier and waved him off. “Time’s wasting, you're bleeding, and I need a drink.” You hopped down off the curb as you started down the streets back towards your place—this time, your apartment, instead of your office. No way the man in the mask could take a cab, so the least you could do was stay on foot for him. Though you had to move quickly if you wanted to beat the rain, those distant rumbles fast approaching. A glance back showed you he was gone from the street, vanishing into the darkness. “You better not ditch me on the way home!" you shouted.

A soft laugh from somewhere up above was all you got in response.

-×-

By the time you made it back to your apartment, you were half-convinced he'd taken off, and just a little sad at the thought.  To your surprise, however, there was a knock at your window—the one that led out onto the fire escape—just as you toed off your shoes by the front door and hung your coat. “Huh. What do ya know?” You hurried over to flip the latch and slide the window up, stepping back as the man in bla—

“Ok, I've been calling you ‘man in black’ in my head for too long now. I need something shorter.” You gestured him towards the chairs and table in the ‘dining’ section of your studio as you headed for the kitchen, flipping on a few more of the lights for him as you did so. A brilliant flash of lightning lit the skies outside and the ensuing boom of thunder rattled your windows as you pulled two bottles of beer from the fridge and brought them to the table. Then it was back to grab the first aid kit from the cupboard and some wet rags. As the much-welcomed rain began to pound against the building, you made sure to snag a battery-powered lantern from the cupboard in case you lost power. “I know you won't tell me your name but you have to have a nickname or something.”

“‘John’ seems appropriate if you're calling yourself ‘Jane.'” He let out a little groan as he sat in the chair and began to peel his bloodied shirt up over his head.

“Ha, you’re hilarious,” you said dryly. Either way, ‘John’ worked, you thought as you washed your hands. “Well, I gotta tell you, John, I didn't think you'd actually show.”

“I wasn't going to,” he admitted as you turned towards him with the kit. “But I can feel a piece of glass I couldn’t reach and decided to take you up on your offer.”

There was a moment of static in your brain as you took in the lean, scarred expanse of skin before you. Even smeared with blood and riddled with gashes, it was easy to see how the muscles flexed and shifted, blatant power in the line of him as he set his shirt aside and leaned forward to rest his arms casually on the table. The burning memory of his warm scent hit you, a tempting thought of what he'd smelled like when you’d had your face buried against his chest.

Completely inappropriate to be thinking of this right now.

“—ane?”

You shook it off, grabbing your second dining chair and pulling it over to him. You set the kit on the table and pulled out the alcohol, thread, tweezers, and needle, setting the last two inside a small cup and pouring the liquid in to sterilize them. Next, you fished inside the kit for some latex gloves, along with a few other things. “You need anything before I start this?” you asked, hoping he wouldn't notice how flustered you'd momentarily become. “Some tequila? A knock over the head?”

You were quickly growing fond of that little huff he made when he was trying not to laugh. “I'm alright,” he said. “Getting stitched up isn't uncommon for me if you can believe it. Although usually, it's my hands working the needle. This is a lot easier.”

“What can I say? I've got the magic touch, fortunately for you.” You started with a wet rag to carefully mop up some of the blood that had flowed down from all of his wounds, smeared across his back in a solid sheet. Next would come the alcohol and the tweezers. You could already see the thumb-sized shard of glass he’d mentioned, halfway up and just to the right of his spine. It looked painful where it was embedded, despite his lack of any real complaint, so you resolved to pull that one first.

"Mhm. Trust me, I'm not complaining."

"Better not be. Rule of thumb is never to complain to the person about to stab you with needles." It seemed like with every inch of clean skin revealed by the rag, you found another scar. You paused to brush your thumb over a particularly nasty-looking one near his shoulder blade. He shivered just a little. “And I thought mine were bad,” you murmured. “These look like they really hurt.”

“They did,” he replied, shifting to take a sip of his beer as you reached for the alcoholic wipes and began to clean around the wounds. “They're from mistakes, mostly. Moments I got careless... or impatient.”

You made a sound of agreement, setting the wipes down and plucking the tweezers up. “I think everyone's got scars from mistakes. Yours are just a little more… physical. Big pinch,” you warned as you carefully grasped the glass shard with the tweezers and drew it free from his skin. He didn't lock up or cry out, but the small breath he sucked in through his teeth told you it hurt. You shook your head, dropping the glass into the tray. “You really are used to this.”

“Did you think I was—ah—lying?”

“Sorry.” You rubbed his shoulder in sympathy and plunked the next shard in the tray. “And lying? No. Being a little hyperbolic? Maybe. I’m starting to revise my assessment, though.”

“If it makes you feel better, I kind of wish I could say I was lying.”

You snorted, leaning in close to eyeball the next few shards. Unfortunately, there had only been two large pieces. The rest were much smaller and required you to get an up-close look. “But only kind of,” you teased, going to work. “Are you a masochist, sir?”

“Comes with the territory when you’re Catholic.” You didn’t have to see his mouth to hear the smirk on his lips.

“Well, that explains a lot,” you mock-sighed, dropping the last few bits of glass into the tin. “The scars, the way I’m pulling glass and you’re barely blinking. What have they done to you?” You leaned forward again, peering closely at the cuts. You didn’t see anymore, but—

John shifted, half-turning his head. “There’s a little piece still. In the cut on my right shoulder.”

You shifted your gaze, and under his direction, managed to spot the subtle glint hiding in the trickling blood on his shoulder. This piece was the smallest yet, not even the size of a child’s fingernail. You carefully moved the tails of his mask and then, holding your breath, you gently pulled the shard free. The both of you let out a sigh as you dropped the last piece into the tray and set the tweezers aside. You hadn’t realized how tense he was until that moment when he finally seemed to relax against the table. Without thinking, you reached up and rubbed gently at some of the pressure points on the back of his neck. His grateful groan that slipped out left you feeling warm inside, a shiver rolling down your spine. Realizing belatedly what you'd done, you quickly dropped your hand and cleared your throat.

“Better?”

“You have no idea,” he said softly, relaxing even further with a sigh.

“Considering I’ve never had that much glass in me, I’m guessing you’re right.” Out came the needle, now. If he’d been calm for the glass, this part was going to be a cakewalk. “Glass in anyone’s skin has got to be painful. Does the way you’re taking this right now have to do with..."  You hesitated, licking your lips before deciding to barrel forward. “With your… abilities?”

Silence filled the room, the returning tension so thick you could trip over it as you threaded the needle. Your guess was a stab in the dark, but you were feeling fairly confident. Your brain’s gears had been turning on the walk back, contemplating the way he seemed so aware of where everything was, the way he’d pulled your knife from your jacket and disappeared into the shadows. The only answer you could come up with was that he could do things like you could. Or, well, better than you could. Your ability was kind of worthless outside of a certain context.

“And just what is it you think I can do?” he asked quietly. You licked your lips again. He hadn’t left yet, but you could sense you were walking on thin ice here. You hesitantly touched his back and prepared to stitch. The fact that he let you meant he was planning to stay at least long enough for you to get him patched up, which was a good sign.

“I don’t know. I just… wondered,” you said, touching the tip of the needle lightly to his skin for a moment, giving him a chance to prepare before you pressed it through his skin. No one could accuse you of being the neatest stitcher, but they'd hold. “I mean, you seemed pretty sure that I was doing some weird shit, too. Just seeing if you were like me. If I’m wrong, I’ll drop it.”

But you couldn't keep the hope out of your voice. Having abilities was… lonely. Sure, there were the Avengers, but they were so far above people like you on the ground that they may as well have been gods. Just the act of knowing this bleeding, passionate, human man in your kitchen was like you…

Dangerous for you, this line of thinking.

But is it worth risking a thread?

You scoffed internally. What were the odds he stuck around long enough, would care enough, for that to happen?

He’d settled by degrees while you were thinking, and no longer looked like he was about to bolt from the chair. “You’re...” He shook his head, his hands clenching and relaxing on the table. “Are you planning to tell anyone about this? And don’t try to lie; I’ll know if you are.” His words were said with the same confidence as his words on the rooftop, ‘two feet to your left, three steps forward,’ as sure as his hands when he pulled you in at just the right angle to shield you from the glass. He turned to look over his shoulder, leaving his face in profile as he licked his lips.

What would have happened to you, you wondered, if you’d been planning to lie now? Would he leave? Destroy your apartment as a warning? Fortunately for you, you wouldn’t have to find out. You had no reason to lie.

You did your best to meet the gaze you couldn’t see, pausing with your needle. “Anything you tell me is safe here,” you said honestly. “I won’t tell. And hey, quid pro quo, remember? You tell me yours, I tell you mine.”

More silence, and you let it hover as you went back to stitching. Minutes ticked by, and you placed a bandage over the biggest, now-sewn cut before moving on to the second, slowly closing up the open wounds on his back.

“You’re not wrong.”

You smiled.

Chapter Text

Even doing brisk business, it was two months before you needed a lawyer.

“This just requests the basics, of course. You’re free to discuss it with whatever council you have.” The lawyer sitting on the other side of your desk smiled at you, his teeth gleaming unnaturally white against his boating tan as he slid the stack of papers across the surface in front of you. His Armani suit fit him perfectly, his human skin less so: an ill fit for the hungry, calculating predator that lurked beneath the grin and the scent of fine cologne.

“I’m not sure why you need any information about me at all.” You leaned back in your leather chair, crossing your legs as you studiously kept your face blank. Years of experience had taught you not to show fear around lawyers if you could help it. You were convinced they could sense weakness, as easily as a prowling lion on the savannah could scent a bleeding gazelle. “I’m not involved in the divorce proceedings. I have nothing you want.”

“Maybe not, but your actions might help us construct a better picture of the family before you found Mr. Sanders.” Found him balls-deep inside an escort, you mean. “As I’m sure you’re aware, the Sanders estate is substantial. If it’s to be divided fairly, we have to be thorough. You understand.”

“Uh-huh,” you muttered. “Thorough.” You plucked up the first sheet of paper and gave it a cursory once-over. Too much lawyer-speak for me. You flipped to the next page. You only managed to parse out a few of the requests. If you were reading it right, they were seeking information about your business, your partner, your contact with Mrs. Sanders, and… yourself.

Your false identity was of excellent quality thanks to years you spent sussing out decent forgers, but you doubted it was good enough to stand up to a pack of sharks with seven-figure price tags. Not without a shark of your own, anyway.

“Naturally these questions might not be needed, should certain information come to light.”

Ah, and there’s the catch. In New York, if a spouse found themselves saddled with an unfaithful partner, they could seek an at-fault divorce. That type of divorce would only be granted under certain conditions: adultery being one of those conditions. Adultery was difficult to prove, however; they couldn’t exactly rely on the spouse’s testimony. A third party like you, on the other hand… you were the ace in the hole for Mrs. Sanders, her key to forcing a settlement in her favor, or even winning a case if it went that far. If you denied seeing Sanders going to town with another woman, you’d be off the hook with the lawyers, but Mrs. Sanders could be played up as yet one more paranoid, jealous spouse in search of a payday. And if you refused to bow out? Then it was in Mr. Sanders’ best interest to dig up as much dirt on you as possible. They were no doubt hoping to find enough to bury you and taint any testimony you might give.

“I’ll discuss it with my lawyers and get back to you.” You spoke confidently, and with as much self-assurance as you could muster. The problem was you didn’t actually have lawyers. You eyed the gleaming silver clip holding the business cards on your neatly-arranged-in-case-clients-see-me desk. You may not have had lawyers just yet, but you had a feeling you knew where you could get some. Ones of supposed quality at that.

He nodded to you, rising from his seat. You had to resist the urge to crumple a piece of paper and chuck it at his face. You were an adult, goddamn it. “We’ll be waiting for your response. Have a good day, Ms. Hind.”

You waited until the door clicked quietly behind him before you sagged back in your chair and rubbed at your temples in frustration. There were a great many things you enjoyed about your job here: you got to use your abilities in a way that helped people for one, and even when you provided assistance to less… savory individuals, the pay more than made up for it. You liked not starving to death, and rent in NYC was too high for you to feel justified in snubbing every mildly suspicious person that came along. That willingness to at least listen to the people who walked in your door had allowed you to meet some interesting people, and ultimately most of your work wasn’t too difficult. Plus all the walking meant you got more exercise in a day than most people managed in a week. Suck it, ten-thousand steps.

On the other hand, the times you ended up scrapping, physically or legally, with assholes who took issue with you were very much in the ‘cons’ of your ‘pros-and-cons’ list. Which brought you back to your need for representation. You glanced at the ticking clock on the wall. It was just past lunch and you had an uncharacteristically free schedule today. If nothing came up…

You leaned forward and began to flip through the business cards in your clip until you found the card shoved in at the back. Fortunately for you, you’d found the card in your mailbox not long after your first meeting with the Man in Black. This one was unlike some of the other cards you’d been given, with their gold engraved script and paper heavy with the weight of exotic finishes and pretentiousness. No, this card had been simple: plain and white with a deep red font. The only part of the design that stood out was the braille underneath the first two lines:

Nelson and Murdock

Attorneys At Law

⠠⠁⠞⠞⠕⠗⠝⠑⠽⠎ ⠠⠁⠞ ⠠⠇⠁⠺

On the back, there was a phone number, in English and in braille. You’d also recently scribbled an address and their new office number underneath the old. You traced your thumb over the tiny dots pebbled along the card’s surface. You’d filed the card away in case you needed it, absently shuffling it to the back of the pile. While you liked to have lawyers on hand for any issues which might arise, you hadn’t needed one for some time and had naïvely been hoping that luck would continue. Guess not.

You’d looked up the firm out of curiosity once or twice. The Man in Black had warned you back when you’d first gotten the card that Nelson and Murdock didn’t have an address yet, and your first online search had confirmed it. It was only with a subsequent search in the past few weeks that you found a new local address right in Hell’s Kitchen. You’d passed the building before—not unusual with all the walking you did—but you’d never given it much notice. More research revealed that while the lawyers themselves appeared to lack experience, they’d graduated with top marks and had turned down a high-paying position so they could instead work in Hell’s Kitchen. The tentative feelers you’d put out with your contacts had brought back nothing but praise and you’d found yourself touched with grudging admiration. They certainly didn’t seem like the skeezy ambulance chasers you were used to hiring, and they were more affordable to boot. This you’d been promised sincerely by the Man in Black when you’d ‘bumped into’ him again shortly after finding the card.

You drummed your fingers on the wood of your desk, glancing out the window and taking a sip of your coffee. Your encounters above the streets of Hell’s Kitchen had become almost regular. 

“You following me, John? Because this is turning into a weekly thing, you and me...”

“Most people don’t spend as much time on rooftops as we do, apparently. We’re bound to run into each other.”

While he’d only returned to your apartment once for stitches, he’d rapidly become a routine sight for you when you headed up to the rooftops to get a look at where a thread was leading you. Sometimes it was a simple wave as he passed by on neighboring roofs, too busy to stop. You always took the time to pause and watch, the fluid way he progressed and leapt over obstacles an entrancing sight you unabashedly enjoyed partaking in. Other nights he approached you to talk, or even offer his help for the evening. Those approaches were always soundless, and it was only after repeated admonishments and two near heart attacks on your part that he’d taken to making a rhythmic series of taps along a hard surface to alert you to his presence so you didn’t jump out of your skin. Your blood pressure was eternally grateful.

A different rhythm of knocking pulled you from your thoughts, and you grunted in response. Taking the sound for what it was, the door swung open just far enough for Maya to pop her head in. “Just checking to make sure you’re not throwing your mug in here again.”

“Ha ha,” you snorted, throwing her a look. “You’re safe until my coffee runs out.”

“Good reason to keep the pot full I guess,” she said in reply, nudging the door open the rest of the way. “Well, you better straighten up and slap your best smile on. We got a rich one comin’ in soon for you if the way he talks is anything to go by.”

“Ah shit,” you grumbled, standing up to straighten out your trousers and shirt. There were no stains, so that was something at least, but you’d been in a rush this morning. Your outfit wasn’t of the quality you’d normally have chosen to wear when meeting a new, wealthy client. “You sure you can’t take him? You’re way more put together today.”

“Don’t I know it,” she teased, flashing you a smug smile. As always, her pantsuit was immaculate and you’d yet to see a time her riot of dark curls looked anything less than regal. “Unfortunately for you, he didn’t ask for me. He’s looking for the psychic.” She flicked her fingers at you.

“I’m starting to think we should put that on our card,” you mumbled as you hastily shifted the stack of legal files into a drawer and tucked away the Nelson and Murdock business card into your pocket. You and Maya had only described yourselves vaguely as ‘finders’, but the two of you made no effort to squash the rumours that you had some sort of gift. It had a tendency to bring in clients. Psychic sounded a lot better than ‘mutant’ after all, and people who made similar claims were a dime a dozen in NYC, so you fit right in.

“Nah, let ‘em wonder,” Maya said, waving you off. “It adds to the mystique if they think we’re trying to keep it under wraps. Out on the card is too flashy. We want news of the psychic to spread by word of mouth.”

“Don’t tell me you still believe I’m psychic,” you scoffed, wrinkling your nose at her. It had become a continuing gag between you two. Deny, deny, deny.

“I’m not sure what I believe about you. All I know is, your success rate is just as good as mine and you do half the work,” she mock complained, jabbing a finger in your direction. “I go out there, no rubber duckies or dog toys, and find shit the old-fashioned way. I want whatever you’re in on.”

“Maybe I’m just that good.” You flashed an innocent smile, holding up your hands in a helpless gesture.

“Always bullshitting me. Keep your secrets!”

There was another knock down the hall, and you shooed Maya back to her own office as you stood and strode over to poke your head out into the hall. She retreated with a wink as the door between the waiting room and the hallway leading to your offices opened and your assistant ushered an unfamiliar man through the open door.

Though not garish or excessive in flaunting his wealth, there radiated from him a subtle aura of sophistication and elegance, helped in part by his high-end suit, as he moved confidently down the hall. He nodded at Maya where she stood in the doorway to her own office across the hall from yours. “Ms. Thompson, I presume.” His hair was dark and lightly styled, perfectly groomed, and the black-rimmed glasses he wore lent him a seriousness you knew you’d do well to heed. The calm gaze slid to you and, with a polite smile, he offered you the hand not currently holding his briefcase. “And you must be Ms. Hind. A pleasure to meet you.”

You took the offered hand and shook, relieved he didn’t feel the desire to overcompensate by crushing your hand like some of the other men you’d met. Clearly not someone who needs to piss all over every room he enters.  “A pleasure as well.” He hadn’t offered you a name, but that wasn’t always unusual in your line of work. Sometimes your clients preferred to keep their names out of your paperwork. “You’re my appointment, I presume?”

“So I’m told,” he replied agreeably. You gestured towards your office before leading him into it. He shut the door behind him and took a seat before your desk. Unsurprisingly, he stuck out like a sore thumb. Your office was decorated in warm tones, soft fabrics, and dark woods: all designed to put your clients at ease in what was usually a stressful time. In contrast, there was nothing soft about this man, though his manners and seemingly pleasant nature went a long way to make up for it. His navy suit was also likely the most expensive thing currently in residence. If that fact bothered him, he didn’t show it. All this you absorbed in but a few seconds as you rounded your desk to settle into your chair. You were used to analyzing clients. “I must apologize for the short notice, but you’ve only recently come to the attention of my employer and I’m afraid I’ve a matter of some urgency.”

“It’s no trouble,” you said, resisting the urge to wave him off like you would in a more casual setting. It was always best to follow the tone your client set, which meant professionalism was the name of the game today. You settled for folding your hands. “Most of my clients come to me desiring a certain amount of speed. I’m pleased to say I find my targets in less than twenty-four hours on average, once all the requirements are met. That last part is usually what takes the longest.” You watched as he lifted his briefcase and unsnapped the clasps. At his gesture towards your—thank god clean—desk, you nodded. He placed the briefcase on the desk and began to withdraw a short stack of paperwork. Your eyebrows shot up when you recognized the forms. “Although it appears you’ve decided to be proactive on that front. I’m impressed.”

He chuckled. “As I said, efficiency is important to my employer. I’ve done my research, and all the forms should be here, signed and witnessed. Under these,” he tapped the top of the stack, “are the files containing the information you’d need to find your target, should you accept the job. You could say I’m familiar with cutting through red tape.”

You drew the forms in and began to scan over them. The man crossed a leg and steepled his fingers, apparently content to wait. Out of the corner of your eye, you could see him glancing curiously around your office as you read. These were indeed your forms, but you were still thorough in checking the signatures—though they were really just initials and corporation names; your contracts purposefully allowed the determined to slide on personal information—and the text itself. 

“Let me guess,” said the man with a smile. “You’ve had people slip in an extra clause here and there?”

You huffed a laugh, flipping a page. “That obvious, hm?”

“There is a certain predictability to people, I’ve found. It stands to reason it would be the same here. I can assure you, however, that the forms have not been changed.” You glanced up and he held up a placating hand. “I’m sure others have said the same thing. I don’t take offense, and I can even appreciate your caution. It’s something I try to practice in my own work.”

You nodded and went back to reading for the next few minutes. Your assistant knocked, and at your murmur to enter, he quietly opened the door and poked his head in. “Anything to drink for you, sir? Coffee, tea, wine, water?”

“No, thank you,” said the man.

“Ms. Hind?"

“I’m fine. Thank you, Daniel.”

The door shut, and you were both alone again.

Well, that’s a relief at least. He hadn’t been lying. There were no changes, no devious red lines crossing clauses out. Just signatures and signed statements. You sighed happily. “This will cut down a great deal of extra time. Based on how prepared you’ve been up to this point, I assume you know what I’m going to say next, but it’s just for safety’s sake. You understand?”

“Of course.” He settled back, completely at ease.

“My job is to find who or what you’re looking for. However, if while on the job I should at any time witness an attempted crime or actual crime in progress, or hear plausible talk of a crime being committed due to my involvement, our deal will be terminated.” It was a subtle distinction, your wording and emphasis carefully chosen, but you were certain this man would understand the underlying message: be discrete in any criminal activity, and I can keep doing my job for you. That plausible deniability was what allowed you to avoid any potential charges of involvement while ensuring you still got your paycheck. “If this occurs, I will be absolved of any legal damages. I will also retain my fee. Beyond that, anything else is your business and not my concern, outside of what I need to know to do my job. You’ve already agreed by signing the contract, so you know all this, but we like to have verbal confirmation. Do you accept these terms?” You weren’t sure if this man fell into the same criminal category that a few of your previous clients had been in, but it was best to be certain he knew where the line was.

“I do.”

“This does not involve stalking? Neither you nor your employer?”

“It does not.” His tone suggested amusement at that particular question.

“Is the target hostile?”

“No. Should you accept the job, all that’s required is that you find him, and ask him to return to work.” He flashed a smile. “Should be easy enough.”

You nodded again. “The papers said you’re looking for a person. You can provide me with an object the target cares about?”

“The item will be delivered to you tomorrow morning at 8:00 a.m. by courier at an address of your choosing.”

He really is prepared. You chewed on the inside of your cheek, watching him curiously. How far did his preparation go? “My fee?”

He reached into his jacket and drew out a check. A second later, a pen followed, and he signed the check before sliding it across the table. His signature was, as with most people, illegible, so there was no way of divining his real name. “The second half will come at the conclusion. This is standard, I was told. As you can see, my employer is willing to provide a substantial bonus to you should you find the target as quickly as possible. Potentially more for any future assistance. I hope that’s acceptable?”

You glanced at the check and your heart thudded inside your chest, your mouth going dry. Holy shit, that was a lot of extra money. With your standard fee, you managed to make a decent amount of money considering the cost of living in NYC. Over your years on the move—years in which you’d lived and worked in a location only until you drew too much attention—you’d managed to squirrel away a sizeable nest egg. You’d hoped that money would one day buy you a safe and cozy hut on an island somewhere off the radar. With these extra zeroes, however, your dream beach house suddenly looked a lot closer. If I do this regularly... hell, even just once a month for a year…

You resisted the urge to gape at him. You cleared your throat with a heavy swallow. “That’s… yeah, that’ll do.”

“Excellent.” He stood smoothly, straightening his jacket. “Am I to understand this means you’ll be accepting us?”

On the one hand, all that money, along with clues like the absence of his name, meant you were dealing with someone who was potentially shifty. CIA agent? Mob boss? On the other hand, he was pleasant and polite, and with this one job, you could easily pay for rent, groceries, utilities, business costs, and the potential legal fees at Nelson and Murdock, while still leaving plenty left over to put towards your savings. And maybe splurge a little.

Eh, I’ve probably had worse clients.

You stood and held out your hand to shake. “Sounds like we have a deal.”

He grinned, shaking your hand. “Wonderful. My employer will be pleased.” His free hand slipped into his suit pocket and drew out a card to hand to you. Unlike the other card in your pocket, this one was plain black, with nothing but a phone number in white on it. “If you have any other questions, feel free to contact me.”

“Of course,” you said graciously, slipping the card into your pocket alongside the Nelson and Murdock card and following him to the door. In truth, if they brought you the right item, you most likely wouldn’t need to call him, but the courtesy was appreciated. “I’ll get on it as soon as I receive the item. You can just have the courier bring it here.”

He nodded in agreement, stepping out into the hall. “Have a good afternoon, Ms. Hind.”

“You, too.” A thought popped into your head and you couldn’t help but blurt out, “Sir?” He paused, turning to glance back, his glasses flashing in the soft light of the hall. “You never asked about…” You drew a hand in, gesturing towards yourself.

“About how you find people?” he asked. At your murmur of affirmation, he shrugged. “To put it quite simply, Ms. Hind: my employer isn’t interested in ‘how’. Perhaps the rumours are true, and you’re a psychic. Or maybe you’re simply a businesswoman who understands that people will pay extra for the reassurance that their superstitions will remain intact. As long as you fulfill your end of the contract, we aren’t concerned with the particulars.”

It was a refreshingly indifferent opinion when you’d grown accustomed to people pestering, pressing, questioning you about whether you had ‘the gift’. You relaxed, giving him a wave as he left and you turned back to your office.

Well, that took less time than expected, you thought as you made your way back to your desk. Technically you had another four hours on the clock, but with no appointments left today…

You drew the Nelson and Murdock card from your pocket and settled into your chair, picking up the phone to dial. As you waited for someone to pick up, you glanced over the stack of files your latest client had given you, absently scanning for information. Hmm, not a whole lot about the target’s habits. In fact, not a whole lot at all. You frowned. Whatever they were bringing you tomorrow better work, or you were going to have nothing else to go on.

Just as you were preparing to leave a message, you heard the telltale click. The woman who picked up huffed a few breaths, as if she’d been in another room and run for the phone, before speaking with the slow cadence of someone who was still unused to their new script. New, maybe?

“Nelson and Murdock, this is Karen speaking. How can I help you?”

“Hi, my name is Jane Hind. I’m looking for legal help and was wondering if I could make an appointment?”

"Really?! I mean—of course.” In the background, you just barely caught the sounds of hushed whispering. “We might be busy at Nelson and Murdock, but we can always make time for those in need of assistance. When would you like to be scheduled in?”

“I mean, sooner is usually better, right?” It was easy enough to take time off work for this since it would help the business. Maya would be understanding. “Tomorrow won’t work though.” You didn’t want anything scheduled that could potentially interfere with the case you’d just received; not when you’d been paid extra for haste.

“Give me a moment, let me check—ah! I can, um, fit you in today if you’d like? We don’t have any other—" There was more frantic whispering, and Karen almost laughed before continuing, “I mean, we just had a, uh, cancellation? So we can work around your schedule. Only the best here.”

You snorted, glancing at the clock again. The office wasn’t that far away and the streets weren’t busy. “I can be there in a half-hour, if that’s alright?”

“Of course. We’ll see you then!”

You hung up and stood to stretch. “This is going to be interesting,” you murmured to yourself. You were just going to have to trust the Man in Black when he’d said it would be worth it.

-x-

Up close, the aging white-painted steel entrance wasn’t any more impressive than it had been from across the street. With the office up above a hardware store, and the doorway tucked between said hardware store and a residence, you weren’t surprised you’d missed it before; it didn’t exactly attract notice. You hesitantly brushed your fingers over the worn stonework surrounding the door and the outside of the building. It was stained with age, and smooth under your fingertips. The paper sign on the door told you this was the right place. Should you open up your third eye, glance up and see how many connections radiated from the office above you? People with plenty of red threads tended to be more friendly and open. If there was a great blaze of scarlet streaming away from the building, it would be a good sign. You shook your head and grasped the door handle. Serious invasion of privacy, remember? The Man in Black hadn’t steered you wrong once so far, and presumably wouldn’t now.

Before you get out of the way, the door suddenly swung open, knocking you back against the stone wall as a dark-haired man in a grey suit stepped out hurriedly, his face and most of his body turned away from you.

“Hey,” you snapped in annoyance, surging away from the stone and taking a step towards him. “Watch where you’re going! What are you, bl—"

He glanced back over his shoulder, revealing a startlingly dark pair of shades. The glass, tinted so heavily red that it was almost completely opaque, threw back your startled reflection as the man pointedly tapped the ground once with his white cane.

Oh shit, he is literally blind.

Your cheeks burned in embarassment. “Right, uh, sorry.”

He mumbled something under his breath and set off at a brisk pace down the street, the quiet tap-tap tap-tap of his cane quickly fading as he drew away.

You stared blankly after him. He’d seemed vaguely familiar, but that was probably because you’d spent a little too much time staring at the picture of his graduation you’d found online. There was no mistaking those glasses and that jaw, after all. “I do believe,” you grumbled to yourself sarcastically, “that you’ve made a great first impression on one half of your legal team. Fantastic.”

As you climbed the stairs inside the building, you resolved to make a better impression with Mr. Nelson. You would not stick your foot in your mouth like that again. And maybe, if things went well, Mr. Murdock wouldn’t put two-and-two together and realize you were both his client and the woman he’d bumped into. He was blind, after all. How would he know?

I’m going to hell for that.

On the second floor, you wandered down the hall until you found another helpful Nelson and Murdock sign on a door, though this sign was made out of cardboard. You tilted your head up and sighed, trying to soothe your apprehension. So they don’t even have a real sign, and they’re above an old hardware store. John, you better not be fucking lying about this. You listened for a moment, keying in on the murmur of voices, the clacking of fingers across a keyboard, and a strange, repetitive ‘uck… uck…’ sound you couldn’t quite place. You shrugged and knocked on the door. The clack of heels approaching on the other side filtered out into the hallway before the door swung open, thankfully inwards this time and not into your face.

A blonde woman, willowy and pale as fresh milk, smiled warmly at you and stepped back from the door so you could enter. “Welcome to Nelson and Murdock. My name is Karen. You’re Ms. Hind, right?”

“That’s me,” you confirmed, glancing around. For all that you’d had your reservations based on the outside of the building, the inside wasn’t as bad as you’d expected. Though the dull wooden floors may have been ancient and the green-grey walls in desperate need of a new coat of paint, the space was free of dust and clutter save for boxes of files piled up in the corners. There was an office to your left and right, and an old folding table and a few chairs directly ahead. All in all, it presumably looked like any other scrappy little start-up, save for one thing.

“Why is there a chicken in the corner?” you asked in confusion. Said chicken clucked and flapped its wings inside its metal cage, the apparent source of the strange sounds you’d heard earlier.

“Right, that,” Karen said slowly, shifting on her feet. “There is a very good reason for her. She’s—"

The door to the office on your right opened and a grinning, round-faced man strode out. “Camilla’s our mascot, of course!” he said quickly. “Just probationary, to see how she does. But she’s already laid an egg, so things are looking up. Who can beat a mascot who lays eggs for you?” He reached out and took your hand for a warm shake. “Foggy Nelson, one half of Nelson and Murdock. And you are Ms. Jane Hind?”

“That’s what it says on my business cards.”

“I bet you get a lot of comments about that one, right?"

You shook your head. “Fewer people than you’d think, actually.”

His jaw dropped. “What? No!” He glanced at Karen and then back at you, throwing up his hands. “Such an untapped fountain of humour! That’s a name that deserves to be appreciated!”

“What can I say?” you returned with a grin. “The genius of my parents will most likely continue to go unrecognized.”

They aren't that unhappy about it, though, since they’re not actually real…

Not that you could tell him that.

“Well, even if society has abandoned you, I assure you Nelson and Murdock will not,” he declared proudly. In her cage, Camilla squawked and Foggy’s eye twitched. “Why don’t we step into my office where it’s a little quieter?”

You began to follow him. “May want to rethink the chicken mascot thing, by the way,” you couldn’t help but tease. “Cowardly animals wouldn’t be my first choice for encouraging, you know, bravery on the stand and all that.”

“You know what? You’re absolutely right,” he agreed, turning to point at Camilla as you stepped into his office. “She’s right. You’re gonna have to go.”

Cluck!

“I know! And the egg was great, I truly appreciate it. But we’re running a business here. We have to do what’s right for us.”

Cluck cluck!

“Thank you for being so understanding. Karen will show you out.”

Cluck!

As you settled into the creaky chair in front of the desk covered in various stacks of folders and paperwork, you caught his whisper to Karen:

“Did you call that rescue, Karen?”

Were those dinosaurs on top of his computer?

“They were supposed to be here twenty minutes ago. I called again and they swore they’ll be here as soon as they can.”

You blinked. They were dinosaurs: a whole tiny line of them, predators mingling with prey. You clucked your tongue and reached forward to rearrange them: carnivores at the back, herbivores in front, before settling back into your seat. That’s better.

“Good. And please remind Mr. Anastas that we don’t need any more chickens!”

With that, Foggy shut the door and came to sit behind his desk. “I take it this has happened before?” you asked in good humour.

He laughed. “You know, we try to help people even if they can’t pay, but sometimes they still want to with whatever they have. Usually, it’s pie, and that’s great, I love pie! Not as much as money, but still. And yet sometimes you don’t get pies... You get chickens.”

“Well, I can promise you I will in fact be paying with money and not chickens,” you assured him with a grin before glancing towards the door and changing the subject. “Is Mr. Murdock going to be joining us, or—"

“He said he had an urgent meeting to get to, I’m afraid. But he’ll be here next time.”

“I think I bumped into him downstairs,” you admitted. “He was the—"

“The blind guy?” There was an edge to Foggy’s voice, just barely detectable under the friendly smile and the shaggy hair.

Defensive about working with a blind man?

“I was going to say, ‘the guy with the cool glasses in a hurry’, actually.”

“Oh,” he said, relaxing a little before flashing you a genuine smile. “Kudos on not just calling him ‘the blind lawyer’. Yeah, that was him.” Not defensive, you realized. Protective. “Well, like I said, he’ll be back. If things work out, we’ll both be working on your case. Speaking of which, let’s get to it.” He leaned forward in his chair, and the sudden gleam in his eye surprised you.

Well, I did want some sharks of my own. At least this one’s friendlier.

-x-

Mr. Murdock did not, in fact, show up before it was time for you to leave, but Foggy assured you they’d look over your case together and call you by next week. You left feeling lighter than you had when you’d walked in, a weight off your shoulders now that you had your own dog in the legal fight.

The Man in Black also did not make an appearance that evening, which was probably for the best, since he would’ve asked about any of your latest cases. Then you’d have had to lie, and he always knew when you were lying. Then he might think something was wrong and follow you. You couldn’t have that; you needed to keep the vigilante with anger issues away from your biggest paycheck in months, thank you.

Surprisingly, by the time you arrived at work the next morning at ten-till-eight, the skittish courier was already pacing in the reception area. After hasty confirmation via your license, you signed his electronic pad and took the small case wrapped in black paper down to your office. The box wasn’t overly large, perhaps four by four inches, and there wasn’t much weight to it. You held it up to your ear as you sat in your chair, ears picking up a faint ticking. You doubted your client would have gone to all this trouble only to deliver you a bomb, so you were placing your money on it being a watch. You typed up a few quick notes about the package before emailing them to Maya. It was part of the system the two of you had come up with in case something happened to either of you and you’d already sent her copies of the contract. Only after you’d sent your email did you unwrap the package.

As you’d guessed, it was a watch, and a fine one at that, laying perfectly positioned against black fabric. You let out a low whistle, lifting it from the box and holding it up to the light. A Santos, if you weren’t mistaken, which meant you were holding a watch worth at least several thousand dollars in your hands, if not more. Better not drop this. Out of curiosity, you flipped it over to the back and found an engraving: ‘To my most loyal friend. Vincit qui patitur. -W’

With the clock ticking, no pun intended, you couldn’t afford to waste more time examining the watch, so you swiveled to your window and opened up your mind. White light blazed, and then your vision cleared. You glanced down at the watch and smiled at the blue thread that shot out from its face, piercing the glass of your windowpane and disappearing in the buildings to your northeast.

You tugged on your coat, and carefully placed the watch back in its box—you didn’t need it now that your third eye was open and you had singled out your thread. The box you slipped into the large inner coat pocket, on the opposite side from your knife sheath. With that done, you left your office, stopping only to fill a paper cup with some coffee from the kitchenette down the hall. Hopefully, this wouldn’t take long.

The city was abuzz with activity as you stepped out of your building, a consequence of the time. People and their brilliant threads streamed by on their way to work: a living, breathing sea of flesh and cloth and flashing colors that threatened you with a migraine. This was why you liked working at night. There were always people around in New York City, but it was far easier to move and follow an individual thread when it wasn’t rush hour. You slipped on your sunglasses to hide your gaze, reminded yourself of the big, fat reward on the other side, and waded determinedly into the crowd that ebbed and flowed with the cars and streetlights in a beating pulse all its own.

You could really only keep track of the thread for a few feet in front of you before it disappeared into the seething mass of bodies, but you stuck to it as best you could, ignoring the grunts and cursing whenever you occasionally bumped into someone and the angry screech of car horns as you dodged between vehicles.  You’d gotten good at tracking, and this was a dance you knew well. You’d even mastered the art of following a trail without catching sight of your own threads. That was an act of vital importance.

The crowds finally began to die down around nine. You stopped at a bakery for a doughnut and kept your eyes downcast to avoid seeing the threads of the baker before continuing on your way, munching on sticky-sweet glazing and warm bread touched with cinnamon as you walked. No time to stop and eat on this job. Your legs carried you easily along at a steady, ground-eating pace you’d perfected. If you needed to, you could walk for miles this way without stopping. You already knew your target wasn’t outside the city, where he would have been beyond your purview. The thread was slowly rising, as if you were winding in slack on a fishing line. That meant you were getting closer. You licked your fingers and squinted at your surroundings. Heading towards another industrial area. Why do these people always hide in warehouses? You would have felt better with the so-called Devil of Hell’s Kitchen watching your back. 

You snorted to yourself in disgust. He’d made you lazy. You’d handled this kind of thing long before him, and you would do so after. Yes, after, because you were still going to leave this city, and you would not feel one iota of sadness about doing so. You would not miss the Man in Black at all, no sir.

Fucking liar. You need to make your money and get out of New York before you get attached.

It only took another hour before you found the building your target was hidden in. It looked to be a small storage depot, tucked away and concealed amongst its loftier, hulking neighbors. It was here your movements gained an extra layer of caution. If something were to go wrong, it would be on your entry. So instead of stopping, you walked right past, using your sunglasses to hide the way you examined the building and the threads that escaped its walls. There was only one occupant, based on the threads and their angles. And of those threads, there were few: two blazing scarlets, one thick and strong, the other thin and delicate; a few blues, one of which connected to the watch in your pocket; and three oranges that sparkled with a golden-peach sheen, closer to yellow than red. Interesting. Most people had dozens of threads, and it was only with focus that you could separate them into individual strands. The fact that you could so easily divine these specific threads meant you were dealing with someone who allowed himself very few connections. On that, you could relate, though you had a feeling he was a bit more successful at it.

You made a loop of the block, noting the cameras set up on some of the warehouse exteriors. These you avoided, making use of blind spots and the delivery trucks parked along the busy street. Once or twice you got the feeling you were being watched and it raised the hairs on the back of your neck. You toyed with your phone in your pocket as you circled back around, playing with the idea of calling the cops. You curled a lip. And what were you supposed to say? ‘Hey officer, I’m just here in a place I have no business in, and I feel like someone’s spying on me. Help a girl out?’

It was probably just someone wondering what the fuck you were doing here. You needed to get off the street. And the obvious answer was…

You glanced back over your shoulder and upon confirming no one was behind you, you sauntered casually up to the front door of the storage depot as if you owned the place. In your experience, when it was daylight it was best to act as if you belonged and scowl at anyone who wondered otherwise. There was always a refuge in audacity.

You used your body to hide your actions as you withdrew your black gloves and pulled them on. This place was not some abandoned building in the middle of nowhere, and you’d hate to get slapped with a charge due to some fingerprints if it all went sideways. That done, you carefully tested the front doorknob and to your surprise found it unlocked. You frowned, your growing suspicion leaving a knot in your stomach. Who just left their warehouse door unlocked in New York City? The threads inside hadn’t moved as best you could tell, and the odds of your target simply sitting there while you set off a booby trap were quite low, so you hesitantly cracked the door and listened. When nothing exploded, you nudged the door open farther, just enough to slip into the darkness inside. You shut the door quietly behind you, waiting for your eyes to adjust and show you something other than black ink and a blue thread.

Gradually, the room took shape amidst shafts of sunlight leaking in from the high windows. You were surrounded by large boxes and wooden crates in various states. Straw poked out of the open crates, padding ancient vases and time-worn statues faded by wind and sand. You caught the tantalizing gleam of gold inside one box, its top just barely cracked wide enough to offer a hint of what lay within. Against one wall, the corner of a painting framed in silver lay visible behind a white cloth draped over it.

You scratched the back of your neck. “And this door was unlocked?” you muttered. Either someone was going to be fired, or someone was planning to come into a lot of insurance money down the line. And yet none of this had anything to do with you. Rule number one was do not ask questions, no matter what weird shit you witnessed. An unlocked storage depot full of priceless artifacts certainly qualified as strange, but you hadn’t grown your business by being nosy or touching things that didn’t belong to you. Your plausible deniability was one of the things they paid you for. Also, you’d seen Aladdin. You were well aware of what happened to people who got greedy, and while there may not be a giant sand tiger about to eat you, a bullet would leave you just as dead. So instead of snooping, instead of so much as glancing into the crates, you bypassed the riches and crept towards the nexus of the threads.

There was a wooden door at the other end of the room, set into the cement wall. Something told you this one would be unlocked, too, and you steeled yourself before pressing it open.

You weren’t sure what you were expecting to see on the other side, but what you weren’t expecting was your client sitting in a room otherwise empty save for a wooden table and the cozy red armchair in which he sat. He finished the process of setting down his book on the table and held up a stopwatch. “I have to say, I’m impressed. Two hours and seventeen minutes during rush hour, and all with nothing but my watch.”

As you hastily shut down your third eye, somewhere in the back of your mind a lightbulb went off. “You were testing me,” you realized out loud, tilting your head. It made sense in a way. Most of the rich didn’t get that way by being stupid or gullible. He, or perhaps his boss, wanted to see your talent for themselves first. You couldn’t work up the energy to be angry about it. That would happen only if you didn’t get paid. “Seeing how fast I could find you?”

“Among other things. My watch?” You drew the box from your pocket and moved closer, handing it off to him. He removed his watch from the box and gave it a brief once-over before reattaching it to his wrist. “My employer will be pleased with the results. Your check, as promised.” It was his turn to hand you an item as he stood, and you glanced at the check before slipping it into your pocket. That was, indeed, more than enough to pay off your bills and leave extra.

“So that’s it, then?” You gestured towards him before folding your arms.

“For now. We’ll most likely have more jobs for you in the future, should you wish to continue working with us.”

“All this,” you waved a hand about the room, managing to encompass all the effort that had been put into your test, “just to let me walk if I want?”

“Of course. It would hardly be a beneficial business relationship should you be unwilling. We would continue to follow the rules outlined in your contracts, provide you with bonuses for quick work. And as long as you met your end of the bargain, as you do for any other client, I see no reason why any of that should change.”

You sucked on your tongue as you considered him, the check burning a warm weight against your chest. It sounded too good to be true and yet, as long as they followed the contract, what risk was there really to you?

Finally, slowly, you nodded. “You’ll have to go through the paperwork same as any other regular client for each contract, but I’m not averse to it.”

“I had a feeling you’d agree,” he said with a pleasant smile, offering you a hand to shake. “There’s a car waiting out front. The driver can take you back to your office, or your home if you’d like. We’ll be in touch when we have another job for you.”

You nodded, stuck your hands in your pockets, and headed for the door. You paused at the threshold and called out, without looking over your shoulder, “you mind if I call you Mr. Winter?”

“Any particular reason?” By the sound of his voice, he hadn’t moved away yet. It wouldn’t have surprised you if he’d sat back down to finish his chapter.

You shook your head. “I don’t expect to get your real name, so this is mostly so I have something to call you in my client list. And it fits well enough.”

You waited as he considered it. He’d been polite enough to wait for you to read through the forms, after all. “It’s acceptable,” he said at last with a chuckle.

“Well then, have a good day, Mr. Winter.”

“And you, Ms. Hind.”

-x-

Weeks went by. You handled only two jobs for Mr. Winter in between your other clients, but you weren’t complaining. Those checks paid your bills, including your legal fees, for which Foggy was incredibly grateful. You got the feeling receiving pies instead of money was more of a regular occurrence than he’d ever admit to. And Mr. Murdock… continued to be absent. It was the strangest thing, and it got stranger with each visit. There was always something that had pulled him away: a family emergency, a meeting with another client, something in his apartment caught fire. He wouldn’t even speak to you on the phone.

“Hello?” you said awkwardly into the silence. The phone had given its tell-tale click, so you knew someone had picked up. “Anyone there?”

Click!

You blinked at the phone. Had they just… hung up on you? You dialed back, brow furrowed in annoyance. You and Karen got along just fine, so you had a hard time believing she’d drop you like that.

This time when the phone picked up, you could hear scuffling and whispers as two people hissed back and forth and seemingly fought over the phone.

“—ucking hang up on clients, Matt!”

“Hello?” you tried again.

“Ms. Hind!” That was definitely Foggy. “Hi, sorry about that. That was—“

“Did someone hang up on me?” you said slowly.

“NO! No no no, of course not! Just a joke, one of our other clients playing a prank. Ha! Why would anyone hang up on our best client?! That would be crazy, wouldn’t it?” The last two words were close to a shout and muffled by what must have been a hand over the mouthpiece. “Now, how can we help you?”

And then, just when you’d think you caught him…

“Excellent! You’re early!” Foggy crowed, ushering you in.

“Yeah, better than late, right? I figured you guys wouldn’t mind.”

“Of course not, and as a matter of fact,” Foggy grinned, leading you not to his office on the right, but the one on your left that belonged to the mysterious Matthew Murdock, “you’ve arrived at a most fortunate time. My partner is actually in his office, so you can finally meet him and know that I’m not a crazy person using two names to operate a law office. He’s right in—what the FUCK?!”

You glanced around the office. It was neat and tidy, stacks of paperwork neatly organized around a laptop. It was also very much empty. Against the far wall, the breeze rustled against blinds drawn up above the open windows. “Did Mr. Murdock leap out the window rather than speak to me?”

“He’s BLIND! He can’t—he wouldn’t… Karen!”

That had all been weird enough, but even the Man in Black seemed completely unruffled by Matt Murdock’s behavior.

“One of those lawyers you sent me to. He’s avoiding me.” You stroked the silver tabby cat on your lap as you leaned back against the brick wall bordering the rooftop. She was one of the few targets who seemed to enjoy your presence. “Pretty sure he hates me, actually, which is strange since I only ever saw him once. And that was for three seconds as he was leaving.”

“What makes you say he hates you?” he asked distantly, kneeling and waggling his fingers to lure the cat over. She obliged, stepping primly off your legs and sauntering with a curled tail over to the masked man, arching her back so he could scratch along her spine. “You don’t think he’s just busy?”

“He leapt out a fucking window to avoid me, John,” you said flatly. “Pretty sure we’re past ‘just busy’. You’re both catholic. Could you maybe, I don’t know… talk to him? Tell him I’m not Satan-incarnate there to devour his soul?”

“I’ll see what I can do, but the Catholicism can only carry me so far.”

“True. The good lawyer may have a problem with the implications of the vigilante thing. Maybe leave the Catholicism out, now that I think about it.”

And yet still you carried on, meeting after meeting, just you and Foggy. You deftly dodged his questions about your past, and he gamely worked to trip up every legal effort to pry information from you. You were starting to suspect that you would never meet the elusive Mr. Murdock. Maybe that was alright; you and Foggy were doing pretty well on your own. And then your coffeemaker broke.

It was sheer chance really, an unfortunate stroke of luck. With the appliance in your apartment having given up the ghost and a meeting at Nelson and Murdock leaving you without time to run out for a new one, you decided to make a quick stop at the coffee shop just down the street from their office. Foggy had raved about it once or twice, so it made sense to just grab a coffee there.

You were near comatose without coffee in the morning, but just the scent of it wafting past you as you approached had your senses perking up in anticipation. You picked up your pace. Coffee coffee coffee coffee! A steady flow of people streamed in and out of the shop, clutching their fresh nirvana in paper cups and to-go mugs. The shop looked busy, and it was probably noisy too, but if this many people were there, it had to be worth it. That didn’t mean you didn’t grumble internally about the line as you paused at the door, letting out a sudden burst of people, before dragging your sorry, uncaffeinated hide inside.

Two suited men were in line in front of you, one of whom slowly hunched his shoulders up as you came to stand behind them. Dude must need coffee even more than me. You blew out a sigh and poked your head around the pair in front of you to blearily count how many people stood between you and the machines that made your ambrosia.

“Jane?"

You swung your head, glancing up. “Foggy?”

How did I not notice this was Foggy? Fucking coffee, need it now!

He grinned a wide, beaming smile that edged on mischievous as he clapped you on the shoulder. “I had no idea I’d find you here.” The man with the hunched shoulders had turned away, and Foggy’s hand clamped down on his jacket sleeve with a vice-like grip. “Matthew,” Foggy said through grit teeth, his cheerful tone in no way diminishing the steel in his voice. “This is that lovely client that I’ve told you so much about! The one who pays us in money and not chickens. Turn around and say hello!”

Clearly realizing he now had no escape, Matthew Murdock blew out a breath and slowly spun to face you, looking for all the world like a coyote contemplating chewing its own leg off to escape a trap. Why does he act like this is going to be so awful? Your heart skipped a beat, your nerves shot. What the hell had you done to this guy to make dealing with you such a horrible proposition? It couldn’t have been bumping into him, could it? The treatment stung you, in the way all rejection did.

Finally, you got your first good look at him. Those dark red shades of his obscured his eyes easily, but they did nothing to hide the attractiveness of the rest of his face: the stubble on his strong jaw, the pretty mouth. He wore his modest grey suit well, surprisingly lean and fit beneath it. Not bad for a dick.

His hands tightened momentarily on his white cane and you belatedly realized you’d been standing there saying nothing. Foggy shot glances hopefully back and forth between you, clearly eager for you two to get along. 

May as well give it a shot.

“Jane Hind. I heard you’ve been working on my case, but we haven’t met yet. I’m,” you cleared your throat, “I’m going to stick out my hand now to shake if that’s alright?” You tentatively offered your hand. There was a thought scratching at your brain the longer you stared at him, but you couldn’t quite pin it down.

“Her right hand is about six inches in front of you,” Foggy said helpfully. Matt shifted on his feet, licked his lips as if unsure. You were starting to feel awkward holding out your hand, and behind that, angry. Fuck him. I’ve done shit all and he’s treating me this way? Foggy laughed nervously. “Ha, he’s just nervous sometimes when meeting new people outside the practice. He will of course shake your hand any second now.”

At the sharp comment, Matt seemed to make a decision, clearing his throat and reaching out for your hand to shake. He found it unerringly, callused palm sliding against yours as he smiled. “Matt Murdock. It’s a pleasure to finally meet you.”

At the sound of his voice, the scratching in your mind became a clawing, before at last your realization burst upwards from the earth of your subconscious and began the process of redecorating your brain using a sledgehammer.

I know that voice.

You knew that low timbre, the softness with which he spoke, and the way each consonant slipped past his lips; the same lips you’d stared at maybe a touch too often since you couldn’t see his eyes.

Your brain frantically began to assemble the clues you’d missed until now.

Matt Murdock avoiding you, because you’d recognize his voice after the time spent with him. Recognize injuries he sometimes gained while with you.

The business cards given to you by the Man in the Mask. Directing James and yourself towards the firm. ‘You can trust them.’ He would know, wouldn’t he?

John, the Man in Black, was one of your own fucking lawyers.

Foggy’s smile faltered, and his gaze turned nervous as you stood frozen in front of Matt. “I just forgot,” you said suddenly, “I have a thing at work. I need to reschedule my appointment.” You backed away, fumbling your way out of the shop. This was too much, you needed… you needed space to think, to process. “Sorry, Foggy, have a good day!”

Back in the shop, Foggy slowly turned to face Matt. Matt nodded. “That went well.

“Fix this, Murdock!” Foggy thundered, ignoring the startled stares from the other patrons. “By god, Matthew Murdock, you need to fix this!”

“How do you know I’m the one who broke it?”

“I don’t know.” He threw up his hands. “I don’t care! She pays us with money, Matt! Actual money! She doesn’t pay us in pie!” He poked Matt in the chest determinedly. “And I don’t know if you know this, but New York City does not accept pies or chickens as payment on our office!”

Matt chuckled nervously, nudging Foggy’s hand away. “Alright. Consider me swayed, Counselor. I’ll do my best.”

“Good,” Foggy sniffed, patting Matt on the shoulder. “I’m glad you’ve accepted my wisdom. Now, you want mocha today? I’m feeling mocha. Which is great, cause I may be homeless now without her, and that means I’ll never be able to afford mocha again.”

-x-

You’d gone back to work, but you hadn’t gotten much done. Fortunately, all you’d had to do was paperwork. You were, in a word, distracted.

Was he really blind? Had he lied to you about his senses? Did his business partner know? Did Karen? Was this all just an incredibly convoluted scheme to drive business to his new firm?

The thoughts dogged you like hungry strays all day long as you examined every angle, every interaction with him you could remember. Those thoughts followed you on your walk home, up the stairs, and into your apartment. They curled up inside your mind as you grabbed a beer from your fridge and settled in to drink and ponder. They quieted when you heard the Man in Black’s—no, Matt’s—knock at your door. It was the same pattern you’d become so familiar with.

Tap-tap-tap.

Tap.

Tap-tap.

You warily eyed the front door from your spot on the couch, and slowly took another sip of your beer. Part of you wondered why he didn’t use the window. Did it mean something that he was coming to you as Matt and not the Man in Black?

“I know you’re there, Jane.”

Of course you do, you bastard, you thought dryly. At least you weren’t lying about that.

“Can I come in? Please? We need to talk.”

You sighed and took another swig before answering. “Door’s open.” An unlocked door wasn’t the safest idea in New York City but you’d been expecting him to show and hadn’t seen the point in locking the door when you were there to watch it.

The door nudged open and Matt entered slowly, turning to lock the door behind him before stepping further into your apartment, not even faltering as he stepped over the shoes you’d kicked off and left just inside.

The pillow you chucked at him plopped against his head and fell to the ground. He stared at you with an arched brow. “Did you just throw a pillow at blind man?”

“Yes, I did,” you said without a touch of shame, raising your beer at him. “Are you telling me you couldn't dodge it with your ninja skills? And how do I even know you’re really blind? You’re lucky I didn’t throw something heavier as a test.”

“I could have caught it but I let you have that one for free since it was a pillow,” he chuckled, making his way over towards where you sat. You’d claimed the sofa for yourself and he gave you your space, stopping in front of the armchair that sat catty-corner to the couch. “I think you’ve earned it. As for whether I’m really blind… it’s complicated. The real mystery is why you’re not angry. May I sit?”

“Yeah, go ahead.” You narrowed your eyes as he nodded and settled into your armchair. Instead of relaxing, he leaned forward to rest his elbows on his knees.  “And how do you know I’m not angry?”

“Your heart rate,” he said quietly. ¨It’s calm, not racing like it would if you were furious with me. Your skin didn't get warm when you heard my voice, either. You’re not angry at all. Suspicious maybe, but not angry.”

“Hmph,” you grunted. He was right. You weren't angry. Hell, you hadn’t told him who you really were. You couldn’t blame the guy for keeping that secret when you’d only known each other for a few months. Still, it didn’t mean you were without questions. “Are you really blind?”

“Yes. The… chemicals I told you about, the ones the spilled on me? It was my eyes they hit. And I’ve never once claimed I wasn’t blind.” It was true; you’d reviewed your interactions, your conversations, and had realized already that he’d never once mentioned something’s color, had never mentioned anything to do with vision when discussing his abilities.

“But you can move like you can see,” you said, toying with the bottle in your hands.

“In a manner of speaking.” The explanation he launched into, about what he could ‘see’ and vague mentions of being trained, made things a little more clear, knowing what you did about his enhanced senses. It reminded you of a documentary on whales diving deep into the lightless depths of the ocean, how their sonar could help form a mental map of their surroundings. Matt’s senses apparently worked the same way, affording him a comprehensive picture of the environment and making up for what his eyes could no longer tell him. And it was, it seemed, a far better map than what a working pair of eyes would have given him.

“Does your partner know?” you asked curiously. You’d been drawn into the story despite your best efforts, and had long since given up your efforts to appear angry. You’d also unknowingly scooted across the couch so you were closer, leaning forward in your interest.

“No, he doesn’t. Very few people do.”

You reached out to pat his hand, making him smile. “Well, I’m honored to be a member of such an exclusive club.”

“I’m sorry I didn’t tell you earlier, when I directed you to the firm,” he said, hand flipping up to grasp your fingers. He unconsciously brushed his thumb over your knuckles in a soothing gesture. “But at first I didn’t know if I could trust you, and after that, it just wasn’t—"

“Safe?” you finished. At his nod, you waved him off. “No, don’t feel sorry. I mean, I get it. We’ve only known each other, what, a couple of months? I don’t blame you for being cautious. Can’t say I’d have told you, either. At least I know I can trust both my lawyers now.”

He chuckled, letting go of your hand and settling back into his seat. Your skin felt strangely cold without that contact. How warm is he for me to feel that cold? “I promise, we’ll do the best we can. Most of it’s just legal scare tactics right now. They’re testing the waters. We’ll take care of it, though. You don’t have anything to worry about.”

You shook your head, taking another sip of your beer. It was a strange feeling, to be sitting here with Matt. He both felt like someone you already knew, thanks to your time with the Man in Black, and like someone completely different. Someone new. It threw you off balance, left you on unstable ground.

“What are you thinking?” he asked kindly, picking up on your straying thoughts.

“Just reconciling these two people I thought were separate,” you admitted, biting your lip. “You’re different than when you’re in the black suit, but also not different, if that makes sense.”

“I promise,” he assured you, “I’m still me. Still the man you talk to on rooftops. Just in my work clothes, is all. You had to know that wasn’t my full-time job.”

You snorted out a laugh into your beer bottle, making him grin. The tension broken, you fully relaxed. “I mean, I knew that, but I didn’t think you occupied both sides of the system. How was I supposed to know? Alright, you know what?” You set down your bottle. “We’re going to try this again.”

“What? Drinking? I haven’t noticed you having any problems so far, but then again, I am blind.”

“I am in fact doing an excellent job so far,” you pointed out, turning so you were facing him straight on. “But that’s not what I meant. We’re going to do this introduction thing again now that we’ve got all our cards on the table. You know my powers, I know yours, we know each other’s day jobs. Etcetera. Let’s do this right.”

He nodded in agreement and, to your surprise, reached up and removed his glasses and set them on your coffee table. Warm, soft brown eyes shifted their focus to your mouth as you sucked in a short breath, fascinated by the play of color. You’d never seen his eyes until now, never been able to examine the tiny laugh lines at the corners as he smiled at you or the threads of storm grey shot through the iris. Something told you it wasn't a common occurrence for him to allow someone to see his eyes. There was an intimacy to the act, a show of trust that warmed you, left your breath shaky as it escaped your lungs.

You held out your hand to him for the second time that day. Like before, his hand slid into yours, skin rasping against skin. There was no shake this time, your hands simply clasping as you watched him.

“Matthew Murdock,” he said quietly.

He’s trusted me, so… You licked your lips, and murmured your real name.

His surprised smile lit up the room, and you grinned back. “It’s a pleasure to meet you,” he said. “Truly.”

With that, you released his hands and picked up your beer bottle. “So… jumping out a window? Really?”

“I couldn’t help but panic. Psychics are just so intimidating to a guy with secrets.”

“Shut up."

Chapter Text

“You’re sure the food will work?” Matt asked you skeptically. He leaned against the wall beside the door, his arms crossed. His casual stance and the distracted cock of his head may have deceived those unfamiliar with him, but you knew the truth: he was listening carefully for potential witnesses to your attempted break-in, or for any other crime being committed nearby. This wasn’t exactly the nicest neighborhood after all. “His heart is racing. Doesn’t seem like he’d be interested.”

“The stomach method is tried and true, my friend,” you said cheerfully as you gingerly picked the lock, keeping yourself concealed in the shadows provided by the ramshackle porch roof. Your target had clearly used the broken bottom segment of the window beside the door, but you weren’t sure you could squeeze through without slicing yourself to ribbons. At least someone had been polite and swept the glass away. “Even if it takes a little while, they always give in eventually. Ah! There we go.” You shouldered the wooden door open with a grunt, sending small flakes of weathered blue paint floating towards the ground like snowfall. You couldn’t help but wince at the screech of rusted hinges, a bell over the door chiming in a puff of dust.

The opened door revealed a darkened, debris-filled space stretching out in front of you. The only other door lay at the far end of the room, ajar and exposing nothing but yet more pitch-black murk. The legacy of the last occupant was all around: moldering cardboard boxes packed full of pipes and faucets, sheet-covered spinning chairs lined up before grimy, cracked mirrors too stained to throw out even a semblance of a reflection. There was a smattering of shoe and paw-prints tracked into the layers of dust, revealing the long-defunct salon wasn’t entirely empty of activity, though it was vacant enough for now. You put away your lockpicks and withdrew your flashlight, clicking it on and swinging it around. “Still clear?”

“You’re good,” he said. You stepped through the doorway, Matt following closely and shutting the door behind you with another deceptively cheerful jingle. “Back storeroom, no other exit. He knows we’re here. He’s scared.”

You took a few steps across the floor, turned to face Matt, and lowered yourself down to sit cross-legged. You set your flashlight down, positioning it upright as a makeshift lamp. The amount of light it afforded you was minuscule but effective enough.

“What are you doing?”

“Block the window, would you?” You drew a crinkled paper bag from your pocket as Matt moved to comply, positioning a stack of boxes in front of the window to block the gaping hole in the shattered glass. You drew your knife and sliced open the strings tying the bag shut before returning the blade to your jacket sheath. Brown paper rustled under your fingers as you opened the bag, and soon the rich smell of fresh roast chicken reached your nostrils, covering the copper tang of rust and stale air. You tore off a shred of meat and without looking back tossed it over your shoulder in the direction of the storeroom door. You whistled a few notes, keeping your posture relaxed and non-threatening. “Got some fresh chicken here, Sherwood.”

You received no response, but you hadn’t expected one, not immediately. You tossed another piece.

“He smells it, even if he’s not moving,” Matt informed you, settling back against the wall. Against the faded yellow paint, he was a lean, dangerous line of black that your eye couldn’t help but be drawn to. Here amidst the time-ravaged ruins of an abandoned building, he seemed completely at ease, not one mark of apprehension visible in his body language as he tipped his head back.

“I told you. He’s probably hungry.”

“You have a lot of experience with dogs?” He rolled his shoulders as you shrugged.

“Usually it’s cats. Dogs are much more likely to wander up to someone and show off their license tags and get brought home before I’m called. Cats, not so much.” You tended to have far greater luck luring a dog to your side than a cat. Dogs seemed to naturally seek friendly humans out when frightened, while cats usually sought escape from anyone on two legs. It always made for an interesting experience. You gave a dismissive wave of your hand. “The whole pet thing, though, yeah. Cats, dogs, birds. God, fucking birds! Those are a nightmare. Pets are a good fifty-five percent of my business.”

“And they all have… red lines?”

You shook your head. “Dogs are likely to have red. Cats are usually more selective. Birds, reptiles, that’s a toss-up depending on species.”

“How do you not get their threads mixed up with your own when tracking?” he asked. At your hesitation, he added kindly, “You don’t have to tell me if you don’t want to.”

Ah, now that’s where it gets complicated, you thought as you leaned your head back to stare at the warped, grungy ceiling tiles. How to explain? It was no use lying. If you were going to lie, you may as well tell him you wouldn’t talk about it for all the good it would do you. He’d probably let it go; he’d never once shown any inclination to press where you were uncomfortable. And yet… he was the Man in the Mask, and your life—along with your safety as you wandered the city at night—had improved greatly with his presence. He deserved your trust.

He waited patiently, giving you time and quiet to ponder over which direction you wanted to steer the conversation. He straightened when you finally answered, “The trick is, I don’t actually look at my own threads. When I’m following one, I sort of draw it up,” you made a gesture as if hooking and lifting a string up from the floor, “above the others. Most rest on the ground if there’s any distance between the two ends. Makes it easier to narrow in on what I’m looking at. So my threads… I keep those down, under everything else.”

“It seems like it'd be nice to know about your own relationships,” he mused thoughtfully. “I’m assuming there’s a reason you don’t look.”

You hummed an affirmative. “I told you before about the colors, right?” At his nod, you continued speaking as you tossed another piece of warm chicken over your shoulder. “Yellow, orange, red. Levels of… attachment, affection, love, whatever you want to call it.” You’d always been at a loss as to how to define it. In this way, the English language seemed woefully inefficient in conveying the exact emotion you felt when touching your finger to a scarlet thread. It required a word that represented both many feelings, and just one that encompassed all the shades of warmth possible between two individuals. “It’s a connection between friends, family, lovers, beloved pets. Both parties need to care strongly for a red thread to form, this is true. For pets like Sherwood, that’s all you need. But humans need one other thing, too.”

“And what’s that?”

You clucked your tongue at the click-click-click of Sherwood’s nails coming from the open doorway behind you. Your noise prompted a half-hearted growl. “Awareness,” you said. At Matt’s puzzled silence, you elaborated. “Each person needs to know they care about the other. No recognition, no red thread.” That emotional insight, as best you could tell, was not just important but a necessity. Anything short of full understanding left one solidly in orange.

“So as long as you don’t look—“

“And remain firmly in denial of any strong emotional connection with someone,” you interrupted. “Denial is super important.”

“—You won’t develop any red threads,” he finished. Something about his tone was odd, almost unhappy as he shook his head, his jaw clenching. “Why would you want to deny yourself that connection to someone else?”

You cringed at what you assumed was his disbelief. You fiddled with a corner of the paper bag. “If I have a red thread connected to someone, that person can be used to find me. Someone finds me, they… use me. There’s a lot of money to be made hunting down people who don’t want to be found, as you can imagine.” The memories left a sour, acrid taste on your tongue. You’d left before it had gotten too bad, but you’d seen what was in your future if you’d stayed. You’d have been chained, muzzled, leashed: a dog on a chain, set loose only to run down game before you were locked back in your cage. “So I don’t really make many friends. Not serious ones, anyway. No parties, no dates. Not looking at my threads, that’s just my last line of defense.”

“There has to be someone you can safely connect with,” he objected, gesturing sharply. “Old friends, family.”

You glanced down at the floor and picked at a loose thread from your jeans that you’d missed earlier. “I burned as many bridges as I could,” you said, keeping your voice level. Something about Matt’s easy, sympathetic nature made this subject easier to talk about. Or maybe it was the time and distance that softened the edges of memory and soothed the sting of old hurt. “People you're close to, you know how to hurt them. You know their weak spots. You do it right, you can drive that thread from red to green in just a few hours.” You snapped your fingers. Green, the lonely color of unrequited affection, was a color most would have wanted to remove from themselves if they could. But for you, it had been what you’d desired. You glanced back up, knowing he would sense your eyes on him. You let a hard edge creep into your voice. “It took me a bit longer than a few days but they’re safer now. No one can use them to find me, so there’s no reason to hurt them.”

You were met with silence.  His hands tightened into fists, but the downward turn of his mouth spoke of another emotion you couldn’t quite read. So hard when I can’t see his eyes. At best guess, he was furious —teeth grinding, posture stiff and hard—that someone had forced you into this pattern, or perhaps he was angry that you’d given in to fear and denied yourself. You’d felt similarly over the years, though you tried to maintain a sort of pragmatic acceptance about it. Most of the time that worked, allowing you to remain distant and disconnected despite repeated overtures of friendship and romance from others. Sometimes, however, people like Matt stirred the waters and left you longing for connection and enraged that you couldn’t take the offered hand. You tugged again at the thread in your jeans and tossed more chicken over your shoulder. The whisper of paw pads and quiet snuffling told you Sherwood’s hunger had finally won out. “That seems like a lonely way to live,” he said finally. You shouldn’t have been surprised he understood.

“I guess,” you admitted, slowly swiveling on the ground so that you were half-turned away from him. You wanted to keep Sherwood in your view now that he’d finally stepped out from the back room. In the dim light of your flashlight, you could make the dog out. Around forty pounds, his thick, shaggy grey-and-black coat and a plumed tail that curved up over his back made him a startling sight in the dimness. “But I don’t have another option. The scientists who studied me as a kid, or some of the guys I did jobs for, if they find a red thread to track me, they won’t let it go. And besides,” it was time to redirect the conversation away from yourself, “it can’t be much different for you, right? You’ve got ways of protecting yourself. Don’t think I haven’t noticed.”

Sherwood inched his way closer, lured by the bag of chicken in your hands and the scent wafting towards him. You tossed a few more pieces, gradually winding in the distance. You had a leash in your pocket but you weren’t going to loop him until you had gained some of his trust. He was supposedly a friendly animal when in his own home, but he was understandably skittish. It did to remember that even the most well-mannered dog had fangs when backed into a corner.

“I’ve got a few people at least. It’s… human to want connection,” he said, shifting and resettling against the wall. His mouth gained a pensive tilt, before quirking in a sardonic little grin as he turned his face in your direction. “I’m not sure I could avoid it entirely even if I wanted to. I have a hard time not getting attached.”

“So you control how those relationships happen.” You held out a hand filled with chicken to Sherwood. His tail wagging, he hesitantly took a few licks. When nothing further happened, he came a little closer and began to eat. “I get that. But I can’t fight as well as you. What’s my option for keeping people safe? Honestly, the closest I’ve come to a real friend in years is you,” you admitted reluctantly, reciprocating his confession with one of your own, “and that’s only because I know you can defend yourself.”

And even with how much you genuinely liked Matt, you still couldn’t risk opening yourself to a red thread with him. It was a slippery slope, one that started with the deceptively innocent, ‘it’s just Matt, just the one friend. ’ But slowly you knew your hunger for connection, for friendship would grow, and it wouldn’t be long before those red threads multiplied beyond your control. You could envision yourself falling in, with Foggy and Matt and Maya and Daniel. You’d grow complacent, consider calling old friends or trying to track down family like you’d been tempted to do in the past. Inevitably somebody would find you, try to force you into their service. You would have nowhere to hide with so much red wrapped around you. And Matt, humanly-vulnerable Matt, he would be right there beside you, shedding blood in an attempt to protect you as he would for anyone else in the city. Not for wealth or to use you for his own purposes, but simply because you needed help. He was a martyr, offering up his own body in exchange for the safety of others.

No. You refused to steal the Devil away from Hell’s Kitchen.

“I won’t risk you or anyone else,” you said softly, scratching at Sherwood’s ears. “It’s safer this way, trust me.”

His lips parted on a frustrated sigh as he went to kneel in front of you. “Please, you have to let me—” He froze. Like a bat, his head tilted, rotating and shifting back and forth as he narrowed in on a sound.

“What do you hear?”

“A woman, two blocks away. She’s screaming for…” He frowned before rising and about-facing to the door. He yanked it open. “Stay here. Don’t leave without me.” He didn’t wait for an answer before disappearing out into the night with no small sense of urgency, leaving you alone in the abandoned salon.

You turned back to Sherwood, who wagged his tail again. “He does that a lot,” you confided. “More chicken? Maybe if you sit?” As soon as his butt plopped down, you gave him another piece. “Good boy. Wanna get the leash on and we can take you back home? Good idea?” You got a woof in reply and shifted to dig around in your pocket for the leash. Sherwood snuffled at the bag in your other hand.

From his throat rumbled a low growl, bone-white fangs revealed by curling lips as his focus redirected towards the door. You quickly shifted up onto your heels, clicking off your flashlight and leaving you in the dark.

“—aw the light in here, I swear,” came a drunken slur from out front.

“Well, let’s have a look, then.”

You rose to your feet, scanning the salon. There wasn’t anywhere suitable to hide except the back room. Sherwood had already begun backing away, retreating towards the safety of the office, and you made to follow. You hadn’t taken more than two strides backwards, however, before footsteps made their way up to the door, and a heavy hand shoved it open.

“What do we got here?” The first man through the door was the largest, wide and tall, dressed in worn jeans and a stained white t-shirt. A half-finished cigarette dangled from his grinning mouth, smoke trailing lazily upwards and collecting against the ceiling. The second, third, and fourth man who entered ranged in size from scrawny to bulky, though none as large as the first. Man Two and Three wore the same lewd grins the first man had graced you with. Only Four was nervous. His arms were wrapped around himself tightly and he jumped at every little sound as he hung towards the back of the group. Even from where you stood you could smell the reek of cheap alcohol, the sour ripeness of a dive bar floor heavy in the air.

Well, shit. You didn’t need Matt’s super senses to read the energy in the room. Your heart rate shot up as adrenaline flooded your system in preparation for a fight. “I’m just here to grab my dog, boys, and then you can have the room,” you said firmly, your stance wide as you folded your arms across your chest. You could not, in any way, show fear to the wolves in front of you. You needed to be confident and controlled, more trouble than you were worth to the predators circling you in the dark.

“But what if we don’t want the room?” said the man with the cigarette, baring his stained teeth as he met your eye.

“She thinks we want the room, Robbie,” Two giggled, his cheeks flushed.

The first man, Robbie apparently, snorted in amusement. “What if we’re just looking for a little spare change?” he purred. “You don’t got that, I’m sure there’s something else we can come up with.” Your hands tightened into fists and his grin grew wider. They had no idea about the blade in your jacket, and you weren’t about to tell him. You were hoping to get out of here without needing to so much as take a swing. The easiest way to do that would have been to toss your wallet and run, normally, but they were blocking your only exit, and they didn’t seem inclined to move.

“I’m taking my dog and leaving before my friend comes looking for me,” you said, your tone brooking no argument as you uncrossed your arms. Sherwood had begun to bark in the back room, frantic and high. You could only hope the sound would carry, but you weren’t going to count on it. “We’re all walking away, pretending like none of this ever happened.”

“Why would we walk away?” the third man slurred, taking a few drunk steps towards you as his friends jeered. You held your ground, watching him carefully. “We aren’t finished talkin’ yet.”

You curled a lip in disgust before forcing the expression down. Instead, you stared at him coldly. “Back the fuck off,” you warned, bracing yourself. “I won’t say it again.”

“Stubborn bitch,” he grumbled, reaching out to snatch your wrist. Unfortunately for him, thumbs were easy to dislocate. He yowled as you wrenched his thumb further, not an ounce of sympathy in your grip. He yanked his hand away as you lifted a boot and kicked him in the gut, knocking him back.

“I already told you: leave me the fuck alone,” you snarled as Three nursed his thumb. There was no point in keeping the fury out of your voice now. Robbie and Two laughed at Three, shoving him before turning to you.

“Girl’s got spunk, I’ll give you that,” Robbie guffawed as he tossed his cigarette and crept forward with far more caution than Three had shown. Two took a side route, working his way around to your left as Robbie began to direct them. “Kal, stay on that side. Tim, quit whining over your fucking hand and take the other side. Sam, guard the door.”

Their hands remained in view, which was a good sign. If they’d been intending to use weapons, they’d have had their hands in their pockets already. You rocked back and forth, loosening yourself up as you shuffled a few steps back, your eyes shifting around the room. It would be helpful to have a weapon to use in addition to your knife. Your goal wasn’t to win against four opponents. One may have been possible with the tricks you’d learned over the years, or even two—thank you, self-defense classes—but not four. As drunk as they may have been, they were still larger than you, and you were outnumbered. You weren’t seeking victory so much as clearing yourself an escape route to the door. That, maybe, you could do. Then all you needed to do was find Matt and lead him back before they could do anything to Sherwood. “Four of you? Just to grab little old me?” you mocked, lifting your arms up to a guard position, prepared to protect your face and upper torso. “Can’t say I’m impressed.”

Kal ended up being the first to engage, Tim wary with his hand being injured and Robbie content to wait and watch. Kal made a guarded pass at your arm, an attempt to draw you in so he could use his size to his advantage. You dodged the drunken swipe, knocking it away. In response, you lashed out with a kick at his kneecap, trying to disable him. Your blow landed, and he snarled in pain as you sidestepped in the direction of the door, his leg buckling momentarily before he caught himself. With his balance still off, you were able to catch his next punch on your arms, protecting your face before you struck back with a jab, clipping his chin before withdrawing your arm back to protect your jaw just in time to block another swing. You managed another two steps closer to your escape, ducking under his clumsy right hook. You swung for his gut but he shoved you away, your back slamming against one of the stacks of water-damaged cardboard boxes. The corroded pipes inside rattled at your impact. “Now that’s enough out of you,” he spat. He approached with a limp, dropping his guard as he reached for your shoulders. You flattened your palm and struck up at his nose like a coiled snake as soon as he was within range. Bone crunched and he howled, blood immediately gushing from his nostrils as he staggered back. “Mudderfucker!”

You’d gained yourself a precious few seconds: seconds you used to snag one of the pipes behind you. You rolled your wrist, spinning the pipe as Tim approached before you stepped forward and swung hard at his face. Tim squawked, instinct driving his hands up to protect his face. He yelped and fell back as the steel smacked against his injured hand. You kept the pipe raised and ready as you began to back away towards the door once more, but a pair of beefy arms wrapped around you from behind, pulling you up off the ground.

In the struggle, you lost hold of the pipe, and it rolled away into the darkness as you kicked backwards at Robbie’s legs. You needed an arm free if you were going to go for your knife. Robbie growled and shook you. “Just shut up and hold—” You threw your head back, your skull colliding with his nose. A hot stream spilled down your back as Robbie roared, dropping you to throw his hands up to his face. “What is it with you and fucking noses?!” You finally had the space to draw your knife as Tim closed in again, his eyes wild in determination.

Most people were initially drawn to something huge and flashy when choosing a knife for self-defense, but you’d learned the value of the opposite. Multi-purpose knives like yours—small, sharp, and well kept—were easier to hide in the hand and harder for your enemy to spot in the moment before you struck, as well as easier to explain to cops if you were searched. The point wasn’t to stick around and put on a good show if you were in a fight. Your goal was to slice and run while your foe was distracted. You kept that in mind as you sliced at Tim’s face. He clearly wasn’t expecting you to have a blade and he threw his hands up too late. Your knife rolled across his face in a line of scarlet, starting from the corner of his forehead and racing down and over towards his nose before entering the meaty section between his thumb and forefinger and lodging against bone. He jerked away as he screamed, your knife ripped from your grip. Dark red streamed down his face, blinding him in one eye and leaving him out of the game.

Your path had been cleared. Hallelujah for playing dirty! You sprinted for the door, fully intending to make your escape.

Stars burst across your vision at a sharp impact to your temple. Your ears rang, the room around you spinning as you crashed to the ground and skidded across the floor, coming to a stop just feet from the door. You frantically struggled to gather up your thoughts but they slipped through your grasp, insubstantial and weightless. A wave of nausea washed over you and you struggled not to retch.

Sam tossed the pipe away as he skittered back out of reach. The dripping of blood marked Robbie’s progression as he circled around to your front. You glanced up blearily from the floor. “Nice, good job Sam.” You clearly hadn’t broken his nose as badly as Kal’s if he was still speaking. “Tim?”

Tim groaned off to your right, one hand clutching at his face as he cradled the other hand, knife and all, to his chest. “Fuck, man, she cut me good. I gotta go to the hospital!”

“You’re gonna pay for that one,” Robbie growled, grasping your hair and yanking you up to stare into his blood-covered face. The world spun on its axis again at the abrupt motion.

“‘S what you think,” you slurred. Your tongue felt thick inside your mouth, each syllable fuzzy and slow to form on your lips, but you did your best. Blood trickled down from your temple. You’d probably been cut when you got hit. “Four of yer’ drunken asses and I still made you all bleed. Even bashed in that ugly nose of yours.” He snarled and swung at you with a closed fist, striking you first against your eye, and then, as your head snapped back, across your mouth. The second blow dropped you back fully onto the ground.

“Go find some rope,” Robbie snapped to Sam.

“Can’t we just leave?” Tim muttered. “Seriously, man, I gotta get this knife out of me!”

“Not before we tie her up and take her cash,” Robbie said.

“Man, fuck you, you want to play with her like your last one!”

Your eyes drifted around woozily as you spat blood, wincing at your split lip as you tried to figure out your next move while they argued over what to do with you. The pipe you’d used was out of reach, as was your knife. The assholes were also standing in your way, their backs to the door. The good news was, you were close, closer than you’d been the entire fight. With one small distraction, you could make a run for it, you just knew it, because that door...

That door was slowly opening.

You started to giggle from your place on the ground.

“What’s so funny?” Tim snapped. “What, you waiting for the cops or something?”

“No,” you chortled manically, pointing a wobbly hand behind Robbie. “I was waiting for him.”

Almost comically they turned to follow your finger, coming face to face with the Man in the Mask, the Devil who prowled the streets of Hell's Kitchen hunting far bigger prey than they.

And he was not amused.

“It's the D—” Sam whispered.

“Hey now,” Robbie said slowly, holding his hands up. The temperature of the room had risen rapidly, the air thick and heavy as smoke with the weight of the Devil’s rage. Even idiots like these could sense that they were standing before someone well above their weight class. “We were just havin’ some fun. Let’s not fight. We can all just walk away.”

The Devil bared his teeth, and only the very foolish would have dared call it a smile. “You had your chance to walk away. Now it’s my turn,” he said softly, and surged into action.

Despite your injuries, you had the good sense to drag yourself across the floor to the wall where you were out of the way. You were content to let the Devil take care of them while you looked on. It may have been four against one, but the assholes would prove no challenge.

He was making far quicker work of it than you had and with far more style. Kal flew over your head, crashing into an old mirror just to your left and shattering it into hundreds of pieces. You calmly tore a piece of fabric from the sheet covering the chair to your right, used it to pick up a shard of mirror, and vindictively stabbed it into his calf. There was no reaction. You were pretty sure he was unconscious, but it still made you feel better. Meanwhile, the Devil took a clear visceral satisfaction in the meaty sound of impact as one of his blows fractured Tim’s jaw, the punch dropping Tim like a rock. With a feral grin, the Devil finally turned his attention towards Robbie where he was backed up against the far wall.

You reached up and pressed a hand to your temple, probing the substantial goose egg that had been left behind. That was definitely going to hurt in the morning. Blood clung sticky and cool to your fingers and you didn’t press too much for fear of disturbing the clotting. Damn it, you were covered in blood. “I liked this jacket,” you grumbled to yourself.

Robbie, now on the ground with two shattered knees, howled as the Devil wrenched his arm up until it gave way and the joint dislocated with a loud pop. “You’re lucky I don’t rip it off and beat you with it,” the Devil hissed as he released him, leaving Robbie a sniveling mess on the ground. Sam had long since taken off, and Tim and Kal were out of commission, groaning on the ground in their opposite corners. “You’re all going to turn yourselves in to the police. If you don’t, I'll know, and I’ll find you. Understand?”

At the whimpers of affirmation, the Devil approached you and dropped smoothly into a crouch, brushing his fingers carefully at your temple. This close, the lingering heat radiated off him like hellfire, heavy and almost soothing. You were surprised you didn’t catch fire under his touch as his gloved hand slid down to cradle your cheek. The sensation of it seemed strangely tender, though that was likely just because he was feeling out your injuries and didn't want to hurt you any worse.

“Are you alright?” he asked softly.

“Fine. Most of the blood is theirs,” you reassured him groggily, dropping your head carefully back against the wall. Things would certainly have been a lot worse if he hadn’t come along when he did, so you were counting your blessings as Tim staggered to the door, and Robbie did his best to crawl along after him. “Hey, asshole! Leave my knife!”

Tim winced. “But—”

The Devil beside you growled.

Clink.

“Thank you," you sighed. "Anyway, I’m bruised, a little cut up but otherwise fine. You got here before they could get too friendly, I think.”

Matt stilled, all expression leaving the lower half of his face made visible by the mask. “They were planning to touch you?” he said slowly, tilting his head as he turned to fixate on the two remaining men. Across the room, Robbie whimpered.

“Not sure,” you said absently, brushing a finger against your lip and probing the split. “The big guy was talking about tying me up and... Wait, what are you—”

The Devil surged back to his feet, stalking like a ravenous black wolf through the shadows. Kal scrambled out the door, setting the bell to ringing as Robbie’s sniveling got louder. He attempted to crawl faster, fingers clawing at the tile, but he managed only inches before the Devil reached him. The Devil’s foot came down on his back, pinning him to the floor as he grabbed the drunk’s hair, savagely yanking the man’s head back so that Robbie was forced to look up at him. The Devil whispered something too quiet for you to hear.

“I swear I didn’t—”

The Devil slammed Robbie’s head down into the floor, smashing his already battered nose further and grinding it down against the tile, making the injured man howl in pain.

The Devil lifted Robbie's weeping, bloodied face again a moment later. His voice dropped down into a hiss, low and furious. “I can tell when you’re lying. Try it again. I'm begging you.”

“Alright!” Robbie gasped. “Alright, just a little, I swear!”

The Devil hushed him, asking him another question you couldn’t quite make out. The words you may not have been able to hear, but what you could hear was the Devil’s tone, and it remained perfectly even, cold and absent of any shade of mercy. When Robbie didn’t answer immediately, the Devil’s hand tightened in warning before the man broke, sobbing.

“Only once before, I swear to god, I swear, oh god, please.”

Even at this distance in the dark one could see the Devil’s composure crack, a tremble borne of pure fury breaking through the cold facade before he was in control once more.

”Please, god please,” Robbie whispered.

God’s not here, only the Devil.

The Devil’s head turned, allowing you to see his profile over his shoulder. “I’ll be right back,” he told you levelly. With that, he lifted Robbie up, dragging him to the front door as the man began to wail. He thrashed as best he could, but being injured and unable to walk, his struggles were pointless.

Out the door they went into the night, disappearing out of sight.

Sherwood finally poked his head out of the back room with a whine. You clumsily waggled your fingers at him, and he hesitantly approached you to lick at your face as an agonized scream echoed through the city. You couldn’t bring yourself to feel too torn up about it.

“Hey, pup.” You rubbed at his ears. He was already dirty, a little blood wouldn’t make him look any worse. “Good thing I still have the leash, huh? Boy, would my face be red if I couldn’t walk out of here with you.”

-x-

By the time Matt—and it was Matt this time, not the Devil—came back around twenty minutes later, long after the screams had stopped, you’d retrieved your knife, leashed Sherwood, and made your way over to the door where you leaned tiredly against the frame. As the adrenaline faded from your system, you were left jittery and spent.

Matt set a hand on your shoulder and drew you in for a gentle hug, letting out an unsettled sigh as he did so. “You ok?” he asked gently, one hand sweeping soothingly down your back, heedless of the blood and dirt coating your jacket. “You did really well.”

“Fine,” you mumbled against his warm chest, winding your arms around his waist and blowing out a shaky breath as he cradled you against him, rumbling a low, soothing noise. Hell if you weren't going to soak in the unfamiliar comfort and affection while you could, just for a minute or two. When was... the last time you'd gotten a real hug? Years, surely. “Believe it or not, I’ve had a few guys try to grab me before, for my wallet or… other stuff. It happens sometimes, but I always manage to find a way out. That way out just happened to be you this time.”

He exhaled slowly, his chin brushing your hair as his arms tightened around you. Apparently that wasn't an answer he found all that soothing.  

“I’m returning the dog before I do anything else,” you said, trying to direct the conversation towards something a little more positive.

“You have blood all over you,” he pointed out in good humour. “As well as a minor skull fracture and probably a concussion. You should be resting, preferably with someone to keep an eye on you. Not walking across the city.”

“It’s not that far. I can rest after I return the dog,” you insisted, releasing him with only the barest hint of reluctance and starting to push the door open. Matt huffed in frustration, reaching out to take your arm over his shoulder. Sherwood followed along politely without you needing to give the slightest tug on the leash. “It’s my job, D. Then I can worry about… everything else.”

“Do you at least have someone who can stay with you tonight?” he asked. “A roommate, or a neighbor?”

You tried to shake your head and winced at the pain that radiated down from your neck. “Nah, but I’ll be fine. I’ve taken hits like this before. If I start vomiting repeatedly, I’ll call 911. I know the signs.”

His frown deepened but he was otherwise silent in thought as he helped you down the steps towards the sidewalk. You wished you knew what he was thinking, but he didn't seem inclined to speak, and you were equally uninclined to push. Instead, you let him help you down the porch's rickety steps, rotted wood creaking before you both made it to the street. “Alright,” you told him. “Go on and get out of here. Can’t have anyone seeing you and I have to start walking.” Because God knew there was no way a cabbie would take you and Sherwood when you were both filthy. While the dark leather of your jacket hid the blood on your back, there wasn’t much you could do about your mouth or the front of your shirt. That meant another walk, which in your condition was not going to be pleasant.

“I’ll be on the rooftops following you,” he said, reluctantly releasing you as if he didn’t believe you could stand without his assistance. You huffed and straightened your back with a hiss.  “Anything happens, and I’m calling—”

“Yeah, yeah, I know,” you muttered. Despite the ache it caused, you tried to walk steadily as you started down the street. You really wanted to get this over with. “Make me feel like I can’t get shit done, why don’t you.”

You didn’t bother to look behind you to see where he’d gone. You trusted him to follow.

You kept your coat collar up and your head down as you walked. This being New York City, you weren’t exactly drowning in people trying to help an angry woman stalking down the street, bloodied mouth though she may have. Even with only a few concerned citizens slowing you down, it took you longer than usual to reach your clients’ apartment. It took longer still to convince them, after buzzing them down from their apartment, that you did not require assistance, that your injuries were only minor, and that you didn’t need someone called to pick you up. Eventually, you managed to wave goodbye after their profuse thanks for returning Sherwood, and started down the sidewalk again.

It wasn’t long before you spotted Matt waiting in a darkened alley for you. You made the detour, leaning against the brick wall beside him. You may even have sagged a little onto his shoulder, though you’d never admit to it. After a moment of quiet, he began, “I’d like to make an offer.”

“I charge five dollars a minute,” you mumbled.

He ignored you. Probably for the best. “I have some… experience with head injuries.” Understatement of the year. “It’s probably best if you have someone close by for the next day or so, just in case. To wake you up every few hours.”

He was taking this blow to the head thing awful seriously. Maybe you'd been hit a little harder than you'd thought.

He licked his lips, hesitating before he barrelled onwards, finally coming around to his offer. “My apartment is closer than yours. You can stay with me for the night if you’d like.”

“And by this, I assume you mean my options are going to your apartment or having you lurk on my roof like a gargoyle and listen to make sure I’m not dying in my own home?” you said dryly.

His lips quirked. “Something like that.”

You pondered the offer over. You hadn’t been to his apartment yet. Up until now, it had been a boundary neither of you had crossed. For all that Matt was friendly with you and had seemingly developed a protective sort of fondness for you, he was still cautious of exposing too much vulnerability. That was a caution you well understood. This was a big step for him.

Your head throbbed, a painful reminder of your injuries. You weren’t exactly looking forward to the walk home. And after all, he’d already seen your apartment. This was just balancing the scales.

“Alright, D,” you said, the nickname slipping out so easily you barely noticed. You gave him a sleepy nudge before rocking up and away from the wall with a groan, and he set a steadying hand against your back, making sure you were stable before dropping it. “You win. Just tell me which way to go.”

-x-

The first thing he did was offer you the use of his shower, for which you were profoundly grateful. You’d both agreed his inspection of your injuries could wait until you’d cleaned yourself off. Blood, both yours and not, ran in thick red rivulets down your skin. You gritted your teeth and scrubbed the blood from your hair and the back of your neck, making sure to wash out your cuts. You did this until the water ran clear. Everything ached, and you were continually gripped by nausea and the heavy weight of fatigue. You grumbled as you pressed your hand to the cool tile, keeping yourself upright in the dim light. One of the light bulbs needed replacing, but you found the low level of illumination a comfort. Equally comforting was the subtle scent of clean soap that lingered around you. That it didn’t smell like anything more exotic wasn't a surprise considering Matt’s heightened senses: the shampoo you’d found was unscented, the soap likewise.

By the time you got out of the shower, you were well and truly exhausted, fumbling with the towel to dry off. Matt had lent you a pair of well-worn sweats and an old t-shirt, faded and soft as sin, the fabric an absolute delight to slide into. Still, it took you longer to get all your limbs into the correct holes than you were comfortable admitting.

Confusion. Balance issues. Headache. Maybe it’s good I’m here…

Next, you had to deal with your clothes. Your jeans had somehow come out unscathed, so you folded them and set them aside, along with stuffing your socks inside your boots. Your shirt and jacket, however, were a lost cause. You removed your knife sheath and blade, setting them with your jeans. Then you emptied the jacket’s pockets before shoving both the shirt and jacket inside the garbage bag Matt had provided. You'd just have to buy a new jacket when you could.

That done, you shuffled out into his living room, narrowing your eyes as garish red light flashed against the massive windows, the glaring light coming courtesy of the neon sign across the street. No wonder he could afford rent here; that sign was truly obnoxious to anyone with a working set of eyes. Matt rose from his place at the small, battered dining table, moving to your side to take the garbage bag from your hands. You thanked him, making your way to where he’d been seated as he went to drop the bag by the door before returning. He’d removed his mask, letting you get a good look at the tired lines of his face as he helped you settle down into one of the two beat-up dining chairs that accompanied the table, the wood creaking under your weight. He’d already pulled out the first aid kit—which included a few butterfly bandages—and set it on the table. “Not stitches?” you mumbled, dropping your head to rest it against the smooth wood.

He chuckled, going to wash his hands in the kitchen sink. “It sounds like we can get away without them this time, fortunately for you.”

“What does a cut that needs stitches sound like, out of curiosity?”

“It’s hard to explain,” he said, returning and dragging the other chair close to yours, your knees brushing against his. You quickly spread your legs wide, giving him room to work. He lifted his hand, lightly cupping your jaw and tilting your head away to expose the cut at the end of your brow. “If it’s an open wound, you can’t hear the skin rubbing together there. Just… exposed muscle, which sounds different than skin when it moves.” You barely felt the sting as he used gauze to wipe away at the blood that had welled up since the shower before he reached for a butterfly bandage. “Sometimes the cuts are jagged, though, and that sounds more like... I don’t know. Shredded aluminum foil rubbing together. There’s not really anything else that torn skin sounds like.”

“Well, at least you have good, steady hands,” you murmured as he pressed the cut together and applied the bandage. His touch was sure and experienced as he smoothed the sticky edges down, his fingers lingering to ensure the ends remained firmly set. “Setting a pretty high standard for first aid. You’ll spoil me.”

“Did you expect me to just start fumbling my way around?” His lips pulled up into a smile, and you helpfully turned your head so he could slide his fingers into your hair. You caught a playful glint in his dark eyes as he tapped his fingers around near your ear, as if he didn’t know exactly where the lump on your head was. “I can’t seem to find anything. Are you sure you got hit?”

“Ha. Very funny.”

“I do my best.”

You leaned farther over, your gaze flickering distractedly over the shelving across from you as he finally brought his fingers up to the lump on your temple, probing around it carefully as you added absently, “And don’t knock fumbling. Can be fun in the right scenario.”

Why the fuck did I just say that? Now is not the time for flirting.

Matt laughed, his cheeks flushing the most adorable shade of pink you'd seen in your life. “I’m not sure first aid is one of those scenarios.”

“Well damn, there goes that erotica novel I was working on.”

Just… shut up. I need to shut up.

“I’m sure you’ll come up with some good ideas to replace it,” he said warmly, eyes crinkling at the corners as he withdrew his hand. “That one doesn’t need a bandage. It’s a small cut, and the fracture underneath is minor. They should both heal alright as long as you’re careful.”

You were beginning to realize, as you watched him, how vital it was he wore a mask as the Devil. Sure, that black cloth was mostly to conceal his blindness and his identity, but he was also incredibly expressive without the mask or his glasses. Every emotion he felt was on display right in front of whoever might find their eyes drawn to him. At the moment, that happened to be you. You admired him sleepily as his blank stare drifted towards the general area of your mouth. You blinked as he gestured. “The split… did you already—”

“I washed it out,” you said, lifting a hand before dropping it. You resisted the urge to lick your lip or to probe at it with your tongue. “Haven’t put anything on it yet.” In truth, though you could have dug around in Matt’s bathroom to find some antibiotic ointment, the thought of him listening to you awkwardly fumbling around in his medicine cabinet had been too much to bear. “Do you have something I could—”

“Yeah, of course. Should have thought of it earlier,” he said, digging through the kit until he’d retrieved a small silver tin that he placed in your hands. You ran your fingers over the smooth metal, the silver finish worn down by use. “This’ll help keep it from getting infected. It should help you heal a little faster, too. Old Murdock family recipe.”

You clucked your tongue. “Matthew, revealing your secrets so easily? How scandalous.” It took you a moment to unscrew the tin, your fingers slow to follow your brain’s commands. You finally removed the lid, gathering up some of the smooth, waxy material inside. You caught a faint, almost honey-like scent that reached your nose as you smeared a bit over your fingers. Quite pleasant compared to some of the other stuff you’d used in the past. You ran it gently over the cut at your brow, careful not to disturb the butterfly bandage, and applied some to the lump on your temple as well, biting back a groan at the instant relief that seemed to seep into your skin. It was only as you eagerly lifted your thumb to your lip that Matt’s hand darted out, grasping your wrist and halting your motion. ”What?”

“You were… you were going to open the cut again.” He ducked his head. “You were going to press too hard and the angle was off. Here, just...”

His hand slid up over yours, cradling it easily within his own. Your fingers had grown shaky at some point, maybe too shaky to do this on your own—is it because he’s so close?—without opening your split lip again, but with his assistance, you managed the barest pressure as he guided your thumb gently over your lip, leaving a faint honey scent and a soothing coolness behind.

You sighed as the dull pain around your mouth finally abated, and his legs nudged yours as a shiver slid down his spine. “There.” His voice was so quiet, you had to strain to make out the word. He still hadn’t released your fingers even as your paired hands dropped slightly. “Not as good as new but it’s on its way.”

“Thank you.” You turned your hand so you could grasp his and squeeze, running your thumb over the scars roadmapped along his skin. “For all of this. I mean it.”

He tightened his grip in response before rising to gather up the kit, returning everything to the box, and disappearing behind you into the kitchen.

Water ran in the sink as he washed his hands again. Right, I need to do that too. You wobbled upright, and shambled your way after him, taking your turn at the sink once he was done. Without the pain to distract you, your fatigue took center stage. Even as you rinsed your hands, your eyelids drooped and your head started to drop. You lifted your head back up at the sound of your name and the arm around your back, focusing on Matt where he stood beside you keeping you upright. “Hey. The last place you want to fall asleep is at the sink. The bed’s more comfortable. I can sleep out here.”

“I am not stealing your bed,” you insisted roughly, shaking him off and making a beeline for the couch. “That’s just… it’s rude.”

“It’s really not. I won’t be sleeping much anyway,” he insisted, his jaw clenching in what you suspected was stubbornness. “I need to wake you up every few hours. And I have some legal paperwork I need to work on.”

You shot him a narrow-eyed gaze as you stopped in front of the couch. “Are you lying to me?”

“Possibly," he murmured. "It depends on whether or not it’ll get you into bed.”

Were you not concussed and dog-tired, you definitely would’ve commented on that one. “What are my odds of you pestering me all night if I continue to resist, Counselor?”

He pursed his lips thoughtfully, as if he were running the numbers. “I’d say close to one-hundred percent.” His solemn face quickly fell to a smile as you snorted in response, and he huffed a soft laugh. “I wouldn’t bet against it if I were you.”

“Fine,” you groused, turning towards the bedroom. “Who am I to deny such an insistent offer? You’re lucky you’re so handsome.”

“I’m told it’s saved me a few times,” he chuckled, shadowing you with an arm poised to grab you if you fell. You didn’t think you were that far gone, but it clearly made Matt feel better to know he'd catch you if you lost your footing.

The Devil is a mother hen. Will wonders ever cease?

He left the light off in his bedroom, for which your sensitive eyes were grateful. He set his hand against your arm and led you through the darkness without faltering once, his steps sure and confident. He finally brought you to a halt as the front of your legs bumped into the bed. Despite all your grumbling, as he helped you into bed you knew the decision to move from the couch was the right one. “Shit,” you sighed appreciatively into the thick pillow. The fabric beneath you was soft as sin, and you wanted to roll around on the bed like a dog after a bath. Face pressed into the pillow, you were enveloped in the subtle scent of salt and copper, faint cinnamon, detergent, and something distinctly Matt. This is the best bed I’ve ever slept in. How does he ever leave his apartment? “Is this made of angel wings or something?”

“Close, but not quite. Angel wings are a little hard to come by these days,” he said, pulling the blankets up over you. “It’s silk. Feels better on my skin.”

You sighed, your eyes falling closed as he murmured something.

Smoke drifts up from the table, swirling lines leading back to half a dozen overflowing ashtrays that surrounded a wrinkled map. You clutch the lock of hair tighter in your hand. You always hated it here.

“Try again,” says the Man in the White Coat. “Which direction?”

Matt touched your shoulder, startling you back to wakefulness before you could fully drift off, your body locked up and tense. “Hey, hey, you're ok,” he whispered. He was kneeling beside the bed, just in front of your face. “It’s just me. You’re ok.”

You groaned, swallowing around a dry throat and rolling over onto your stomach with a wince as your body shrieked in protest. You hated when your mind did this, dumping old memories into your dreams like a child with a handful of coins at a well. “Come on, I was so close to really sleeping.”

“You already were, actually.” He was letting your reaction go, for which you were incredibly grateful. His voice radiated amusement as he yawned and added, “It’s already been two hours.”

You buried your face back in the pillow with a yawn of your own. You’d forgotten how drained he must have been as well. He’d had his own battles tonight, and you hadn’t even bothered to see if he’d been injured. At the very least, he’d be tired. Guilt gnawed at you, sour and bitter in equal parts on the back of your tongue. “Have you slept at all?”

“You don’t need to worry about me. I’m not the one who’s hurt.”

So that’s a no.

“Are you as comfortable as you’d be in bed?” you asked. The silence that met you was answer enough, and you wanted to shake him—and yourself—for so easily allowing you to take over the space he was most comfortable sleeping in. You let out a harsh breath. Well, he wasn’t going to let you sleep on the couch. You turned your head, your eyes adjusted enough to the dark to make him out. “Do you have a better objection to sharing the bed than ‘I have work’? Talk to me, Matt.”

He blew out a sigh, scrubbing at the back of his neck and refusing to look at you. “I just don’t want to risk making you uncomfortable,” he admitted softly, though he didn’t seem willing to elaborate. And maybe that reason was enough on its own, you supposed. “That’s the last thing I want.”

“I’m telling you that you won’t,” you said firmly. “The bed’s big enough for both of us, and it will make having to wake me up every few hours really easy.”

More silence.  He was considering your offer, you could tell, his brow furrowed in thought. Sensing your gaze on him, he turned his face towards you, his own eyes shifting around without any real pattern as he bit his lower lip and released it.

You changed tactics. “I have nightmares,” you told him, lowering your voice as if revealing a terrible secret. “Horrible ones. Awful. With alligators and snakes and all sorts of evil things.”

That got you a smile. “I see. Well, hear, anyway.”

You lifted one finger solemnly. “And I can already tell they’ll be awful tonight. Unless I have someone over there.” You hooked a thumb towards the open space in the bed. “Having another soul around keeps the nightmares away, believe it or not. And you won’t be sleep-deprived tomorrow.”

“Can’t have that,” he said in amusement.

Yeah, you had him now. “Well, you are a vigilante. I get the feeling you want to be at your best when you’re leaping from rooftops and dodging gunfire.” You slithered back down under the covers like an animal returning to its burrow. He rose behind you, moving towards the door, and you lifted your head. “Hey, I thought—”

“I just need to put a few things away,” he said softly. “I’ll be back. I promise.”

What could you do but trust him as you dozed off again?

-x-

The two of you repeated the ritual a few more times that night and into the morning.

“Are you awake?”

“Fuuuuck you, fuck. No.”

“That works.”

At one point you stirred as he rose from the bed, Maya’s ringtone on your phone a soft trill that made its way easily to the bedroom. “I’ve got it,” Matt told you quietly, resting a hand briefly on your shoulder. The pale pre-dawn light creeping in the windows cast him and the room into soft relief, coloring the space grey and easy on your eyes. “Go back to sleep.”

You weren’t sure what time it was when next you awoke. The light had brightened from the muted grey of daybreak to full morning. Cars rumbled by outside, horns blaring as frantic drivers hurried on their way and people shouted on the street. You let your eyes adjust, taking in the sight of Matt’s room in full light for the first time.

The wall you were facing was made of faded, mismatched brick, most of the paint long since worn away. Set a bit farther down the wall towards your feet was a large, segmented window, the glass foggy and heavily opaque. The red, yellow, and grey panes were just as mismatched as the brick. You shifted your head to glance further down, spying a dark wooden dresser looming against the wall. The wood floors were clean of any clutter one might usually expect to find in a bachelor’s bedroom. Matt had clearly utilized the limited space well. Even the bed didn’t take up too much room, which may have explained your current coziness.

Matt had an arm thrown around your waist, his legs slotted up behind yours, and his body pressed to you at every possible point. Against the nape of your neck, his warm breath flowed with the slow and steady rhythm of sleep, his face nuzzled in close. Is this what he was worried about? That he’s… a cuddler? Sure it may have bothered some people, but you weren’t one of them. And it was far from a mortal weakness, something he should be ashamed of. Or maybe...

'I have a hard time not getting attached.'  Wasn’t that what he’d joked about earlier? The self-deprecating tone had suggested there was no small amount of truth to it. It was a dangerous trait for someone like him to care so easily and so intensely. Matt, you were quickly discovering, felt, and felt deeply. This may have been an advantage when it came to a fight, every cruelty a splash of accelerant that stoked the fire that lay banked inside him. It was also a terrible risk, leaving him vulnerable, open to harm whenever he tore his chest open and gave another piece of himself away: to Karen and Foggy, the sweet old lady one floor down, the gap-toothed child that played on the stoop next to his office, his clients...

This was a man who, even more than you, longed for connection: who couldn’t help but care about the people around him, no matter how much he tried to guard himself against forming such attachments. Not for the first time, you wondered how many threads Matt would have if you opened yourself to see.

He made a soft, sleepy sound behind you, the noise shaking you out of your thoughts. You were fairly certain he’d be embarrassed if he realized how close he’d moved in his sleep, though you didn’t mind. The physical contact from Matt, instead of being unnerving, was incredibly comforting. You hoped it was the same for him, even subconsciously; you were starting to suspect he was more than a little touch-starved, a thought that made you ache. 

After last night… well, you could be forgiven for allowing yourself a moment of weakness, here where it was safe and warm and soft.

Humans weren’t meant to be alone, to be isolated. Matt had been right on that front. The mind and body improved in function when one was afforded loving physical contact. They similarly deteriorated when such touch was absent. From the first breath a human drew upon their bloody, violent entrance into the world, they sought touch. They regulated themselves based on others—on a heartbeat, on a breath, on emotion. Isolation was torture for a reason. You weren’t that alone, thank god, but this kind of embrace was rare enough that you were practically floating on the cloud of happy chemicals your brain was producing.

Or maybe that was the head injury.

Matt’s breathing changed, quickening as he drifted towards waking. You yawned and slowly rolled upright to a sitting position, his arm sliding from your waist. You figured it would be easier for the both of you if he didn't know about the spooning. He stirred as you groaned and stretched, achiness still heavy in your limbs and making your movements stiff. You felt like shit, but you’d have felt like shit on fire if you hadn’t gotten what ended up being a fairly decent night’s rest. “What time is it?” you mumbled. The window near you wasn’t transparent enough to expose the city and allow you to make an estimate. Sheets rustled behind you and something clicked before a robotic voice cooly informed you of the time. You groaned again, leaning forward to rub your hands over your face, careful to avoid the cut by your eyebrow. “After ten? Really?” You hadn’t even thought to phone Maya to update her. She was probably worried, even with your habit of coming in late after long nights tracking someone down.

“Your partner called earlier.” Matt’s voice was raspy and rough with sleep, pleasant to your ears as he moved to sit up as well on the other side of the bed. “I told her you’d had a rough night, and I was keeping an eye on you. She said she’d take care of anything important today and to give her a call when you could.”

On the one hand, you thought, Maya holding down the fort would be a blessing until you were back on your feet. Despite sleeping most of the night, you still felt like you could drift off at any moment, your thoughts muzzy and slow to form. On the other hand, she was naturally suspicious, and your handsome, charming lawyer answering your phone would be more than enough to get her salivating over potential gossip. Not much to be done about that either way.

“Thank you,” you said, finally getting to your feet with a wince and turning to face him. You touched a finger to your lip curiously, your eyebrows rising when you found the skin far less pained, the split healing more quickly than it would have normally.

“Didn’t believe it would work?”

“I was skeptical, I’ll admit.” You laughed, dropping your hand. “Consider me a convert.” Only then did a thought occur to you. “Wait, don’t you have to be at work?”

“You could say I go way back with Mr. Nelson and Mr. Murdock,” he said, grinning at your chuckle. “It’s fine. I talked to Foggy, I’ll go in a little later if I have to. I wanted to make sure you were alright.”

Still keeping an eye on me. There was that guilt again. You may have stitched him up a few times, but he’d gone above and beyond with this. You needed to repay him somehow. “You really, really have to let me do something to pay you back. I’m falling behind here.”

He frowned, and you had to distract yourself from the adorable way his brow furrowed. “It’s not like that. It’s not a… a game where we each score points. I was happy to help.”

“Well,” you said slowly, walking past him and making a beeline for his kitchen. “I can at least make you breakfast, right? I may not be a master chef, but I’m damn good at making breakfast. Waffles are my shit, man.” Despite the phrasing, it wasn’t actually a question. You were going to make him breakfast before you headed back to your apartment, so help you god.

“Should I really be letting the woman with the concussion handle sharp knives?” he mused, trailing after you.

“Is it any worse than letting the blind man play with fire at the stove?”

“At least we’re on equal footing, I suppose.”

-x-

You were loath to admit that Matt may have been right, but after tossing the ruined eggs in the trash—and steadfastly ignoring Matt’s muffled laughter behind you—you made the call to order delivery from a bakery nearby. You were also determined to pay before Matt could. You knew the sneaky little bastard would take care of the bill if you weren’t watching.

Of course, this wouldn’t have been a problem if you’d been able to make the motherfucking eggs.

You popped a few painkillers and dozed in one of the armchairs as you waited, Matt disappearing to shower. When the knock came, you rocked up to your feet with a grunt and made your way to the door. “Not bad for time.” He was definitely getting a good tip for those croissants. Upon swinging the door open, however, you were greeted with someone who was very much not the breakfast delivery you’d been expecting.

Foggy stared wide-eyed at you, a carrier of coffee clutched in his hands. His eyes darted over you, analyzing—bedhead hair, Matt’s clothes—and you could only imagine the story he was concocting. You lifted your hand and pointed emphatically in the direction of your eye, your gesture encompassing both the butterfly bandage at your brow and the black eye that had developed overnight.

“Right!” he exclaimed, giving you a sheepish grin. “Sorry.”

“Eh, don’t worry about it.” You held the door open for him as he entered, locking the door behind you before following him down the hall. There were three cups in Foggy’s carrier, you noticed now. “One of those for me?”

“Of course,” he said with a sniff. “The Nelsons don’t raise cavepeople, Jane. Well, there was my cousin Ned, he was pretty prehistoric. Don’t know if I’ve ever heard him offer someone a drink, and he still owes me twenty bucks from when we were kids.” He clucked his tongue as he made his way to the table. In the bathroom, the shower turned off. “But he changed his name and moved to Chile, I think, so we don’t have to deal with him anymore and everyone’s happy! Except for Chile, but I’ve already sent their consulate an apology letter.”

“How did you know I was here?” you asked curiously, slowly inhaling the scent of fresh coffee.

“Well, I didn’t know it was you-you,” he admitted, flopping into one of the chairs by the table and pulling his messenger bag off his shoulder. “Matt just said he was looking after someone and he’d work from his apartment today. I figured I’d just bring over anything he might need, and maybe snoop a little. I have to watch out for my best friend, you know.”

“Do you now?” You huffed a laugh.

“What was I supposed to do?” He held up his hands helplessly. “You could have been a thief or con artist, here to steal Matthew’s good silver or his innocence! Although I gotta tell you,” he lowered his voice, “you’re probably out of luck on the latter.”

“Well, he’ll be glad you came and foiled my plot for today. I was just about to make off with his sweats here.” You plucked at the worn grey fabric in question as you took your seat, stealing the coffee not marked M or F. “After all, ‘control Matthew Murdock’ is just step one in my master plan.”

“What’s step two?”

You blew gently into your coffee. “Take over the world, like any good supervillain. That Loki guy failed, but my plan is foolproof.”

“I’m sure this dastardly scheme absolutely would have succeeded if not for me.” Foggy nodded politely, flicking his fingers in your direction. “He loves those pants. Ooh, were you going to hold them for ransom? Although I’m not sure what for.” He glanced pointedly around. “Despite our extravagant lifestyles, we are, in fact, quite poor, much to my younger self’s disappointment.”

You snorted. “Then I’d trade for his soul, obviously. Or whatever virtue he has left. Wise to keep my options open.” You sipped your coffee—cautious not to put pressure on your split lip—and sighed at the hot, bitter rush across your tongue.

“Always smart, but you’re going to need more than just the sweats for that last one if you want him to take the deal,” he mused, rubbing at his chin in thought.

“You know him. Enlighten me.” You leaned forward, resting your chin in your hand. “How would you proceed?”

“Are you attempting to convince me to betray my dear friend?” He feigned disbelief, huffing in offense as he crossed his arms. “I'll have you know I am a man of principle.”

“What’s your asking price for counsel?”

He uncrossed his arms. “Couple million bucks and the state of Wisconsin when you take over.”

“Done.”

Foggy leaned in conspiratorially. “Then I’d go for his silk sheets if I were you. Hold those over his head and he’ll fold like a house of cards.” He leaned back and casually sipped his coffee. “He gives you his remaining virtue, your machination can continue, and I get money and the greatest cheese-making state in the country. It’s win-win-win.”

“Please stop plotting to give away my virtue again,” Matt told Foggy dryly, shaking his head as he passed. His hair still damp, he pulled his glasses from his pocket and slipped them on as he disappeared down the short hallway leading to the front door. “I’m pretty sure that’s an ethics violation, anyway. As is being complicit in a world domination scheme. I shouldn’t even be hearing this.”

Knock knock.

“A good lawyer must know when to look the other way!” Foggy shouted before turning to you with a shrug. “And in this case, I’m totally willing. To look away, that is.”

“Is it because I pay you money?” You arched a brow and lifted your cup.

Foggy grinned and tapped his cup cheerfully to yours. “Because you pay us money.”

Chapter Text

“This particular case will require a different approach, but you should be more than capable.”

You accepted the folder Mr. Winter handed you, flipping it open to skim through the pages. You’d been given the usual amount of information for a Winter contract. While there were no clues as to the target’s family, his occupation, or a method of approach, you were provided several descriptors, a code name, and anything that might help you hone in on his current location: Mr. Raven. Five-foot-seven, hispanic male. 190 pounds. Brown hair. Brown eyes. Last known location: the Jolly Goat Coffee Bar. He’d last been seen a few days ago, buying his traditional flat white as he did every morning at exactly 8:30 A.M.. Then he’d gotten into a cab and disappeared into the city. There had since been no contact with family or friends, no calls into work.

Where as anyone else would have struggled with so little, you needed no additional details to do your job. Your ability to solve cases with little to no information provided was a strong draw for some of your shadier clients, and most of your contracts were designed with those particular clients in mind. They were few and far between, but they paid you well for your ability to get the job done with a minimum of questions.

A possible abduction, or did he just want to disappear?

Then again, the why wasn’t your problem. The box was checked for ‘No contact required’, so you wouldn’t even be contracted for an approach. You’d simply have to send out an alert once you found the target.

You skimmed through a few more pages, hunting for what had changed. Nothing had been slipped in that you could tell, no fiendish additions, no signing on to give birth to the antichrist. Nothing except...

“You want me to use your driver?” You marked it with a small scratch of your pen. You’d need to add that to your records when you sent them to Maya. You hated being driven. You much preferred the freedom of being on your own feet, able to move wherever a thread led you. On occasion, however, a quicker mode of transport was requested by your clients.

“It may not come to that. We’re making our own efforts to locate Mr. Raven but if we should prove unsuccessful over the next two weeks, we’d send a driver to pick you up at the location of your choosing. The driver would carry the item you’d use to track your target.”

“You’re aware I don’t operate outside the city?” you asked. It was one of the requirements you were never willing to give on with clients. The great roiling sea of bodies that was New York City provided safety and anonymity, and you weren’t willing to sacrifice that for cash you could easily find within the five boroughs. Not that Mr. Winter needed to know that.

“We have no reason to believe he’s left New York, but yes. Should he for any reason be outside your working area,” he shrugged casually, “you’ll fulfill your end simply by informing us he’s no longer within city limits.”

“Sounds good.” You flipped to another page and tapped it with your pen. “And to reiterate: you’re equally aware my rate doubles if you’re keeping me on call, around the clock, for two weeks? I’ll have to turn some clients away, because I’ll be prioritizing your call should it come in.”

“Yes. And we’re happy to compensate you accordingly for that prioritization and any lost business.” As always, in addition to the proper forms and signatures, he’d come prepared for your questions. Having you on call was new for him, though something you’d occasionally done for other clients. Something must have changed. You made a mental note but said nothing. You were paid handsomely in part for your discretion and you were happy to relax—and earn some easy money—while waiting for a call that might not come.

He folded his hands in his lap and leaned back. “Other than being on call and the driver, there shouldn’t be much you’d do differently. When you found the building the target is in, the driver would make a phone call. Then he’d turn the car around and drive you to wherever you wish. Fairly straightforward and easier for you than walking.”

The corner of your mouth tugged up in a wry smile. “Is that all the driver is? An effort to make this easier?”

“I will admit, we had your security in mind.” He flicked a bit of dust off his pants leg before smiling at you. You were unsure whether the smile was a tell or him trying to put you at ease. “This simply adds an extra layer of safety, and also protects you from the heat as you track your target. It wouldn’t do to have you collapsing from heat exhaustion.”

Yeah, I’m sure it’s my welfare he cares about.

You drummed your fingers on the table, considering. Being on call you could handle, especially for what he was willing to pay, but being driven… you didn’t like it. You never had when you’d allowed it in the past. It saved time, sure, and kept you cooler in the heat of summer, but it also left you trapped in a confined space with someone who might be dangerous. In contrast, on foot, you had a half-dozen escape routes at any one time. In a car driven by someone other than you, your options were limited. You’d also be watched, which meant you wouldn’t be free to communicate your situation to others—no calling the cops, Matt, or your partner without giving it away. Up until now, Mr. Winter had played above board with you and his contracts had all been squarely within your comfort zone. By all rights, you should trust him, and yet with him you’d always felt like you were in the room with a lion: one who’d just eaten, but could be convinced to make room for seconds if you pressed the issue. Caution was required, no matter how sated he appeared.

This was another test. You were fairly certain of that. Whether you passed or not would be up to him.

“We’re aware that this falls outside your normal operating procedures,” Mr. Winter said innocently. “So obviously we’re willing to pay your higher fee. Even if we successfully find the target before you’re needed, you’d be paid just for keeping your schedule free.”

The lure of those dollar signs was a strong temptation, one that might be enough to sway you. You weren’t sure what that said about you, but then, you’d long since realized you worked in the murky grey zone between black and white. Your hunger for money was a pattern, a habit borne of the need to survive. The best way to do that was with money… and Mr. Winter had the deepest pockets you’d found yet.

You’d been doing this long enough to know Mr. Winter’s type, to know the danger of a coiled serpent, be it dressed in rippling scales or a fine suit. He was a criminal of some flavor, of this you’d become certain. His previous contracts had all the trappings of something illegal—no names, no faces, and all of your payments provided by shell companies—but he’d played by your rules, paid you well, and kept you from overhearing or seeing anything questionable. Someone like Matt may have turned Mr. Winter down on sheer principle, but you? Could you really afford not to take the case?

You glanced up at him thoughtfully. “Nothing else changes?”

He flashed you a perfect crocodile grin. He knew he had you. “Nothing else changes,” he confirmed. “Feel free to check in with a friend before and afterwards if you like, and just let the car do the moving. Relax! The luxury is a small price to pay, hm?”

Ultimately, as Mr. Winter had no doubt foreseen, you signed the contract. Still, it bothered you, and you continued to think things over as you saw Mr. Winter out. In your email to Maya detailing the meeting, you went so far as to underline the words ‘I don’t like it.' Too much could go wrong for you to feel comfortable. You could be attacked by the driver or driven away from the city. You needed someone to have your back until the case was over.

The obvious solution to the problem—or the second solution directly after the first, the first being don’t take the fucking job—was to tell your favorite vigilante. You had a feeling, though, that Matt’s answer would be the same as what should have been yours.

There was another problem: getting him involved was bound to be messy. This was far more than finding someone’s lost cat. He’d want to know what the job was, why you were tracking Mr. Raven, and who was involved. It was a logical path from there, and Matt was no idiot. He’d follow that thread right to more troubling questions and begin to dig: how long had you been working with Mr. Winter, who was no saint? How many other likely criminals had you been contracted with in the past? How far away from Matt’s black-and-white world were you? Not only was too much snooping on his part a serious risk to your most profitable business relationship, but you weren’t entirely sure how well you’d be able to handle the hurt and betrayal you’d see on his face when he found out what the shadier side of your business entailed. Your past, your business was a Pandora's box you had no desire to open, and the thought of Matt's reaction to it all left a sour taste in your mouth, one you were unused to after being disconnected for so long. Your determination to avoid any connections to others meant you could not allow yourself to be swayed solely by what Matt’s opinion may be… but you were still human, and you were hoping to avoid any unnecessary hurt, on both ends.

Your desire to spare yourself Matt’s reaction wasn’t worth a cut throat though, especially if you could convince him to at least be discrete. You growled in annoyance, buzzing Daniel to send in your last client of the day. The skies outside were flushed a heady orange, the humidity condensing on your windows like glittering raindrops. You hadn’t seen Matt in a few days, in either of his occupations, and the odds of him still being at his office by the time you were done with your last client were slim unless he was on a case. If you didn’t catch him on the roofs tonight, you’d have to make time to pop over to his apartment and ask for his help.

I’m not relying on him because I like him. I’m relying on him for survival. Nothing more.

Even you didn't believe yourself.

-x-

Another cat. Always with the cats.

That night found you trailing after a red thread tracked directly from the owner themselves. These cases—red thread point to red thread point—were always trickier. Without an item in your hand, you couldn’t risk closing your sight and losing the thread, which meant keeping yourself open for the entire trek. It was risky and invasive, exposing you to threads you had no right seeing, or worse: weren’t safe seeing.

Your target, Anya, gave no fucks when it came to your feelings on the matter.

You’d started at the client’s apartment in Hell’s Kitchen, greeted by a young couple in a near panic over the loss of their prized Russian Blue. Despite their assurances that Anya loved her mousies and catnip sockies, you’d found yourself with no thread to follow save the one attached to the owners themselves. You’d been trailing along gamely, tracking Anya for several blocks, twice having to clamber up a fire escape to get a good look at her one roof over as she meandered along. This was made especially irritating due to the cat carrier strapped to your back. Fortunately, it was New York, and so a random woman clambering around fire escapes with a cat carrier was entirely unremarkable.

Finally, you cornered Anya on a rooftop—dimly lit by a few old lamp posts—where she'd stopped to lounge across a humming AC unit. No surprise, there: the late-spring heat wave you’d first met Matt in had been a herald of the truly brutal summer to come and even after dusk when the sun turned away and the air cooled, you were sticky thanks to your climbing. At least they’ve painted this roof white instead of black or it would be damn near unbearable. You wiped your brow, thankful for the breeze, and carefully set down the carrier. Then you pulled the bag of cat treats from your back pocket, crinkling the plastic until Anya’s ears perked up.

Up here, the light of the threads at street level glittered like endless streams of Christmas lights, a woven tapestry of connections that bound the city of millions together. The threads pulsed and rippled, changing color as their endpoints moved and came together and fell apart, a living kaleidoscope that could make you dizzy if you focused too much on one area. It was beautiful, a sight you never failed to enjoy. And with no one around you, no threads you had to fear seeing, you could take a moment to do so.

A man shouted one alley over, the sounds of a distant scuffle reaching your ears and drawing your attention back to the rooftop. You ignored it with a sigh, refocusing on Anya as you lured her closer. Probably just drunks having a fight. “Here kitty, sweet kitty.” You settled down against the waist-high brick barrier that wrapped the perimeter of the roof. Then you shucked your jacket and sprawled your legs out as you tossed treats in Anya’s direction, pausing only to tug on the front of your tank top in an attempt to circulate some air across your skin.

Movement on the next roof over caught your eye, a blaze of threads and light that nearly blinded your sight as someone ascended. You swiftly closed your second sight, getting a better look with your physical eyes. It was a familiar black line, moving more sluggish than usual tonight. Grateful you'd closed your third eye before you could see too much, you reached up, making a fist and rapping it against the brick as Anya came to sit between your legs and beg for more treats.

Tap-tap-tap.

Tap.

Tap-tap.

Anyone else wouldn’t have heard the muffled impact your fingers made. Matt’s head snapped to face your direction and you started to wave before remembering that it was probably pointless to do so at this distance. You weren’t sure how far his senses for movement extended. It didn’t seem to matter. He made his way towards you, his form steadily growing larger against the backdrop of the skyline. Something concerned you about his walk as you watched. His gait was slow, stiff, his body not moving with the grace you were accustomed to seeing. You swallowed down a gasp as he leapt across the gap between rooftops, his landing clumsy. The jarring impact had him wrapping one arm around his ribs with a grimace as he regained his footing.

You started to rise but he waved you back down as he approached. His chest heaved as he panted, breath coming in harsh, stuttered gulps of air. You furrowed your brow as he dropped down beside you with a pained groan, the scent of blood, sweat, and leather washing over you. Anya gave him the stink eye but otherwise didn’t move, content once she realized he wasn’t there to steal her treats.

In your worry, his name almost slipped off your tongue, your lips forming the first consonant before you stopped yourself. “D,” you corrected yourself. “You’re not looking so hot tonight.”

“I’ve had a rough couple of nights,” he mumbled. He stretched his legs out in front of him with a sigh, one of his boots brushing your own before it slid past as the long line of him unwound. He was burning hot, the heat of his body radiating through his own sweat-soaked clothing and warming you where you’d begun to cool down. It didn’t help that he was sitting closer than he usually did to you, a scant few inches separating your bodies. He didn’t seem to notice with how exhausted he was. “How’s your head?”

“Got a checkup like you wanted.” You tapped your skull. “Doc says my head’s fine.” You held out another treat for Anya as you considered what approach with Matt you wanted to take. He’d close up like a bear trap if you simply asked, ‘are you ok?’ right at the start. You’d have to come at it from a different angle, and work your way up to the question. Matt removed a battered glove and reached out to the cat, letting her sniff his fingers before giving her a soft scratch on the neck. She accepted the worship she was due with great regality. “Everything else is pretty much healed up. And I meant to ask...”

“Yeah?”

You turned your head to put him squarely in view, frowning at what you saw. The exposed skin across his jaw was pale, his breathing rough despite being at rest, and just under the edge of his mask you caught a line of ugly purple bruising. His arm was wrapped around his middle again, his fingers flexing in time with his breathing as if each inhalation brought pain.

“You’re worried about me.” The soft words carried a breathless tone as he tipped his head in your direction.

“What gave it away?”

He lifted his ungloved hand and gently brushed the back of one finger over the lines between your brow before dropping his hand. “The skin tightens here when you’re worried.”

“Yeah, well, I am worried.” You leaned forward in an attempt to get a better look at him. After a moment’s thought, you turned and dumped out the cat treats, leaving Anya to eat as you dusted your hands off and turned to face Matt fully. “How bad is it?”

“I’m fine.” His wince as he lurched away from you revealed the lie and you narrowed your eyes. “Just a torn stitch. I’m alright.”

Knowing Matt it was far more than one torn stitch. He never did things by halves, and that included bloody, gaping wounds.

“Just let me see.” You clucked your tongue, edging closer. He quickly braced a shaky hand against your shoulder, holding you back. You leaned into his grip to make a point as his strength wavered, a fine tremor running up his arm. “Look. You can let me look and make sure it’s nothing serious, or you can lie to me and I can follow you back to your apartment to make sure you don’t die this time.” The words—a deliberate mimicking of his the night you were attacked—brought a scowl to his face. “I know where you live now, you realize this?”

“Stubborn,” he muttered, drawing his arm back and letting you pull up his shirt.

You rolled your eyes. “Pot: meet kettle. Not so nice when you’re on the other s—” You were unable to finish your sentence, cutting yourself off as you finally got a good look at his injuries. You had to stop yourself from swearing a blue streak, pressing your hand over your mouth.

A massive swath of bruising marred his skin from hip to sternum on his right side, blooming upward and outward across his rib cage in a sea of sullen black and vivid indigo. The color was only broken up by a bloodied patch of gauze, taped down tight against his side. You could only imagine what it was covering considering the damage you could see and the fresh, brilliant splash of blood slowly seeping through. The opposite side of him was less severe but no less painful looking for it, with more bruising and angry red lacerations in the midst of the healing process.

“I didn’t want you to see,” he murmured apologetically. “It… looks worse than it is, probably.”

“You idiot,” you whispered, your fingers just barely grazing around the edges of the bruising. His muscles jerked under your touch, tightening enough to force a hiss from his throat as his head thumped back against the wall behind him. The hem of his shirt dropped from your fingers and you reached up to cradle his jaw, drawing his attention back to you. He rolled his head clumsily into your touch, stubble rasping against your palm before he caught himself and straightened. You didn’t let him escape entirely, your fingers following his movement. “How bad?” Despite the gentleness with which you touched him, you couldn’t hide the frustration that colored your words.

He went to drop his head but you caught his chin with your thumb and forced his head back up. He couldn’t see you but it was the meaning behind it that mattered. He sighed before speaking. “Broken ribs, concussion, and a… a few… stab wounds.”

You closed your eyes and breathed in slowly through your nose. That was why you hadn’t seen him for a few days. He’d been injured, badly, and you hadn’t even known.

There was no way in hell you were going to ask about him helping you with Mr. Winter. Not in his current condition.

“I met a nurse,” he said unhelpfully, as if that somehow excused the fact that he was running around with broken bones and a hole in his side. “Accidentally." There was a small part of you that questioned if he met people in any other fashion these days. "She was able to help patch me up.”

“Not the point, D,” you groaned, dropping your hand from his chin to scrub your hands over your face. “Jesus, that’s not…”

“I had to do it,” he insisted, trying to straighten against the wall behind him. “They took a boy, the Russian Mob did. I had to—”

“You're fucking with those guys again?!” You forced your tone down into a hiss. Of course, of course it was the Russian Mob again. Matt never seemed to have a problem taking a swing at the monsters others couldn’t—or wouldn’t—touch. That recklessness in and of itself wasn't a surprise to you. It wasn't even the problem. No, the problem was that not only had he picked another impossible fight with a group of mobsters, but he’d also decided to come out and do a little extra clean-up around town afterwards despite being seriously hurt. “No!" You slashed a hand sharply, cutting him off as his mouth opened. There was no way he’d let any injustice go—especially when it came to kids. And you couldn’t ask him to. But this? “Just… I’m not mad about that. For fuck's sake, I get that you had to do it, I support you doing that. That's not what’s got me frustrated.”

His lips parted and he tilted his head at you quizzically, reaching out to take one of your hands. “Then what?”

“You need to take time off to heal, Ma—D.” God, he needed to rest. What kind of damage was he doing to his already battered body running around like this? You wanted to club him over the head and chain him to a bed until he was better, until his bones had finally mended and his flesh had knit back together.

“I can handle the pain,” he said stubbornly. No, you didn’t want to chain him down, you decided in exasperation. You wanted to grab him by the collar and shake him until all of his masochism fell out like shitty candy from a Matt-shaped piñata. You wouldn’t even need a bat since someone had already given him a beating.

He simply had no concern for himself. His own body wasn’t what mattered to him. If you wanted him to take this seriously, you needed to try another tactic.

“If you get hurt worse because you didn't take care of yourself now, you’ll have to spend longer recuperating.” You squeezed his hand, lacing your fingers with his. “If that happens, it’ll be easier to slip up, and you won’t be able to help anyone. Not me, not more kids, not more victims. No one.”

“That’s not fair.” He shook his head sharply, the movement making him twitch. “That's not…”

“And yet it’s true,” you said softly, hovering a free hand over his bruised ribs. You knew he could feel the heat of your hand, and you used that for emphasis. His breath hitched and his body curled, as if he wasn’t sure whether he wanted to press towards or away from the pain you were offering. “You can barely walk. The wrong person gets hold of you now and you’re done.”

“I know, but I just...” His head turned back in your direction, his hand sliding down to grip your wrist. His fingers brushed over your pulse point. He didn’t need to touch you to sense your heartbeat; maybe he found it reassuring, being able to feel as well as listen. “I can’t ignore what I hear. Not anymore. Not when I can stop it.”

“If you’re gone, you won’t be around to hear it anyway.”

And I’ll be alone again.

You viciously smashed that fear back down into the darkness of your subconscious. You were already alone, you told yourself sharply. There was nothing terrifying about that; you’d done just fine so far. In fact, it was a good thing you couldn’t ask Matt to help you. That had been a mistake to even attempt, your yearning for connection getting the best of you again. Allowing him to come along was one thing, but asking? No. You went your own way for a reason. You couldn’t afford to become complacent.

“Hey, I’m not going anywhere.” He rubbed his thumb reassuringly over your pulse point. “You don’t have to worry about me.”

“Hey, someone has to, right?” You nudged him, rising up abruptly. “Go home, Matt. Take some pain pills, go to sleep. You’ll be back to kicking ass in no time if you take it easy for a bit, I swear.”

“You’re probably right.” He grimaced, and you slipped a hand under his arm to help him get to his feet more smoothly. The fact that he accepted your help told you how bad off he was. “I can’t have anyone noticing at the office.”

“They will definitely notice if you collapse from a punctured lung after someone knocks those broken ribs of yours sideways,” you agreed, Anya grumbling as you caught her by the scruff and carefully loaded her into the cat carrier. “I’m going to check in with you and make sure you’re not fucking yourself up, don’t doubt me. Now, if you’ll excuse me.” You closed the carrier latch and lifted the container. Inside Anya meowed pitifully, bumping her head against the carrier door and reaching out to swat spitefully at Matt’s hand when he attempted to rub her chin through the bars. I guess nice-kitty time is over. “This girl has some owners who are looking for her.”

“Stay safe on the walk home,” he said, rolling his shoulders with a groan.

As you shoved your arms back into the sleeves of your jacket, you were struck by the desire to hug him before heading off. He looked like he needed it, but you weren’t interested in jostling what was obviously a painful set of injuries, so you simply saluted before pivoting on your heel and striding towards the fire escape.

What was I thinking? I don’t give hugs. Hugs are bad. Idiot. He’ll be fine.

Your name stopped you, and you turned to glance back at Matt. “What were you going to ask me?” he said.

The question hung in the still air as you examined him: his arm still wrapped around his rib cage, and the pale flash of skin left bare by his mask. You blinked and the mental snapshot of his battered body appeared in your mind’s eye, stark and cold and crystal clear. Yeah, not going to happen. “It’s not important.” You gave a half shrug. Your words weren’t a lie. It was more of a selective truth—your question wasn't important because his health was more so. If you mentioned needing his help, he would come no matter his condition. He’d risk himself, his body, his life without a thought. And that was unacceptable. “Just a… question. That was all. Have a good night, D.”

-x-

With Anya returned to her ecstatic owners, you were officially off work for the night and headed home. Relief beyond words washed over you as you climbed into your own bed after you’d washed the sweat and grime from your skin, drawing your blankets up with a heavy sigh. Work sped by quickly over the next few days, and with no calls from Mr. Winter, you took easy cases as they came—directing the more labor-intensive ones to Maya. You also checked in on Matt, who claimed he’d been following your orders and absolutely positively had not been doing anything reckless, other than letting Foggy bring in leftovers to share.

“He said the noodles were fine, but I’m lucky I didn’t pass out if I’m honest.”

The comment—and your memories of his bachelor-bare fridge—did remind you of an idea you’d had, though… a way you could repay Matt for all the help he’d given you and balance the scales a little. It would also benefit you, allowing you to retain a certain amount of distance. That night you began your project, and thanks to Mr. Winter’s contract, you had an unusually large amount of spare time to work on it over the next week and a half. As you progressed, you slowly filled your freezer, endless stacks of Tupperware and Ziploc bags piling up. Finally, when it was ready, you packed half of it away into a giant cooler and brought it to the office, squirreling it away in the communal freezer until the end of the day.

At lunch-time, you called Matt.

“Hey.” You took a sip of your coffee, doing your best to keep your voice casual. “I might be busy for the next couple days, but I wanted to know if I could drop off your clothes after work?” Unlike the project in the freezer, his clothes were neatly folded in a small bag under your desk. You hadn’t had anything to wear back to your own place after staying the night at his apartment, and you hadn’t gotten around to returning them yet. That worked in your favor now.

“We’ve got a case from an important client and we’ll be working late tonight, so I won’t be there," he hummed. Excellent. You resisted the urge to rub your hands together, knowing he may well hear it over the phone. “I have to run home to change clothes though. I’ll leave a key to the roof door under a mat. Just lock up behind you and take the key with you. You can give it back next time you see me.”

With that, it was just a waiting game. You were down to the final two days of Mr. Winter’s contract, so you hadn’t taken any clients that might interfere. That left you free to head over to Matt’s apartment as soon as you clocked out at five. Of course there was a snag. At 4:47, as you were packing everything up and preparing to leave, you got the call.

“Hello?” you answered, holding your cell to your ear as you continued to pack your papers away.

“Ms. Hind, good afternoon.”

“Afternoon, Mr. Winter.” Your delivery to Matt’s may have to wait if you were finally being summoned to locate the elusive Mr. Raven.

“I’m afraid there’s been a minor shift in priorities, and thus our request. Nothing substantial—simply a change in target.”

You stopped packing away your papers, focusing solely on the call. This was a first, and your tone went from friendly to completely professional in the span of a heartbeat. “In my contract, it’s stated that any last minute changes may be cause for termination of the contract, at my discretion.”

“We’re aware. Very little would change. The driver would still come for you. You will not be asked to approach. Simply find the building for us, just as before. You can of course refuse, as is your right. I’m to inform you that my employer is amenable to providing a bonus for any willingness to adapt, however.”

You hesitated, glancing down at the papers, calculating risks and running the numbers in your head. This could be yet another test, probing the limits of your abilities. Nothing changes. It’s the exact same job. Doesn’t hurt earning a little good will, either.

“I’ll accept the change.”

“Excellent. We’ll need time to procure the item. The driver will pick you up at 9:30PM. Your office, I assume?”

If you left now and traffic was with you, you should have time to hit Matt’s, run home and change, maybe grab dinner, and make it back to your office with time to spare. “My office works.”

“Good luck, Ms. Hind.”

-x-

There was no doorman at Matt’s apartment, so you had no trouble getting inside the building and taking the aging elevator to the top floor, from there making your way up to the roof.

You hadn’t been up here before. The space was flat and open, obviously not meant to be used by residents but still free of clutter. There clearly wasn’t a lot of foot traffic, which made sense with only two doors leading to it—one of which led straight into Matt’s apartment. As you hurried to the door, you glanced down, shaking your head at the smattering of dried blood-drops scattered merrily across the warm concrete. A good rain would wash it away but knowing Matt, that wouldn’t keep it clean for long.

You kicked the old mat up, snatching up the key from the ground and letting yourself in.

It was strange being inside his home without him there. You’d only been there the once, for about two days after he’d convinced you to stay the recommended forty-eight hours of monitoring for a concussion victim. Matt was too persuasive when he put his mind to it, making a case that dripped with legal jargon and emotional pleas until you were so tangled up you’d agreed simply to get that puppy-dog look off his face. Foggy had rolled his eyes so hard you thought they were going to pop free from his skull.

“You folded like a house of cards, woman! You’re never going to conquer the world at this rate! And then who will give me the state of Wisconsin?”

Now it was quiet, no hushed breathing or the muffled sound of Matt padding around in socks and sweats like some stupidly handsome domestic god, all casual smiles and soft eyes. Not one dripping pipe, nor a jangling A.C. unit. That was a good thing, you supposed. With his senses, such sounds would have been beyond irritable.

You crept down the stairs, feeling as if you were intruding despite the ok from the king of the castle himself. You just wanted to leave the clothes and the gift, and make your way out as quickly as possible before you got the desire to snoop around. You spared a wistful glance at the bedroom door. The supreme softness of that bed would not soon be forgotten.

It felt too invasive to go into his bedroom to leave the clothes, so instead you left them neatly folded on the table, a braille thank you label stuck neatly to the middle. Next you made your way to the fridge. When you’d gone to make the eggs that morning after your attack, you’d found very little to work with other than takeout food and beer. Matt had apologized, but you’d understood. Neither you nor he had much of a reason, or time, to cook, and making recipes for one wasn’t always practical. But it had left you with an idea for repayment, especially now that he’d been injured the worst you’d ever seen him. With a bit of information on the sly from Foggy, you’d put your plan into action.

You’d spent the past week and a half cooking. Half of the results were back home in your freezer, destined for your own stomach. The half here with you went straight into Matt’s freezer: homemade waffles, baked ziti, stuffed peppers, and a few other recipes that froze easy, were reasonably healthy, and tasted, to your tongue at least and hopefully Matt’s as well, delicious. With the knowledge gleaned from Foggy and a little from Matt himself, you’d pared down some of the seasoning in an effort to spare Matt’s sensitive tongue. You’d also made sure to stick a braille label identifying the food to each tightly-sealed Tupperware container. As the pièce de résistance, you shoved some Canadian maple syrup for the waffles into his cupboard and set down the sheet of paper containing heating instructions for each meal—also in braille. In a fit of whimsy, you’d slapped a red bow on it.

You locked the door behind you, pocketing the key, and not once did it occur to you what the Devil had done by granting you temporary access to his home. Later, you would wish that you’d understood the meaning behind it, and just how vulnerable he’d made himself. You might have done things differently if you’d known.

Instead, you took your cooler home, changed, and prepared to head back out and meet up with Mr. Winter’s driver.

-x-

The driver was early, your ride idling outside your office as you arrived with ten minutes to spare. With the money already wired into your accounts and no phone call alerting you to an additional change in plans, you fired off one last text to Maya—one that would hopefully ensure news reached Matt if things went sideways:

Text sent at 9:26pm: if I miss check-in, let Matt know I can’t meet. then come find me

Text received at 9:27pm: good luck girl, be careful

The driver remained seated inside the car when you approached. He was completely unassuming-looking: brown eyes, average build, dark hair hidden under a cap. He had no particular features that stood out as memorable. Mr. Winter had always placed a high value on avoiding unnecessary attention, and that apparently extended to his drivers. The only unsettling aspect of the driver was his flat stare, a cold mask of indifference as he met your eyes. He only provided a short reply when you questioned if he was there for you. “Mr. Winter sent me. I’m to drive you wherever you need.”

A sense of unease roiled inside you as you slid into the backseat of the sleek black Mercedes. The interior was as polished as the exterior: all smooth black leather, new car smell, and dark tinted windows that left you feeling trapped rather than protected. The sounds of the city disappeared as you shut the door—even the rumbling purr of the engine died away to a mere whisper, felt more than heard in the soft vibrations under your fingers as your hand clenched on the door handle. Soundproof. Great. I don’t like this. You'd thought there would be a barrier between you and the driver, providing at least the illusion of privacy. Instead there was nothing but open space. Should you attempt to make a call, he would hear anything you tried to say, and if Mr. Winter was as dangerous as you thought, it was possible the driver would be under instructions to stop any such phone calls from occurring.

You needed to tread very carefully here.

On the empty seat beside you sat a dark wooden box of polished walnut, along with a thin file. Ignoring the driver, who likewise ignored you, you reached over and took the file. Inside, there was only an index card with a code name and a physical description.

Mr. Donnola. Five-foot-eleven white male. 174 pounds. Blonde hair, blue eyes.

You turned the card over, but there was nothing on the other side. Next, you opened the wooden box. Inside, arranged on black velvet fabric, laid a small copper crucifix on a thin chain. This was presumably what you would be using to track Mr. Donnola.

You drew it up, the chain sliding through your fingers as you examined it. Though it held a shine on the front, it was dull across the back of the crucifix itself and around the chain. Worn regularly then, you thought. Your thumb passed over faint initials engraved on the reverse side. You quickly moved your fingers away. Learning this man’s real name would only cause problems.

You twisted the chain up, wrapping it around your fingers until it hung comfortably in your grip with the crucifix exposed. Glancing up, you caught the driver’s eyes in the rear view mirror. He was watching you closely. He didn't ask you which way to go, but the question hung in the air regardless.

Lights flickered, colors visible only to you as you opened your second sight and immediately zeroed in on the blue thread connected to the dangling crucifix in your hand. You inclined your head to keep the driver’s threads out of your sight line. “Turn left as soon as you can. Then just keep going. I’ll let you know when we need to turn again.” Still eerily silent, the driver shifted into drive and pulled away from the curb, following your quiet guidance.

It went like that for most of the drive, with very few words spoken: all of them by you. You would indicate a direction, and he would obey, weaving his way through traffic with the skill and patience of one used to driving in the city. Steadily the little blue thread grew taut, indicating your target was close, or at least within city limits. You focused on that, blocking out your nerves and your unease, pushing down all other thoughts but the job in front of you. That focus led you to a tiny, abandoned two-story house in Queens.

The house rose up from the parched dust, a faded Condemned sign pitched out front. There was no light to be seen from the darkened, dirt-smeared windows, and the waist-high brown grass out front rippled in the breeze as you peered out the car window. It was fenced off and the gate padlocked shut, rusted chain link topped with spikes edging the property line and separating the building from its similarly-condemned neighbors. A closer look however revealed holes in the fencing through which an animal or particularly determined human might squeeze.

Everything about the house said abandoned, empty, no one home. The little blue thread trailing up to the second floor and disappearing through a window told you otherwise.

“You sure?” It was only the second time the driver had spoken to you that night. His voice was toneless, uninterested. He had no dog in this fight; his only job was to drive. At your confirmation, he nodded and pulled out his cell to make his own call. You waited, resisting the urge to fidget as he recited the address and hung up. He glanced at you again once he’d finished. “Your office?”

You blinked. “Is that it?”

“Yup. Your office?”

You shrugged. “Sure. That works.”

The driver nodded, slipping the car into drive once more and beginning the trip back to your office.

You leaned back and stared out the window, fiddling with the crucifix as the car rolled down the quiet street, the tension in your shoulders finally beginning to ease. This had gone better than expected. True to Mr. Winter’s word, you’d never even had to leave the comfort of the car, and just like that you were done. It was always nice when things turned out. Maybe you hadn’t needed the Devil after all.

The driver’s cell rang. You didn’t react, keeping your eyes glued to the window as you strained to listen. Before you could parse out what was said, the call was over.

“Everything ok?” You did your best to keep your tone casual.

The driver didn’t reply. Instead, he made a u-turn.

You’d developed a good sense for danger over the years, and now your lizard brain was sounding the alarm. The hair rose on the back of your neck. “Why are we turning around?” you asked sharply. "Hey! I'm talking to you!"

You still received no answer, the driver’s attention remaining firmly ahead.

You briefly considered leaping from the car, going so far as to grab the door handle, only to find resistance when you gave it a tug. You pulled harder, as hard as you could, over and over, yanking on the door handle, but it didn't so much as creak. Locked. Of course it’s locked. That limited your options greatly. You could always attack the driver with your knife and try to get free that way, but it was a risky proposition without a great chance of success. No way Mr. Winter would leave his drivers defenseless. You whirled back towards the driver up front. "Hey! Where are we going?"

Sweat broke out across your temples and down your spine as the driver continued to ignore you. Through the window, familiar scenery flowed by. He was taking you back to the abandoned house you'd pointed out. Something must have happened.

Or they're going to kill me now that I’ve found him.

You eyed the corner of the tinted window before making a split-second decision. You’d only just begun to lean back and lift one leg, fully intending to break the glass, when the driver finally sighed. "Those windows are designed to withstand sniper rounds and explosions. Your foot won’t leave a scratch."

You scowled and lowered your leg, rising to a sitting position again. “In that case I’ll ask again: where are we going?”

"Everything will be explained."

So helpful, thank you for that.

He refused to answer any more questions, leaving you in silence no matter how insistent you became. You stared out the window, flexing your hands. You could slip your phone out and try to call Matt, but any call you made would be overheard. Keeping your cell out of the driver’s sight line would mean shit if he heard the crackle of Matt's voice when Matt answered your call.

Your best bet would be to text Maya, try to give her a rough location of where you were. You edged your hand down towards your pocket.

Stupid stupid fucking stupid, you chided yourself. You should have told Matt… but what could he have done, beat to shit as he was? All he’d have done was gotten himself hurt worse, or maybe even killed. It also could have blown the cover off your friendship with the man in the mask. If Mr. Winter wasn’t going to kill you before, that may well have done it.

You’d only just gotten your hand on your phone when the driver drew up to the abandoned house, now bustling with activity.

Out of time.

Mr. Winter had been reasonable up until now, and had proven open to negotiation more than once. You'd just have to talk your way out of this. Or maybe things would go perfectly and you weren’t in any danger at all. Maybe he just wanted to thank you for all your hard work. Maybe he wanted to give you a puppy.

Yeah, like I’ve ever been that lucky.

The driver parked the car in the driveway, turning off the ignition. As you worked up the courage to leave the car, you observed the situation outside.

The front gate previously chained shut had been unlocked. Two men with flashlights combed the overgrown, fenced perimeter of the house while another man stood beside the open front door. The previously dark windows flickered as more people moved about inside with flashlights. The light emanating from the second story windows was noticeably dimmer. It took someone on the second floor ripping it away for you to realize the glass on that level had been covered over with newspaper.

Supervising the activity was Mr. Winter, facing away from you. He stood upon the crumbling driveway, as immaculately dressed as always, hands behind his back as he regarded the upper windows. Standing close by in the darkened shadows of the garage were two men dressed in black. You pegged them as bodyguards immediately, based on the way they stood and the cut of their clothes that did little to hide the holsters under their jackets.

Sadly there was no puppy that you could see.

Don’t keep him waiting, you reminded yourself, shoving the crucifix in your pocket. He appreciates professionalism.

As you stepped out of the car and into the heat, Mr. Winter turned to face you. His expression remained unreadable as you approached him. The two guards stepped out from the garage and took flanking positions behind him. “Good evening, Ms. Hind.”

“Good evening, Mr. Winter.”

“I’m afraid we have a problem.” His voice remained smooth, a casual lilt that did little to settle you. The small smile on his face struck you as merely for show. “This was the house you directed us to, correct?”

You tightened your mental grip on the panicking part of your brain and strangled it into silence. You needed to remain calm.

“Yes sir,” you said politely. “He was here when I called.”

“I’m hopeful, then, that you have a suitable explanation as to why my men failed to locate him inside.” Though it was dressed as a question, you recognized an order when you heard one: explain. The smile had vanished from his face and your heart skipped a beat.

“If you give me a second, I can just—” You reached for your pocket, intending to withdraw the crucifix you’d placed there. With it, you’d be able to confirm Mr. Donnola’s presence and smooth things over with Mr. Winter. In the span of a breath before your hand had even brushed the fabric of your jeans, the two men flanking Mr. Winter drew their guns and leveled them at you: one aimed at your head, another at your heart. You froze, jaw locking as adrenaline raced through your blood. You’d had guns pointed at you before. Not all that was lost wanted to be found after all, so it came with the territory. There was still something about having a gun pointed at you that never got any easier.

“Now now,” Mr. Winter sighed, waving a hand towards the guards. “Ms. Hind has proven nothing but helpful until now. I highly doubt she’d go for a weapon with all of us standing here, hm?” Reluctantly the men dropped their aim, though they didn’t reholster their weapons. Your arm trembled as you stifled the urge the wipe the sweat from your brow. “I must apologize for them. They’re paid to be protective as my personal security. You understand.”

Fuck fuck fuck. Why do I take these people again? “It’s fine,” you rasped, swallowing around a dry throat. Crisis momentarily averted, you let out a shaky breath. “I was just reaching for the crucifix in my right pocket so I could confirm he’s here.”

“Please do.”

Slowly, so slowly and mindful of the guards the entire time, you hooked your fingers into the chain in your pocket and withdrew the crucifix. There was no gleam from the burnished metal now, as if even the necklace itself was afraid of drawing too much attention. With a small effort of will, your third eye opened and the world blazed momentarily in an explosion of color that counteracted the dark. When the lights settled, the blue thread was back, anchored firmly to the symbol in your hand where it swayed back and forth. Like before, it led directly to the house.

“He should be inside,” you said. Mr. Winter raised his brows, and you were similarly puzzled. There were easily a dozen men searching for Mr. Donnola. It made no sense for them not to have found him. “Can I?” You gestured towards the front door.

“You may. I’ll follow along, for your safety of course.”

Of course.

You strode over the cracked stone pathway, grass brushing against your legs as you headed for the door, Mr. Winter two steps behind. The usual discomfort of having someone—or someone other than Matt, anyway—watch you while you did this was overwhelmed by your desire to escape your current situation.

You passed multiple people as you entered the house, the old wooden floorboards creaking under your feet. Once inside it became clear that despite the crumbling exterior, someone had been living here up until very recently. Though empty of furniture, the interior was swept clean and free from all but the lightest layer of dust—dust now smudged by a score of fresh footprints. There were few cobwebs as you followed the tracks towards the staircase, and the house didn’t contain that musty, rotted smell that true abandonment brings. Even the windows were clean on the inside, the grime on the outside apparently part of a carefully cultivated facade of neglect.

The thread wound tighter as you ascended the stairs, the strand humming with tension as you came closer to your target. If you touched your fingers to the thread now and focused, instead of simply holding the chain of the crucifix, you might be able to get a feel for Mr. Donnola’s current mood and emotional state. While that aspect of your ability was useful occasionally, you didn’t need it now. The fact that Mr. Donnola was still hiding told you enough.

You hit the top step, encountering a hallway that stretched out in front of you. Here you paused, frowning down at the thread. To your surprise, it continued to trail up, leading forwards and upwards until it disappeared into the ceiling.

“Is there a problem?” Mr. Winter’s voice was quiet, pitched low so that his words traveled to you alone.

You were fairly certain Mr. Donnola was far enough away that he couldn’t hear you, but you kept your voice low as a precaution. “Did your men find another staircase? Or an attic maybe?” At Mr. Winter’s soft no, you nodded, moving forward.

The people searching were being more thorough up here and you could see why. Newspaper covered the windows in each room you passed by. You passed the bathroom, noting the clean razor resting on the edge of the sink as a woman dug through the cabinet. Next you passed a bedroom, one that contained an unmade bed and a desk. On the desk sat a half-filled ashtray, embers still glowing. Beside the bed was a bag and a pile of clothing. Two men picked through the pile while another rifled through the bag. This was definitely the right place, but the thread led you further.

You moved past the first bedroom and went through the last door on your left, finding yourself in a empty back bedroom. As soon as you entered the room, the thread jerked, shifting until it led straight up. He was right above you. Without speaking or turning to look, you pointed straight up, glancing around the room. There was no bed or any other furniture, and when you turned your attention upwards you couldn’t spot any obvious lines in the stucco indicating a hatch or opening. Then your eyes drifted to the small closet doors on one side of the room.

Your eyes met Mr. Winter’s and he must have had the same idea. He waved a hand towards the far wall and his two guards silently approached the closet, drawing their guns and pulling the closet doors open with care. They examined the ceiling inside without a sound before nodding at Mr. Winter.

He gestured to you and you followed him out of the bedroom. As you headed down the hall, people hurried past and disappeared into the bedroom you’d found. When you hit the first floor, you thought you heard a crash from upstairs—”Oscar! We been lookin' for you! Guess whose light turned on, pal…”—but you ignored it as you left the house behind. It had nothing to do with you, and allowing yourself to think too hard on it would threaten your deniability.

Mr. Winter got a call as he led you to the waiting car. You paused on the front walk as he answered. Mr. Winter didn’t speak, only listened as the caller spoke a few words before hanging up. Mr. Winter slipped his cell back into his pocket and offered you a smile. “Top marks today, Ms. Hind,” he said pleasantly. “Despite the… momentary wrinkle, you proved able to adapt and I’m happy to say your part in our contract has been fulfilled. You’ll be receiving an extra twenty-five percent of your bonus as a thank you for any unpleasantness the incident with my security may have caused.”

“Thank you, Mr. Winter.” You would have been happy just getting out with your skin, but a little extra cash always helped to smooth things over. There was also something comforting about being able to cling once more to the shield of professionalism, as if the whole thing was nothing but a minor hiccup in your night. “Feel free to call me again if you need my services.”

“Of course. Have a wonderful evening, Ms. Hind.”

-x-

“Got those contracts, Ms. Hind.”

“Thanks Daniel,” you said absently, eyes glued to the screen as you gave the entry on your last case a final once-over. “You can just put them on the desk.” You managed to spare him a smile as he set the short stack down near your elbow. You arched a brow at the rolled up sleeves of his button down and the ink staining on his wrists. “Printer problems again?”

“Fuckin’ thing,” he huffed, dropping the formal tone he used in the presence of clients, much to your amusement. “We put that braille printer in and now ol mama’s jealous, doesn’t wanna spit out anything anymore. And I don’t think we’re all lookin' to learn braille, so I been workin' on it. Managed to get these out, at least. Gonna head back to it if ya’ don’t have anything else for me.”

“Nah, go for it. Show that piece of shit who runs this place.”

Your cell rang, the jangling ringtone interrupting your conversation as you answered and lifted it to your ear.

“You left food in my freezer,” Matt said without preamble.

“In fairness, that was just half of what I cooked,” you replied, cradling your cell to your shoulder as you pointed at Daniel and mouthed you can do it at him. He rolled his eyes, closing the door quietly behind him as he left. “The other half is in mine. You just got the overflow. Every goddamn recipe is for at least two people and I was tired of eating takeout. So this was purely logistics. I may even still come eat some of it out of your fridge.”

“I’m not close enough to hear your heartbeat but I’m fairly certain you’re lying.” He may not have been able to hear your heart, but you’d be dead not to pick up the smile in his voice. “Thank you, is what I’m trying to say. Even if I’m wrong and this was simply you hoarding food in my fridge like a squirrel.”

“How you feeling?” You changed the subject, the warmth in your chest at his gratitude not something you were comfortable with. It had been a week or so since you’d loaded up Matt’s freezer, and you hadn’t had the chance to catch up until now.

“...Better. Tired, but better.”

“I’m not going to say I told you so—”

“I sense a ‘but’ coming.”

“But I told you so-ooo,” you sang, lifting your coffee mug to your lips. “It’s almost like you’re the psychic, wow. So tell me this, Mr. Psychic: what’s tall, white, and a pain in my ass?”

“Well I don’t know if I’d call myself a pain in your ass...”

You choked on your mouthful of coffee, half of it winding up back in your cup as Matt continued over the sound of your wheezing laughter.

“I mean, I know I’ve been difficult, but I’d like to think that ultimately when you tally the pros and cons—”

You snagged a napkin and wiped at your mouth with a final cough. “Goddamn, Murdock, I was talking about a stack of legal paperwork.”

“I guess I don’t have this kind of sight, either. That’s unfortunate.”

“Your fingers however, more than make up for it.” Whoops. Your playful tone was just a little more flirtatious than you’d planned, but you plowed on in the hopes that he wouldn't notice. “Think you could use them, that magnificent lawyer brain of yours, and Foggy to parse through some new shit?”

“I mean, we are a law firm, so this finally feels like it’s within the realm of my capabilities. As much as I’d like to show off though, I don’t know how much good my fingers will be until we get the contracts translated.”

“No worries,” you said. You nudged aside the top half of the paper stack Daniel had set down, examining the bottom half which was covered in an array of small bumps. Well, it certainly looked like braille. “There’s always a few bugs when these things are first installed but I am fairly certain one copy is printed in braille. I think. Maybe.”

“You think?” His tone was amused until the surprise crept in. “Wait, did you get a braille printer? Is that how you printed my note?"

You hm’d in confirmation. “We used to send out to a service for it when we had clients who needed it but this made more sense now that we’re working with you two so regularly. Congrats, Murdock. You’re going to be our braille-reading guinea pig.”

He chuckled on the other end. “Well, I’m honored. I’ll try to make you proud. I can come by your office today to pick the paperwork up if you’d like.”

“Now you’re just trying to snoop around my place of business.”

“I’m just curious to find out what kind of office a psychic works out of. Is two o’clock alright?”

You pulled up your calendar on your computer, glancing over it quickly. 2:00 was scheduled as your late lunch since it was your only open slot today, but you could work him into that space. “Sure, I’ve got an open block there. Want to get some coffee? Only time I have to grab something. I can give you a quick rundown of the case, too.”

“I’m looking forward to it.”

-x-

It was sheer unfortunate coincidence that the block before Matt’s belonged to who it did. You didn’t know it then, of course. In fact, you were in a remarkably good mood. Matt was feeling better, your cases had been going well, and Mr. Winter’s last paycheck had gone a long way to wiping away that little incident with his security. A rich guy with uptight bodyguards was nothing unusual, you had convinced yourself. Certainly nothing to make you apprehensive about your meeting today in broad daylight. He’d even assured you it wouldn’t take long. Fortunate, since you’d now have a mere ten minutes between the end of your meeting with Mr. Winter and Matt’s arrival at two. It would leave you just enough time to skim over the paperwork for errors one last time.

“I know this is sudden, but,” Mr. Winter held his hands out in a show of good will, “my employer has been satisfied enough with your service that I’ve been advised to make an offer. One I think you and your partner might be interested in.”

You swung your foot back and forth under your desk and flashed him a suspicious smile. “I’m listening, although I have to say, I’m fairly happy with the current arrangement.” You’d learned long ago to never, ever turned down a rich client’s offer out-of-hand. Even if it was just to soothe their pride and there was no chance of you accepting, you would listen and make a show of considering it before finally agreeing or disagreeing. Just as important was expressing a certain reluctance that might make them more likely to up their offer.

“Glad to hear it. But what if I could offer you something more?” You quirked a brow as he continued, “right now, we’ve been hiring you on an as-needed basis. We’d like to offer you and your friend something more permanent.”

You’d had offers like this before. In the past, before your work in New York, you’d taken them on occasion if the money and the client were good. You even had a standing offer with an old friend in Los Angeles should you ever wind up back in the area again. As it stood, you liked your freedom here. What Mr. Winter was offering wasn’t something to dismiss out of hand, though. “And what would this involve exactly? We do have other clients who would raise objections if my partner or I were suddenly unavailable,” you said thoughtfully.

He held up a hand. “We wouldn’t require you to abandon your other clients. Nothing so rash. We’d simply like to keep your business—you, specifically—on retainer. You’d receive a regular paycheck, and in return you’d provide future services. Occasionally we’d request you be on call, and we might ask you to… prioritize in certain cases. Other than that, you’d be free to operate as you normally do.”

“I’m guessing you have the contract with you,” you said dryly. Sure enough, from his briefcase there came a stack of paper, notably thicker than the previous contracts that had formalized your business with him. “Now this I’ll have to think over, as well as have my lawyers take a look.” Or maybe just Foggy, come to think of it.

"I expected no less. Take your time.”

The two of you exchanged the normal pleasantries, and all the while you kept a close eye on the clock as it ticked away. There wasn’t much time left as you saw Mr. Winter down the hall to the door, breathing a sigh of relief when it closed behind him.

You started back down the hall, almost leaping out of your skin at the sound of a sharp bang, followed shortly by a long string of swears from Daniel and the sputtering of a printer in revolt. You shot him a look as you clutched at your chest, your heart rate dropping from where it had hit the ceiling. “Jesus, Dan, did you shoot that thing?”

“I fuckin' should! Sorry. Shit, I swear,” he growled, one arm buried deep within the printer’s cavernous belly, “I will fix this piece of worthless, junk-shit, malicious—”

You left Daniel to his grumbling as you headed back to your office. You’d only barely sat down before the peace of your office was again interrupted, this time by the sound of Daniel’s protests.

“Sir! Sir, let me help—hey, you can’t just—”

Rapid footsteps came pounding down the hall. And considering the week you'd just had, you weren't willing to take any chances. You slid open the bottom right drawer of your desk and reached inside to pull up the false bottom, your fingers brushing against cold metal just as the door opened—

“Matt! God, you scared me,” you chuckled, closing the drawer. But if he'd heard you, he showed no sign of it, holding himself stiffly as he stood in the open doorway to your office. His head tilted slowly as he scanned over the room, his cane held in a white-knuckled grip.

“Ms. Hind, I’m sorry, he just—” Daniel’s head appeared over Matt’s shoulder and the larger man lifted one hand as if to take Matt by the shoulder.

“It’s fine, Daniel!” you said quickly, waving him off sharply. You didn't know what had Matt so on edge but you did know you didn’t need Daniel getting rough with someone like Matt, who could probably break every bone in a person’s hand in seconds. “It’s Mr. Murdock, our lawyer. I told him our layout ahead of time so he knew where I was, and he was, uh, scheduled in. I forgot to let you know, sorry.”

Daniel gave you a look before shrugging, clearly picking up on the tense energy in the room and deciding he wanted no part in it. "Well, alright. I'll be up front if you need me."

The moment Daniel started back down the hall, Matt stepped fully into your office, turning to shut the door quietly behind him. He set his cane aside and then, for a long moment, he simply stood there facing away from you, taking deep breaths and still saying absolutely nothing.

“Matt?” you called softly. As much as you wanted to go to him, you stayed where you were, unsure of what was going on and unwilling to make a move until you had something to work with.

Tension rose in the weighted silence, the air so still you could have heard a pin drop.

When he finally spoke, he still didn't turn to face you, his voice dangerously quiet.

“How long have you been working for him?”

The question came out of left field. You were glad you were sitting or else it and the coldness it was delivered with would have knocked you flat. A palpable dread crept over you. God, you... really hoped you’d misheard him. “I’m sorry, I don’t… what?”

“I said: how long have you been working for him?” He finally spun to face you. It was so... strange to see that look of his directed at you, a look you'd only ever seen him use on others: flat, and emotionless. His normally expressive face was completely closed off to you, revealing nothing but the stark reflection of your office in the hard, pitiless red of his glasses.

No no no, this was dangerous, the very thing you’d feared, and you sucked in a sharp breath. He’d always respected this line about your work until now—what had changed? What did he know? 

Shit. 

Except it didn’t matter what he knew, did it? You were contractually, legally bound to say absolutely nothing. You couldn’t talk to him about whatever the fuck this was even if you wanted to, because he was here as Matt the Lawyer, not the man in the mask. You needed a moment to think, to find a loophole, but first you needed to figure out what the hell was going on. If he wanted your help, you’d give it if you could just find a way to do it without losing your skin. And you preferably needed to discuss this away from your place of business where other ears might listen in. “You know I can’t answer that," you said tightly. 

It was stalling at best, but you just needed time.

He gave you none.

“Don’t!” he growled, cutting a hand sharply as he stalked towards your desk. “You don’t get to play that game with me. Not now, and not after all this.”

A game. Was that all this was to him? Your job, your contracts, everything you’d worked so hard at, all of it just brushed aside? Your eyes narrowed, your hackles rising. He knew how seriously you took your work. “This isn’t a game,” you said coolly. “It’s my job, so no, I won’t be answering that question. So you can either tell me what this is about or you can fucking leave.”

He slammed his hands down on your desk and leaned in towards you. You didn’t flinch, gritting your teeth and meeting your own reflection in the lenses of his glasses. The heat from him that was normally so comforting was now far more ominous, tinged with his anger and the warm scent of him. You weren’t afraid—you knew he wouldn’t hurt you—but there was a sickening worry that gnawed at you because something had gone very very wrong here and you still weren’t sure what.

This close, it was easy to see the dark circles under his eyes, the remnants of bruising around the sockets, the way his jaw had clenched and his chest heaved. The silence dragged out for an eternity before he spoke again. “I caught his scent, all the way from the first floor.” His voice was quiet, measured and dangerously low, a rumble you felt all the way down to your bones. “But I couldn’t find your heartbeat immediately with all the other noise between us. Coming up the elevator, I finally found the sound of you only to hear that bang, feel your heart race from floors away, taste your fear.”

You'd had no idea he’d been close enough to hear that earlier with the printer. And if he’d thought you were in the building with someone who might hurt you… god, what must Matt have thought when he heard...?

“Matt...” In your mind’s eye you could picture it, picture him startling inside the elevator at the loud sound, the momentary horror on his face, helpless to do anything but listen and wait for the doors to open. "I—"

He didn’t allow you to continue, cutting you off. “Imagine my surprise when I finally make it to your office and not only are you fine, but he’s been visiting here often.” Ah, so this was about Mr. Winter, who’d been in your office just a few minutes ago. Their elevators had probably passed each other, one going down and the other going up. Jesus. That had been close. “You have his contracts in your desk. I can smell the ink from his checks. Which is how I know now that you’ve been working for that monster for months.”

Your heart skipped a beat.

His nostrils flared and he tilted his head slowly, the smooth rotation of a predator as he honed in on your reaction. There was no way he could miss it, not when he was this close, his face inches away from yours.

This was why you’d tried so hard to keep Matt and your clients separate. You knew you’d done business with some sketchy people. For as long as you’d been on your own you’d accepted a wide range of clients, hiding yourself first behind a shield of plausible deniability and, eventually, legal contracts. You’d told yourself it was a matter of survival. Even after you’d been able to afford to turn certain clients away, you weren’t particularly comfortable turning your nose up after so long on the run. Beggars can’t be choosers. And now? Those clients had been a necessity early on and after that it had become habit, this was true, but you were doing far better than you used to. You no longer took cases that were obviously criminal even if your clients were—it hurt no one to find a mobster’s lost puppy. You avoided stalkers, and hunting known felons… and goddammit, what were you supposed to do when people who could kill you walked into your office and asked you to do your job? You were doing the best you fucking could.

If he approached this from a different angle, you could work with him. You wanted to. Was Mr. Winter a piece of shit? Maybe. And you were willing to spend time with Matt and tell him what you knew. With his legal know-how, you were certain he could find a loophole in your contract. “I’m not at liberty to discuss my clients,” you repeated the refrain slowly, your eyes desperately hunting for his behind his glasses, hoping beyond hope he would get the message you were trying to send him.

Think as a lawyer, Matt, not a vigilante. Please...

“I let you in my home.” He backed away from you, shakily raking his hands through his hair. “You slept in my bed.” Your eyes flicked towards the door, worry creeping in that someone might be listening. He’d have heard them surely—Daniel at the door, an electronic bug in your office—but he’d seemed so flustered… had he even bothered to check? “I told you about… And all this time, you were working for them. Did they tell you to hire me? To get close to me?”

“Matt..." You swallowed hard. The very thought that he suspected you of... of faking the way you were drawn to him made something twist inside your chest, an unfamiliar nausea roiling inside you. You tried one last time.  “I promise, when I met you I—let's just sit down and talk about this. Please.”

He let out a bitter laugh. “Your heart’s been racing this whole time. Even if I sat down, what would you tell me?”

His question was met with more silence, because in truth there was nothing you could tell him about Mr. Winter, at least for the moment, which was exactly why you needed him to sit down so you could show him the fucking contract.

“I can’t—I can show you the contract and why I can’t talk.” You rubbed at your temples in frustration, feeling utterly lost as to how to work through this.

He curled a lip before shaking his head. “I didn’t think so. I can’t believe this. After everything.” He turned, striding stiffly towards the door, snatching up his cane as he went.

“Matt!” you called, rising from your chair. “Matt, goddammit, wait!”

The door slammed behind him so hard it rattled the cheap frames you'd set along the wall. Just like that, you were left alone in your office. You snatched up your mug and hurled it against the far wall where it shattered, lukewarm coffee splattering across the wall and carpet.

“Fuck!”

Now what were you supposed to do?

Chapter Text

Things had become—in no uncertain terms—a raging dumpster fire. It was a fire that you at first attempted to contain on your own, mostly by repeatedly leaving calls for Matt over the weekend. These efforts met with about as much success as you’d have had fighting an actual dumpster fire with nothing but your wits and maybe a questionable towel you’d found in a nearby alley. 

The question of just why you were so desperate to fix this wasn't one you allowed yourself to consider. You’d had incidents like this in the past: people who’d left your life when they discovered some piece of you they didn’t like. And unless they were useful, their abandonment of you had filled you with a grim satisfaction. One less person meant one less thread that might go red. This whole deal with Matt, though, refused to leave your mind, dragging like a heavy chain behind you as the days dragged on. Had you been honest with yourself, you’d have been forced to admit that this was about far more than requiring his legal expertise. Lawyers were a dime a dozen in New York. Swing a dead cat and one would sue you on charges of, well, attempted assault with a dead cat, after which another lawyer would appear, ready to defend you. 

But you didn't want another lawyer. What you wanted was Matt.

You were determined to solve this issue alone, as was your way, but whether fortunately or unfortunately, that plan changed when Foggy called you the Monday after the fight in your office. 

“So I’m guessing something serious happened,”  he said quickly after the usual greetings. Concern radiated from his tone, gentle but pointed. “Matt called me this morning and said he couldn’t do our meeting with you today. I had to talk the guy down from us dropping you as a client entirely. Something about ‘fundamental differences?'”

Shit.

You pinched the bridge of your nose, pacing inside of your office as you held the phone to your ear. In the chaos, you’d forgotten that you’d previously scheduled a meeting with them both to go over a few new legal contracts. Those contracts included the one you’d planned to give to Matt last time you spoke. You’d also intended to show Foggy Mr. Winter’s offer of retainer. “It’s… complicated.”

“Well, fortunately for you, I’m a lawyer and untangling complications is my specialty, as is dealing with our dear Matthew. So hit me.” 

How the hell were you supposed to even begin to explain the problem? It wasn’t like you could tell Foggy that Matt had sniffed out Mr. Winter from fourteen floors away, or about Matt’s habit of breaking noses and wrenching arms from sockets in his spare time. Simply redirecting Foggy to Matt would lead nowhere since Matt didn’t seem interested in talking. Getting answers from him when he was feeling uncooperative would be like pulling teeth. You were pretty sure all you’d get from him  was a bloody grin thrown your way and a taunt asking for more, or maybe a Catholicism joke. This was, you had a feeling, a time to be a bit... selective with the truth.

“He… didn’t approve of one of my clients,” you said slowly, words trickling out one by one. You were aware of how incredibly fine a line you were walking, and a misstep now could slice you to the bone, without a chance to recover. Despite your disastrous falling out with Matt, you’d never risk jeopardizing his secret, ever. But you also couldn’t risk breaking your contract. It left you in a frustrating balancing act, managing his secrets and yours, while also trying to speak coherently. Every word needed to be carefully weighed and considered before you released it into the air. “It’s a client I’m currently legally bound not to discuss, outside a very specific set of circumstances that our disagreement did not meet.”

"You stonewalled him, didn’t you?”

“Yeah, pretty much. I mean—” 

“No, no! It’s fine, I get it. Lawyer. Um… did you show him the cont—”

“I tried, but…” You scrubbed a hand through your hair, feeling the familiar frustration well up all over again. You growled to yourself, resisting the urge to chuck your phone. You’d replayed the scene in your head dozens of times since it had happened, looking for a way you could have averted this, and now you were circling it again. “He didn’t want to hear it. He kind of said we were done and then he left, so....” 

“Ok, so, hey! I can fix this, totally fixable. Just, you know.” He let out a nervous laugh. “Did he at least quote Thurgood Marshall?”

You blinked, momentarily thrown by the question. “Is that important?”

“Well, it would be a good sign. He usually does that if he’s planning on coming around, or if he just needs to blow off a little steam.”

“Sadly, no quotes,” you said glumly. Foggy swore, and you made your way back to your desk to hunt down some aspirin for your growing headache. “Look, I don’t want to cause problems, so if it would better, I can just find a new law fi—”

“NO!” Foggy shouted, so loudly and suddenly you yanked the phone away from your ear and nearly dropped the bottle of aspirin you'd just picked up. You hesitantly brought the phone back to year, returning mid-stream to Foggy's frantic rambling. “—no no, it’s fine! Please don’t leave, I can fix this, ok? Just give me a chance to talk to the guy.” 

“If you think it’ll work, ok. But he seemed pretty set," you said as you popped the lid on the bottle and tapped out two aspirin. God, you could already tell this was going to be a long week.

“You’d be amazed at what I can convince him to do. He should be here soon, I’ll get back to you in a bit. Just don’t go running off to anyone else in the meantime. They won’t give you anywhere near the dedication we at Nelson and Murdock can provide.”

-x-

“You really think cornering him is a good idea?” Karen asked skeptically, glancing at Foggy where he stood with his arms crossed in their office, waiting for Matt to show. He shifted a foot on the squeaky board below him and carefully adjusted two steps forward. He couldn’t risk an annoying squeak from the floor throwing him off during the coming battle.

And also he was pretty sure that the squeak was due to rot, or maybe termites, big ugly New York ones the size of small dogs, and they couldn’t afford to fix it if his foot busted a hole in the floor.

“He’s a squirrely little bastard when he feels like it,” Foggy said, nodding his head sagely.  “If you don’t pin him down immediately, you’ll end up talking about something else entirely. Trust me.”

“Whatever you say, boss.” She held up her hands in a gesture of surrender and went back to her laptop. She was having nothing to do with this. Let them duke it out. “I'll take your word for it.”

The tap tap of the approaching cane had them both jumping as Matt opened the door. He paused there—perhaps sensing Foggy lying in wait like an irritated, lawyerly panther—before he cautiously entered with shuffling steps. Foggy waited politely as Matt set his cane beside the door and finally turned to face Foggy. 

The silence stretched out like a lazy cat in the sun, taking its time as both of them attempted to outlast the other. Karen's eyes darted back and forth between them as the old clock on the wall slowly ticked along. Matt seemed annoyingly calm, hands in his pockets as he stood unruffled and peaceful. Eventually, Foggy lobbed his opening sentence, starting the match. “So I talked to our most profitable client.”

“I wasn’t aware he’d come back,” Matt said innocently. Which was ridiculous, Foggy thought, because if there was one thing Matthew Murdock was not, it was innocent. He’d convinced Foggy to abandon the promise of a cushy office and designer bagels, and that was nothing but dastardly evil, as was stealing Foggy's yogurt two years ago, which Foggy had not forgotten. “And anyway, I thought we’d agreed it was just the one case from him.”

Foggy threw his hands up towards the aging ceiling and scowled. “You and I both know I’m not talking about him! Why would you tell Jane you couldn’t work for her anymore just because she had a questionable client?!”

"Is that what she said?" Matt asked smoothly, his words lilted and absent any tone that might give him away. Even his face remained studiously blank, as flat as stone. Bastard. He’d gone and pulled up his lawyer face. Well that was just fine, because Foggy had watched Matt develop that lawyer face. He would not be intimidated.

“She told me enough: that you didn’t like a client and she couldn’t talk about it because she was legally bound not to. Did you even look at the contract?”

Matt shook his head, putting his hands on his hips as his facade cracked just a little and… Foggy frowned. Well, hell if this didn’t really seem to be bothering the guy. That was unexpected.

“I didn’t need to see it,” Matt said firmly. “Foggy, she wouldn’t tell me anything about… this guy.”

“Because she can’t Matt. You’re a lawyer, you know—”

“What I know is that she’s hiding something.” He worked his jaw, shifting in agitation. “Her client, he was…”

“What? A criminal? A dictator? A puppy kicker?” Foggy took a step closer, huffed to alert Matt to his presence, and proceeded to poke him in the chest for emphasis. “I don’t know if you know this, Matt, but some of the people we work with are pretty shady. Are we taking cases for money or not? What happened to making decisions together?”

“I just don’t think she’s the right client for me, ok?” Matt said stubbornly. “Just trust me, Foggy.”

Foggy stabbed a finger at the fluorescent lights buzzing away in the ceiling. “Do you see these lights, Matt?”

There was an awkward pause. Matt’s brows rose, one corner of his mouth twitching.

“Not reall—"

Foggy repeated the gesture and amended his statement. “Do you hear these lights?” 

“I can’t hear light, Foggy.”

Pop! went one of the tubes, a corner of the office abruptly dimming.

Silence.

Foggy slowly turned to Karen. “Karen, was that one of our lights?”

She winced. “Yup. It, uh, it burned out.”

“Fog—” started Matt.

“If you would be so kind, Karen, please check the box next to your desk and tell me if we have any left,” Foggy said steadily. “Please speak clearly so that everyone present can hear you.”

Karen reached over and dug through one of the long cardboard boxes beside her desk before clearing her throat. “No more lights, sorry. And we probably, uh, won’t be able to replace it until… Tuesday I think?”

Foggy spun back to Matt and stared before gritting out, “Did you hear that, Matt? No. More. Lights!”

“We can make do with what we have.” Matt shuffled in the direction of his office, holding out a hand and bumping into Foggy before he side-stepped. “I’m sure you’ll do fine on your own if you’re still determined to take her case.”

“I will make you fix this, Murdock!” Foggy bellowed at Matt’s retreating back. “You may have to work in the dark but I refuse to, do you hear me? I like to eat, Matt!” 

The door shut quietly behind Matt and Foggy sighed, turning to Karen. 

She blinked at him, raising her brows. “So did that go the way you expected, or…?”

“About as good as it realistically could have, honestly,” Foggy said, entirely unperturbed. He was in a war, and this exchange was naught but the opening battle. “The guy’s stubborn, what can I say? I’ll think of… something.”

“Any plans on where to start?”

“Yeah. Step one? Research. Go ahead and bring me Ms. Hind’s file, I need to do some digging.” He turned for his own office, his stride determined. “I’m gonna call her back, too. We’ll need to talk after I get some info.”

-x-

At your insistence, you did not meet at your office. And with Nelson and Murdock’s office ruled out, the two of you instead met in the middle. Here inside a quiet hole-in-the-wall diner, there was little chance of you being overheard by people whose names may or may not have been ‘Matt-slash-the-man-in-black’. You'd brought along a blank copy of the relevant contract, which Foggy had spent the last forty minutes going over.

“Jesus,” he muttered for the third time, circling a few more lines with his pen as you waved off the waitress. You were on your third cup of coffee and didn’t need more.

“That bad, huh?”

“Bad for you, maybe, but for your client? It’s great.” He groaned, rolling his neck and stretching his back until his spine popped. “This is the Great Wall of contracts. Kudos to the lawyer that wrote it.”

“Lawyers, plural,” you corrected, taking a sip from your warm mug. You’d lost your appetite after Foggy’s phone call earlier. “Every time I move, I get a new lawyer to look it over for flaws. This is the seventh version I think so it’s pretty ironclad by design. I’d love to talk to you and Matt about this client, but...” You held up one hand in a helpless gesture. If lie detectors weren’t a thing, you’d consider just breaking the contract and spilling, but sadly they were, and that left you with few options.

“Yeah, no, it’s…” He blew out a sigh and shook his head as he lightly slapped the stack of paper. “I’m going to need to take this with me so I can really dig through it. But as of now, without your client or their staff committing a crime in front of you?”

“I can’t reveal anything without breaking it, yeah, and you can't tell me how much trouble I'm in.” You stared despondently down at your half-filled mug. You weren’t sure what you’d been expecting from this meeting. You’d worked hard for years to ensure this contract was hard to crack, and yet a tiny part of you had still hoped Foggy would sit down and find a hole large enough for you to safely squeeze through without shredding yourself to ribbons.

Yeah, and then Matt will ride in on a unicorn and we’ll gallop off into the sunset.

“Do you really think the client’s as bad as Matt seems to think?” Foggy said carefully, his selection of words precise as his brow furrowed. “Are you in danger at all? Saying yes or no wouldn’t break the contract as long as you don’t get specific and you speak generally.”

You shrugged one shoulder, aiming for casual and missing the mark entirely. Your nervousness about the whole matter was too present, too visible in the tension that accompanied the movement. “The client Matt’s concerned about could be bad, I can’t really say. He probably is. As for me, being in danger? I have… reason to believe that breaking the contract would go badly for me if current or previous clients found out.” That was putting it mildly. You’d worked with some dangerous people in your past. There were only two reasons you’d been allowed to walk away knowing what you did. The first reason was that stack of paper in front of Foggy. The second was your reputation: a reputation that you had never broken a contract, even with a gun—literal and metaphorical—to your head. Even when you were dragged into court. Were it to get out you’d broken your word, though? You wouldn’t last two days. If Mr. Winter didn’t kill you, the others would. 

“Then I’ll find you a loophole,” Foggy said kindly. “You’re not alone, ok? I’ll figure something out. And I’ll keep working on Matt. He’ll come around. Between the two of us, we’ll crack this.”

Your mind helpfully supplied a memory of Matt’s face, the betrayed clenching of his jaw, the sharp thud of his hands as he slammed them on your desk. You closed your eyes with a sigh. Spending time with him, working with him, maybe it had all been a mistake. This was looking more and more like a trap you'd stumbled into. What was I thinking ? You’d thought that… 

That what? That we’d be friends? That I could ever connect with someone like him? Someone good, someone warm and…  It was a cruel joke, was what it was: the universe allowing your paths to intersect only to yank the rug from under you the second you fell prey to desiring something more than just a string of passing acquaintances.

“Hey, don’t worry. Ok?” Foggy, ever sympathetic, patted your hand. “I’ve known Matt for years. He likes to believe in redemption. It’s a Catholic thing.” 

“So you do think I did something wrong?” you asked quietly, picking at a chip in your coffee mug with your thumbnail. The thought had certainly occurred to you. You wouldn't pretend it hadn't. Were it regarding anyone else, Matt would have been your sounding board, your compass. With you and him not on speaking terms, you'd been left to muddle through your insecurities on your own until now.

Foggy held up his hands. “I mean, as a lawyer, I can say you did the right thing. You followed the contract to the letter. But I don’t think Matt’s thinking like a lawyer right now, if it makes you feel any better. As an average guy… Eh.” He pushed the contract aside and went back to his plate of fries, popping one into his mouth. “I don’t know enough and you can’t tell me enough for context. But what I think doesn’t matter. It’s a question of if Matt thinks you did something wrong, even if you didn’t. As far as he’s concerned right now, your money is dirty.”

“Not really fair of him.”

“Maybe not,” Foggy agreed easily, surprising you. “And he’ll realize that, but he has to sit down first. And I’m not against playing up the redemption angle if it gets him into a chair and in front of this contract. He does that, and I think you’ll get the guy feelin’ pretty sheepish. Especially if he hears you say you’re in danger if you break the contract. Trust me. After that, he can help me find a loophole and we can figure out how much trouble this guy is for you. It’ll go a lot faster with the both of us working on it.”

You propped your chin up in your hand and considered Foggy as he ate a few more fries. “So do you have a plan to get him to read it?”

“I’m kind of making this up as I go.” He frowned, pushing a soggy, crumpled fry away from the crispier ones. “I may need to trick him. Be devious, you know.”

Your brows climbed. “And how is that going to work?” Even without his super senses, you were fairly certain Matt could sniff out a plot a mile away. He was dangerously intelligent when he wasn't leaping before he looked, and he knew Foggy well. He’d be suspicious and wary of any shenanigans. You didn’t even have a guarantee he wasn’t listening right now.

Hopefully if he was, he’d heard the honesty in your voice.

“What, you think tying him down and forcing him to listen to us read the contract won’t work?” Foggy waved a fry at you. “Cause I’m feeling that plan. I like that plan! You should, too. You’re the supervillain here.”

He was drawing you out of your foul mood and damned if it wasn’t working. You chuckled, taking the fry he offered you. “Better make sure to take his cane, too. You never know what dastardly escape tools he’s hiding inside it.”

“Oooh, that’s true. Good thinking. Now, I gotta ask…” He pointed a new fry at you as you lifted your mug to your lips again. “Is there anything else you can tell me that’s not covered here that might help sway him your way, make him more sympathetic? Like, say, the fact that you might be,” he lowered his voice, “enhanced?”

You spat out your coffee.

Foggy helpfully handed you a napkin and you quickly wiped your mouth, stalling for time. Right, game plan. Confusion was usually a good start, which was fine since you were feeling a bit baffled anyway. Fittingly, you widened your eyes and let the appropriate level of disbelief creep into your tone. “What are you talking about?”

“You don’t need to hide it,” he said earnestly, and you weren't sure if he was simply assuming or if your act had just fallen flat as roadkill. “I know what you’re thinking. ‘How does that young, handsome, clever lawyer know these things?’ Well, I may not have special powers, but clients like James talk, and I’ve poked around. Supposedly you can find whatever or whoever someone’s lost, like a human bloodhound. Or that’s the rumour anyway.”

Right. Plan B: selective truth time. 

“First,” you ticked the list off on your fingers, “you should be the last person to listen to rumours since you know how unreliable people are. Two: were it true, I would prefer the term ‘psychic’ over ‘enhanced’, since it’s less likely to get me killed. And three: what the hell does it matter if I am or not?”

It was as close to an admission as you were willing to get: not quite a denial, but not quite a confirmation either. It was normally enough to satisfy questioners. He clearly recognized the play if his smug look was any indication.

“It matters because I need every advantage I can get if I’m going to get Matt back in your corner. I’m playing to win here,” he told you. “Look, if you’re… you know… then it only helps your case. One more reason you’re afraid to break your contract and draw any attention to yourself, am I right?”

Yes. Fuck.

“What do you want me to say here?” you muttered. “That I have super strength? Speed? I don’t.”

“But you’re not denying you have something.”

“It’s not that simple.”

“Psychic-ness rarely is. Details, my all-seeing friend! I want them, no matter how weird.”

Well, you were already in over your head and drowning at this point. What could a few more inches of water do? You’d chosen the ‘psychic’ title for a reason, just in case you ever had to give an explanation; plenty of people claimed to have ‘the Gift’ and you’d been happy to make use of those claims. People weren't exactly known for being friendly when they heard words like, 'enhanced' or 'mutant.'

Matt already knew about your abilities, but… maybe Foggy could use that knowledge in a way you couldn’t.

When you finished—having given Foggy a very carefully edited description of your abilities and the vague implication your past may or may not have involved some bad people that you very much could not discuss—he leaned back with a thoughtful frown as you fidgeted with your mug and waited for his response.

“So you could find a beloved dog if I lost it,” he said slowly.

You nodded.

“My favorite chair?”

You shrugged.

“But not my least hated pen.”

You shook your head.

“My long-lost uncle Felix?”

“I mean, if you care about hi—”

“But like, if I pulled out a toy from my childhood right now and hid it behind my back, could you tell which hand I had it in?”

“Do you regularly make a habit of carrying your prized childhood possessions with you, or…?” He waited in eager anticipation and you sighed. “Yes. Yes I could, if your hands were far enough apart.”

He grinned at you. “Well, it may not be super speed or laser eyes, but I’m pretty sure it’s the most useful ability I’ve heard about yet.”

You blinked owlishly at him, stunned at his easy acceptance. “Really?”

“Are you kidding? Do you know how much shit I’ve lost? Let Captain America handle the bad guys, but when someone steals my lunch, I know exactly who to call.”

“That’s not really how it wor—"

“And,” he leaned forward and grabbed you by the shoulder, his voice abruptly swerving from humorous to solemn and respectful, “not only is your secret safe with me, but I’m also pretty sure I can use this to help Matt to see the light if you’ll let me.

'If you'll let me.'  

As if you had a choice. As if you could resist this opportunity to maybe, just maybe, allow yourself a few more snatches of time with Matt before… 

You blew out a heavy breath and reluctantly nodded your head.

At that Foggy began to pack the contract away into his bag as the waitress came with the check. You slipped her the cash for both your bills while Foggy was distracted and she was gone before he zipped the bag shut and looked up. “So the current plan: if I can get him somewhere he can’t rabbit, pin him down long enough, I can get him to read it. It would help if you were there.”

You shook your head immediately, leaning back and crossing your arms. “Uh-uh, you kidding? He doesn’t want to hear a word I say.”

“Come on. Witness accounts are very compelling, you’ll have him eating out of the palm of your hand!”

“He didn’t when this first happened,” you reminded him, dropping your eyes. “I could barely get a word out.”

“Except he’s had time to cool down now, so he’s more likely to let you talk. All you have to do is tell him what you told me. It will help a lot.” You hesitated and he leaned in. “I know it doesn’t seem like it, but I really think this is the way to go. Matt’s a good guy, he wants to help people. He’ll want to help you, too. He just needs to know why he should.”

-x-

As much as you’d have loved to sit around waiting for Foggy to fix things, your work couldn’t wait. 

“Missing kid case today, so you’re on a timer,” Maya said, tossing the manila folder onto your desk. You opened it to scan through it as you rose, slipping on your jacket. 

Missing kid cases, while rare for you, always came across your desk marked as urgent, and not just because people were usually willing to pay anything for their kids to be found. The good news was unless the kids had been kidnapped, they were almost always close to home; they couldn’t move as fast as adults. They were a bit like cats or dogs, in that way. They had a tendency to stay in their own neighborhood where they were familiar with their surroundings. 

“Any indications of kidnapping?” you asked, glancing out the window. It wasn’t dark yet but it soon would be, and night always made things more dangerous—even a lone kid who’d left of their own volition could be snatched up after dusk. They were a target too tempting for some to resist.

Maya shook her head. “None reported. Seems more like Eva just ran off. Mother says she’s been missing her dad and talking about going off to see him in Nebraska.”

“Let me guess. He’s not interested?”

“Correct.” Maya sighed and began to walk with you as you headed out of your office. There wasn’t a whole lot of time and you needed to move quickly. “According to Ms. Gonzales, he’s run off with a new family. She hasn’t quite told the kid the whole story, which makes sense. Kid’s only seven. But that also means the kid doesn’t know why she can’t just pop over to Dad’s new home and be welcomed in.”

“God, I hate family drama,” you muttered. “This shit’s way too complicated.”

“I hear that,” Daniel said sympathetically as you passed him. “Good luck finding her.”

You saluted him before mashing the elevator button. “Anything else about her I need to know?”

“Cops are searching, in addition to you, so keep an eye on your phone for texts. Girl is seven. ‘Bout three-foot-nine. Skinny. Brown curly hair cut shoulder length, brown eyes. Was in jeans, panda sneakers, and a blue t-shirt this morning,” Maya told you. “Name, address, and photo in the file. Mother will give you a teddy bear when you get there you can use to track her. Already paid in full, asked for ‘the psychic’ specifically, so, you know… don’t fuck this up. Just find her and bring her back.”

You nodded, stepping into the elevator as it arrived. “Cab?”

“Already called you an uber. Good luck, Jane.”

-x-

Teddy bear in hand, you started close to the home and began your hunt.

It was an upper-middle-class neighborhood, one full of doctors and mid-earning lawyers and marketers who hadn’t quite reached the top of their fields yet but were well on their way. Brownstone apartments and townhomes sat picturesquely on spotless streets. The sidewalks were busy but not overly crowded, especially on an evening as hot as this. Only the determined were out for a jog after work or reluctantly marching along behind dogs connected via leashes and thick red threads. Even with the mid-summer heat, people seemed comfortable, familiar with each other. You had a feeling the kid would have been recognized on this street—the neighbors were too friendly and curious. Which meant she would have left as quickly as possible.

The blue thread connecting the small stuffed panda bear to seven-year-old Eva Gonzales was strong. The only reason she hadn’t taken it with her was because her mother hadn’t quite finished the repairs to a small hole in one worn black paw. That was good news for you. You wound the blue thread carefully around one finger so you could keep your hands and the bear in your pocket as you walked, your shirt already sticking to your skin from sweat and humidity. All you’d have to do was follow the tension on the line. 

There’d been a multitude of strings inside the Gonzales home, including the bold red line connecting the mother to her missing daughter. It was a warm and happy place, now shadowed with grief and fear, tainted by the presence of the cop cars out front. The poor woman had been in tears, absolutely miserable and wracked with guilt as she handed you the bear. You’d wanted to tell her… something, anything to comfort her. But there’d been no time, and so all you’d been able to come up with was, “I’ll do my best to find her.”

You strummed at the thread on your finger as you followed it down the street, turning left and right as needed, walking quickly despite the sweat that dripped down your face. Your pace was quicker than usual, and you’d be exhausted before the night was through, but in this case, it was called for, so you continued to push yourself to a pace just short of a jog. 

You wondered if Matt was struggling with the heat tonight, too, up on the roofs he usually wandered. You could see it in your mind: warm dark fabric clinging tighter than ever to lean skin, hair soaked with sweat as droplets slid free from his mask to roll down his neck while he perched on a ledge, listening carefully to the sounds of the city. He'd never seemed bothered by the heat before.

You were getting sidetracked. You shook the thoughts of him away, tightening your fingers on the bear in your pocket as you forced the distractions down, letting them sink below the surface.

Breathe.

Focus only on what's relevant.

Every now and then you’d get a little thrum down the string, determination and a bit of sadness leaking through the thread in pulses. Poor kid. 

You’d read her file on the way over, and it was… unpleasant. The father had originally left on an extended “business trip” that was, in reality, the culmination of a years-long online affair with another woman. That business trip had since become a permanent trip. 

God, what a winner this guy had been. There were some days you’d have done anything to get back to the people you’d been forced to leave behind. And here this fucker just… abandoned them for some tail. You’d love to punch his goddamn teeth in, but that was neither here nor there. 

Seconds, minutes, hours ticked by without notice. Dinnertime came and went and still you sweated and walked, reeling in the thread with utter determination. Foggy had called you a bloodhound and he wasn’t entirely wrong; there was… a zone, a headspace you got into on some of your cases, some twisted version of tunnel-vision you'd learned early on during your less pleasant experiments. When you were on the trail of something or someone that needed to be found fast, even after all these years it was instinctive to allow distractions to drift away, even thoughts of Matt. There was no hunger, no heat, no tiredness: only the hunt, the threads, and the target.

All else was irrelevant.

Distantly, as if you were underwater, you took note of your cell ringing. It was probably a spam caller, your phone trilling its standard ‘don’t know you’ ring. You switched it to silent and continued. 

Dusk deepened to the gloom of night, the wash of darkness broken into pieces by car lights, pools of amber brightness cast by street lights, and the glittering streams of threads that lay in your path. The air cooled from hellish to simply roasting. 

Only the hunt. Only the threads. Only the target. 

“You must push away everything else, subject,” the Man in the White Coat once said. “Erase all distractions. Only the goal matters. All else is irrelevant.”

The kid hadn’t been caught yet. You were connected via the sparkling blue thread wrapped around your finger, and with that connection came a vague sense of her emotional state. Nothing other than her position had changed since you started hunting her. The good news was she’d stopped moving, and she was close. 

Then you came around the corner… and there she was. 

You weren’t sure how many blocks away from her home you were now or how many neighborhoods you’d passed. She’d gone far enough to find a quiet, unmonitored bus stop. Smart. She’d known the farther from home she was, the higher her chance of success. 

You got a closer look at her as you moved up the street towards her. She’d changed her clothes since leaving home, now wearing a purple tank top and black shoes that must have come from the little green panda backpack on her back. She’d tugged on a cap, too, that hid her hair.

Very smart indeed. 

She kicked her feet back and forth, at ease as she waited for her bus. There was no one else around for once, and so you slowed to a stroll, taking that last moment to shake off the lingering haze you'd floated through for the past hour or so. Casually and without any excess eye contact, you walked up and sat beside her, closing off your third eye as you did so. The world blinked back into darkness for a moment, and as you waited for your physical eyes to adjust, you said mildly, “Where are you off to?”

“Ome-a-ha, Nebraska,” Eva said, watching cars pass. “My dad lives there. I’m going to go visit.”

“I see. Long way for a little girl.” 

“I’m seven,” she said with a roll of her eyes. “I’m not a baby.”

“I’m sorry,” you said solemnly, wiping some of the sweat off your forehead and leaning back against the bench. “My mistake.”

“It’s ok, I guess.”

“Thank you.” You stretched your legs out and glanced at her. “How’s your mom feel about it?"

Eva shrugged, but she stared down at the ground, maybe, just maybe a little guilty. “She’ll be fine once I get there and let her know I’m ok.”

“She’s probably worried about you.”

Eva turned to squint suspiciously up at you. Her eyes darted around you, and then— 

She bolted. 

You swore, leaping to your feet and taking off after her, your feet striking hard against the hot pavement. You were glad you’d worn sneakers today. 

She was a lightning-fast little thing, you thought with a groan, and you were tired and overheated. While your legs were longer, your strides able to cover more ground, she turned more sharply and dove under and through openings you had no chance of squeezing through. Unless you wanted to bulldoze your way through hedges like a goddamn elephant, you had to go around. Your only saving grace was that she was even less interested in attracting attention than you were, and so she refused to call out for help.

Your phone buzzed again. You barely noticed, almost all of your focus on running down Eva.

The two of you raced through yards and scrambled over fences, past gates and barking dogs. Every time you began to gain ground and close in on her, she’d dive through an opening too small for you, and you wasted valuable time going around. God, you hoped no one decided to call the cops on you for trying to chase down this kid. 

“Eva, wait!” you shouted, “I’m here to help!”

Holy shit, she was like a fucking gazelle.

She kept running, and didn’t stop until—blocks away, fuck kids and their boundless energy—you cornered her in a backyard: one with a small in-ground pool, poorly watered grass, and fenced in by the most beautifully un-scaleable brick wall you’d ever seen in your life. You briefly considered leaning over to press your lips to the red stone in thanks. Instead, you wheezed and tried to catch your breath as she bared her teeth at you. With the gate on the far side of the pool, and the pool at your back, she’d have to go past you to get out. 

Gotcha.

“Leave me alone!”

“Just,” you puffed, “just wait, ok? I’m not here to hurt you.”

“Not letting me go is against the law, I saw it on TV. You’re a bad guy!”

“Come on, kid,” you groaned in exasperation. “I’m just here to help.”

“You’re here to take me back to my mom!”

“And why is that so bad?”

“I don’t want to go back. I want to see my dad!”

You held up your hands as you sucked in more air. God, you were soaked in sweat to the point that even your jeans were sticking. Maybe you’d throw yourself into that pool when you were done, just drop your clothes and phone and dive right in. “Look, can we just... I won’t grab you, ok? I just want to talk to you.”

“Fine,” she snapped, crossing her arms, not nearly as tired as you were. “What do you want?”

“Your mom is really scared for you, ok? And she just wants you back home, so you both can talk about your dad, alright?”

“I’ve talked to her about it, and she won’t let me go see him,” Eva said, dropping her hands and clenching them, and sniffling just a little. “So I’m going to go and tell dad to come home. He can work from home!”

“Look, Eva—” Your phone buzzed again and you growled in frustration as you yanked it from your pocket. Whatever fucking spam caller was calling, you just—

Four missed calls, one new voicemail from an 'Unknown Caller'. But it wasn't unknown. You knew that number. It was the number you'd refused to save to your phone, just in case, but had dutifully memorized regardless. 

Matt. 

A new text notification rolled across the screen.

Message from unknown number: it's me. I need your help. Please answer.

Fuck, oh god, no, not now.

It rang in your hands again, the same number and your stomach dropped so fast you flinched, hands jerking with the motion. Was he injured? Or maybe... maybe he wanted to… to talk? Was this your chance?

It didn’t matter. He needed your help.

You glanced up at Eva, speaking as fast as you could. “Eva, this is, this is really important, I just need to take this, ok? Let me tell him I’m busy, and I can—”

And as you glanced back down at your phone in distraction, she saw her chance and made a move to dart past you. You shot a hand out to snag her backpack, fumbling your phone as you did. 

“Let me go!” she shrieked, and shoved you hard. It wasn’t enough to knock you over, but it did push you back.

Your backward step hit nothing but air. 

The chlorinated water rushed up around you, cool and sudden as you fell in, taking the kid with you. It was so cold compared to the heat of the air that you almost gasped with it, the sharp bite of the temperature change such a harsh shock to your system that it momentarily stunned you. You sank under the water, floating in the illumination from the pool lights as the bubbles cleared. 

Your phone drifted past you, dropping down to rest on the bottom of the pool with its screen facing up. The screen continued to glow at first, almost mockingly. The words ‘Incoming Call’ flashed once before it flickered and went dark. 

You picked it up with numb fingers, and swam to the surface where Eva was already dog-paddling for the edge. You grabbed her by the back of the shirt and helped her out of the pool before levering yourself up and out as well.

And you kneeled there a moment, dripping wet, miserable as you pressed a few buttons on your phone. You’d allowed yourself a brief hope the phone was alive, but… there was nothing.

“Please don’t cry.”

What?

“I’m sorry,” Eva said quietly. “Please don’t be sad. I’ll go back, ok?”

“It’s not that,” and, shit, you really were crying, weren’t you? Just a little, but… it had been a long week and you’d lost maybe your only shot at reconnecting with Matt, and you were scared that maybe Mr. Winter really was bad and you were tired and hungry and just… You rubbed at your eyes, swiping the tears away. “I just… I really needed to talk to him.”

She tugged you over to a pair of lawn chairs and you both sat. You tugged your shoes off and emptied them of water, dribbling it out onto the browned, crunchy grass.

“Kind of like how I wanted to see my dad?”

“You could say that.” You gave a wobbly laugh and then sighed as you replaced your shoes. You needed to focus on the here and now; there was nothing else you could do. And, maybe her situation and yours were sort of similar in a way from her perspective. This could help. “See, me and him, my friend, we… we haven’t talked in a bit. And it made me sad. So, I get how you feel about wanting to talking to your dad.”

“I just don’t understand why he won’t talk to me or come home,” she said, staring down at her feet. She mimicked you and kicked her shoes off to dump out the water. 

“Sometimes, for whatever reason, we don’t get to talk. Maybe my friend just won’t talk, like your dad, or maybe we don't get to talk because our phones die.” You held it up and waggled what was now, for all intents and purposes, nothing but a useless brick. “And it sucks, right?”

“Yeah.”

“But that’s where people like your mom come in. Or another friend of mine who’s talking to this friend I’m not talking to. They can help us figure out what’s going on. And whether it’s the right time to talk.”

“She doesn’t tell me everything.”

“Maybe not,” you agreed. "But she’s doing it cause she loves you, and she’s really really sad at home right now.”

“I told her not to worry,” Eva sniffled. “I left a note and everything, just like they do on TV."

“Sometimes people worry though, no matter what we do. We gotta talk to them, kiddo. So what do you think—we get you home and into some dry clothes, and you talk to your mom about your dad?”

She nodded solemnly and stood up. “Ok, but only if you talk to your friend.”

“It’s a deal.”

You didn’t make it two steps outside the yard before a cop car with flashing lights squealed to a stop on the street. The officer inside leapt out, hands on his weapon because, well, yeah, this kinda looked bad. 

“Hello there, officer!” you shouted, throwing your empty hands up into the air. “I think I’ve got someone you guys have been looking for?”

-x-

Small child? Returned.

Wet clothes? Changed. 

Phone? Still dead. 

You shoved it into the Ziploc bag of dry rice on the counter and then turned around to frantically dig in a kitchen drawer for one of your backup burners. 

The thought of Matt potentially being hurt gnawed at you. He’d rarely left your thoughts since you’d gotten his text, constant panicked whispers of Matt, Matt, Matt called, he needs help playing on repeat inside your head. Your nerves had helpfully provided a list of all the terrifying reasons he might have called, and that had only served to ratchet up the barely-stifled shroud of panic you’d been operating under since reading the text. It had said he needed your help. How bad was it that he’d finally broken his silence? And worse, by the time you'd gotten done with Eva, her family, and the cops, hours had passed since his call. 

You hesitated before quickly dialing his burner number.

“Why didn't you save the number with a special ringtone,” you scolded yourself, rapping a fist against your forehead in frustration. “You didn't even have to give the contact a name, you fucking—”

It rang, and rang, and rang. 

Nothing. 

You tried his lawyer phone next, with the same results. 

Then, with a sinking feeling, you tried your own message service. 

"You have … THREE … voicemails," the robotic voice intoned. "First voicemail."

And then… there was Matt’s voice, that warm, rich sound you hadn’t wanted to admit you missed. You leaned your elbows against the counter and listened.  

"Hi, I… it's me. Look, I know I haven't been the best… A friend of mine was grabbed, and I was hoping that… that you could help find her. I just…" He blew out a shaky breath, and you could almost see him, pacing and frantic. His voice carried an urgency you rarely heard. Then his voice softened to a plea. "Please call me back." 

Your breath hitched, the desperation in it a sucker punch that shook you. You had to resist the urge to pick up your keys and head over. Instead, you waited and let the messages play out.

"End of voicemail. Next new voicemail." 

"It's me again. I don't know if you're busy, or-or…” He stuttered, faltering briefly before forcing himself to continue. The argument between you loomed over you, ever-present as you listened, and maybe it had felt the same to him. “Or maybe you just don't want to talk to me, but you always have this phone with you and… please, I can't find her. I know we haven't talked, and that's on me, ok? I was an ass." He began to talk faster, trying to beat the timer before the message cut him off. There was noise in the background, car horns and traffic. He was out somewhere, searching. "And I know you're probably mad at me and don't want anything to do with me and you’re right, I deserve it, but I wouldn't be calling if I thought there was another way. They're going to—" He faltered again and your heart broke for him, at the fear inherent in his voice. "Please, just… help me with this. I'm asking as… as a friend." 

"End of voicemail. Next new voicemail." 

This time, his voice was cool and precise, and whatever vulnerability you’d heard in the previous two messages was gone. Now, there was only steel, unyielding and steady.

"Nevermind. I found her." 

You leaned against your kitchen counter and dropped your head with a groan. God, what must he think? He'd reached out for help and by all appearances, you'd just ignored him, abandoned him, left him and his friend to rot. He had to know, right? Had to know you wouldn’t… 

You called him again on his burner, and this time, you waited for the beep and left a message. "Hey, D," you said weakly, making your way into the living area and sinking into the couch. "I'm sorry, I was working and then my phone got wet so I couldn't answer, and you wouldn't believe… I just got your messages. I hope your friend is ok. And I hope… I hope we can still talk. Call me?" 

Your phone remained silent for the rest of the night. 

Chapter Text

Matt didn’t call. Matt didn’t call even as days came and went. While you were far from rich in New York City terms, you were earning enough to have started funneling a little money into your various savings accounts scattered around the world. And there was potentially more—a lot more—coming, should you accept Mr. Winter’s offer of retainer. You should have been satisfied. How long had you waited for a job like this? Money meant safety. It meant walls between you and your past. 

Yet the victory felt hollow. Instead of the win helping to eclipse the loss, you couldn’t help but think it was just… a calculation, a cold number. Cold numbers couldn’t squeeze your hand, or tell you softly that everything was going to be ok. 

That kind of thinking wasn’t a good sign for you. It was an indicator, a blinking warning light, that you were getting lonely, and that you were looking for more in life than just managing to stay alive. Normally you'd have said fuck it and left town. You had the contacts to hit a new city, somewhere fresh with no hang-ups and no people tempting you to form a real connection. Sierra, master forger and artist that they were, was always happy to help create a new identity for you. A new identity equaled a new job and a new apartment, new favorite foods and new people. You could settle in and forget about your life in New York just like you had the rest of your past lives. You could forget about Matt.

But there was more for you here than just the solid cash flow. This overcrowded, pulsing, noisy city of millions was one of the best places in the world to blend in with a crowd. That was especially true for someone like you who could tap into the thriving subculture of psychics and mediums that made their living here. Adding it all up, it was no surprise you couldn't quite bring yourself to pull up your stakes. That itch to escape was there, sure, but for now, you allowed the practicalities to override your restlessness. You just had to focus on your job like you had before you'd met Matt. Go it alone. Accept that Matt and you were done, and he wouldn't be around to watch your back anymore.

Foggy, on the other hand, refused to do something so ridiculous as allow Matt to ignore you.

"Foggy," you greeted amicably as you answered the phone. You paused at the stove where you were boiling some pasta. He almost always put you in a good mood and helped to steady you, so you were happy to hear from him. "How're things in the lawyer world?

"Oh you know, reeling ‘em in, saving the world one ambulance chase at a time. How's the psychic biz?" 

"Profitable," you replied honestly. There wasn’t a reason to hide it. "What's up?" 

"So it's been muy no-go on Matt, pretty much. Guy's got his heels dug in like a mule, and I don’t know if you’ve ever tried to move a mule who didn’t want to move, but I’d bet dollars to bagels it’d be easier than making Matt go literally anywhere he doesn’t want to." 

You deflated just a bit, though you'd already lost most of your hope after that night with Eva. Still, a part of you had held out until now. "I figured. Maybe it's time to just give up, Foggy. I hate to say it." 

"Ah, but we still have the original plan. The dastardly one." 

"The ‘tying him up’ plan?" You scratched at your head, puzzled and perhaps mildly intrigued by the momentary image of Matt roped up and tied down in your kitchen. Maybe he’d listen to you, sure. Or, far more likely: he’d growl at you, voice like gravel and broken glass as he strained his powerful body against the ropes, all while you attempted unsuccessfully to talk him down to a mood approaching reasonable. 

Time to redirect that thought.

"Foggy, the ‘tying him up’ thing was a joke." 

"I mean, sure, literally it probably wouldn't work but metaphorically? I've got ropes and everything." 

"You have… you have metaphorical rope." 

"Yup." 

"Do I get to know what this metaphorical rope is?" 

"Nope. Trade secret! Just trust me, it's a good rope. High quality. Guaranteed by a lawyer not to break! You free tonight?" 

"I mean…" You reluctantly nudged at the boiling pasta with your spoon. "I'll have to postpone my date with Mr. And Mrs. Spaghetti Noodle but I think they'll understand."

"Excellent. Give them my condolences and meet me at Josie's no sooner than 8:12 p.m. but no later than 8:20. We'll be at a back booth. And bring your contract! Prepare to be wowed." 

-×-

You were not wowed.

"Jesus, this is a horrible plan," you muttered, stepping through the door and into the dark and crowded bar. Tonight it was packed, filled with people eager to escape the oppressive summer heat that continued to simmer outside even as the sky darkened. The place smelled like rotgut whiskey and stale beer, and looked like it had needed a coat of paint back in the 70s but no one had quite gotten around to it yet. There was a guy in the corner who may have been dead, you were pretty sure. But at least the booze was cheap, the lighting poor, and the spluttering A.C. vents were keeping things marginally cool. You liked it already. You maneuvered your way through the crowd—elbowing past glowering bikers and cheerful drunks in cheap suits—and zigzagged towards the back past the pool tables.

You'd managed to arrive at 8:14. Any earlier would have run the chance that Matt would pick up on your presence. Now that you were inside the bar, that was still a risk, but with all the noise and the crowd, Matt hopefully wouldn't sense you until it was too late. 

Foggy leaned out of the faded, tattered leather booth at the back and waved you over. 

Just breathe. One foot after the other. You can do this.

You sucked in a breath and approached their booth. 

They were still in their lawyer clothes, clearly having come straight from the office. Both of them had loosened their ties, and Matt had rolled up his sleeves. Their jackets had been tossed on the back of the booth, one a little more carelessly than the other, and their beers sat chilled and half-finished in front of them. As you hesitated, Foggy winked at you and said, openly smug, "And here's the client now." 

Matt's expression was mostly blank, but here and there emotion leaked through the stony mask. One corner of his mouth tightened and pitched downwards, while his hand tightened on his beer bottle until the knuckles went white. He looked good, as always—sleeves rolled up, hair mussed, stubble after a long day. Tonight he had no visible bruises, which was a surprise considering you knew he was still regularly beating the shit out of any Russian mobsters he could find. He also looked like he'd rather be anywhere but here in this bar with you.

You swallowed and glanced away. God, you’d fucked this up, and now he wanted nothing to do with you. Not that he could escape, since Foggy had taken the open end of their booth seat, gleefully trapping Matt between him and the wall. 

It was too late to back out now no matter how much you suddenly wished you could, so at Foggy’s prompting, you reluctantly slid into the seat opposite them both. Then you reached into your bag and pulled out two copies of the contract—one in braille and one not. You set both stacks on the table within reach of the men across from you.

"It's me, Jane," you clarified with a weak smile. Matt was well aware of just who was sitting opposite him, but appearances still mattered. Regardless of how he may have felt about you, you owed him that much at least. You’d die before you gave away his secret.

"Ah," Matt grit out, face unreadable but for the brief clench of his jaw while you fiddled with the stacks of paper. "As I've already explained to both of you, I'm afraid I'm unable to take Ms. Hind as one of my clients. Which I thought I'd made clear." The last sentence was directed mostly towards Foggy. 

"And you were wrong!" Foggy said cheerfully, completely unperturbed by Matt’s mood as he clapped Matt on the shoulder. "Which is why I've gathered you both. We're going to work this out like grownups."

"I'm not sure there's anything left for me to say about this to either of you," Matt said. You dropped your eyes when you felt the weight of his attention on you. Needing something to do with your hands—god, you wished you'd grabbed a drink before coming over here so you had something to hold—you scratched at the misspelled swear word someone had carved into the table.

"Then you can take a turn listening to my cross-examination.” Foggy nudged him before reaching out to snatch up your contract. "Cause unless you're willing to climb over the table or scream for help, I've got you pinned, buddy. If at the end of this you feel the same, you can walk. You owe me."

Matt grunted, but he knew Foggy had won this round. He crossed his arms and settled in. 

"Ms. Hind?" When you nodded, Foggy continued. He was all professionalism now: back straight, face neutral and impassive, though his eyes remained kind and encouraging. "Why wouldn't you tell Matt about your client?"

Here with Matt, you needed to be absolutely sure you were telling the truth. He’d be listening not just to your voice but your heartbeat and your breathing too; to all the little signals your body would give indicating your honesty… or lack thereof. You wiped your sweating palms on your pants. 

No pressure or anything.

You licked your lips. "Because I'm contractually obligated not to speak about them outside certain situations." 

"And why didn't you just tell him a little? No one was around I'm assuming, and it had to have been tempting."

"Because," you admitted slowly, "if I did and it got out, say during a lie detector test or something, I could get into trouble." 

"Legal trouble?"

You shook your head and cleared your throat. There were of course elements of some of your contracts that were most likely not legally binding; those contracts were more about reputation and a certain code of honor practiced in the circles you'd once run in. "No, or well, yes, maybe, but also more, um, physical trouble. In the past I've worked with… people with very big secrets to keep. I'd be in danger if it got out I broke a contract." 

"Are you worried about that with the client Matt disapproves of?" 

"Is that covered?" you asked him, feeling a little shiver down your spine. It was like you were standing on the edge of a cliff, peering down towards the ground, and god if it wasn’t a long way down. One wrong step and you’d be getting an up-close look at the jagged rocks waiting like fangs at the bottom. "Am I safe contractually to say?"

"Don't name names or get specific," Foggy said. “Don’t talk about their actions, just how you feel emotionally.” Matt had perked up, his head tilted at the quickening of your heart in your chest. He was listening so, so very intently to the rhythms of your body. And that was no surprise. You felt like you were going to crawl out of your skin. Who knew what blindingly bright signals you were giving off right now? Your words were careful but your body was an open book to him, his fingers resting lightly on the pages as they turned.

You breathed, once, twice, in through your nose and out through your mouth. When you were a bit more settled, when your heart rate had slowed, you spoke. "Yes, I'd be worried about that. With the client." 

"Then why would you work with him?" Matt asked.

You glanced at him. It was the first time he'd spoken directly to you for weeks. His voice was thoughtful, but heavy and rough in a way you normally didn’t hear from him when he wasn’t wearing all black. It brought to mind warm nights on hot rooftops, the quiet lull in your kitchen, and soft skin under your fingertips as you carefully stitched. And yet just as much, it drew forth memories of bloodied fists, the sharp crack of breaking bone, and the flash of white teeth bared in a feral grin. But where he’d been open to you before, now he was closed off, and you couldn’t get a read on which of those two sides of him you’d just glimpsed. You wished you could see his eyes to get a better read on him as he cleared his throat, reaching down to take a sip of his beer.

The action was for show. You could feel it. He may have looked distracted or casual but the weight of his attention on you never wavered as he lifted the bottle to his lips, and the lines of tension in his body remained coiled and tight.

You pondered over his question, stalling Foggy with a raised hand as you pondered how to say what you were thinking. "I'd be lying if I said the money wasn't part of it. It’s more than that, though.”

But Matt’s focus had caught on that first half and he curled a lip, no doubt sensing the truth in your words. "So, that's it? This is all about the money?" The disbelief in what he said, the inherent rejection of you, stung enough that you flinched.

That hurt quickly morphed into anger and a shudder passed through you as you fought to control yourself, just resisting the urge to shout at him. Instead, you narrowed your eyes. 

"No,” you growled. “No, you let me finish before you judge me, Matt. Yes, the money is part of it, but it’s more than that. You wanna know why? Because I've got all sorts of shit following me. People that would love to get to me. Money keeps me safe.” The realization of why his jab stung so much hit you then: he knew this. He should have understood. You’d… thought he did, anyway. “So is what I really want money? Or is it just some fucking safety?" The last word cracked in your throat, fractures shivering their way between the syllables and letters until the whole word shook.

Something about that must have broken through to Matt because the hard line of his mouth softened, his resolve visibly wavering. 

"Matt," Foggy said softly, glancing around before touching Matt's arm lightly. "She's one of them. Enhanced." 

Matt stilled, shock blooming across his face. It was almost enough to make you laugh. It was the perfect expression, all raised eyebrows and parted lips. It didn't matter that his shock was most likely over the fact that Foggy knew about you. Foggy would no doubt read it as surprise over your status, which worked just fine for you.

"I know, man! It seems crazy!” Foggy shook him in emphasis. “But I looked into it, and she's real. If you think about it, it's not that weird right? We knew they were out there, and a lot of them probably live in a city this big. Plus, there are psychics all over; one was bound to be legit eventually. And we also… know what people want to do to someone like her. You read the news." 

"And when someone powerful who could out you publicly, or make life difficult for you, or even protect you… when someone like that asks you to do a job for them, you say yes," you said quietly, fidgeting in your seat. "Not all of us can protect ourselves like the Avengers."

Or like you, Matt. 

You all sat for a moment, waiting and thinking. 

Matt took a swig of his beer, and then said carefully, "Can I have a few minutes with her?"

Foggy gave him the stink eye. "That depends. You gonna leap out a window as soon as I leave?"

"And leave this beer half full? Never." He patted Foggy's arm. "I won't run. I promise. I just want to talk to her." 

Foggy met your eyes and raised his brows, unwilling to leave if you didn’t want him to. You nodded and so he shrugged, rising to his feet. "Alright then. Give me a wave when you're done plotting." 

Once he was out of earshot, Matt turned back to you. He was still closed off, the distance across the table feeling cavernously wide, but he wasn’t… angry. Not… not anymore, you didn’t think. And that in and of itself was puzzling. If you’d read him wrong this whole time, you weren’t sure where you stood.

You spoke first, voice soft. "Is your friend ok?" 

He wasn’t expecting that if his expression was anything to go by. You were rewarded with a small, quick smile. "She's fine. I got your message." 

"I’m so sorry, Matt,” you said, speaking in a big rush as it all came spilling out. The note of fear in his voice, the desperation, had haunted you since you’d gotten his messages that night. You needed him to understand. “About all of it, I just didn’t—my phone just… you have to know that no matter what, even if we aren’t talking, if you… if you call for help, I wouldn’t-I wouldn’t ignore you, not for something like that. Not even if you're angry with me." 

Hell, even when you did run eventually, you were pretty sure that if Matt somehow found a way to contact you, you wouldn’t even stop to consider not helping him, no matter how far away you were. There was something about Matt Murdock that stirred a sense of loyalty in you, a reaction you couldn't quite explain.

"In truth, I stopped being angry a while ago," he admitted, confirming your suspicions. He tilted his head down with a sigh. “But by then I wasn’t sure you’d even want to hear from me, not after I’d been such a—”

“No,” you cut him off, finally recognizing that thread of self-loathing for what it was. “No, you hadn’t been. Things went sideways so fast, Matt, we just… The whole thing was a mess.”

At that, he nodded, and you reached up and rubbed at your temples. It was a relief to know he wasn’t angry about the fight in your office anymore, but that still didn’t explain why he hadn’t called you back after that night you’d dropped your phone in the pool. Was it something you’d done? Had he changed his mind about you?

"What I don’t understand though,” you continued, “is if you weren’t mad, then why didn't you call me back after I left that message?" Your voice was tentative, and you dropped your hands down under the table so you could press them flat to the seat. It wouldn’t hide the nervous tension in them from Matt, not really, but the principle of it soothed you.

"I meant to.” Regret or maybe shame passed across his face, and his attention skittered away from you. If he could see you, you’d have said he couldn’t meet your eyes for guilt. “I was angry again when you didn't call back, and then… and then hurt.”

You closed your eyes, sitting with that knowledge that you’d hurt him. It had been accidental and really, not your fault. You couldn’t have predicted you’d fall into that pool, or that you’d be unable to access your messages for hours. But it didn’t make you feel any better, because he’d still been vulnerable and alone. He’d reached for you, and you hadn’t been there. You’d suspected he’d felt hurt, but to hear the soft admission from him...

“Matt—”

He shook his head, continuing as you opened your eyes. “But then I heard your message the next morning. I-I almost called you, so many times. But my friend, the nurse, was hurt. Because of me."

Definitely Martyr Matt, then. This explains so much. It answered a lot of the questions you’d had, pieces slotting into place. One piece in particular, however, stood out. Was he really…?

"Wait, I’m confused. You’re not mad, and all this," you waved at the contract and the space between you both, something like butterflies fluttering inside your chest, "is… is all this fine now and this is—you're trying to protect—"

He stirred, his head swinging back up to face you. "This," he said grimly, tapping the contract, "is still an issue. You're working for bad people, and I haven't forgotten about it. But we should also consider that the people who get close to me are always in dang—are you laughing?!" 

You couldn't help it. You'd tried to bite it down. But the tickle in your chest had turned into a giggle, and it had spilled from your throat before you could stop it. It rapidly progressed to laughing so hard you were wheezing, shoulders shaking as you gasped for air. Matt was not amused, looking wounded that you weren’t taking the idea of you being in danger—solely due to him, of course—more seriously. You had to force your words out between heaving breaths. “Oh my god, Matt, I'm over here terrified of you getting hurt being near me and you're worried about the same thing on your side and both of us are still in danger even without the other around! It's-it's goddamn ironic! And now Foggy thinks I'm psychic—" 

"I still can't believe you told him," he muttered. And that just set your giggles off again. 

"And that!" You pointed at him with a mad grin sharp around the edges, a little hysterical. The stress, hurt, and frustration was spilling out of you now unchecked, pouring forth like the dam inside you had finally cracked open. You slapped your hands on the table, barking another laugh, and leaned forward, lowering your voice as if you were telling him the most hilarious dirty joke in the world. "And the best part is, I didn't even tell him! He just-he just fucking figured it out and he gets it more than you do! He knows why I’m scared out of my fucking mind!" 

And maybe that was a low blow, a barbed shot fired across the table, but it was the truth. You were scared. So very, very scared.

Your breath hitched.

Matt flinched hard at that, drawing in a sudden breath. His hand rose, quickly reaching across the table towards you but as your laughter died down you withdrew out of reach, groaning and putting your head in your hands. His hand fell back, and you? You were just… tired. Tired of everything, because god, this hurt.

Is this what it feels like when I push someone away? 

"Just help me with this?" you mumbled, trying not to let your voice crack. You didn’t cry in front of people if you could help it and that emotional release had almost done you in.  "Please? If… if you can find me a loophole, I'll tell you whatever you want to know about him." 

A hand settled on your shoulder and you looked up at Foggy, who squeezed sympathetically before sliding in next to Matt. Matt must have waved him over. 

"So, Matt… what do you say?" Foggy elbowed him gently. "Want to help me rip apart this contract?" 

Matt rubbed a hand over his mouth, drained the last of his beer, and pulled the braille contract over. "No promises." 

-×- 

They debated and argued back and forth for another hour before you said goodnight and headed home. They paused their emphatic discussion of a particular clause on page 36 to say goodbye, and Foggy even stood up long enough to give you a hug, which you were secretly grateful for. The second you stepped away, they delved back into it. 

It had been good to see Matt again. Even if it wasn't perfect, it had been something solid, tangible. It was as if his presence alone cast some warmth your way, and you'd spent so very long in the cold dark.

Whatever had happened with Matt’s nurse friend must have really rattled him though. It wasn’t like you could blame the guy, either. Pot, kettle. How many people had you left behind over the years? Always, always making sure to wound them deeply enough to keep them from following after you, if you didn’t just leave them high and dry before they got that close in the first place. Trailing along behind you was a whole string of ex-friends, roommates, lovers, and a few you'd even dared to call your found family: all of them adding up to one big shameful green thread of your own. 

You shoved your hands in your pockets as you walked. But that was the thing, wasn’t it? It sounded like Matt had been keeping you away because he feared you’d be in danger, but you already were. The Man in the White Coat, various scientists, past clients—there were people who would dearly love to own your talents if only they could find you again, and they weren’t above using the people around you to do it. You had just as much reason to worry for him as he did for you. 

What a cruel twist that you both had ended up meeting each other: two people who brought so much danger to the table. 

You kicked a pebble as you headed up the steps to your apartment building. You knew you’d have to say goodbye to Matt one day. That was just the way your life went, the way it had been for years now. You stayed as long as you could, until you had too many connections or you got enough money or you heard people were looking for you. Then you burned your bridges and ran. That fire was a necessity. 

But there was no reason to light the match before you had to, right? You were making decent money. You were anonymous in a city this large. And Matt, well, you could keep Matt around as a guard dog a bit longer if you were careful.

You shook your head. Or maybe you were just selfish.

Either way, you’d done what you could to get Matt back on your side. You’d just have to let the chips fall where they may. 

That thought must have been enough to comfort you, because that night you slept well for the first time in weeks. There were no nightmares, no tension and exhaustion stiffening your muscles when you woke up to greet the never-ending noise of the city. The change in your mood was noticeable enough that it drew comments. 

“Someone's feelin’ better,” Daniel sang. “Good night?”

“Better than usual,” you admitted, stopping to lean on his desk and peer down at what he was doing. 

Ugh. Paperwork.

“Take it you made up with the handsome Mr. Murdock?”

“It’s getting there.” You shrugged, drumming your fingers. “There’s progress at least.”

“Well, keep it up,” he hummed, dark eyes sparkling as he shifted to the computer. He tapped away at his keyboard, sending off a document to the print. “My guy and I’ve been together two years and we still fight like cats ‘n dogs occasionally. Always worth it to work it out.”

“Matt’s just a sort-of friend, you realize this, right?”

He scoffed. “Friend, lover, doesn’t matter. Fix the fight, and everyone’s happy. Now if only he’d—sweet fucking baby Jesus, that goddamn printer again!” 

You had two notes on your desk. One was from Ms. Gonzales, thanking you for finding her daughter. Her note was accompanied by a very nice bottle of wine, one with a small panda-stamped ribbon tied around the neck of it. The second note was from Mr. Winter and read as followed:


Dear Ms. Hind,

As you are no doubt aware, my client is eager to hear from you about our offer to keep you on retainer. There are sensitive matters we would like to hand off to you, but can only do so once the appropriate contracts are filed. If at all possible, we would like to have your answer by the end of next week. 

We look forward to hearing from you. 

Regards,
Mr. Winter


You growled and crumpled the paper before chucking it in the trash. If Matt was going to be a part of what you were doing, he needed to figure it out, and soon. 

You fished your phone out of your jacket and fired off a text to Foggy. 

Text sent at 8:47am: that client wants me on retainer and needs to know by end of week, so need an answer

Text sent at 8:48am: is M in or out?

You paced impatiently across the dark carpet and watched your screen for Foggy’s reply. His replies were almost always prompt during work hours, and usually outside them as well. You weren’t sure he even had an off switch. He seemed to run 24-7 on an unholy blend of bad coffee and sheer force of will. Your phone buzzed after a minute, his return text appearing.

Text received at 8:49am: working on it, this contract is CRAZY and we haven’t found a loophole outside criminality yet. Idk if I want to strangle your past lawyers or marry them

He’d added an eye roll emoji and three hearts to the end. You snorted and typed in your response.

Text sent at 8:49am: i told you it was thorough

Text received at 8:50am: yeah, but i think he at least sort of gets it now why you couldn’t talk. will keep working on it and keep you updated

Even with Foggy’s assurance, the sense of calm you’d had enjoyed upon waking quickly evaporated. You were left instead with nothing but unease. You hated a ticking clock, especially one that was out of your control. You couldn’t force Foggy and Matt to analyze your contract faster. If they couldn’t come up with an answer by next Friday, you were going to have to decide on your own whether to accept the offer provided by Mr. Winter and his mysterious benefactor. It wasn’t like you hadn’t made these decisions solo before but now there was an added pressure, as if the stakes weren’t high enough already. 

You’d forgotten what it was like to have people whose opinions you cared about.

At least you had cases to take your mind off the impending decision regarding Mr. Winter. You and Maya were busy as hell. According to both your sources, there was escalating activity down below amongst the various criminal elements. The hornet’s nest that was the Russian Mob had been kicked into a frenzy—it was a safe bet who was responsible for that—and they were snatching people off the streets left and right. That in turn meant a lot of relatives coming to you and Maya, seeking your particular skill set.  You were forced to turn down more than one case thanks to unfortunate Mob connections. You and Maya wanted to make money, sure, but that was one beast you had no desire to tangle with. 

By the middle of the next week, you were exhausted from late nights and too much work. Your steps dragged like leaden weights as you shuffled into the elevator that would take you up to your apartment. Mrs. Johana, the woman who lived in the apartment above you, gave you a sympathetic look as you stood beside her and sleepily pressed the button for your floor. She was an older woman, mid-70s, with dark steel-shot hair woven in tight braids, and a brilliant smile she turned on just about everyone. You liked her.

“Long day, hon?”

“The longest,” you mumbled. 

“I’ll send Stevie down when I get home. I’m sure she’ll make you feel better.”

You waved as you headed out the elevator, wandering down the empty hall to your place. The first thing you did once you were inside and had set down your bag was open the window that led to the fire escape. There was at least a breeze tonight, sweeping away some of the humidity that made the air feel so terribly heavy and thick. 

Footsteps creaked above you, then the window one floor up opened as well. 

“Incoming!” Mrs. Johana announced cheerfully as a large, fluffy grey cat came trotting down the fire escape. Stevie the cat leapt up into your window with a purr that would have given a motorcycle a run for its money, and offered herself up for some cuddles. 

You picked her up and made your way over to your couch to sit. Sometimes you wondered if you—a normal, non-enhanced you—would have been allergic to cats. You knew there’d been some genetic tinkering before you were born, and presumably, they’d altered anything that might be linked to any obvious allergies. What other genes must they have messed with, trying to get results? And what switches had they flipped to give you your ability to see threads?

Stevie rubbed her face against your hand to distract you before she settled into your lap, rumbling happily. She was a massive thing, a good twenty pounds of fluff and stocky muscle, and she made a wonderful lap cat.

You drifted off, dozing on the couch. 

When you awoke, you weren’t sure how much time had passed. Stevie was no longer in your lap, though the leftover fur ensured you wouldn’t forget she’d blessed you with her glorious presence. Instead of on your lap, she was over by the open window, meowing happily.

Tap-tap-tap.

Tap.

Tap-tap.

God, it felt like it had been forever since you’d heard that rhythm, and something twisted inside you at the sound.

“Hey, D. Come on in, and watch the cat." At your welcome, Matt—garbed in his usual late-night, tight black getup—folded himself up and slid in through your open window. 

“So you do have a cat,” Matt threw your way, just a touch accusingly as Stevie purred and wound back and forth between Matt’s legs. 

“Nope,” you said, popping the p as you let your head fall back against the couch to stare at him upside down. 

Matt tilted his head, then nodded. “I get it. This is one of those shared custody, ‘I don’t own the cat, the cat owns me when she’s not living with other people’ things, isn’t it?”

“Still nope.” You were enjoying teasing him. You weren’t sure if he was fucking with you or not but Matt swung his head in seeming bafflement, as if to confirm with his heightened senses that yes, there was indeed a large furry cat in the apartment and it was not a raccoon or a possum or a stuffed animal. Satisfied with what he sensed, Matt snorted and pointed down at Stevie. You barked a laugh and took pity on him. “She belongs to the neighbors upstairs. She just likes to come down occasionally. Apparently she was friends with the last person who lived here and she wasn’t keen to give up the habit. Especially when the noisy grandkids come to say hi.”

Stevie stood up on her hind legs and gently patted Matt’s leg, begging for pets. Matt obliged, easily lifting Stevie up into his arms as Stevie purred. She bonked her head affectionately against Matt’s chin and even with the mask you could see him scrunch up his nose.

There was quiet for a moment, other than a sneeze from Matt, presumably from Stevie’s extra fine hair tickling his face.

It was peaceful, almost. On a good night you may have basked in the silence, but tonight you couldn’t resist the urge to break it.

“I take it you’re here for more than holding the neighbor’s cat,” you said at last, taking in the long line of black that currently composed Matt Murdock. His shirt had ridden up a little, and your eyes caught on it: a flash of warm skin at his hip and… was that a patch of gauze? Figured. You directed your gaze back up towards his face. “You want a drink or anything?”

“I’m fine, thank you. You were right, though. I wanted to talk to you.”

You waved grandly at him in acceptance, closing your eyes and hmm-ing. In your exhaustion, you didn’t have the energy to put up your usual walls. And what would be the point? You couldn’t hide from him, not when he could slide his senses all the way down into your bones. You kicked your legs out. “I’m all ears.”

“I told Foggy that your client is the same as ours. And we’ve gone over the contract,” he sighed. You fluttered your eyes back open as he moved across the room towards you, still holding Stevie. You didn’t even want to think about how much cat hair was going to be on Matt’s shirt after this. Maybe you’d get him a lint roller if you were still friends around Christmas. 

You bit your tongue at the thought of the Devil painstakingly lint-rolling his intimidating black outfit.

“It’s all we’ve been doing,” he continued, thankfully unaware of where your thoughts had strayed.

“And?”

“And, nothing. Unless he or his people broke a law in front of you, you can’t talk about anything he’s done.” He growled in frustration, which was unacceptable to Stevie. The cat gave him a dirty look and squirmed out of his arms. She marched over to you and granted you a parting headbutt before trotting to the window, leaping out, and disappearing up the fire escape back to her own apartment.

Matt brushed off his shirt as he went to close the window before he returned, this time kneeling in front of you. He tilted his head in the fashion that you’d learned meant he was focused on you completely. He didn’t slide his mask up, didn't let you see his eyes, but he had that look around the part of his face you could see, the solemn mouth that said trust me and please and oh, how much you wanted to. “Are you sure you can’t just—”

You closed your eyes, letting out a shaky breath before shaking your head. You still couldn’t talk, you just couldn’t. At the very least, you could make sure he knew why. You wouldn’t allow a repeat of the fight in your office. “Matt, I can’t. If anyone finds out—”

“They wouldn’t. Not from me.”

“I know you wouldn’t but Matt, if I get held to a lie detector test or really get pushed on it and I can’t truly say I’ve never broken a contract, they’ll know. Either this client will find out, or one of my other past clients will.” You swallowed. “I’m… I’m afraid of what will happen.”

His hands twitched, fingers curling loosely. He’d tilted his head down, attention on the soft space inside you where your racing heart was tucked away. “I could protect you,” he said, so very resolutely that for one vulnerable second, you almost believed he could. 

“You would try,” you said, not unkindly. “And maybe you could, for a while. But if this client is as bad as you think, he’d just have to wait. Eventually, I’d be somewhere without you.” You let the unspoken consequences hang in the air. Pain flashed across his face as if you’d physically struck him, flickers of anger in his clenched jaw as he stiffened and drew back. A shuddering breath followed the action, his muscles tightening in readiness, only there was no one here to fight, no one here for him to protect you from. His surging instincts had nowhere to go, nothing to do but circle inside him.

“Then I need you to think, really think, of anything he might have done to you or in front of you that was illegal. Even if it's something small, it can help me. And then I can take him down, and I can keep you safe. You won't have to be afraid anymore.” His voice was rough, hoarse, and the plea was clear: give me something or someone to fight. 

You groaned and dropped your head into your hands. “Matt, I’ve already gone over everything.” You’d even pondered whether or not the bodyguards drawing their guns that one night had been illegal but as best you could tell, they could have simply argued they'd feared for their lives or that they’d suspected you of being armed. That reasoning had been enough for you to rule it out. “He hasn’t done anything illegal to me or in front of me and I don’t think his goons have either. He’s very careful.”

Matt murmured your name, taking your wrists in his hands and despite the rising tension in him, the touch was gentle as he dragged your hands away from your face. Your skin almost seemed to tingle where he'd taken your wrists, as if your body was startled by his touch. His hands were still so warm, even with his gloves on. ”It doesn’t have to be information that would break the contract, then. Give me whatever you can, even if it seems pointless. Let me have your jacket or a shirt you wore on a case for him, or tell me if someone who worked for him smelled like chlorine—”

Your head snapped up, his words lighting up a series of memories in your mind as connections came together—

The scent of chlorine.

“Not letting me go is against the law, I saw it on TV.”

The lock of straining muscles as you pulled back and prepared to kick at unyielding glass.

Holy shit. Holy shit, the driver.

"Oh my god, I've got it!” you blurted, leaping to your feet. Matt rose, closely shadowing your steps as you darted to grab your bag in the corner by the front door that contained the contract. ”Matt, I think I’ve got an opening, and I’d-I’d be able to tell you all of it, or all of what happened on one case at least.” If you were right, you’d be able to provide Matt a lot of information about that one night, and it might be enough to lead him in the right direction. Who knew how much he could find in that abandoned house?

“Are you sure?” He shifted in agitation beside you, crowding you as you pulled the pages out, flipping through them to ensure they were all there. His scent—salt, warm fabric, faint cinnamon, the copper tang of blood—swirled around you, causing your fingers to briefly stutter at the distraction. “If you’re giving more than hints, you need to be sure. Don't put yourself in danger just because—"

“I’m fairly sure, I think.”

“You’re sure or you think?” he shot back. 

Good god, why had he swung so wildly away from ‘Give Me The Information’ to ‘Think This Through?' He needed to make up his mind. You scowled as you turned to face him, and he was so close that you almost accidentally elbowed him in the ribs. Your scowl softened to a frown, and you leaned your back against the wall as you peered up at him.

What the hell happened that’s got you like this, Matt?

“I thought you wanted this information from me. You’re not acting like it.” 

“I’m acting like I want the information, but not if it gets you hurt!” he growled, looming up over you, and oh, hey, there was your old friend D again: deep voice, smoky heat and all. Even trapped as you were between him and the wall with nowhere to go, you weren’t frightened. Just… puzzled. After all, his actions would have been more intimidating if you’d missed the tiny, shaky inhale he drew in. 

His nurse friend got kidnapped. Then you told him you’re scared and that he can’t do anything to protect you. Of course he’s on edge now.

You wanted to smack yourself at the realization of just how firmly you’d slapped Matt’s Warrior button. No wonder he’d swerved back towards keeping you safe; the drive to protect was one of his strongest instincts. So instead of pounding your head against the wall, you gnawed on your lower lip in thought and crossed your arms, considering him. “Look, isn’t there a clause in here somewhere…” He was way too close—practically on top of you—for you to properly hold up the contract so instead you took a chance and flicked the stack of papers lightly against his abdomen. He startled with a quiet noise, muscles jumping at the touch to somewhere so vulnerable when he was worked up. You hoped the playfulness of your action served as a reminder to his brain that you were fine and he could relax. “Like, a paragraph saying I can ask you about whether something is a crime? Really, really vaguely? I’m fairly certain I had that put in.”

Come on, Matt. Engage the lawyer brain, not the Beat The Shit Out Of People brain.

He tightened his hands into fists before releasing them, shifting in front of you. “Maybe,” he eventually rumbled. He drew in a deep breath through his nose, lips parting. The heated fabric of his shirt just brushed against your folded forearms, a feather-light touch, before he exhaled slowly. You let him go through the process a few more times until his breathing started to sync with yours. “I… I think—"

“Maybe, or you think?” You teasingly arched a brow, and he seemed calm enough now that you carefully reached out to poke him. You only got one tap in, your finger prodding ticklishly at the lean muscle just below his ribs before he squirmed away from your finger with a huff. “Come on, that was a very important lawyer-ly distinction to you a few minutes ago.”

“You’re hilarious,” he grumbled, stepping back from you and shaking his head like a dog that had just come out of the pool. 

“And yet I remain unappreciated.”

“Not to everyone,” he said, rolling out his shoulders and setting loose another breath. “There was… there was a clause like that, I think. I can call Foggy, we’ll meet you at Josie’s.”

“You don’t want me to just hit you with this now?” You held the papers up. 

He shook his head. “If we’re coming at this from a legal angle, I want Foggy and I both on this to make sure you’re safe.”

That was probably a good thing. It would give him a chance to calm down, and give you a little time to figure out how to relay to him that you’d been, well…

Fuck. That’s not gonna go over well.

“I’ll meet you there.” You managed to keep your voice level, which was a pretty big victory all things considered. One step at a time.

You made your way around the apartment, gathering what you needed as he headed to the window and opened it. He didn’t thank you, but he did spend a moment there on the sill, listening to you, before he slipped outside and disappeared.

-x-

You gestured to the contract as soon as the two of them sat down, beers in hand, across from you. You didn’t even wait for them to speak before you jabbed at the pages. “So all this time I’ve been going about this wrong.”

Foggy stifled a yawn and brought out his own copy of your contract, covered in red underlines and scratchy shorthand. He must have been asleep when Matt had called him, but he didn’t seem annoyed at all that he’d been woken. “What’d you find?”

“I’ve been wracking my brain trying to think of something the client did or something his people did once I got where I was going.” You flipped through your contract to the relevant page, in case you needed to reference it. “But this whole time I’d forgotten one of the most important things: how I got to those places in the first place. Or rather, how I got to one case in particular.”

“I’m assuming that means on this case, you didn’t just walk?” Matt’s focus was honed in on you, sharp and solid. He’d arrived at the bar not long after you, only now instead of all black, he was dressed in a wrinkled button-down and slacks. As if he hadn’t just been dressed in a vigilante costume and throwing himself off your fire escape a little while ago, the nerve of him.

“What would happen if, in theory, uh...” You faltered, trying to keep the question vague enough that you couldn’t be called on it in the future but also trying to underplay it enough that it wouldn’t hit Matt too hard.  “Say someone tried to leave a car, and the driver made sure the doors were locked so they couldn’t get out, and then continued taking them to the location against… their… will?” 

As you'd rambled, Foggy's brows had slowly risen as he'd become increasingly alarmed. Matt, though? Matt went absolutely still, and if you hadn’t seen the sharp inhalation that preceded that stillness, you’d have thought he was nothing but a statue. Late-night chatter from the rest of the bar filled the sudden void of silence at the table. When Matt spoke, his voice was hot and molten, three words ripped from somewhere deep in his chest. “He kidnapped you?”

“Only a little?”

And yup, ok, despite your best efforts you’d just summoned up D in a crowded bar. Whoops. You could see it, hear it, feel the heat, the seething rage from across the table. The sensation was so strong you rocked back in your seat, glancing around to see if anyone else had noticed. The driver who’d locked you in the car was lucky he wasn’t there at that moment. You had no doubt he’d have been shitting his own teeth for weeks once Matt was done punching them down the guy’s throat. And as much as you appreciated the thought, you needed to keep Matt’s mind here, focused on this moment now and not on the idea of hunting down the driver and making him regret the very act of happening to exist in the same universe as ‘things known as cars.’ “In reality, I can't really answer.” You directed this at Foggy, distracting him and giving Matt a chance to collect himself. “That's for you guys to decide since I believe I’m allowed to ask you if this scenario would be considered a crime.”  

"Was it clear you were trying to leave?" Foggy rubbed his chin thoughtfully as you gently, pointedly, and without looking away from Foggy, nudged Matt’s foot under the table. “I’m not talking just… trying to open the door secretly. I mean, more—”

“Yeah, no, at one point I was leaning over to kick out the back window. I was not subtle.”

Foggy blinked and gave you a look. “Can I ask why you didn’t immediately recognize this as a crime and call the cops?!” 

“It was, uh, kinda overshadowed by everything else and there was a lot going on. Which I would love to tell you all about if you will confirm this was a crime.” You dragged out the last sentence for emphasis, looking meaningfully at the contract again.

“We could argue it fell under false imprisonment.” Foggy was getting excited now, slapping the table as he saw the same opening you’d seen earlier. “That could definitely work. As long as this wasn’t like… an uber driver or anything, right?”

“Nope.” You quirked a lip nervously, though in truth nothing about this was humorous so your smile fell flat. “This was one of the client’s drivers that was sent for me.”

“Perfect! Which means now we have a crime committed by someone in your client’s employ, on company time, as you carried out your job. This is—” He elbowed Matt. “See! I knew there was a loophole.”

You eyed Matt but he was still silent. The way he gripped the table spoke volumes about where he was mentally at that moment, which was to say: not here with you in the bar. Foggy noticed it too, and reached over to gently touch Matt’s arm. It was a calming gesture, absent any awareness he was touching the arm of someone who could break the bones in a man’s hand as easily as you might break a few eggs. “Hey, it’s ok, buddy. She’s alright.” He shot a distracted look your way. “He can’t see you, so he can’t—”

You gave him a weak smile and, under the table, you hesitantly shuffled a foot out and lightly nudged Matt again to get his attention. “No, understandable. And I’m fine, really.”

“Not a mark on her,” Foggy reassured him as Matt finally released the table, though he was still wound tight as a drum. “I’m looking at her right now and she’s ok, and we got this now. Trust me.”

“She was kidnapped!” Matt snapped at him, one hand clenching. “That doesn’t leave someone ok.” You waited patiently, as did Foggy, and after a moment he seemed to remember where he was. “But,” he tilted his head towards you, “you’re right. You’re ok now. And you can tell us what you know about him.”

“Well,” Foggy reminded him, “within certain limits that is.”

You were fairly certain you knew what he was talking about but it was always best to get clarification. “I can’t talk about other cases, right?” you asked. 

“Just the case during which the crime occurred,” Foggy said, stabbing a finger in the air with sarcastic vigor. “Which leaves us pretty—pardon my German—fucked on anything else, yeah. You also can’t talk to the police about this yet, not unless you alert the client first after confirming with us that this was a crime. And you can’t use names! Or faces. Just, you know, general specifics. So basically, ugh.” He scrubbed a hand through his messy hair and threw a frustrated glance in Matt’s direction. “Thinking about it, I’m not sure how much of this might actually be helpful.”

“Still worth it to know. There could be something there we can use,” Matt said, gesturing to you. “So… give us the rundown then. As best you can.”

“Well…” You scratched your nose in thought, mentally rewinding to the case in question. “It started with the client not long after I got in for work that morning.” From there, you launched into a carefully censored recounting of the events in question. Matt and Foggy both listened intently, only breaking in now and then to ask a few questions. The further into the story you got, the more restless Matt became. Towards the end of the story, only Foggy was still asking questions; he’d even gotten out a pad of paper and had written some notes. Matt, on the other hand, had long since lapsed into dark silence. It was that anger of his again, only—at least for now—there wasn’t any target in front of him he could take it out on. He was reining it in better than before at least, barring the moment you described how the bodyguards had pointed their guns at you. His hand had tightened on his beer bottle so much you’d thought he might shatter the glass.

“Holy shit,” Foggy mumbled. “This guy is sketchy. I mean, based on our working with the guy, I’m pretty sure we’d find no connection between the driver and your client. Probably just shell company after shell company. And even if we could solidly connect them...” He tapped his pen to paper. “You said you used a code name and he uses company checks, so it’s not like we have his name personally, or the driver’s. I’m going to advise not going to the police, considering what he might do. There’s not enough to qualify for that clause in your contract anyway and we still know next to nothing about him. Matt?”

If you hadn’t been watching Matt, you’d have missed his minute flinch when Foggy mentioned the cops, and his reaction drew your brows into a furrow. “I, uh,” Matt said, clearing his throat and shifting. “No, I agree, going to the police would be too dangerous. It’s not… not safe.”

That reaction to cops was new.

You’d thought his tension had simply been related to the kidnapping of his friend, but there was more to this and you were dangerously out of the loop. Matt was… spooked. He was never spooked. And if it could throw someone like him off balance, what chance did you have?

“And this is the client who wants you on retainer?” Foggy directed his next question at you. 

You filed away Matt’s reaction for later and returned to the conversation. “He wants his answer by the end of the week. At this point, after all this...” And that was just it, wasn’t it? It had been one thing to accept it when it had been happening. You'd been able to rationalize it away to yourself even if you didn't like it. But now that you’d actually had to describe the events to someone outside your own head, it seemed… more than you wanted to deal with. You had enough clients to survive without Mr. Winter’s money. Sure, you’d lose out on a boatload of cash, but why take such a huge risk when you could make do without? “I figure I should just say no at this point and quit working with him. Saying all this out loud makes it seem kinda ridiculous to sign on with him.”

Foggy opened his mouth to speak but Matt beat him to it, reluctant words pulled from him on a heavy breath. “You have to sign it, at least for now."

“What? Matt!” Foggy gaped at him as if he’d grown two heads, grabbing his shoulder while you sat there in disbelief. “Dude, you met this guy, and he basically kidnapped her! What happened to all that, you know, justifiable rage?”

It just didn’t make any sense. First, he was upset because you were working with Mr. Winter and now Matt wanted you to keep working for him? After the fight and the long silence, you got this? What had changed between then and now? “Sign, don’t sign, don’t work for the bad people, work for the bad people! What the hell do you want from me, Murdock?” you hissed. “I’m sick of playing catchup here so if you could just pick a lane, that’d be fucking great!” 

Matt had dug his feet in, steadfast in the face of your anger, and even with his glasses on you knew the bastard was somehow meeting your eyes. He licked his lips, tilting his head at you. “What do you think him and his… employer will do when you just say no?”

You faltered, as did Foggy. The words had been spoken with complete calm, the solemn certainty of someone who’d seen the results of the path you were all looking down. Matt waited, and when neither of you said anything, he nodded slowly. His fingers twitched again, curling against the table: a tell. Unhappy. He wasn’t as calm as he wanted you to think. “Exactly. Men like these, they don’t… they don’t take no for an answer. They don't just let people leave after working with them. We need another way out for you."

Your first instinct was to deny that this sort of thing could happen with Mr. Winter, but why? Why deny it, when you knew it could be true? 

Because, you thought. Because it feels safer. It felt safer to think of Mr. Winter as just another client, someone who held true to the rule of law and business. It was a comforting image, the idea that were he to be denied further business he would simply shrug and move along. After all, he’d been nothing but polite and friendly. 

Or had he?  

You’d had a gun pointed at your head. Oh sure, you’d had that happen before. It came with the territory, with your background. You’d been treated far worse, and you could easily rationalize it away as nothing but a pair of twitchy bodyguards. That was how you’d rationalized it away. The reaction from the guards was to be expected when working with the wealthy or powerful. 

And it wasn’t even like you weren’t aware that bad people could treat you kindly, bad people who were capable of terrible, terrible things. That included people in your past that you’d still spent relatively happy years with. 

For a second you could feel it again: the heat of the flames, worsening the already dismal heat of a long-gone Los Angeles summer. The tang of gasoline and blood and ash returned to your mouth. 

“Look away, mia cara.”

The less said about your time in Los Angeles, the better. 

Put all that together and... there was no reason not to believe Matt. He was right, and you trusted him. It didn’t matter that Mr. Winter had been polite to you until now. You had no idea how long those polite mannerisms would last before you had another gun to your head. So if Matt said telling him ‘no’ was too dangerous, then… it was. 

“What do you think I should do, then?” you said tonelessly, sagging in absolute defeat. You knew what was coming before he said it, but it still hit like a gut punch anyway.

“Sign the contract.”

“Matt!” Foggy hissed. “Dude, there’s gotta be another way. If this guy is bad news, then this could get her killed!"

“So could saying no,” Matt shot back, just as furious. “At least this way they know to stay on their guard and follow the contract as outlined, just like they did with us. It’ll help protect her until we find another way out for her.” He turned to you. “I can’t make you sign, but…” He hesitated, and there was something… something grief-stricken on his face and you realized, suddenly, that he didn’t want this any more than you did. And yet you were trapped. 

“Jesus, Matt,” Foggy whispered, looking over at you. 

You wished you could see Matt’s eyes. 

You wished you weren’t alone on this side of the table.

And a part of you wished you’d never come to this city.

This was precisely the opposite of what you’d hoped to get involved in. You’d avoided working with anyone openly criminal for precisely this reason. It was what the contract was for. And here you were, bound in a net of your own making.

You’d have to trust the contract, and the men sitting across from you.

“Fine,” you said. “Where do I sign?”

-x-

Mr. Winter’s courier was pleased to take the signed contract of retainer off your hands, and that night upon arriving home, you found an unmarked envelope had been slipped under your front door. Inside the envelope was a short note, handwritten in elegant script on thick cardstock:

We’re pleased to have you. We’ll be in touch.

Your plan to go about your days as usual wasn’t working because with everything that had happened, the urge to run had begun to rise again far stronger than before. You’d felt that desire in the past, and now that same tide was surging up and you were choking on it as surely as you would the sea.

It was like an itch on the back of your neck, one you couldn’t scratch no matter how hard or deep you dug your nails in. In the past you’d tried jogging, going at punching bags, and cleaning your living spaces from top to bottom. The twitch had never left you until you finally gave in and skipped town. Still, you tried again just in case. You jogged. You hit the gym. Your apartment was practically sparkling. And things were much the same. There was no relief to be found. At night you tossed and turned, restless and unfocused. 

The go-bag hiding under your floorboards called to you. Inside was a temporary new identity—fake papers, cash, hair dye, a few keys to cars hidden in various storage lots scattered across major cities, and a burner phone. You’d done this dance before, and you knew what you needed when you packed up. It was designed to keep you until you got a hold of your contacts who’d provide you with a more solid identity. It would let you run. 

So why hadn’t you just… gone already? You should have. Things had gotten too hot here. Too much attention, too much pressure, and too much connection—to Matt especially.

You shied away from that thought even now that you were considering an escape. Denial was protection. And maybe that was why you stayed, you’d have realized if you'd allowed yourself the chance to consider it. To leave would be to admit to yourself that you’d gotten too close, and now you cared. 

“Can I come in?”

You waved Matt in with a frustrated gesture, and he slid, black-clad, inside your open window. You’d already been pacing for at least an hour, which he’d no doubt heard, so you didn’t bother to stop. The itch was particularly strong tonight and you were trying to wear it out so you could sleep. Maybe you’d go for another jog? 

Matt regarded you as you paced restlessly and contemplated the floorboards under your bare feet. He didn’t speak for some time, and you half expected him to leave in your distraction. Which would have been fine. You were edgy at the moment, you’d freely acknowledge, and thus not ideal company. Besides, if he wasn’t going to speak, neither were you. Not this time. 

“I’m sorry,” he said at last.

Your pattern of steps faltered briefly, thrown by the apology. Then you waved again, more dismissive this time as if flicking the apology away. This whole mess was on you, you’d already decided. “Not your fault I had to sign. It’s on me for agreeing to work with him in the first place. I didn’t vet him, which in the past was fine but now it’s come back to bite me in the ass.” 

“I meant about… being angry with you. I shouldn’t have been.” 

That stopped you on your heel as surely as if you’d hit a brick wall, and you turned to blink at him in confusion. “But I, I was—”

“You were scared,” he finished, his lips pulled tight and solemn. “And I was t… I read it wrong. I should have felt that, your fear. Tasted it. Heard it. Felt it here,” he tapped his chest, trying to relay his meaning, “and I did. But I didn’t get it right this time, what it meant. I’m also a lawyer. I know when people are afraid to talk, and I should have understood why. So… I’m sorry.”

And that, that was… not what you’d been expecting at all tonight. You rubbed at your temple. Why did he have to be so… so… 

You turned away from him, feeling exposed. You’d done your best to move past it, but his anger had stung. For some reason the apology hurt too, throbbing with the dull ache of a fading bruise. “You don’t need to apologize.”

“I do.”

This was a fight you weren’t going to win. They were only two words but he’d delivered them confidently, and with no room to push back. He was going to keep pressing the matter until you gave in, so you did. “Then I thank you for the apology. I accept. And I’m sorry too. I’m working with bad people, you were right. And I wanted to tell you when you asked, but I just…”

“You were scared,” he repeated, coming to stand in front of you. Nothing but black, head to toe, all dark warmth with only the exposed skin around his mouth leaving him human. “I wish I could say you didn’t have to be.”

The itch to run had changed, and now you just… wished you could lean into him.  

“Do you know the name ‘Wilson Fisk’?” he asked you. It seemed out of left field, a question pulled from the ether and you frowned. 

“No. Should I?”

He shook his head and moved to sit in the chair across from the couch you stood in front of. Distance yawned between you again, but maybe that was a good thing. You needed distance, and clarity. Matt and his warmth were too enthralling, too tempting. It distracted you, muddled your thoughts. You tossed yourself down onto the cold couch instead, sinking into it with a sigh.

“It’s a name I keep hearing,” Matt said. “Might be related to your client. Or maybe just the Russian Mob. I don’t know, but people are terrified of him. Far more than they are of me. Have you heard of someone named Vladimir, maybe?”

“So you’re why the mobsters are all running scared and in a panic,” you accused in good humour.

His rumbled, satisfied, “Mmm,” was distracting. The smirk he shot you—warm and deliciously sinful, one corner of his mouth turned up—was equally so. Fuck, this man was dangerous in more than one sense of the word. “You could say that.”  

“I do say that, you ridiculous man,” you replied with a roll of your eyes. If he were closer, you’d kick him for his audacity. “And now I’m distracted by the thought of you scaring the shit out of bad people. Help me out here.” 

He laughed, stretching his own long legs out and crossing one ankle over the other, relaxing as he leaned back. God, you’d missed him. Missed this. “Fine. Yes, I’m scaring them. Trying to rattle them and find someone who can tell me about whoever Fisk is. Although someone else has done some of the work for me. They’re under the impression I removed someone’s head.”

The way he said it so casually was strange, considering how ridiculous the thought was. You huffed in disbelief and then jokingly paused to consider. “I don’t suppose you decapitated someone by accident?” At his flat expression—conveyed with only his mouth and a head tilt—you held up your hands. “Right, right, no killing. I remember.”

“You think I would do that?” He wasn’t letting it go for some reason, regardless of the fact you’d ceded. His body had tightened up, like he was preparing for a physical blow. You’d touched a nerve. And, there I go again. Foot in mouth. “Is that where you think I’m going to end up?”

“Matt, I’m sor—”

“Because that’s a risk, isn’t it? Something you should be afraid of. The Man in Black, and what he’s capable of. Why aren’t you?”

“Why aren’t I what?” There was a landmine here. There was a landmine here somewhere and you were still in the dark, stumbling around unaware of just where it was. You were lucky you hadn’t tripped over it, or maybe you had, and now you were left wondering if you could safely pick your foot up without being able to see.

This was about more than just a bad joke, more than about you, and you had a feeling you were about to get to the heart of his recent erratic behavior. He refused to turn your way, head rolled back in a forced show of relaxation as if he didn’t care, but he did. He was vulnerable, armor cracked so badly you could fit your whole hand through to touch the fragile flesh underneath. 

You needed to be careful. You needed to get this right.

Voice bitter, he continued. “Why aren’t you afraid of me? Of what I might do? I didn't scare you the last time I was here when I cornered you; your heart rate was too calm. You should have been happy someone like me was staying away, but you weren’t.”

There were a lot of questions there you could have answered, including the one disguised as a statement, and you pondered over them before you chose the first. It seemed the easiest place to start. “Matt, if I wasn’t afraid of you before, why would I start now?” 

He curled a lip, still not turning towards you. “You were afraid of me when we first met. Of what I might do to you."

“Because I didn’t know you then,” you reminded him, recalling that night on the rooftop. “And then you started joking with me about grand duck larceny, and you saved me from being shot despite not knowing me, and you talked a guy off the ledge. After that I knew you weren’t… someone I needed to be afraid of. You’re a good person, Matt. Nothing you’ve done has changed that opinion.”

“Good people don’t like hurting people. I beat a man, tortured him, pushed him off a roof into a dumpster. And I enjoyed every second of it.” He tipped his head towards you, curling his lips in a humourless grin.  If it was supposed to make you feel threatened, it failed. All it did instead was make you ache for him. “You’re telling me you’re not afraid of someone who could do that?”

“I’m not. You know I’m not.”

“Maybe you should be.” The words were dragged from him, rough and broken. He slumped as he lifted a hand to rub across his face. “How could anyone let themselves lo—... be around someone like that? Someone who hurts people so easily? Someone who’s so close to being like-like the people he’s...”

There it is, you thought sadly. There’s the real wound. Oh, Matt. You weren’t sure where it had come from or how long it had been there, but it had cut deep. And he was finally baring it to you, offering you something so fragile and delicate that you knew you could crush it in your hands without any real effort at all. 

You didn’t bother denying or softening what Matt did at night. You’d known from the start how he operated—you’d met him as the Man in the Mask first after all. It had never bothered you, and it didn’t bother you now. Those men had deserved it, but that wasn’t the right path to take here. 

You chewed on your lip, and then an idea came to you.

“Would you torture me?”

His whole body shuddered at the question, and his answer was immediate and emphatic, filled with more emotion than you were able to read.

“Never.” 

“Karen? Would you leave her in a dumpster?"

"No, but that's not—"

"The little kid that lives down the hall from you? Would you break his nose?”

“Stop.”

“That old lady Foggy told me about who came to you guys? Would you smash her face in? Enjoy it? Or maybe—”

“Stop!” One of his hands slammed down on the arm of the chair and he reared up, teeth bared and ready to fight. You’d hit that button again, just as you’d intended.

The sudden silence was broken only by his panting and the calm, steady beat of your heart. His chest heaved, fingers tightening and releasing on the arms of the chair. You waited until he’d come down from the ledge you’d just pushed him up to, and then you gestured to him. “I don’t think I’d ever be afraid of someone who reacts like that to the thought of hurting innocent people. You’re not as close to that line as you think, Matt.”

“I can still… I can still hurt you,” he breathed, but it was unsure and faltering where he’d been confident before. “It-it doesn’t have to be me making you bleed. I hurt you earlier.”

“You could, and you did, but so could any other friend,” you said thoughtfully. Matt had made himself vulnerable in his honesty to you, so you needed to return it in kind. “Just like Foggy could hurt you. Or Karen could hurt him. And like I could hurt you. I may not have punched you earlier, but I still managed to hurt you with that… that joke I think.”

“That’s different.”

“Is it?” You chewed on your thumbnail as you thought it over. “I know how you feel about killing people. Did it hurt when I said it?” His hesitation was all the answer you needed. And god, the idea that you’d done that was a physical ache, but it made your point. “So I hurt you. I did that. I fucked up.” 

He shook his head, but his tone had at last become pensive instead of closed off and dripping with self-loathing. “You didn’t mean it.”

“Doesn’t matter.” Now it was your turn to struggle, your turn to attempt to verbalize your thoughts. “We all fuck up sometimes. And we... that’s part of being friends and caring about other people. You figure out how to say sorry and make up for it. You telling me Karen and Foggy never had to apologize to each other cause they said something stupid?”

The snort that escaped him had you grinning, at the victory. “And yet they’re still friends. You’re not… you’re not perfect Matt. No one is. But you make up for it when you aren’t. With you, the pros far, far outweigh the cons. I trust you. I trust your judgement. You're my friend and I c—I really am sorry.”

The amendment came at just the last second, and you caught the words ‘I care about you' before they could escape. Your heart thumped once, hard, slamming against your rib cage at the almost-slip. A small slip, of course. Not because you did care but because...

Your mind raced for a better answer, reaching for protection, and for now, at least, found it.

He heard your heart, he must have since it had skipped inside your chest enough to rattle in your throat, but to your endless relief, he read it instead as fear over how he’d take your apology.

“I keep ruining this,” he sighed. “I feel like I keep—"

It was fine. You’d almost slipped, not because you did care but rather because you’d been about to lie to Matt. He’d have sensed it, heard the lie, and hearing you lie about caring for him would have done far more damage than not saying you cared. But you’d spared him from that. He was ok, as were you. You were safe. 

You sagged into your couch with relief. There was a quiet voice in the back of your mind, one filled with objections to your rationale, and you’d have to deal with it later. But for now? You could ignore it. You’d had years of practice.

If I don’t look, it’s not there.

You waved a hand, but the calming of your body did a lot of the speaking for you. “You didn't ruin anything. This was me, not you. Apologies and talking about this is hard for me, but it needed to be said. That joke was… that joke was wrong of me to make. I don't want to hurt you. I really am sorry.” 

His breath hitched just a little. And then, he… reached up, and slowly tugged his mask off. His warm brown eyes, when they turned sightlessly towards you, were soft and fond, perhaps the softest you’d ever seen them. His voice when he spoke was just as tender. “...Thank you. For… for all of that.” 

The clock ticked, and you both sat, but at least this time it was a comfortable silence. Eventually Matt, who’d closed his eyes, gave a little groan and readjusted into a sprawl. You wondered if he’d fall asleep in your chair if you left him alone long enough and the two of you could manage to quit riling each other up. Eventually, just when you were considering dozing off yourself, he returned to his original topic. “I’m going to use the… the murdered Russian, Anatoly, for my benefit. Keep going until I get to the top. This has to stop.”

Well, that sounded ominous. You gave him a careful side-eye but you most certainly weren’t going to push him right now, so you let it slide. “What was the name again? Vladimir?” you asked. You frowned at the ceiling, trying to dig through your memories, hunting for anything relevant. “Sounds familiar.” You drummed your fingers on the couch. “I could ask aro—”

“No.” It was a forceful interruption, guttural and sharp as he grit his teeth. “You can’t talk to anyone about this. Not about Fisk, or the Russian Mob. They’ve killed people for even saying his name. You need to stay quiet.”

“I’m not an idiot, Matt.” You tipped yourself over onto the couch with a grunt, dragging yourself along until you could stretch out comfortably on your side, facing him. “I won’t ask about the F-word, though. I can’t promise I won’t ask about the Russian Mob because everyone is talking about them and it would be weird if I didn’t want to know enough to at least avoid stepping on any toes. If it makes you feel any better, I’ll do my best to seem uninterested.” 

“I’d feel better if you agreed not to ask about any of it,” Matt said sharply, brow furrowing. “Promise to call me if you’re going on a case like… like that one again so I can come keep an eye on you.” 

“I can’t just call you for every one of those cases that might go sideways, Matt.”

“You can. You have to. We’re talking about someone powerful. Someone with cops on his payroll, and people who kill themselves rather than tell me anything about him.” He grimaced, rubbing at his eyes. It made sense, though, and explained why he'd rejected the idea of going to the cops earlier in the week. “I don’t know who yet but I’m going to find out, and until then you need to stay under the radar and let me help you. Don’t attract any extra attention.”

You snorted. “Hard to do when they’ve got me on retainer as a psychic.”

“Your contract should help,” he said, mouth twisting into a stubborn line. “And I’ll protect you when it doesn’t.”

And that, that hit you in a way that hurt. You swallowed around the sudden jagged shards of glass in your throat. God, you wished that were true. His lie had been unintentional but it was still a lie. “Matt—”

“I mean it. This, all this your client’s involved in, I’m going to stop it. I won’t let them hurt you.” 

You’d thought it was better now that you could see his face but no, it was so much worse, because now? Now you could see the earnestness with which he spoke, the determination. Stubborn man. 

“You can’t protect me from everything, Matt.” 

“How do you know unless you let me try?” He leaned forward further, like he wanted to reach for you across the space between you. His gaze settled somewhere around your mouth. “I know we… things went a little fast. But let’s just take it slow. You talk to me and I help you. Let me help you. Please.”

It was true that the two of you had dived headfirst into this strange friendship, caution thrown to the wind. You’d succumbed to the draw of someone who might finally understand you, your abilities, your loneliness. Maybe he had been sucked under by the same current, dragged along like you until the two of you had finally, inevitably, tumbled and crashed against the rocks. It had hurt, this fight, and even now the bruises of it lingered. 

And that was worrying, in and of itself. It shouldn’t have hurt you as badly as it did. You shouldn’t have fixed it, should have let it go. Instead you’d made things so, so much worse.

“Ok,” you said. “We can… yeah. Ok.”

As he flashed a vulnerable smile, eyes lighting up, you felt something solidify inside your chest, a decision made. You were going to find a way to untangle yourself from this friendship without hurting him. You had to, because you were going to run soon. 

And unless you found a way to protect him, it would destroy Matt when you did.

Chapter Text

Smoke. Smoke, ash, and heat.

The taste of it smeared bitterly across your tongue, the charred scent filling your nose until you couldn’t breathe. For one terrible moment, you thought you were back in Los Angeles, sixteen years old and bloodstained. Fire did that to you occasionally: sucked you back in time as surely as if a portal had opened beneath your feet and swallowed you up. Your fingers scraped across the cement sidewalk beneath you as you struggled to orient yourself.

This wasn’t Los Angeles. This was New York.

You considered instead the possibility this was a repeat of the Incident, when a god from ancient lore had appeared in the sky. Behind him had roared an alien army thirsting for a battle that would have crushed the city were it not for the Avengers. The feeling of deja vu, of momentary panic, was a primal rush. That feeling existed outside your control. It was an instinctive reaction that you could neither fight nor escape. All you could do was breathe through it in heavy gasps, dragging your head along the rough pavement and blinking as the blurriness gradually faded from your vision.

This wasn’t aliens or warring gods.

As your head cleared, your rattled brain attempted to assemble the series of events that had led to you finding yourself face-down on the pavement. You’d been coming back from… from the store, that was right. You’d taken the longer route because a pleasant breeze had blown in and it hadn’t been as hot. And then… then you’d been tossed up against the side of a building by a sudden blast of force and heat that left you stunned senseless on the sidewalk. 

The distorted warble of sirens howled in the distance as you staggered to your feet, your ears ringing. Across the street from you, the building that had been the source of the explosion still burned. People were screaming—and only a few of those screams were coming from inside the smouldering building. You touched a shaky hand to your temple, and your fingers came away sticky and red. Fuck, Matt’s gonna be pissed I hit my head again. That cut must have been where you’d hit the building. More blood dripped from your ear on the opposite side, sound from that direction coming sluggish and thick like you were underwater. Other than that, you were... you were ok, you thought.

Are… are the cops coming? The fire department?

No, they wouldn’t be coming. Not any time soon at least. There’d been more explosions in the distance, the light from additional fires burning bright and high in the dark night like beacons. More buildings had been hit. That meant emergency services would be swamped. There was no telling when they’d make it to your area.

You needed to help. 

As you dragged yourself across the street towards the smoking building, you had only one thought: 

I should have listened to Mr. Winter and stayed in bed. 

-x- 

36 Hours Earlier:

“And I’m telling you that based on the clause in paragraph thirteen, page eight of the contract that your client willingly signed with Ms. Hind, the scenario you’re describing doesn't satisfy the conditions needed for her to turn over any personal information. It’s still privileged.” Foggy—and Matt as well—had been repeating the idea, in various forms, for roughly the past hour. You all knew this was nothing but an attempt to spook you, or possibly an effort to get revenge by obtaining personal information that could be spread around. Fortunately for you, your sharks had easily held the line, though their stonewalling had begun to grate on the two people currently sitting across the table from you and your legal team. 

Which was fine with you considering you hated your ex-client almost as much as he hated you. 

“And I’m saying,” the opposing lawyer countered, tapping the files in front of her, “that based on the later clause on page twenty-seven, paragraph two, my client being called into court for harassment thanks to your client’s actions clearly qualifies as—”

God, your eyes wanted to glaze over.

Matt’s knee nudged yours under the table, jostling you. He didn’t turn away from the people across the table, by all appearances still completely focused on them, but you could sense the little smirk on his face. Your boredom amused him. Could he blame you though? At first, you’d been fascinated watching Foggy and Matt parry the arguments thrown at them, but that interest had waned about forty minutes ago when it became clear that most of this was for show. Your ex-client didn’t have a leg to stand on, Matt had confidently told you, so it wasn’t like any of this bluster was an actual threat. The real purpose of the meeting was putting up the appearance of resistance before finally hammering out a deal that would force your ex-client to leave you the fuck alone after months of annoying legal filings. 

“She wasn’t supposed to be seen, just find my ex, get me the photos, and come back!” snarled your former client, one Jeremiah something-or-other. Smith? Salisbury? Something like that. He looked a lot more put together than the last time you’d seen him when he’d been ranting and raving in a pair of boxers and a robe, screaming at you as your taxi pulled away from the curb. Now he was in a fancy black suit and a red power tie, screaming in your face in an attempt to intimidate you.

You snorted internally. No chance of that. You’d been threatened by far richer people. 

Originally, you’d been hired to find his soon-to-be ex and take a few pictures to prove she was in the city. You were unclear why he’d wanted the photos; you’d been uninterested in the specifics and he’d been disinclined to give them. But then, oh then, he’d decided to be an absolute ass to you as well as imply his intention to short-change you on your fee. He’d also, coincidentally, forgotten to check the box labeled ‘no contact ’ on your contract. Therefore you’d decided the easiest method to fulfill your end of the bargain would be to photograph your target posing in front of an NYC street sign. She’d done so happily, middle finger and all, once you’d explained the situation. 

Foggy had thought it was hilarious.

“The contract specifically addressed contact with Mrs. Sully on page fifteen and included a subsection in which you had the option to specify whether our client avoided contact. You signed that section without designating no contact,” Matt said, cool and collected. Well, you'd been close on the man's name at least. “It sounds to me like you should have read the contract a little more carefully."

“For fuck’s sake, I’m sick of this,” spat Jeremiah ‘Dickhead’ Sully with a furious scowl. The ugly expression matched his winning personality, which was equally ugly if you said so yourself. As was that stupid red tie that made his head look too big, like a life-size bobblehead. “This is going nowhere. Just make her give me my money back!" 

“Mr. Sully, please—” the opposing lawyer sighed in exasperation.

“Mmm, I’m afraid you’re out of luck there too.” Matt flashed a wicked smile that was equal parts predatory and falsely polite. Seeing him turn that look on an enemy of yours was immensely satisfying and you resisted the urge to stick your tongue out at Jeremiah. “We both know our client refusing to provide the information requested isn’t grounds for a refund. Neither is her contact with Mrs. Sully.”

Matt was headed towards the final play. The three of you had discussed this part ahead of time. Technically you could go to court over the whole affair and most likely win, but it would’ve cost more to do so than you were interested in paying. The easiest way out, based on their discussions with Jeremiah’s lawyer, would most likely end up being a settlement. If you refunded him a portion of the fee he’d paid, he’d leave you alone. Fortunately, you had the money, and while at first you’d been reluctant to give so much as a shit-covered penny to the prick across from you, he’d dragged this entire affair out long enough that you just wanted it done with. 

“However!" Foggy took his turn, stabbing a finger in the air. "Our client is feeling incredibly generous and would be willing to return thirty percent of the total fee. Thirty percent, of course, being the amount your client failed to pay despite ours completing her job as contracted. It’s the best offer you’re gonna get. Unless you’d rather talk about us taking your client to court for failure to pay as your client was contractually obligated to do...”

It was another bluff, but Foggy had insisted it would work, as long as they managed to irritate your ex-client enough.

“Fine!” your ex-client snarled, and you mentally added a tally mark to Foggy’s win board. Well, I’ll be damned. “Fine, just… fine. Fuck the lot of you. Give me the thirty percent and we can leave.”

You’d come prepared. You retrieved your barely-used company checkbook out of your jacket where it hung on the back of your chair, hastily scribbled out the fee—which really wasn’t as big a loss as it could have been, courtesy of Matt and Foggy—and flicked it dismissively across the table. 

“The firm of Nelson and Murdock thanks you—” Foggy started, but he didn’t even make it through the entire sentence before Jeremiah ‘Assbutt’ Sully had snatched up the check and stormed out in a huff, slamming the creaky door behind him so hard the inlaid glass rattled in its frame. Which granted wasn’t saying much since the glass had been poorly installed and always rattled if you so much as sneezed near it, but still.

His lawyer watched him go then turned back to blink amicably across the table. “God, I hate that guy. Such a prick,” she said casually, straightening her shirt cuffs and gathering up her documents. “You guys still on for drinks on Thursday?”

“You know it.” Foggy reached across to warmly shake the lawyer’s hand. “I’d never miss it. Give Tammy our regards. Good luck on that insurance case next week, too, by the way. You’re gonna kill it.”

The opposing lawyer saluted calmly and stood to follow her furious client out, leaving the three of you behind to collect your own belongings. 

You slumped in your folding chair and rolled your head back to stare at the grungy ceiling tiles and flickering lights. “I don’t know how you guys deal with this all the time. I would die. I would literally die. That is not a metaphor.”

Matt huffed a laugh next to you. “I can’t say dealing with people like Mr. Sully is my favorite part of the job.”

“Ha!” Foggy barked, pointing an accusatory finger at Matt. “You’re lucky your flaming pants aren’t setting off the smoke detectors—we need to replace those, by the way—because I know for a fact you enjoyed chewing that guy up. Don’t let him fool you, Jane. Matt’s as bloodthirsty as they come. A total barbarian!”

Matt shook his head solemnly, though he could barely keep a grin off his face. "Sounds like slander to me. I should take you to court for it.”

“See? He’s just itching for another fight already!” Foggy plucked his jacket off the back of his own chair and tapped your shoulder as he rose. “We were gonna head to Josie’s. You in? First drink’s on us, or rather you since you paid us this morning.”

You gnawed on your lip, considering it. The offer of a friendly night out was tempting, and you could certainly use a drink after the ridiculous case you’d been on last night. Then again, you were flirting with true exhaustion and you weren’t sure how much energy you had in you. “I don’t know. It was kind of a grind at work last night and I’m considering just crashing early.”

“Do I detect an adventure courtesy of the psychic biz?” Foggy leaned over you eagerly, narrowing his eyes in a theatrical show of focus. “So what was it? Reuniting a long lost family?”

“That would have been interesting, but no.”

He rattled off more questions at you, ticking off options on his fingers as he went through what was clearly a mental list he’d previously composed. 

“Seance with the other side?”

“No.”

“Tracking down the FBI’s most wanted?”

“Nope.”

“Helping the Avengers find their stolen super suits?”

“I regret to inform you that the vision you have of my life is vastly more exciting than the reality.”

“Well, you can’t keep us hanging now," Matt hummed. He tipped his head towards you, and lowered his voice to a stage whisper, a little smirk playing at the corner of his mouth. “And he’ll keep asking, so as your lawyer, I suggest you save yourself and give in. He's relentless." 

“He's right. I let nothing go, especially when it involves shenanigans. So spill!” Foggy put his hands on his hips and tried to scowl down at you, but he couldn’t keep the sheer delight off his face. He was no doubt concocting even more elaborate adventures that could have kept you up late. Unfortunately, the reality was far less glamorous than helping Avengers or communing with the dead.

"I may have have been hired to..." You let out a groan, before heaving out the final three words with great reluctance. “...chase a parrot.”

There was a pause. 

Foggy made a choked noise. “A… a parrot?”

“Yes. His name was Theodore. He’s big, white, an expert climber, well loved, and bites like a motherfucker.” You helpfully held up your forearm in demonstration, showing off the gauze bandage that covered the wound you'd been given courtesy of one enraged cockatoo. The hook-beaked bastard hadn’t just nipped you, either. You’d been left with two bleeding punctures punched into your flesh by what amounted to a toddler with a set of bolt cutters attached to his face. “He also told me, in increasingly filthy language, what he thought of my mother every time I got close to him.”

For a moment you thought you might get some sympathy. You deserved it after the shit you’d gone through to catch that stupid fucking parrot.

Then Foggy cracked and a giggle tumbled out of him. “Wait no, ok, I’ve got it, sorry.” He swallowed, attempting to compose himself. Then he saw your glum expression and lost it again, and this time he howled with laughter, bending over to wheeze. Even Matt, the traitorous bastard, had covered his mouth, coughing to hide what sure as hell sounded like laughter of his own.

Et Tu, Matthew?  

“Oh my god, I’m sorry, but I can just imagine you with this parrot!" Foggy gasped, holding on to the table as if he needed it to stand. “You, so pissed, and this parrot just-just, swearing and flipping you the feather!”

“It’s not funny,” you grumbled, trying to seem angry. You’d already laughed off most of the incident, but it was the principle of the thing. “I chased that stupid bird all over the city and I still got bit. And he shit on me. Twice.”

The mention of bird shit only made Foggy laugh harder. Matt, his own laughter now firmly reined in, settled a sympathetic hand on your shoulder and squeezed, his grin wide enough that you couldn't help but mirror it. “Allow us to make it better with a few drinks. Really. It's the least we can do for you.”

“Yes,” Foggy said, feigning seriousness. “You could say it will help relieve your… bird-en.”

Matt rolled his head back with a loud groan while you crumpled a piece of paper to chuck at Foggy’s retreating back. Foggy quickly cackled his way out of the room, shouting down the hall, “Karen! Karen, come here, I’ve got a pun for you!”

Matt rose as you did, dipping his head with another huff of laughter. He was still smiling, little crinkles at the corner of his eyes, visible even with his glasses still on. “May I?”

“Knock yourself out, Murdock,” you said with a long-suffering sigh, offering him up your arm.

He gently reached out, taking your forearm in one large hand before beginning to run the fingers of his other hand along the thin skin just beyond the bandaging. The warm drag of his callused fingertips against your bare skin sent a shiver of goosebumps racing down your spine as his fingers drifted around the bite, before they slid slowly up towards your elbow. There he paused along one of the veins, his head cocked, the thumb of his other hand absently rubbing soothing circles against your skin where he held your arm. There wasn't much else you could do, so you simply shifted on your feet, waiting for him to conclude his examination and maybe, kinda sorta enjoying the soft touch while you were at it. It was rare for you to get this kind of physical contact, and part of you was already floating on it, even if you knew this was just about examining your injury. 

“Not a through-and-through at least. I’m glad the doctor gave you antibiotics though,” he said with a hum, using his fingers to frame the bandaging. You didn’t question what part of your body gave away that you’d been taking antibiotics or that you’d made a stop at a late-night clinic. “The skin’s a little too warm, but the infection is minor. It may scar, but not badly.”

“One more reason for me not to take bird cases anymore,” you muttered as he ran a thumb over the delicate skin of your wrist.  “They’re practically impossible to track. What a goddamn nightmare.” 

“Call for help next time. I could at least keep you company, even if my prior experiences haven’t prepared me for foul-mouthed parrots. Couldn’t be any worse than the Russian Mob though.” He released your arm, dropping his hands to run quick fingers across the braille documents in front of him. As he sorted the pages, ensuring everything was in order, you gathered up your own papers and laptop. “Really, though,” he added. “You’re invited out with us. We mean it. Even if it’s not tonight, it’s a standing offer.”

You recognized the olive branch for what it was. The both of you were still cautious with one another, moving in a coordinated dance as you settled by degrees back into friendship. Before, Matt’s offer would have been something to reject out of hand, but you’d reached a passive state of acceptance when it came to your friendship. Why worry? You were going to leave soon. The relief that thought provided, the comfort and solidity of the decision, had soothed you and your restlessness. If you were leaving soon, then there was no danger to be found here because there was no way things could change so drastically between now and then. All you were doing was taking the time to get your ducks in a row. It wasn’t often you got to plan your escape weeks in advance. It was far more often a sudden, panicked flight brought on by the shadow of a predator lurking in the dark. This, though, was better. Calming. 

You could be friends with Matt until then, or until you found a way to safely untangle the two of you from whatever this was. 

You’d given yourself a month at most. One month to wrap things up, and then you would be gone. You’d pick up the bag under your floorboards, and gather up any identifying materials in your apartment. Those mementos of Jane Hind’s life would either be dropped in the river or burned depending on flammability. Then you'd send off a few nasty emails and messages to certain parties, except for Matt if you could avoid it, in order to ensure you were properly hated. After that, it was hello Boston—or maybe Seattle? You hadn’t hit the West Coast in a while, and though the Pacific Northwest was rainy, it also had a temperate rainforest some hours drive outside Seattle. That kind of lush greenery, miles upon miles of towering Sitka spruce and red cedar trees, was a biome you hadn’t yet had the pleasure of experiencing. 

Why not enjoy this time here in New York while it lasted? 

“I suppose I could come along,” you told Matt, matching his tentative smile. “Might be nice to get out for something other than work. Speaking of which. How are you, uh, you know.” You made a vague gesture outwards towards the city, referencing his other activities. 

His mouth pulled tight and he pulled his glasses off to rub tiredly at his eyes. Without the opaque shield of tinted glass, the dark circles under his eyes were in full view. You kept a lot of late nights yourself, but his were even more exhausting than yours. You rarely had to punch anyone. “I got some info from a… police officer who’s connected,” he said, voice pitched low so it wouldn’t carry through the thin office walls. “One of the two from that station shooting. I managed to get his burner phone, too, but it didn’t have much. I’ve got names, and pieces of what’s happening, but not enough to connect it all. The Russian Mob is definitely involved with your client. They’ve been spotted together.”

And here you’d been trying not to get involved with the Russian Mob.

Good job on that one, girl.

“I asked around too,” you said softly. “I didn’t use names, but—”

He reached out and grabbed your upper arm, his hand tightening almost painfully as he stepped in close and ducked his head. He was so close you could see the flecks of grey and hazel hidden in the brown of his eyes, his scent floating around you. The cinnamon undernotes were stronger here in his office, less blood and salt. It had struck you as significant at first: the way his scent shifted between Matt and D, but the more time you spent around him, the more you were beginning to think differences like those weren’t actually all that huge. Matt was D. D was Matt. The only difference was his choice of color palette.

His voice dropped to a rough whisper, frustration leaking in around the edges. “A man was killed just for mentioning a name. You can’t be involved in this, in what I’m doing—”

“I’m not, or not outwardly at least,” you whispered back, glancing at the door before turning back to him. “I told you I wouldn’t use names or talk about anything other than what the Russians are up to. Everyone is talking about the Russians, Matt; it’s not like it’s a secret they’re on edge. People get chatty. I was careful.”

You waited as he frowned, standing a hair's breadth away. He’d sense your truth, and what had he expected? You always kept up with what was going on underground. Rumours concerning secretive arrivals in town had saved your life more than once in the past. You weren’t going to stop keeping your ear to the ground now, especially not when the knowledge you gathered might benefit both of you. Eventually, Matt couldn't resist the bait you'd tempted him with and murmured, “And did you hear anything?”

“Rumour is Vladimir had a brother delivered back to him headless. He thinks it’s you that did it; there was some clue on the body that pointed to your alter ego, although I haven’t heard what.” You reached up to grip his hand where it still held your arm and squeezed. You knew how he felt about killing, and you weren’t going to hurt him again by treating the issue lightly. “The Russians at the bottom of the pack are talking conspiracy, that you’re someone’s weapon. Maybe you-know-who’s, although I couldn’t ask that obviously. And right now I’m not sure they’re wrong. You’re being used, Matt.”

He nodded, blowing out a heavy breath. “That matches what I’ve been hearing. The detective I… interrogated… he acted like there was something a lot bigger going on than just the Russian Mob's distribution system. Fisk is pulling their strings, and he’s using me as a distraction. I need to find Vladimir, see what I can get out of him.” 

“Hey! Lovebirds!” Foggy called, leaning around the doorframe. Your head snapped up and you quickly stepped away from Matt while he dropped your arm. “You guys gonna keep staring longingly in each other's general direction or are we all gonna go to Josie’s?”

You rolled your eyes as you grabbed your laptop bag and hooked it over your shoulder. “How do you know we were staring longingly and not plotting against you?”

“As if!” he scoffed, though he shot a suspicious glare Matt’s way. 

“You did try to trade my virtue to her for the state of Wisconsin, Foggy,” Matt deadpanned, keeping a straight face. “Maybe I convinced her to ally herself with me instead. Then she’ll have my virtue, and all fifty states."

“Traitor!" Foggy gasped at you as you shrugged and Matt broke character to grin. “What did he promise you? I can’t believe this. Two of my friends just turned on me like animals! Now I really need a drink.”

-x- 

“You did not—” Karen gasped at you, eyes wide.

You shook your head as you chalked the tip of your pool cue. Josie’s was busy tonight, as usual. The noise wasn’t what you’d been planning on tonight, but you found yourself happy to be there all the same. “All true, one-hundred percent. They were his lucky briefs and he didn’t think he could win an election without them.”

“You’re so lying.”

“I don’t know,” Foggy challenged her as he lined up his shot, humming to himself. “I’ve heard weirder. Definitely not out of the realm of possibility at this point.”

“Weirder than lucky briefs that win you votes?” Matt laughed as he handed you another beer. You accepted and took a sip as Foggy smoothly slid his pool cue forward. You had to hide your grin behind your bottle at the string of swears he let loose when he misjudged the force needed and the cue ball stopped just shy of nudging the next into the corner pocket. 

“You don’t read the right newspapers, my dear Matthew.” Foggy stepped back, narrowing his eyes at the table as if imagining setting the whole thing alight for its failure to ensure his victory. “Someone saw Thor in Houston buying poptarts last week. Hand to God, it’s true!”

“He’s been reading this stuff since college. It never ends,” Matt sighed.

Karen raised her eyebrows at Foggy. “What, like, Bigfoot-married-my-mother type stuff?”

“Go ahead, laugh it up,” he pointed at Karen and then Matt, “but this stuff kept me alive during finals, even Mrs. Bigfoot! Although I will admit: at least Thor buying poptarts is more believable than Bigfoot marriages, or that homeless guy in L.A. claiming someone stole his body. Why wouldn’t Thor like poptarts?”

“Why would he get poptarts if he’s a god and can eat god-food or whatever it is they eat in Asgard?” you mused absently, circling the table and calculating your own move.

“Have you actually had a poptart, Jane? I’m fairly certain crack is one of the main ingredients. It would explain a lot. Those things are way too delicious for something that you could probably still eat out of the box fifty years from now after a nuclear war.”

You hmmph’ed, wrinkling your nose when your shot didn’t go much better than Foggy’s. That opened the window for him to take the lead again. You were lucky you hadn’t bet on yourself tonight. 

“Not good?” Matt asked you kindly, leaning his hip against the corner of the pool table. 

“Abysmal. I’ve got no luck tonight seems like. Maybe if someone didn’t keep talking about Bigfoot, I’d have had it.” You stuck your tongue out at Foggy who retaliated by miming your last shot blowing up in your face.

“Maybe you should have kept that senator’s lucky briefs,” Karen said slyly, flicking her fingers at you. “Might have helped your luck.”

“Oh! Oh, ouch, Jane!” Foggy chortled, doing much better on this move and once again in high spirits, strutting around the table. The man seemed to rebound from just about everything, damn him. “You should go over to the bar and ask for some ice.”

“You only won because I let you,” you grumbled as Foggy finished up the match, taking you out with little trouble. Your phone buzzed as Foggy enacted a celebratory dance and you snorted, lifting your phone to glance at the screen. 

Incoming Call From: Unknown Number

Hmm. It was an unfamiliar number, not one in your contacts, but the area code caught your attention. 213. Interesting. Most likely a spam caller, but it couldn’t hurt to check.

“I have to take this,” you said, waggling your phone and bowing out for now. “Might be a work call.”

“I suppose I, as the magnanimous victor, can allow it.” Foggy waved grandly, but then the playfulness fell away and he lowered his voice. “As long as everything’s ok and it’s not you-know-who calling you.”

Matt focused on you intently, taking in your body language as you nodded. He was probably focused on your heart and breathing, his senses digging deep inside the hollow of your chest to get a reading on your mood. But you really were ok at the moment. There was no need to get worked up before you knew who was calling. “I’m sure it’ll be fine. I’ll be back in a minute.”

You quickly made your way through the chattering, drunken crowd, darting out the doorway and into the warm, humid night. You took a second to breathe, the wet evening air settling around you like a familiar, tattered blanket before you turned and headed for the alley a few storefronts down. That was one of the few downsides of major-city living—there was rarely a time when the streets were anything less than ‘somewhat busy.' It could make having certain conversations on the street difficult. Too many listening ears. 

Gravel crunched under your feet as you turned down the empty, dead-end alley, stopping about halfway down. A quick scan of the brick buildings bordering the space showed no lights on or easily accessible windows someone might listen from. Satisfied that you were alone for the moment, you thumbed accept and lifted the phone to your ear. “Hello?”

“Mia cara, can’t speak long. There might be ears. So listen.”

Well, this was a surprise. You knew that voice: rich and thoughtful, each word chosen with all the care of a master statesman. It was a voice you hadn’t expected to be hearing from tonight, or any night really. For both your safety as well as his own, he rarely reached out. Even then it was usually an email, a short note in the mail, or—on one notable occasion—a birthday card. It had been years since you’d verbally spoken, and you hadn’t received any written word from him since fleeing your last apartment in Minneapolis. 

“Listening, sir,” you confirmed, straightening up. You’d both have to be short and succinct, and avoid names, just in case there really were other parties listening in. It wouldn’t be the first time someone had tried to tap his calls. You paced a few steps further down the alley when someone opened a door on the street, letting out the sound of a crowd. At the reminder of your need for caution, a thought occurred to you. Slivers of ice crawled down your spine despite the warm night and your whole body tightened. You’d given yourself a month but did you have that long? “Is it him? Is it—”

“Relax. Last I heard, he was still in San Antonio.”

You relaxed at that, closing your eyes and letting out a shaky breath. If the Man in the White Coat was still in San Antonio, that meant he was at least five cities behind you. San Antonio. Miami. Tulsa. Memphis. Minneapolis. God only knew how long it would take him to work through each of those cities, hunting you down and coming up with nothing, following the false trails you’d laid in your escapes. Some cities you’d stayed in for a short time, others for months. He’d be busy. It didn’t mean you could drop your guard, but it meant your methods had been working. You’d have to keep it up after you left New York. “That’s good. Why the call, then?”

“Had someone come asking about your history, claimed you were signing on. You’re trouble, cucciola, and you’re in trouble. I’d have called sooner but you’ve gotten good at hiding.” Leather creaked on his end, and you picked up the tinkle of ice in a glass. He was probably in his study, settled into his favorite chair with a drink in one hand.

It had to have been Mr. Winter who’d contacted him, or maybe Mr. Winter’s employer. They were the only ones who’d placed you on retainer at present.

Your false identity was incredibly good, in key part because you and your forger were thorough from top to bottom when creating your new life. You didn’t just get a new name and a fake driver’s license or birth certificate; didn’t just use cash whenever possible rather than cards that could be tracked, or keep yourself off most forms of social media. You’d learned your lesson early on with how quickly you’d been found. No, you lived your new identity, dissolved your own interests and slid the new skin up over yourself until your real shape was completely obscured. 

You ate what your identity would eat, drank what they would drink, bought movie tickets to what they would watch, wore the clothes they would wear, shopped where they would shop, and decorated your personal space the way they would decorate. With each new identity you ensured that, on paper, there was nothing that might give away who you actually were. Repeat that with multiple cities, with multiple identities and looks and lives, and it became an incredibly convoluted web to untangle. There were very few outside of Matt who’d seen the real you. 

If Mr. Winter and his employer had tracked you back as far as Los Angeles, then you were dealing with someone who was both very, very determined and someone who had access to considerable resources. You were back playing in the big leagues, now. The only small comfort you could find was the fact that, in the circles where awareness of you was more common knowledge, Los Angeles had been your most notorious locale. It was possible Mr. Winter and his employer had realized you matched the profile, without tracking their way back through multiple cities.

That still wasn’t much of a comfort. 

“How much trouble am I in, sir?”

“Let me put it this way. When he and his friends ask questions, I answer, as should you.” 

“You don’t answer to anyone, sir.” Your response was ingrained in you, the words delivered without thought or hesitation. It was a truth as solid as the knowledge that each morning the sun would rise. Where he lived, he ruled, and it was others who followed. That hadn’t changed from when you were sixteen. The idea that someone could order him around was absurd.

“Maybe when someone’s on my turf. But you aren’t on my turf. You’re on the King’s land and there, his word is law. I have no say."

You were quiet for a moment as you absorbed yet another reminder of just how poorly this could all go for you, should you or Matt make a misstep. He read your silence and his words became gentle. “I could call in some favors, and see if he would be open to an exchange. The king is not needlessly cruel, and I have things here that might help him expand his business if he’d let my hound come home.”

It was an offer he’d made years ago, a wrapped gift left there for you to take if you so wished. If you said yes to him, in a few hours there’d be a plane for you, fueled and ready to take you back to Los Angeles. You could return to comfort, be with people who—while certainly not... good people—at least cared about you. They could offer a certain amount of protection from those who would harm you. But that was just it, the cruel truth you couldn’t ignore: that level of protection wasn’t enough. That had been made clear to you when you’d been found there. There were days when you wished you could take him up on the offer, but you were forced to reject it for the same reasons you had years ago.

“We both know I can’t,” you said quietly, shaking your head sadly as if he could see you. “You know they’re still watching you in case I come back. Thank you though. I’ll just… have to rely on my own plan and use what you taught me. I’ll be ok; I always am.” 

“Mia cara,” he sighed. “Sono in pensiero per te. Watch yourself, and don’t go sticking that puppy nose of yours in places you are not welcome. Do as asked and no more. Understand?”

“I do.” 

“Take care.” 

You hung up, staring down at your phone for a beat before slipping it into your pocket and turning back up towards the alley opening. You were both surprised and not to find Matt standing silently, cane in hand, at the alley entrance. You shoved your hands in your jacket pockets, eyeing him warily. Matt hadn’t needed to be this close to hear your conversation. With his senses, he could listen in from blocks away. The fact that he’d not only followed you out, but was also letting you see him, was significant. It meant he wasn’t going to hide from you that he’d been listening. 

He was considering you just as closely as you were him. He seemed calm, almost cautious with his head low and his body at ease and non-combative. He was making himself as non-threatening as he could, which meant he wasn’t… judging like you’d been worried he might. At your attention he took a few steps closer, careful and slow as if moving in towards a wounded animal, giving you a chance to move away or reject what he’d done. When you did neither, instead remaining still and allowing his approach, he kept coming, cane tapping rhythmically along the gravel until he stopped a few steps away. Now you were both safe from any curious listeners on the street. “You seem… Unsettled.” He paused, licking his lips and choosing his words thoughtfully before continuing. “I thought you didn’t talk to people from your past?”

“I don’t, usually,” you admitted, shuffling a little closer. Matt would pick up on anyone entering the alley but this still felt like a conversation to be had from close up. “We’re not supposed to have contact, but, well. You heard.”

He nodded, not even bothering to deny the mild accusation though you’d delivered it without any real heat. You weren’t upset and he could tell, though he still offered an explanation. “I came out to check on you and make sure you were ok. I ended up hearing the second half. Was he talking about—”

“I think so.” You bit your lip and released it. “Matt, if he’s wary of the man at the top of this ladder you’re climbing, then just maybe consider slowing down a bit.”

He shook his head grimly. “I can’t stop. Not now.”

“I’m not asking you to stop, I’m just...” 

“Just what?” he asked softly when you trailed off. “Tell me.”

Just… what? What were you asking him? You stared down at your shoes. You couldn’t, wouldn’t ask him to stop, wouldn’t ask him to tolerate the agony of being forced to listen to all that pain and suffering without acting. It would have been the height of cruelty to expect that of him. But it wasn’t just that. He helped those people and made the city a safer place. You truly believed that, with all your heart.

So what did you want exactly? 

“I want you… to be careful on this one,” you said slowly, words coming as slowly as the thoughts did, dripping out like molasses. Your eyes darted back and forth, trying to see through the dark red glass that hid his eyes. You hoped he could hear your sincerity. “I want you to understand that you’re mortal, Matt. And that I—we need you here, doing what you’re doing. Don’t… don’t leap on this one without looking, is all.”

You hated having to admit anything like this since it implied a certain level of care, but you couldn’t get around the fact that you were worried for him, and for Hell’s Kitchen. You wanted, more than anything, to know he would be ok when you finally left. You wanted to know that no matter where you landed, Matt would still be here punching faces in and maybe having some moments of happiness in between. He was too good of a person not to deserve that. Just because you couldn’t give that to him didn’t mean you didn’t want him to have it without you. The knowledge that Matt was still breathing, alive and vibrant and full of fire, would go a long way to soothing your mind when you skipped town.

Your words hung between you and there was so much more you wanted to say. You wanted to tell him you were going to leave soon, that you may have to hurt him before you did but you wouldn’t mean it. You wanted to tell him you’d miss him dearly, and that he’d become one of the closest friends you’d had since you’d been discovered in Los Angeles and found yourself forced to flee. You wanted to tell him what that meant to you. You didn’t say any of those things, not to him or yourself, but the heavy weight of them was there underneath the silence, even if he didn’t quite know what it was you weren’t saying. Realization passed over his face, leaving his expression soft and a little sad. He dipped his head. 

“I can’t promise nothing will happen to me but… I’ll try.” 

“Thank you.”

-x- 

You’d expected a certain amount of suspicious behavior now that you were on retainer for some sort of mysterious criminal mastermind—especially with the warning that had come last night—but the gift basket and attached request you found waiting on your desk the next morning wasn’t quite the kind of strangeness you were anticipating. 

Sudden appearance of bodies? Maybe. 

A bald man with a cat sitting in your chair? Possible.

But little French cheeses? That was not something you’d written down on your mental list of ‘things evil overlords might send to workers to keep up morale.’

You read over the note again in puzzlement.

“Dear Ms. Hind,

It has come to our attention that we’ve failed to properly mark the occasion of you accepting our offer to become part of something bigger. We’re also aware you’ve been working yourself particularly hard this past month. Our first task is simple: take the next few evenings off to relax. Stay in bed, avoid exerting yourself in the heat, and enjoy. 

Sincerely,
Your New Employers” 

“The fuck?” you mumbled, poking at the package. It was… a very nice gift basket, the contents of which probably cost more than your food budget for an entire month. Included inside was a pricy bottle of wine that looked older than you were, a soft silk robe for lounging around in, a box of gourmet truffles from Switzerland, and hand-crafted cheeses from France. “Holy shit, this is amazing. Maya! Did you see this?”

“Of course we saw it. You’re lucky you’re not beating us off with sticks.” She peeked around the door, eyeing the basket with barely-disguised hunger. “Only thing missing is some fancy crackers. Although if you want to share…” 

“I’ll get some tonight and bring in whatever I don’t eat tomorrow. I get first go though,” you laughed, perching on your desk corner as you picked through the basket. Goddamn, that robe was soft, and you were already constructing a plan to spend the night wearing it and lay around your couch eating fancy food. Maybe you’d even watch some cheesy movies, no pun intended.

Mr. Winter and his employer may have been criminals, but they had good taste. There was nothing wrong with taking advantage of that. After all, the gift basket had already been purchased and delivered. It would have been a shame to let it all go to waste and wind up in the garbage somewhere. You were doing your part to reduce waste.

“You deserve the reward I guess,” Maya said in mock reluctance. “Guy’s got deep pockets and you’re to thank for reeling this one in and keeping him on the line for us. They must really like you if they’re sending you something this expensive.”

“What can I say?” you said, picking up the note again. Yet again, it had been hand-written in black calligraphy on thick, cream-colored cardstock. Who the hell even wrote like that anymore? “I’m a likable gal, and apparently they want to keep me relaxed and happy.”

“You gotta admit that note’s a little weird though. Telling you to stay home and rest.” 

“Yeah but telling me to take a few nights off isn’t exactly threatening. What other reason could they have other than wanting me to be at my best?”

-x- 

Now:


“Hello?” you yelled, scrabbling clumsily over piles of smouldering rubble. You swung your head, trying to listen with your good ear for a response as you coughed again, waving away smoke. You couldn’t stay in here forever with all this shit in the air and the chance that the rest of the building would come tumbling down on your head at any second, but you also couldn’t leave until you’d checked for survivors. Hopefully, you wouldn’t get flattened like a pancake before then. “Hello! Anyone in here?” 

“Here!” The gasp was quiet, punched out and breathless, and you could barely hear it over the crackling of the flames and the ringing in your ear. “Please, pomogi mne!”  

“Hang on! I’m-I’m coming, keep talking.” 

There were bodies here. 

The further you got into the building, the more corpses you found scattered about, burned and crushed under mountains of debris. You swallowed down the urge to vomit. These weren’t the first bodies you’d seen, far from it, but you were out of practice. No doubt Matt would have argued that was a good thing. The familiar sickly-sweet stench of burning flesh lingered under the harsh, sooty top notes of concrete and charred wood. You were going to have to spend a lot of time when you got home scrubbing yourself until you were free of it, or else you'd be having nightmares and flashbacks for the next month.

You couldn’t help but note certain clues as you made your way closer to the source of the calls for help. You weren’t sure who these casualties were, exactly. Their clothes—the ones that weren’t burned to a crisp—didn’t look particularly high-end. There weren’t uniforms that you could see or religious markings. The fact that multiple buildings seemed to have been hit meant it was most likely targeted, intentional. Or that was your rough guess, right now. For all you knew, these buildings were all connected by the same gas line and this had been an accident. If it was intentional though, you needed to get to whoever was still alive in here and drag them out before anyone else came looking to finish the job.

“Hello? I, I can’t hear very well, can you—”

“Ya zdes’! Here!” 

You scrambled down into a pit in the rubble, making your way towards the bloodied arm waving at the bottom. This section of the building at least wasn’t really burning, and so you had a flame-free path towards him over wrenched steel and splintered wood. “I-I’m here, hey there. Hang on, ok?”

“Please!” he rasped, reaching out to grab at your leg. His grip was surprisingly tight for someone who’d just survived an explosion, his fingers squeezing hard enough to sting. You weren’t sure what he looked like under all the ash and blood but his eyes stood out bone white, wide and terrified, against the red and grey smeared across his face. “Please, I can’t get out! Pomogi mne—”

“I’ve-I’ve got you, I’m gonna get you out of here, ok?” You began to dig at the pile on top of him, your nails chipping and bleeding as you shoved aside whatever you could: blackened wood, chunks of drywall, concrete and rebar. Unfortunately, you didn’t get very far before you hit a piece of steel too heavy to lift. The man was pinned at the hip under a massive, heavy beam that stretched untold yards off under more debris. He tried to heave the beam upward with you assisting, but it didn’t move so much as an inch. You groaned, sagging against the steel and wiping away the sweat gathering on your forehead.

“Hello? Anyone in here?” yelled a new voice. “Police!”

“Got one over here,” replied another voice, coming from the same direction. 

The two cops sounded close, close enough to help, maybe. You turned to the injured man to reassure him as his eyes darted to you. “I’m going to go get them, ok? They can help me dig you out. I’ll be right back.”

He snatched at your pants leg, clawing at the fabric as you began to climb out of the pit. He wheezed at you, frantic in a language you didn’t understand.

“Net! Net! Oni s nim!” 

“It’s going to be ok,” you groaned, yanking your leg free from his panicked attempts to keep you there. There was nothing you could do to assist him other than get help. His fingers scrabbled, clawlike, across the ground as he tried futilely to free himself again. “We’ll get you out.” 

You finally managed to reach the top of the dip and there, maybe twenty yards away, were two police detectives—one a woman of average height and build, the other a larger man with a stereotypical bodyguard build. He looked vaguely familiar. They were dressed in plain clothes, button ups and slacks with their badges and guns on their hips as they stood over a victim who’d reached up to them with a trembling hand. Unlike you, they weren’t as covered in ash and grit, and clearly hadn’t been here long. You’d never been more relieved to see a pair of cops in your life. You lifted a hand to call out to them.

Then the larger cop unholstered his gun, raised it, and fired calmly at the man on the ground. 

The two loud pops froze you where you kneeled, your body locking in place as you stared wide-eyed. The dead man’s arm flopped limply, head sagging as blood spilled out onto the ground with a wet splatter. The cop sighed and lowered his weapon. “Come on, let’s see if there’s anyone else. And then, what, you want pizza maybe if Rosie’s is still open?”

“We had pizza last night. Let’s do Chinese this time. Haven’t had egg rolls in ages and I can make ‘em open the door for us.”

You slithered back down the rubble as carefully and quietly as you could, keeping a hand over your mouth to prevent your gasps from alerting them to your presence. They killed him, holy shit, they killed him. These must have been some of the cops Matt had warned you about, the ones working for Fisk. And if these cops were dirty, you weren’t going to count on them for help. Not when you’d just seen them shoot someone. You needed to get out of here, but the man behind you… 

Pop. Pop. 

The shots had come closer, edging in your direction, and you thanked whoever was listening that you still had at least one good ear to track them with. You crawled over to the wounded man, trying one last time to shift the beam as you bared your teeth, muscles straining with the effort. If you couldn’t lift it, you might be able to at least relieve the pressure long enough for him to drag himself out. 

Pop. Pop. 

He helped as best he could, writhing and clawing like an animal as he tried to drag himself out from under the beam. But not only did the beam not move, his increasingly panicked struggles to free himself shifted rubble and caused a piece of drywall to tumble free.

You watched, seemingly in slow motion, as it landed on the ground with a dull crack!

“Hey, heard something over there."

There was no more time. You touched the wounded man on the shoulder. “You play dead. Do you understand?” you hissed. He stared up at you, face blank, and you pinched his skin until he winced. “Tell me you understand!” At his nod, you released him. He dropped his head down, took a shuddering breath, and closed his eyes. That left you to look for somewhere to hide: an opening, a gap, anything. 

There! On the far side of the depression was a hollow in the rubble, a small triangle of dark, enclosed space formed between a slab of charred wood and a hunk of drywall. You might be able to squeeze into it. You didn’t hesitate, making your way towards it. Just as you were about to throw yourself into the hole, pebbles from above came skittering down in front of you. Heart sinking, you tilted your head up, and came face-to-face with the barrel of a gun. 

“And who the hell are you?” The cop asked. She was blonde, brown-eyed, and seemed almost… bored as she stared down at you. Considering how close she was to killing another human being, you’d expected to see a spark of anger in her eyes, or maybe disgust, but there was... nothing. She looked at you as she might any other manual task—not as something she hated but simply something she had to do, like taking out the trash or changing lanes on the highway. She’d feel no guilt for killing you, and she’d sleep just as peacefully tonight as she would any other night, not thinking of you once.

There was nowhere to go, nowhere to hide, and you weren’t sure you could talk your way out of trouble this time. But you had to try.

Your heart thudded in your chest, adrenaline making your hands shake. 

For some reason, you thought of Matt, and his smile.

The larger detective appeared beside the first. In contrast to her, he was dark-haired, broad and massive like a bull broken free from its tether. From this angle he appeared even larger, looming over you with a similar bland expression that matched his partner’s. Like her, to kill you now would mean nothing to him. Your life was trivial, unimportant; a stepping stone that would carry him forward to whatever came next.

Bizarrely, he brought to your mind memories of that early case with Mr. Winter. Maybe it was simply because you had a gun pointed at you again, but… no. There was something else. He must have felt the same gnawing sense of familiarity about you, because he squinted down at you and then… 

He laughed. 

“Wait, hold on, Parker. She’s one of ours.”

What?

The woman with the gun—Parker—immediately lowered it. “I thought all our guys were supposed to be out of here by now.”

“Yeah, what’re you doing out here? You miss the memo or something?” The man asked you curiously, extending his massive hands down to you to pull you out of the hole. You had no option but to take them, and he levered you up and out with ease. “Jesus, look at you.”

Think, think, think. 

Your mind raced for an answer. You couldn’t say too much, but you couldn’t say too little. They apparently knew that this was going to happen, and that meant that you should have too if you were one of them. And explosions, explosions would have had to be carefully timed, right? So, mix the truth with the little info they’d given you but keep it vague.  

“Store run before everything got shut down,” you said, clearing your throat and shoving your hands in your pockets to hide the tremor. You needed to appear as casual as they did. You forced your shoulders to relax. “Thought I could make it back home in time but guess not.” The explanation spilled out smoothly, your years of telling half-truths allowing you to rely on instinct now when you needed those skills the most.

Don’t say too much. Most liars tell long stories, with too many details. Keep it simple, precise.

The man laughed again, as if you’d just said something particularly funny at a party and not while you were standing in a burned-out building, surrounded by a bunch of dead bodies. “Man, I feel that. Might have tried to go for a beer run myself if I’d been off tonight. But girl, you got shit timing.”

“Tell me about it. I can never keep track of time. It’s a, uh, personal failing.”

The woman, Parker, was still watching you, radiating suspicion until the man nudged her with an elbow. “Relax. She helped track down Oscar. Saw the famous psychic in action myself. Bastard was hiding up in the ceiling in a hidden attic, if you can believe it, and she found him like it was nothing.”

“This is the psychic? Shoulda led with that. Jesus, John.” She rolled her eyes, but then finally appeared to unwind, shoulders falling as she raised an eyebrow at you. “I’d have been in deep shit if I shot you. Maybe you could do me a favor and not bring that up with anyone.”

You bit the inside of your cheek until it bled, forcing a grin onto your face. You’d been here before. You’d had to lie through your teeth to save your life. You could do this. Breathe. Keep it up. Calm. “Your secret’s safe with me, as long as you both don’t spill my dumb ass was outside tonight.”

“You won’t get any argument from us. And I get being outside,” Parker said, holstering her weapon as John slid down the rubble to continue his search. You resisted the urge to turn and watch. Play dead, dude. Just play dead. “But—shit, be careful you idiot! I don’t wanna have to drag you outta here cause you busted an ankle—but anyway, why are you even in here? It’s not safe, and you already look like you got pretty banged up.”

“Ah, you know how it is.” You gestured towards the street, coughing to cover for a moment as you formulated an excuse. “Some lady saw me on the street and I figured it’d look better if I seemed like I was helping, you know? Less suspicious.”

Something flickered there in her eyes, the tiniest bit of wariness returning, but then John behind you called out, “Hey! Got another one down here. Jesus, this fucker was playin’ possum. Real courageous, you little shit.”

“Net pozhaluysta ne!” the man screamed, giving up on playing dead and skipping straight to pleading. 

Parker waved you out. “Go on, honey. You ain’t supposed to see stuff like this. Get on home and we won’t tell ‘em we saw you if you don’t tell ‘em I had a gun on you.” 

Pop. Pop. 

She stepped past you, making her own way down into the pit they’d pulled you out of. 

And you? God help you: with nothing you could do to save anyone there, you left, and you didn’t look back. 

-x- 

People had gathered at the front of the building, so you slipped out the back, using the shadows to remain unseen. The two cops inside the building may have promised you their silence, but you were eager to avoid any further attention from people who might be more willing to discuss the psychic they’d seen wandering around. 

You’d made it a full block away when your cell rang an out-of-key tune. You were surprised it was still working—the screen had cracked and the display was fucked to hell, pixels darting erratically across the screen. It took you a few taps before you managed to accept the call and lifted it to your good ear. 

“Foggy?”

“Jane!” he shouted, coughing as hoarse as a thirty-year smoker. Someone on his end was crying, words that sounded like Spanish. Karen’s voice cut in, soothing whoever it was. “Jane, are you-are you ok? Where are you?”

“I’m ok, I think. Are you?”

“Me and Karen are on our way to the hospital with a client. She’s hurt. Can you-can you call Matt—”

Oh god.  

You hadn’t had much time to consider anyone else before now, too focused on what had been happening inside the burned-out building. Had Matt been outside tonight? It was that kind of evening, and lately he’d been hunting—

Your heart sank. 

He’d been hunting the Russian Mob. 

You pressed a hand over your mouth to stop a cry from escaping. With his heightened senses, the explosions—damaging enough to your own ears—would have been so much more painful and disorienting to him if he’d been nearby. Or, worse, had he been in… had he been in one of the buildings?

“I haven’t heard from him,” you whispered. It didn’t look like there’d been any missed calls on your phone, no messages short of the panicked texts from Maya and Daniel, and the emergency alert broadcast ordering all civilians to stay inside. But it hadn’t been that long since the first blast, you didn’t think. Or had it? How long had you been out of it after that initial explosion? “He hasn’t called, I don’t—”

“Could you… could you try to check on him? Please, Jane, he’s-he’s my friend and you can find him, right? I can’t—” Foggy’s voice cracked and your body let out its own little shudder in sympathy even as your breath hitched at the thought of finally, at last allowing yourself to see Matt’s threads.  

It was one thing to open yourself to seeing a stranger’s threads. With a stranger you retained an emotional distance and clarity; there was no real risk to you. With someone closer though, it could be far more intimate, and more dangerous. To expose yourself to the threads of someone close was to open yourself to the possibility that you saw your own. It would remove one of the final walls you’d painstakingly built around yourself. Foggy didn’t know what he was asking, but then… would you risk it, if it meant you’d be able to find Matt?

...Yes. For him, I would.

You rubbed at your eyes, swallowing around the lump in your throat. “I’ll try, Foggy. I’ll try to… to find him or hear from him, ok?” 

“Thank you. Call me or-or text me if the lines are down. I’ll be at the hospital with Karen. Let me know as soon as you can. Talk later.”

“Stay safe.” You hung up, taking a minute to breathe. Part of you didn’t even want to wait that extra minute, but you knew you needed it. Panic would get you nowhere right now and you had to stay calm. 

First, you texted Maya and Daniel back, jabbing fingers hard against the broken screen as you typed in short, matter-of-fact confirmations that you were alright. Next, you punched in Matt’s burner number. You may not even need to go hunting for his threads if you could reach him on his phone.

You wavered on where to go as you waited for him to pick up. You could head home, but you didn’t want to do so until you knew Matt was safe. You also weren’t sure where to go if you were going to start looking for him. Knowing him, if he hadn’t been close to the explosions when they’d been set off, he’d have moved in that direction not long afterwards, especially if Fisk’s cops were scoping the buildings. That would have alerted Matt to the fact that something criminal was going on.

He didn’t pick up, and eventually, you were connected to the voicemail service. You closed your eyes. This doesn’t mean anything. He could be fine. There was no verbal message to signal who you’d called; just a short beep after a period of silence. You cleared your throat. “Hey, D. Checking in to make sure you’re ok,” you managed, pacing up and down the sidewalk. “If you could call me—” 

Your phone beeped, signaling a call on the other line. You lowered it to glance at the screen, puzzling out the letters through the myriad of spiderweb fractures in the glass.

Incoming Call From: D

You’d never hit ‘accept’ so quickly.  “Are you-are you ok? Where—”

“I’m alright.” His voice was rough, pitched deep and rasping so badly on your damaged phone that it caused a hiss of static. He grunted, and somewhere in the background, you heard the sound of a slamming door and the distant howl of sirens. All of which told you precisely nothing about where he was, since you were pretty sure the entirety of Hell’s Kitchen could hear sirens at this point. "Tell me you’re ok.”

You heaved a sigh, a weight lifting off your shoulders. He was alright. Maybe not perfect, but he was alive and able to answer your call and that was the best you could have hoped for. “I’m a little banged up, but nothing big.”

“How bad?”

“Does it matter?” 

“To me it does.” His steps became rhythmic, and there was a jolt on the last word as if he’d begun to climb something. Was he going upstairs? Or maybe he’d started running. Fuck, you hated not knowing. “Answer, please. Not a lot of time.”

You groaned, shaking your head and wincing when the gesture set off sparks behind your eyes. “Bleeding ear, uh, minor cut on the head, otherwise just bruised pretty much.”

“Go home then. Fisk’s cops are all over the place, looking for me and… and Vladimir.”

Your eyebrows shot up at the development. “Wait, you have him?”

“For now. I'm trying to get a name out of him. I’ll tell you about it later when I come to… to check on you after this, if I can.”

‘If I can’? What was that supposed to mean?  

“Matt, do you need me to—”

“No. Go home.” Then he hesitated. You listened to the soft, stilted sound of his breathing before he continued, tone going hard and cold. “If they tell you to find me, you do it. You don’t hesitate.” 

That drew you up short. No, no you would not. The very idea that you’d ever lead his enemies to him was one you rejected so fully that you practically spat into the phone. “I’m not going to—”

“Promise me. Promise me you won’t fight them on it. Track me like you would anyone else.”

Everything about this was wrong, so very wrong. “And what happens if I lead them right to you?” you demanded.

And even across the unknown distance between you, through the warped static emitted from your shattered phone, you could hear the feral grin on his face. 

“They’ve tried to catch me before. Let’s see how far they get this time. ”

-x-

Matt must have known. He must have, because the call came in minutes later. 

“I realize you’re most likely at home but we have a job for you if you’re available and uninjured. Simple. Easy.”

They’d sent a car for you, one smooth and black and sleek. You’d bet money those windows were just as bullet-proof as the last set had been. You’d have felt guilty dragging your filthy, dust-covered self across the clean black leather seats if you weren’t so bitter about what you were being forced to do. Up front, dressed in black, was a different driver this time—a woman, though she was just as unassuming looking as the previous driver. It must have been a requirement, being someone who could blend in and escape notice. 

You had no real options here unless you wanted to appear suspicious. You stared down at the box beside you. It was small and grey, soft when you passed your fingers over it. It fit neatly into the palm of your hand.

“The item has already been procured. No contact with the target, as requested. In fact, we’d prefer it if you could simply narrow things down to a two-block radius for us. And, of course, alert us if the target suddenly becomes… deceased.”

It couldn’t be something that belonged to Matt. It wouldn’t make sense. They didn’t know who he was, and he wasn’t the kind of guy who’d leave something he cared about lying around. Not when he was in the black outfit. You were going to chase someone else. Please let it be someone else.   

You’d wanted to ask who you were chasing, but Matt had insisted on adding an extra clause to your contract. Mr. Winter and his employer were not to give you any information on your targets, and you were not to pry. They would give you an item, you would track it, and you’d alert them. One, two, three. Then your job was finished. No meetups with targets, no contact. You were as far removed from trouble as you could be while still doing business… and while being close enough for Matt to pick up clues based on nothing but your scent or general proximity were he to follow you without your knowledge. He couldn’t do that now.

“So, where should our driver pick you up?”

You flipped the box open, steeling yourself for whatever was inside. 

It wasn’t what you were dreading, and you resisted the urge to give yourself away by sighing in relief. There was nothing inside that belonged to Matt. Instead, it was a small Russian cross made of copper. There was writing carved into it, no doubt Russian, but you didn’t look too closely. You licked your lips and met the driver’s eyes in the mirror as she awaited your directions. 

“Ms. Hind?”

You opened up your third eye, and the threads around you flared to life. Tied to the cross in your hand was a thin blue thread. 

“...Alright. I’ll be out in front of my building. Give me… give me a few minutes to get over there.”

-x-

After the way you’d worked yourself up, you’d been sure there’d be more to it, but it was as easy as you’d been promised. The vehicle slowed for each roadblock, the mandatory pauses eating up valuable time, but at each point the car was eventually waved through by uniformed officers and allowed to pass uninspected. Eventually, you narrowed your target’s location down to a two-block radius, confirming it by having the driver circle the area. Whoever the target was, they were hiding in a run-down warehouse district, and the few little ripples of emotion you caught coming down the thread indicated they were furious and in a truly terrible amount of pain.

“And the target is still alive?” the driver asked calmly, not turning around. At your nod, she slowed the car long enough to tap out a text on her phone. Then she turned the car around and started back the way you’d come, maneuvering her way through the same roadblocks and slowdowns.

You tried not to think about the pain you’d felt radiating from the blue thread. Or how long it had been since you’d talked to Matt.

Ironically, you suspected you’d ended up not being needed all that much, based on the number of cop cars that had raced by the car on the way there. Maybe you’d just ended up confirming what someone higher up already knew. That still didn’t sit well with you. You didn’t feel safe checking the news, or calling Matt to check on him, while you were still trapped in the car. That left you with no other option than to sit, silent and on edge as you stared out the window. The not-knowing ate at you. That absence of awareness wasn’t the comfort it normally was, thanks to Matt. He was probably out there right in the thick of things. At the very least, maybe you’d pointed the cops at someone else. 

Or had you? You had no idea who you’d tracked, whose thread—blue and glittering—you’d followed. Matt had said he could handle it, but so much could have happened since then. It felt like it had been hours, your sense of time warped and skewed by fear.

“Let me out here,” you told the driver suddenly. You couldn’t wait any longer to call Matt. How long had it been since you’d talked? You needed to check in, ensure he was alright even if you were bound not to breathe a word of what you’d just done. The driver didn’t hesitate, smoothly guiding the car over to the curb and unlocking the door. You swung it open and set your feet on the sidewalk.

“Hey,” she said. When you glanced back in, she gestured at the road. “Cops are telling everyone to stay inside, so get home quick.” You nodded and hopped out, swinging the door shut behind you. The car pulled away from the curb with a quiet purr. 

You waited impatiently for the car to turn the corner at the end of the block. You were only a few blocks away from your apartment at this point but you walked another half a block just in case. There weren’t many places a car like that could blend in, especially not now when it looked like the city had shut the streets down and there were few cars still on the road. All the more meaningful that this particular vehicle had been allowed to move freely along the closed streets. A shudder ran down your spine at the realization. 

You’d worked with… powerful people before, but this was different. The Man in the White Coat had military contacts, you were fairly certain, or maybe a few Feds in his pocket: people who were interested in the results he promised studying you would provide. He generally had nothing on a local level, which allowed you to move unnoticed to an extent. Here in NYC, though? Here, whoever this Fisk was, his grip down on the street was airtight. All the more reason for you to be cautious.

When no car materialized at the end of the street, you withdrew your phone. Even if they were watching, it wouldn’t be all that suspicious for you to make a phone call after everything that had happened. You tapped repeatedly, growing increasingly frustrated until you managed to call Matt. He didn’t even bother to greet you when he picked up. 

“You home yet?” he asked without preamble. He was panting, his breathing heavy and labored as if he’d just run a marathon. A second later you heard a clang like he’d just brought his foot down on something hard and metallic. He swore quietly and it filled you with dread.  

“Almost. They picked me up like you said they would.” There was only so much you could tell him. You’d both planned on him picking up clues based on what you and your body couldn’t hide from his heightened senses. When it came to words, you were limited.

"Did you do what I asked? Are you safe?” 

“Yes.” You passed a hand over your face as you walked. “I didn’t want to, but—”

“I can’t say if it was me you tracked, but it wouldn’t have mattered if you did. A cop found me earlier. A young one, not one of Fisk’s. He managed to call it in before I could stop him. They’re outside, and more are coming. None of this is your fault.”

Oh god, and Matt was, Matt was—

“Are you trapped?” You stopped walking, finding yourself alone and cold on the empty street.

“I’m going to try to find a way out,” he said quietly. “But I-I don’t...”

“If anyone can find a way out, it’s you, right?” You tried to laugh but it came out choked and wobbly as the knowledge of what might happen took hold of you. No, no no no, not like this. “Matt, tell me you’re coming back.”

“I—” he faltered. “My apartment is… is closer. To where I am now, if you wanted to wait there instead. I don’t know if I’ll...”

Your breath hitched, something razor sharp and jagged cutting its way into your chest.

He really doesn’t know. Doesn’t know if he’ll get out. 

“I’ll wait at your place,” you sniffled. “You’ll need someone to patch you up. When you get back.”

He said your name. One word, the syllables melting together. It had the tone of a goodbye, of an ending, and you closed your eyes against it. “If I don’t see you again—”

“Stop it,” you cut off what sounded like the start of a confession, ignoring how close to tears you sounded. “Go… go punch someone’s teeth in and get the fuck out of there. If you can order me to find you, I can order you to stay alive.”

“I’ll try,” he murmured, but it was still far too soft and mournful for your liking. "The key to the rooftop door is taped to the underside of the stairs leading up to the roof. I left it there in case you-you ever needed to get in. ”

“Don’t you give up on me, Matt,” you whispered. “Ok?”

“...Goodbye, sweetheart.”

-x-

You were on autopilot. 

The only thoughts you allowed yourself concerned the immediate tasks before you. Your first step was stopping by your apartment—thankfully undamaged—only long enough to grab a change of clothes, one of your burner phones, and a few toiletries you might need for an overnight stay. Matt’s goodbye had shaken you badly and you weren’t willing to stay in your own apartment any longer than absolutely necessary. You needed… you needed to be wherever he would end up. You had to believe that he would come back. 

His key was under the stairs leading to his apartment building’s roof, hidden away out of sight just like he’d said. You untaped it with numb fingers. How long had this been here? The dust under the stairwell to the roof hadn’t been disturbed in some time, weeks at least, which meant… he’d left this here for you some time ago. He may have kept it here even while you both were fighting. He’d wanted to make sure you had a safe place to go.

I will not cry.

You refused to, no matter that everything about tonight hit something inside you that you generally pretended didn’t exist. He was forcing his way past every wall you’d erected and now, with the possibility of a true ending hanging over you, you couldn’t even bring yourself to fear the possibility of a red thread formed from your friendship with him. You just wanted him back. 

You fumbled the key into your pocket and headed up to the rooftop entrance to let yourself in. 

Matt’s apartment had changed little from the last time you’d been there. That included the bathroom, where you showered. It made sense. You had to believe that even with his heightened senses and his ability to map a room, keeping everything in its designated place was a comfort and provided a certain feeling of safety. You tried to leave everything where you found it in the shower, scrubbing hard as ash and soot, blood and dirt ran down the drain. You went over yourself two, three, four times trying to ensure the smell of the burning building was gone, for yourself just as much as for Matt. You wanted the night to be over. 

Your ear seemed to have stopped bleeding, as had the cut on your head, which was smaller than you’d originally worried. You still couldn’t hear that well, but that would hopefully improve over the next few days. You ached all over, though the hot water was helping. But goddamn if that stupid parrot bite didn’t still hurt like a bitch. At least the pain helped ground you.

Showered and dressed in a clean set of clothes, you went through the motions of bagging up your old clothes the same way you had the first time you were here. After that, you hunted down Matt’s first-aid kit so you could rewrap your arm in clean gauze. And then… then you were left with nothing else to do, and you wandered aimlessly, running your fingers against the myriad little elements that made Matt’s apartment a home. You tried to think of something else to do, to focus on. Matt obviously didn’t have a tv for you to watch. You’d left your laptop back at your apartment. If you’d been of a right mind, you’d have grabbed it so you could keep updated on what was going on. As it was, all you had was your one damaged phone, and your burner.

Eventually, you found yourself curled up on the couch. Folded on the back of it was a blanket that smelled like Matt and you pulled it down and tucked yourself under it. Then you dragged open the news app on your phone… and waited.

The stories sucked you in as you tried to make them out on the broken screen.

‘Sources say the masked vigilante is potentially connected or responsible for the explosions—’

‘—reported a hostage situation earlier this evening—’

‘—multiple officers killed on the scene and anonymous sources within the force are certain the same individual responsible for the kidnapping is also respon—’

‘—forces then entered the building—’

‘—officers reported that the suspect has escaped at this time—’

You closed the news app on your phone and pulled the blanket around you tighter, soothing yourself with the subtle scent of copper and cinnamon as you stared out the window. He had to have gotten out, right? The news had reported his escape, but would they have known if Fisk’s men had caught him instead? 

He got out. Fisk wouldn’t sign off on a police manhunt otherwise. It would make no sense. 

You buried your face in the blanket and breathed deeply, forcing yourself to believe it. 

This whole thing had just gone so very wrong. You knew Matt wasn’t responsible for the explosions, but no one else seemed to. The news had taken the reports of his guilt and run with them. Things admittedly looked bad, but… someone would question how neatly this story fit together, wouldn’t they? They had to. All they’d have to do would be to look at the good things Matt had done and recognize that he’d been set up, positioned as a convenient sacrificial lamb. 

You rested your chin on your knees, closing your eyes against the headache vying for your attention. You had a feeling Matt had been played this entire time without his knowledge. The pieces had lined up all too well. It was possible that this Fisk had simply prepared for every contingency, but you also had to wonder how much of this had been predicted. Matt had been outfoxed. That wouldn’t sit well with him, and no wonder. Matt wasn’t exactly short on brains himself, so being funneled into the chute like this would surely grate at him. It was what you’d been afraid of—that Matt’s penchant for swinging at men no one else would touch would eventually lead to him throwing down with someone well above his level. Someone who could hit back, and hit hard enough to keep him down.

It explained why your old friend in Los Angeles had called to warn you about Fisk. ‘You’re on the King’s land, now.’ He hadn’t been joking. The big question remained: what would you do about all this between now and when you were supposed to leave in a few weeks’ time?

The rooftop door opening stirred you from your thoughts and you leapt up off the couch, darting anxiously to the bottom of the stairs. You’d left most of the lights off, not wanting anyone else to know you were here, and with Matt presumably still all in black, he’d be difficult for you to see. You searched the darkness, frantic, until the obnoxious red sign across the street lit up and Matt appeared at the top of the stairs.

“Oh thank god,” you breathed. The sudden relief left you almost weightless as Matt hobbled his way down the stairs. He was filthy, covered in dirt and blood and soot, and you’d never been happier to see him. Alive. He’s alive, he’s ok. At the bottom step, his legs buckled just a little and you caught him, suddenly finding yourself with two arms worth of burning hot, dust-covered Matt. Under the excuse of holding him upright, you shivered and buried your face against his neck, soaking in the warmth and scent hiding under the coating of grit and sweat. He was a welcome, heavy weight leaning into you and one you gratefully accepted, though you hoped he wouldn’t bring up the tears you were leaving on his shirt. His arms circled around you weakly and he buried his face in your hair, drawing in a shaky breath before exhaling a relieved sigh. 

He’s alive. He’s fine.

Time slowed and you basked in it, in the comfort that he was alive. You ran your hands up and down his spine soothingly, scraping your nails gently until he was almost boneless against you, a faint resonation in his chest that made you think he'd swallowed down an exhausted moan. He clearly needed this reassurance, the comfort of gentle touch, just as much as you did. 

It’s ok. You’re ok, we’re ok.

“I’m glad you’re alright,” you mumbled, the words muffled where you’d burrowed into him. You’d taken enough time that you were fairly certain your words would be steady now. “I told you: if anyone could get out, it was you. Getting me all worried for nothing. Ass. You’re an ass, Matt Murdock.”

“I’ll try to be more confident in my abilities next time,” he said, letting you hide behind the teasing as he rested his cheek fondly against the top of your head.

“You hurt?” You hadn’t seen any obvious blood except around his face and mouth, but he was moving like he was in pain, the careful motions of someone who knew that a sharp ache was lying in wait just around the corner.

“Nothing worse than usual.”

“I’m absolutely sure that’s why you feel like you’re about to fall over if I step away.”

“Maybe I’ve just been taken in by how strong you are.” He leaned further into you, the bastard, and you widened your stance to balance out the shift. “Also I may have fallen... through a few floors.”

“You probably should have mentioned that sooner, you ridiculous man.” You nudged him back upright, directing your mind to finally, finally focus on a new task that would distract you from just how shaken up you were and your own blossoming aches and pains. With one hand out in case he stumbled, you ran your gaze up and down his body to inspect for injuries as he straightened his back and groaned with the motion.

There was blood around his mouth and a bit beneath his nose. You reached up without thinking, going for his mask to tug it back so you could get a better look. One of his hands darted up and caught your wrist, twisting it away. You didn’t fight it, keeping your fingers slack. The grip was tight and unyielding, a band of steel locked tight, and he shuddered before releasing it with a mumbled apology. Part of him was still running on instinct, then. More slowly this time, you tried again, pinching the damp black cloth between your fingers and beginning to peel back his mask. 

Soft brown eyes darted sightlessly around you as the fabric pulled away. You slid the mask back further until you pulled it free from his sweat-soaked hair, reaching down and carefully slipping it into his pocket for lack of a better place to put it. Then you set your hand along his jaw and nudged his head left and right, taking in the injuries, including the one you could see on his lip when you tilted his head down. He allowed your actions, unresisting and passive. He’d taken a serious beating tonight, but you really had seen worse on him, not that that was saying much. You gently ruffled his dark hair, making it stand on end. He rewarded you by wrinkling his nose at you but otherwise didn’t stop your efforts. Being playful had seemed to help settle him before and hopefully it would do the same now. “Fortunately you’re someone who still looks good even with their face beat to shit. How are you, torso-wise? Anything to be concerned about?”

“Bruising, mostly. I’ll live.” He tilted his head at you, finally turning his senses on you. “Your ear sounds like it hurts though. You’re lucky it didn’t rupture with how close you must have been. And you showered,” he paused and inhaled, lips parting before he frowned, “but I can still smell the smoke. What were you doing inside that building?”

“Getting too close for comfort.” At least he hadn’t picked up the rest of the scents you’d tried to scrub off, or maybe he was just too polite to say. You weren’t sure you were ready to talk about that yet so you nudged him. “Go shower first. That shit on your skin has to be agony. I’ll tell you about my night when you get out. You require assistance or you ok?” 

“‘m alright. Then I might… might pass out on the couch after we talk.” 

Not if you had anything to say about it. That man was not sleeping on the couch when he’d fallen through floors and been beaten on by who knew how many people. You’d drag him to bed kicking and screaming if you had to. “Go on. I’ve got things covered out here.”

He gave you a grateful nod—you’d been right about how unpleasant that grit on his skin must feel, you suspected—and disappeared into the bathroom with a change of clothes. 

Now, with him in the other room, you had a moment to breathe. You scrubbed a hand over your face as you also took the opportunity to silence the alarm bells that had begun to ring again inside your head now that you had a second and hey we really have something you should be concerned about! 

Stop. Think about something else. Pick a task.

So you did. You puttered around, distracting yourself with ensuring the door Matt had entered was locked, and then with sending a text to Foggy and Karen that Matt was alright, you’d found him. You washed your hands in the sink, scrubbing up to the elbows and otherwise wiping off what had transferred from Matt to you. Fuck, your ear was really starting to hurt. You checked the news again, but things weren’t going well on that front. By the time Matt was done showering, you’d updated yourself on the current breaking stories. Even though these stories were clearly wrong and why is no one saying anything?

The soft padding of his feet—completely intentional, you knew; the man moved like a cat when he felt like it—alerted you to his presence and you glanced up from your place on the couch where you’d curled up under the blanket again. His movements were stiff, pained as he moved into the living area, clad in sweats and a worn grey t-shirt. You narrowed your eyes at him, trying to determine just how bad his other injuries were. At your expression he grimaced, then reached down and briefly tugged the hem of his shirt up, baring his torso to you. The action exposed a wealth of soft skin, the sharp curve of his hip, a faint trail of dark hair that disappeared below the low-riding hem of his grey sweats… and a whole lot of bright red impact marks striped up and down his body. A truly hellish set of bruises were going to make their debut in a day or two.

“I’m wondering if I should call you a masochist but I don’t want to give you any ideas,” you said, unsure what to say regarding the mind-boggling amount of holy shit that has to hurt that was currently advertising itself on his body in great splashes of red. Not as bad as that one night on the roof, but still incredibly painful looking. “How are you even moving right now? You’re gonna be blue as the ocean when all that bruising settles in.”

He snorted and dropped the hem, hiding the marks from your view. “I’ve had worse. You learn to fight through it eventually.”

He started to shift towards the couch but before he’d even lifted one foot, you shook your head. “No sir, Mr. Murdock. Bed, not the couch. Any chatting can be done tomorrow.” That was good. Tomorrow was good. By then he might have forgotten about just how much this had all affected you, and you’d have had a chance to compartmentalize… everything else.

He rocked on his feet silently as if tempting you to stop him, which was still entirely something he would do despite being beaten and bruised, of course it was. You stood with a huff, curling your bare toes against the floor and lowering your head stubbornly just in case he really did feel like a fight. You weren’t afraid of him, not even a little. 

Or maybe he’s just tired and can barely stand on his feet. You softened and tossed out a compromise. “If you want I’ll sit in there with you and we can go over tonight. But not out here. I’ll bring you some aspirin and some water.” 

Besides, I need a few myself. Also I apparently still smell like smoke and I’m not about to let you sleep on a couch that smells like that.

While he grumbled about it, he ultimately did what you wanted and you quirked a lip as you went and filled two glasses with water. Ensuring he was looked after, reminding him that he wasn’t alone right now, was helping to settle the restlessness inside you. This was something you could do, something that both reminded you he was alive and gave you a task to focus on. You hummed as you dug around in his cabinets until you found the comically large bottle of painkillers. 

Huh, I wasn’t even aware they sold it in counts this big. 

You took two for yourself, throwing them back and downing them with a few swallows of water. That done, you collected Matt's glass and pills, and brought both to his bedroom where he was sitting on the side of his bed, legs spread wide. He sighed as if in great reluctance before taking the provided pills and you made a show of supervising, crossing your arms and looming over him as he chugged back the water. When he was done you took the glass and set it aside. You’d take it back to the kitchen in a bit. 

Which left… where to settle in, and your brain tangled itself up in the sudden swell of indecision. You’d shared a bed before but that had been, well, before. You didn’t want to leave, but you couldn’t quite bring yourself to crawl into his bed again, to make yourself that vulnerable even if it was just to curl up there next to him, no matter how much you wanted to. So instead you tapped Matt’s legs until he swung them up onto the bed, then you turned and settled yourself down on the ground. You stretched your own legs out and leaned back against the bed frame. It wasn’t as uncomfortable as it could have been, even achy as you were. You’d learned to make due just about anywhere—you’d fallen asleep on trains, in cabs and buses, passed out on benches and up against trees. The bed at your back was a lot softer than the bark of an old oak or a rigid plastic seat in a bus station. And... and you were close to him. That went a long way.

The sheets rustled as Matt stretched out above you, his breathing soft. Then, haltingly, he detailed to you what had happened that night, starting with reaching the building he’d tracked Vladimir to. It filled in a lot of the holes in your own adventure, and some of the reasoning behind it. 

Fisk used me to track Vladimir and confirm proof of life. That has to be who I was sent after. 

Your part in the game had finally begun, and you’d been moved like any other piece on the board. If the young cop hadn’t already heard Matt, you’d have led them right to him. You were going to need to come up with a way to ensure this didn't happen again.

You tried to focus on what Matt was saying, and you were quickly drawn back in. Around the time he began describing a sniper killing cops outside the building he’d been trapped in, his voice got rough and shaky. His hand slid over the edge of the bed and dropped to brush against your shoulder. He didn’t grab you. He just… left his hand there against you, his fingertips resting so lightly on your skin you could barely feel it. His breathing stuttered and fell into rhythm with yours. Then his voice grew steady once more. 

He skirted by any mention of your last phone call, and you didn’t bring it up. The moment slid by, a weighted pause in his tale, and though you both felt its passing, you let it float away into the dark without remark.

He’d almost been caught, you thought, as he touched on his escape through the sewers. He’d come so close and if there hadn’t been that grate to let him into the subway...

“Hey,” he whispered. “I’m ok. I got out.”

“You almost didn’t.” You tilted your head to rest it lightly against his arm where it draped over the side of the bed. “I’m allowed to worry about that. About you.”

“The feeling’s mutual. Tell me what happened, and why you were in that building.”

You gave him your own rundown of the evening, careful to avoid the topic of your drive, which you very much could not tell him about aside from things like how many cop cars you saw on the way or buildings that appeared damaged as you were driven by. He was less interested in that, though, than your time inside the building. The muscles in his arm tightened, his fingers curling when you described having another gun pointed at you. 

“You tried to save that man. You did the right thing,” he said after you’d finished. You weren’t sure why he’d focused on that, pulled that small element from your story to examine more closely.

“Didn’t do much.” You drew your legs up until you could rest your other arm on your bent knees in front of you. “They still killed him.”

“They did. And they’ll pay for it.” Despite the words, he wasn’t able to deliver them with anywhere near the same level of confidence he’d had a few days ago. He’d been cast adrift by the loss tonight. You knew that anger was lurking down inside him somewhere, fury at the way he’d been used and manipulated; it was only a matter of time until it resurfaced. For now, though, it was buried deep and you weren’t going to stir it up.

“You came close to dying,” you murmured. “At least rest for a few days.”

“Maybe I did, but so did you,” he said roughly, and oh, there it was: the wrath swimming under the surface like some great unseen behemoth in dark water, and you’d just caught a glimpse of it as the sea rippled in its wake. “Fisk’s cops, they could have killed you.”

“But they didn’t, because I’m useful. So I’ll just continue to be.” You reached up and squeezed the hand against your shoulder, and after a moment, he squeezed back, calming. “And you, you need a new plan.”

He shifted on the bed above you with a quiet groan of pain before he stilled again. “Agreed. I’ll have to find another way to stop him. If he has this many cops on his payroll, judges and politicians...”

“It’ll have to be something big from that accountant.” You tilted your head back and let your eyes droop closed. “Stealth, Matt. Play the long game until you’ve got something big enough.”

“And how many people will he hurt between now and then?”

“He’ll hurt more if you fuck up and don’t catch him at all because he killed you.”

Matt made a disagreeable noise but you grinned bitterly to yourself, knowing you’d managed at least to win on that one even if it had been something of a low blow. “We’ll look at this accountant guy. I can help you find him if you need it.” The fact that he hesitated, thinking it over instead of outright rejecting you, told you just how in over his head he was feeling. You’d been there. “I can do it without getting close. Even a few blocks away will be enough for you.” 

He blew out a heavy breath, tightening his grip on your hand. “Alright. But you have to do exactly what I say.”

“Noted.”

“And if I tell you to leave—"

“Go to sleep, D.” You bumped his arm again with your head. “Talk tomorrow.”

And as you both fell asleep, neither of you even considered untangling your hands.

Chapter Text

The next day had the potential to be peaceful if you could bring yourself to allow it. The night before you’d fallen asleep there on the hard floor, Matt’s hand tangled loosely with yours. You’d woken up in his bed alone, sleepy and content. You blew out a sigh, soaking in the softness of the silk sheets and the comforting scent that lingered even in Matt’s absence. He must have moved you at some point, maybe in the middle of the night or this morning when he woke up. He was out in the living area now, moving around, the noise of shifting plates and glasses giving you a clue as to his activities. He’d know you were awake soon, if he hadn’t picked up on it already. 

You needed to get up. First, though, you needed to compartmentalize the previous night, and you were grateful he was giving you some space to do so. 

Last night had been… a lot for you, and the ache in your chest still hadn’t fully faded. It almost itched, a bone-deep tugging centered right over your heart. The sensation left you with an impulse to claw at your chest until you dug down far enough to rip out the source. Even here in Matt’s bed as you buried your face in the pillow and drew in a heavy breath, that feeling was still there. Fortunately as your body adjusted to the sensation, it seemed to lessen by degrees until you were finally able to turn your attention towards its cause.

This ache in your chest was no doubt brought about by the events that had occurred last night, and the implications of the paralyzing fear you’d felt. Deep down, you knew what it meant. The full awareness of that meaning was simply biding its time, lurking below the unlit water of your consciousness. It was waiting for you to take notice and the second you did, it would swallow you whole.

Fuck that.  

You had a little over three weeks left before you ran. You’d ignored your emotions for far longer in the past, months and years trickling by without so much as a second of introspection. Three weeks? That was child’s play to you. Last night had changed nothing, and all you had to do was deny, delay, and reach for the excuses that had always come so easily to you. You’d had plenty of practice. You could force yourself to believe that the emotion you’d felt last night was the result of stress. Of course you’d been emotional; anyone would have been. You’d almost been blown up, and then had a gun pointed at you.

‘Matt almost dying was a big part, too,' whispered a traitorous voice inside you. ‘Just admit it.’ 

You scowled, rolling over to face the half-open bedroom door. 

You liked Matt, and the thought of him dying had… upset you a great deal. There; you’d admitted it. So what? Liking someone wasn’t unusual. You’d met plenty of affable, charming people over the years. As for not wanting him to die, well, not wanting a good person to die didn’t mean you had anything special. It just meant you hadn’t lost all sense of morality, and that you’d retained an element of humanity. That was a good thing. It meant when you finally had the money to escape to your tiny island hut, you’d be able to make friends with the locals.

You were allowed to like people. You’d planned for it, because sometimes friendships were inevitable. It was one reason you had your plan, one reason you ran. And wasn’t it possible that you could even have… a friendship with someone, since the Man in the White Coat was still five cities behind you? That had to give you some breathing room. Breathing room for holding someone's hand while you slept and maybe letting them call you sweetheart once or twice under stress just because they were maybe friends with you, too. This was fine. All you had to do was shove your feelings into your little mental box and lock it away until you were gone. You’d act… normal. 

You nodded to yourself in satisfaction. Perfect. Now, time to get up, before Matt comes looking.

You rolled out of Matt’s bed, settling your bare feet on the floor and wincing at the ache that ricocheted up your spine as you straightened. Sounds were still distorted in one ear, muffled and thick, but it was to be expected. That seemed to be the worst of it, fortunately; you’d been very, very lucky. You gave yourself additional time to compose yourself by heading into the bathroom to wash your face and prepare for the day. The normalcy of the action was vital, letting you fall into a familiar pattern you could focus on. You’d need that concentration because as much as you’d have loved a day off, you were fairly certain that wasn’t what lay in store for you. You needed to keep busy. Matt would most likely feel the same, though perhaps for different reasons. 

You hadn’t even fully made it into the living area before Matt confirmed your suspicions.

“I had some thoughts on where to start,” he said as you made your way towards the table. He’d already set out a mug for you, steam lazily drifting upwards from the coffee inside, and a plate of breakfast had been placed beside it. He’d timed it perfectly and you eyed the food with barely disguised hunger. You hadn’t had a chance to eat dinner last night and you were starving. “About that money man of Fisk’s. I’ve been thinking about it since I got up.”

“You think before coffee? Blasphemer. Pretty sure that’s a sin.” You dropped into your seat, crossing one leg to wait as he placed his own plate and mug. He gave a soft laugh, the corner of his eyes crinkling.

“Funnily enough, Father Lantom never mentioned that one. Maybe I missed too many sermons.” He sank down into his own chair with a grimace of pain that twisted his mouth tight. 

You inspected him out of the corner of your eye. He was clean, dressed for the day in his usual slacks, button-up, and tie. He also must have applied some of that salve he’d shared with you, or spent time on that weird healing meditation thing he’d mentioned once. You’d expected him to look more like a bloodied raccoon who’d gone ten rounds, and less, ‘guy who got into a mild scuffle on the street.’ Even so, you could still see bruising around his nose and a hint of purple peeking above his shirt collar. You didn’t even want to think about what color he’d turned under the rest of the fabric. “I’m hoping today’s an easy day for you if we’re going to get into this already,” you said with a hmm, taking a sip of your coffee and directing your eyes back down his body to illustrate. “You’re in your lawyer clothes so no vigilante-ing today, I assume.”

“In fairness, there’s not a whole lot to do today work-wise thanks to the cleanup from the… the bombings, but there are places I can still get into as a lawyer. As for the rest, I thought about it,” he admitted, spearing his eggs with unerring accuracy even as he kept his focus on you. He wasn’t wearing his shades, open and relaxed with you, so it was easy to read the touch of frustration that crossed his expressive face. He drummed his fingers on the table. “The problem is I wouldn’t know where to go. All I’ve got is a name, so far. I need more to find him.”

“You’re looking to do this old school then,” you mused. In your line of work, when a thread couldn’t be found, there were always additional clues that could lead you to a target. Hell, Maya didn’t have your talents and her find rate was almost as good as yours. You had full faith in Matt that he could find what he was looking for. “Probably the smart play right now if you want to keep him from rabbiting before you get a hold of him. Guys like this always have an office somewhere, too, if just to look respectable.”

He nodded as you took a bite of toast. “And we had it right last night. If I’m going to send Fisk to prison, I need something big enough that people can’t ignore it. This could be my way to get it.”

“My offer to help still stands,” you said, lightly nudging his leg with your own under the table. It was only practical to provide what aid you could. If Fisk was as dangerous as he seemed, then helping Matt remove him from the field of play could only be good for you. At the very least Fisk might be spooked enough to go to ground, too busy to be interested in whatever new city you’d fucked off to. You had enough people trailing you, thank you very much. You didn’t need more. “You get me something I can track him with and I’ll run him down for you. Won’t even charge you for it.” 

His lip quirked. “That’s very magnanimous of you.”

You raised your coffee mug to him. “What can I say? I’m fucking charitable that way.”

And then goodbye New York, and hello Seattle.  

You ignored how miserable that thought made you.

-x-

While you’d have loved to escort Matt around town that week to the various records’ offices he intended on visiting, you had fallout of your own to deal with. There were still people missing after the explosions that had rocked Hell’s Kitchen. Friends and relatives of the missing were beating down your door to hire you using whatever funds they could scrounge up. If you were lucky, you were sent to trace a red thread—usually, one linked to a target tucked away and unconscious in a hospital ward somewhere. Too many threads though were a sullen, plum-tinted blue as the color flickered from bold scarlet to a deep, mournful indigo. 

Those were the jobs you hated most: corpse retrieval. 

In times like these, it would have been best to set aside time to decompress and unwind. Spending a few hours with Matt—or even Foggy and Karen—was the obvious answer, but it seemed like everyone was working the same late nights you were. It almost made you bitter not having that escape. You only had a few weeks left here and every second counted. You’d only seen Matt once or twice across the rooftops in the past week, the two of you stopping just long enough for some brief conversation before you were both pulled away by your respective tasks. 

If he was aware of what you were planning, he hadn’t said anything about it to you. You’d pulled your go bag out from under the floorboards a few times, digging through it to ensure you hadn’t forgotten something important. You had to imagine the scent of the duffel bag’s contents—the cash, the dye, the forged documents—was something he’d pick up on your hands if given the opportunity. Part of you was hoping he’d say something, give you a reason not to run, a reason to stay. Instead, he gave you space. And so you kept preparing for your escape between heading to work each morning, where you did your best to behave as if nothing had changed.

“You got a visitor,” Daniel said. You’d only just arrived. It was a little before nine, and you hadn’t expected anyone to be there other than Daniel and Maya. He raised his brows meaningfully, bobbing his head to indicate your office. “The big client. Was hangin' around when I got here, said he’d wait in your office.”

Your mouth went dry, and it was only practice that kept your face relaxed and unconcerned. It was bad enough you were involved and marginally aware of the shit Mr. Winter and his enigmatic ‘employer’ were up to. There was no way you’d allow this to blow back onto Daniel and Maya. You schooled your face, affecting an appropriately puzzled frown. “Is he? I didn’t have a meeting scheduled.”

“Nothin’ on your calendar at least. You also got that appointment with Mrs. Guerrera at 9:30, but he said it wouldn’t take that long. Either way, wouldn’t keep him waiting. You know how rich guys are."

You couldn’t help the shiver that ran down your spine as you headed down the hallway towards your office. Had he found out about what you’d seen inside the burning building? The cops had sworn they would keep the events to themselves but they could have been lying, or maybe they’d given you away by mistake. Someone else could have seen you leaving the building and recognized you. You could have been caught on a camera; had you even looked for any on the neighboring buildings that night? There were too many options, too many loose ends you hadn’t bothered to hunt down. What if he was here to—

Calm down. He wouldn’t kill me in my office. Too public.

You forced your shoulders to relax, straightening your cuffs and tugging at your blazer until it sat just right before you quickly swiped your sweating palms across your pants. You would be composed and confident. The office was too open and subject to the listening ears in the adjacent offices. If they’d wanted to kill you, you’d have been shot on the street or in your own apartment. Not here; that was too messy. That Mr. Winter was in your office now most likely meant he was here just to talk.

“Mr. Winter,” you greeted, entering your office and throwing the man a polite smile where he sat calmly in front of your desk. He rose and extended a hand, which you shook smoothly before you strode around to your side of the desk. “What can I do for you today?” 

“Ms. Hind. I apologize for the lack of warning. However, my employer thought it best to… run over a few things, especially as we look ahead towards the future of our business arrangement.”

‘The future.’ That’s not vague at all.

At least there was a future, for now. He didn’t look overly concerned or grim, instead folding his hands and giving you a friendly smile: the picture of a pleasant businessman. You didn’t buy it for a second. You knew there were fangs hidden behind the wholesome image he was presenting you. Whether those fangs were here for you remained to be seen. 

“You know I’m always open to discussing our partnership.” You nodded seriously as you settled into your own leather chair. The wide desk between you was a psychological buffer you were happy to make use of. It changed the dynamic of the room, shifting some of the energy in your favor, though less than usual. Despite the fact that you were the one behind the desk and in a position of power, there was no mistaking who was really in control here. It wasn’t your intent to change things that drastically; there was no point in trying. Instead, the visual would hopefully serve as a reminder of the professional nature of this discussion. Something told you that would go a long way with Mr. Winter. 

“I assume by now you’re aware that we’ve made contact with your previous employer in Los Angeles.” He presented the comment innocently, but his eyes were calculated as they regarded you and awaited your reaction.

It took everything in you not to curl your fingers against the arms of your chair. The relaxed, easy-going delivery of his statement—a statement that could upend your entire life in New York—simply helped highlight the reality that you were dangerously out of your depth here with him. He didn’t have a care in the world when it came to confronting you with your past. There was no hiding that he’d made contact with your friend because he didn’t need to hide it. He’d know it was in your best interest to keep this from going public.

Why play this card now? 

Use your brain. Think.

They could have remained vague about what they knew, left you on edge and paranoid at what they might have on you. What purpose did it serve to tell you? Based on the way Matt had been so thoroughly trapped, it was a safe assumption that what you were doing for them was only a small part of something larger. Were they looking to trap you, too? To scare you so much you became desperate and willing to take on a hunt you might otherwise refuse?  

You needed more information. Until you could figure out which way this was going to swing, there was no point in lying when you both knew the truth. Your silence had already given you away. 

“I am aware, yes.” You dipped your head in acknowledgment. The time for feigned geniality was over so you dropped the mask you usually wore. If they knew this much, the act wouldn’t cut it. You’d focus on remaining professional and respectful now. He seemed pleased instead of disappointed, a flash of satisfaction quirking his lips before the expression was gone. So, he’d wanted to strip that part of you away; he was looking to have a conversation with you—not Jane Hind. Interesting. “I have to give you credit for tracking that far back. Most don’t.”

He didn’t take the bait you’d posed with your unspoken question. “Our discussion with him was… informative. Imagine our surprise when we discovered that in the past, your business arrangements looked very different. Certainly different than our current arrangement.”

“That’s true,” you admitted, resisting the urge to fidget as you set your chin on your hand and watched him warily. Your first contract in Los Angeles had been far less meticulously planned than your current contracts, in part because you’d been sixteen and the contract had been designed as a demonstration of what a good contract might be, but also because you’d been desperate and vulnerable enough to take the first offered hand. Your standards had been… a lot lower back then. “Those previous arrangements were also more of a danger to both myself and my clients should the police come knocking. You can see why I made some changes.” 

“And yet one could argue that with the right resources, such a danger would be minimal.”

Ah, and there it is. According to Matt, this was the same sort of offer the Russian Mob had been presented with, though yours was more carefully disguised. Previously there would have been too much risk in making such a proposal to you: you were a relative unknown, and your allegiances were murky. Your documents made clear you were only willing to straddle the line between legal and illegal instead of stepping over it. You occupied a grey zone in which your neutrality was contractually obligated only so long as you remained in the dark about your clients’ motives. Now that they knew your history in Los Angeles, they were aware that you couldn’t take a chance on going to the police; not when Mr. Winter and his employer could reveal you just as easily you might be able to reveal something criminal about them. They’d become acquainted with what you’d allowed in the past, and what you’d taken part in. 

Despite what Matt may have assumed about you, your resistance to participation in any criminal activities was a relatively recent development. You'd only made the decision a few years ago, and you’d hoped to continue along that path now. What was being proposed sounded like the standard, ‘take part in criminal activities, keep your mouth shut, gain reward’ offer, but you couldn’t quite be sure when there was so much coded language. You were certain you were reading it correctly, though. You couldn’t outright reject the proposal, not when Matt had been so thorough in his warning, but you weren’t going to accept it out of hand either. Not anymore.

“I’ve worked with people with resources in the past,” you said vaguely, following his lead and allowing what you were actually saying to linger under the surface. If he were anywhere as competent as you thought, he’d read you just fine. “Trouble still came knocking. It always does.”

He nodded amicably. “I can see how you might be distrustful. And while your previous employer is respectable in his own right, certain parties in New York would be willing to promise you access to more than what was available even during your time in Los Angeles.”

“More?” You arched one brow, reluctantly intrigued despite yourself.

“More resources. More opportunities. More freedom. Though primarily what you’d be most interested in, I believe, is more protection.” He emphasized the last word meaningfully, drawing it out and gesturing outwards from your window towards the city. There was no mistaking what his implication was: ‘You ran in Los Angeles, but you wouldn’t have to here.’

You leaned back in your chair, your eyes widening. There were plenty of people—eager, wealthy clients usually—who’d promised you the moon, but very few were powerful enough that they had a chance of actually following through when it came to the cold reality. If Matt was right, and Fisk really did have access to… to the money that would buy politicians, judges, and cops… was it possible he’d be able to keep the Man in the White Coat at bay?

“That’s an impressive claim, if you know what I think you know.” You gnawed the inside of your cheek. God, the impulse was there to say yes and snatch the offer up before it could be retracted, just so you could see if this was the one time someone might pull it off. There was a time when you’d probably have accepted it immediately, but those days were behind you. You couldn’t do it, even if a small part of you shouted that you were a fool to turn down an opportunity of this magnitude.

“There’s no need to accept this now,” he said smoothly, holding up a placating hand. “I’ve been instructed to inform you this is a standing offer, with no pressure or timeline. Our current arrangement is acceptable. You might consider this… a gift, one you may accept from us at any time in the future. I think you’ll find, as time goes by, that we’re more than capable of handling any issues that might arise.” 

So they were planning something, though they must have known you couldn’t talk about that realization with anyone either. It was hard enough resisting the urge to stay in New York, but this was a temptation just as fraught with danger, a path you might never be able to escape once you started down it. And for them it was nothing but a waiting game: you might have rejected the offer for now, but things would change. All they had to do was allow the days to pass until eventually, inevitably, the Man in the White Coat came knocking. And then, well… it was clear where they were placing their bets when it came to your desperation. 

“I’m grateful for the offer,” you managed, dropping your eyes from his sharp gaze. You needed to look like you were mulling it over, so it wasn’t a difficult lie since a tiny part of you really was considering it. “I’ll… keep it in mind.”

“Excellent. As for the second matter to discuss—”

Oh, thank god. Yes please, let’s hit an easier topic.

“—I wanted to check in on your condition,” he continued, frowning at you. “Our driver informed us you might have been injured in the unfortunate incident caused by, what are they calling him now? The ‘Devil of Hell’s Kitchen?’”

I am cursed. I am literally cursed. 

He’d mentioned the driver, and not the cops. You had a feeling if he knew that you’d been inside that building, he’d have brought it up. Then again, maybe he was waiting to see if you revealed that little tidbit yourself. This was the discussion you’d originally feared and you kept your face nonchalant even when he mentioned Matt’s new title. You’d learned your own tells over the years. You could walk this tightrope if you were careful. Your palms were growing slick against the arms of your chair though, so you shifted them to your lap before they could give away the adrenaline racing through your veins. “I’m uninjured other than a few scrapes and bumps. Thank you for the concern.”

“I’m glad to hear it,” he said, rising and straightening his cuffs. You stood as well and adjusted your coat sleeves, using the movement to discreetly dry your palms. He always shook hands at the end of your meetings and you didn’t need to advertise just how uneasy you were. “I have to ask, Ms. Hind… did you receive our gift basket? I was told it was delivered.”

So that really was a warning. Huh. 

“I did, and I’m grateful for it. It was very thoughtful.”

“And… the note?”

You shifted awkwardly on your feet, clearing your throat. Why the hell were you embarrassed? No matter how obvious it seemed now, there was no reason for you to have suspected what the note was actually telling you at the time. You figured the truth wouldn’t hurt in this case. “I, uh, fully intended to follow the suggestions, and honestly, had I not needed some crackers to eat with the cheese I probably would have been at home in bed when everything… happened.”

It may have been your rattled nerves, but for some reason the momentary bafflement contained in his startled blink struck you as funny—as if in all his scheming over what items to include in the basket and how to phrase the deliberately suggestive note, he’d never stopped to consider that something as mundane as a lack of crackers might be the deciding factor in what kept you home and safe. It was just such a normal mistake to make, and ‘normal’ was not a word you would have thought you’d ever ascribe to Mr. Winter. 

He may have been a dangerous criminal, but you couldn’t resist the corner of your mouth turning up as you stifled your grin. He noticed your reaction and for the first time you could remember in all your meetings, he actually laughed. Oh, it didn’t sound like a typical laugh; he wasn’t the type to do something so gauche as open his mouth wide to laugh or, dare you say, giggle. Instead, it was a short exhalation, combined with amused hmm that rippled its way up and down the tonal scale.

The reminder that he was human, just like you, capable of mistakes and miscalculations, was something you’d sorely needed. Because if he was human, well… you could do this.  

He held his hand out to shake yours and his smile seemed a little more genuine than it had been at the start of your meeting. “I’ll make a note of that should I send any further baskets containing that assortment.”

-x-

You peered down from your position on the roof, leaning against the parapet. From where you were situated atop the multi-story office building, you had a clear line of sight towards the parking garage two blocks down. Though the sun had gone down, the cement beneath you was still warm, the heat radiating up through your boots as you shifted, narrowing your eyes. The thin blue thread you held, as best you could tell, led directly towards the garage. 

“Are you sure?”

You huffed, closing one eye because sometimes it felt like it helped, and shifted your head back and forth to confirm the thread’s trail again. You had it pulled taut, and the angle seemed right, a razor-straight line towards what was hopefully the target.  “I mean, it’s not like I can grab another thread to find out, D.” 

You and Matt had originally traced one Leland Owlsley to a ritzy, upscale office building. Or at least, that was where he conducted his legal activities on paper. Your gut told you he didn’t spend much time there, because there were relatively few threads trailing out the gleaming windows that lined two walls of his corner office. You’d have thought a money guy would be a bit more materialistic, but if he was keeping a hoard of treasured gems and trophies, he wasn’t storing those items at that particular location. You weren’t even sure what the thread leading from his office connected to up there, but it was small enough that it had taken you roughly forty minutes digging through threads in an alley before you’d snagged one of the connecting lines, all as Matt stood guard. It had taken you and Matt even longer to follow the thread to Owlsley himself where he was lurking like a weirdo in this parking garage. 

Even now, you couldn’t risk closing your third eye. If you did, you’d lose the thread, and then you’d have to backtrack to the office to start all over again. A cab would have made things easier, quicker, but Matt had insisted it was safer to stay on the streets, and that was fair. You didn’t need any record of your movements tonight, caught via taxi cam or the notice of a curious driver. Matt also needed to stay roofside, considering how many people were looking for the Devil after the bombings. 

At least it was after nightfall now and the threads stood out more boldly against the gloom. Threads always glowed, of course, and Hell’s Kitchen was never truly dark, but even the slight reduction in illumination made it easier to see them over long distances. That was important since Matt wasn’t allowing you any closer than two blocks.

“I’m going to go down there and see what I can get from him,” Matt told you, setting his gloved hand against your back between your shoulder blades. He’d followed your instructions to the letter tonight, never so much as edging into your peripheral vision. It had been one of your conditions before you’d started: you cannot come into my line of sight, Matt. I mean it. “Can you—”

“Keep hold of the thread?” You resisted the urge to rub at your eyes. There was a headache building back there somewhere, and it was going to be a nightmare if you were at this much longer. This continuous kind of focus was difficult to maintain at times, and you’d been under an inordinate amount of stress lately. Some nights your third eye just… hurt the longer you kept it open. But this needed to be done, and if Owlsley got away before Matt could nab him, you needed to be able to track him to his new location. It was the only option you had if Matt was going to get what he needed tonight. “Got it. I can’t look that way since you’re going down there but I’ll turn myself around and hold onto it. Just, you know, don’t sneak up on me or anything.”

“I promise.” He dragged his hand soothingly down your spine and then he was gone, no doubt disappearing off into the dark like the ninja he was. He needed to get down there before Owlsley got away. 

You gave him to the count of ten before shutting your physical eyes. You did a half turn away from the parking garage, the soles of your boots scraping across the ground, before you lowered yourself to a seated position. You stretched, spine popping as you groaned, and leaned back against the wall. Then you toyed with the blue thread wrapped around your finger as you took in the threads around you. 

By closing your physical eyes, you’d removed all the typical surrounding visual stimuli: buildings, the ground, the sky. Yet the threads around you remained startlingly visible, richly incandescent against the blackness behind your closed eyelids. If you did it just right, it was possible to navigate based on the threads alone, using the way they vanished into buildings and objects as a way to avoid the obstacles around you. Then again, it wasn’t something you could do all that often, in part because it seemed to drain you faster than using your actual eyes to navigate.

You grimaced at another throb of sharp pain somewhere in your skull. You pinched the bridge of your nose, trying to relieve it. You were gonna take a break for a few weeks when you finally left New York. Give your talent a chance to rest. You’d been using it more and more lately, first at work and now with Matt in your spare time. It was a muscle like any other, you assumed, but surely it could use a day off every now and then.

You were abruptly jerked from your thoughts when someone kicked your boot, prodding at you. You snapped your eyes open, catching the shadow of a figure off to your left. You tried to scramble to your feet, but another casual kick knocked your legs out from under you and dropped you back on your ass again. 

“So this is the infamous Hound of Los Angeles, huh? Can’t say I’m impressed.”

Standing above you was an old man, tinted shades hiding the eyes of a hardened, lined face. He looked as sharp as razor wire, with hands more scarred than any you’d seen, though they clutched his cane in an easy grip. He had a look of distant disgruntlement as if he’d assigned you a childishly easy test and you’d failed ten seconds in, on top of setting the paper on fire. His well-placed aim should have been more shocking, considering he appeared to be blind. Instead, you ended up catching on what you could see with your third eye.

By all appearances, he had no threads. None. Nada. Zip. And yet that was an impossibility. Everyone had at least one thread, whether it was a connection to an item or their mother or, hell, a dog that had smelled them on a walk and decided they seemed like a great person worthy of love. You should have seen green or blue at the very least—the sullen, grassy green of a one-way connection; or a mild, sky-blue fondness for an old car. Instead of threads though, this man had… a grey cloudiness around him that burned your vision if you looked at it too long. Shifting inside it was a color you had no words for: a rippling, opalescent edging that devoured the light from all the threads nearby and sent your gaze spiraling away from him on sheer instinct.

You didn’t know how but somehow he’d shielded himself from you, a blank void in your vision that made no fucking sense.

He snorted at your baffled expression. “Let me guess. You’re confused. ” His tone was mocking, and it raised your hackles in a flash. “Christ, all that time in Project Beagle taught you nothing. Look at you, you got no fucking idea what you’re doing.”

It was the name that finally brought you to your feet with a snarl. Those two words were something you’d spent your life running from, and they had you instantly alert and ready for a fight. “You think—”

“And,” he cut you off, “you still got this thing half-closed, dumbass.” His hand darted up, and he flicked one contemptuous, calloused finger against your forehead. It stung, but then abruptly—

Everything.

Blazed.

White.

After that, things got a little fuzzy.

You weren’t when you hit the ground, or how long you sprawled there, gazing out past the walls and buildings to marvel at the brilliant display of light you could now see. 

You’d thought… you’d thought you’d known your colors: red, orange, yellow, green, blue. It was a system you’d memorized well, and a system that hadn’t changed since the first moment you’d managed to open that part of yourself. Those colors were as familiar to you as the back of your hand, and you could identify a thread’s color by touch alone. Now, though, there were more colors.

There was white, pure and warm and clean; black, sullen and seething; rich royal purples, earth browns, and charred strands of grey. You had… no idea what these new shades meant. You blinked absently, focusing on some of the threads running by your head. Even the old colors showed a change. Within each thread, you saw now, was a current: a rippling little stream, one that sometimes carried additional colors that speared their way through the heart of the thread as a whole. You could see how the threads changed color now, how they progressed from one shade to the next. Threads were composed of tinier threads—orange within yellow, red within orange, an inexorable march towards true connection.

You dragged your finger over an orange thread and snatches of emotion came to you more clearly than they ever had before, whispers of affection that threatened to pull you under. It felt like the thread actually wanted to draw you in. Could you really get sucked in like that? Tugged under like you’d been caught in a riptide, stretched thin until you could slither inside the thread itself?

Oh god, am I high? What is this?

That thought sent your mind drifting outwards, coasting along with your senses in search of something to ground you.

“—at did you do to her?!”

“Nothin’! Just opened that puny little eye of hers a little further. You should be thanking me—”

“She’s bleeding out of her nose and ears!”

“‘S not permanent, kid. If anything it’ll help her. Never seen an eye as weak as that one—"

Matt?

Were you really bleeding? You dragged your cheek against the concrete below you and wrinkled your nose. Ok, the ground under your head was kind of… a little warmer and wetter than it should be. God, you hadn’t bled from the nose at seeing threads since you were a kid. That was unexpected. At least it didn’t seem like the fountain it had been back then; this was just a trickle. There wasn’t even a puddle in front of you.

“—an you hear me?”

A gloved hand brushed your shoulder, and another carefully stroked your hair back away from your face before starting to tilt your face upwards. The light around you began to change, something so, so bright just beyond your sight. 

Matt?

“Nope,” you croaked, suddenly scrambling out of his hold as awareness crept back in. You swung your head away from Matt despite the way it made your head throb like someone had just clubbed you with a goddamn bat, and you cast your eyes out into the distance where it was safe. “Can’t look, can’t-can’t look, nope, nope, won’t.”

God, you wanted to hurl now that you were moving and you shuddered on your hands and knees, everything out of balance as a sea of threads shifted and wobbled around you in a sickening, spinning merry-go-round of asshole-induced fuckery.

Fuck, how do I turn this off? It was as if whatever switch inside your head you could normally use to flip your third eye open or shut had been smeared with superglue, and now you were left to smash frantically at it with a mental hammer in hopes of forcing it off via brute force. Off, off, off, lights off please.

“See? She’s fine!”

“Her heart’s racing a million miles a minute, Stick.”

“If she can’t even handle a little tap, then you two are in way more fuckin’ trouble than I thought, kid.”

You ground your teeth together, lifting up a hand to grind it against your forehead with a hiss. If that obnoxious old man had hit you there to turn it on, then maybe you could turn it off the same way because you needed this to stop. At the very least, having your hand there seemed to block out some of the light that had become mind-numbingly brilliant, leaking in around the edges of your protective hand. 

“Christ, you gotta pick stronger allies.”

“That’s enough! I’m taking her home, and then you’re going to—”

“I’m fine,” you mumbled, pressing at your forehead so hard you were surprised you didn’t break the skin as you finally, finally managed to shut your third eye and the world went dark. Really dark, actually. The sudden absence of all that light almost made your actual eyes water. You touched the skin just below your nose, fingers coming back stained with what looked like tar. You presumed it was meant to be red, and your eyes hadn’t quite readjusted yet. Everything looked so muted without those threads. You really hoped your ability had a dimmer switch and this wasn’t a permanent change. “Turned it off, I’m fine. We can-can calm down now.”

“You’re not fine," Matt growled, tone furious as he helped guide you to your feet. You’d probably be fucking pissed later too, but right now you kind of just wanted to go sleep for… a week, maybe, or a month. Your brain was chugging along at a snail’s pace, like you’d been up for three days straight with no sleep and had found time to run a 5k in between. “You’re bleeding and you can’t stop shaking. I’m taking you home and then you,” he directed that towards the old man standing smugly off to one side, “you’re going to meet me back at my apartment. First the parking garage and now this?”

“Yeah yeah.” You got the feeling the old man was rolling his eyes, and he held up his hands sarcastically like you’d turned a gun on him. “Big bad Stick, doing what needs to be done. You take your little girlfriend home. When you’re ready to talk about something that actually matters, you come find me at your place.”

The old man turned and let his cane skitter and tap its way off as Matt pulled you around to face him. He removed his gloves and took your face in his hands, tipping your head back to get a good sense of you. His jaw clenched as he carefully wiped some of the blood off your chin with his thumb before he slid his fingers further up towards your temples, focusing. You blinked tired eyes up at him. This was probably more about reassuring him than you. 

“‘M ok, Matt.”

“You’re bleeding,” he repeated, more quietly now without an audience. His hands slid back down, his fingertips sweeping gently over your throat. To check your breathing, maybe; you weren’t sure what he was looking for, but you let him do it without protesting, keeping your head tilted back where he’d directed you.

“Normal,” you started, swallowing copper and holding in a cough. Some of the blood in your nose must have leaked down the back of your throat and upon realizing it, Matt swore and tipped your head gently forward so it drained out instead. It was kind of embarrassing just letting the blood drip from you onto the concrete like this but the firm hold Matt had on you told you there would be no arguments. “Used to, ugh, to… nosebleed during thread experiments. As a… a kid.”

His inhale was sharp somewhere above your head, stirring your hair as he murmured darkly, “You never told me that.” You were glad you couldn’t see his face, because his tone told you there was something he was feeling you didn’t want to think too much about. He’d filed that one away for later, you thought.

You nodded slightly, before slowly dropping your head. Your forehead landed against the solid warmth of his chest with a dull thump as the bleeding finally slowed to a stop. He settled one hand against the back of your neck, skimming a thumb over the aching knots hiding in the tendons. “Long time ago. Last time I-hnngh.” You swallowed hard as he did it again, digging his thumb in with a precise pressure that managed to unravel the knot he’d found. You shuddered and leaned into him further, trying not to slur as his chest rose and fell in a brief chuckle. “When I try something new. Happens then.”

He squeezed lightly. “So like when you’re… using a new muscle?”

“Mm,” you agreed, resisting the urge to arch up into his hand like a cat. At least some of the fuzz clouding your thoughts was finally beginning to clear away. “Didn’t know… someone else could mess with that. ‘S freaky, want to freak out. Might be too tired. Will keep you updated.”

“I didn’t know either,” Matt said thoughtfully, and he shifted under your forehead as if he’d turned to focus on something else. “I’ll talk to him. But you, we need to get you home.”

You gestured vaguely back over your shoulder, not looking up. “Money guy?”

“Got away.” His irritated huff bounced your head against his chest where you'd faceplanted. “For now. But I can find him again another night.”

“Hnng.”

He shook his head and got an arm around you, starting to guide you towards the door that would lead down to the street as you blearily tried to wipe the blood from your face. “Once we’re far enough away from here, we’ll get you a cab so you won’t have to walk.”

“You can’t be seen, D,” you objected wearily where you were slumped against him. “Can’t be streetside.”

“There’s an alley we can follow for a few blocks. One way, no cars on it. Trust me.”

You sighed, but, well, you were tired, and your brain was fuzzy, and you did trust him, didn’t you? “Always do, D. Always do.”

-x-

The trip home was a blur, and you were glad you had the weekend to sleep in, because you didn’t wake up until the next day at around noon. 

You sighed, opening your eyes to the sunshine and—

Fuck!

Threads, threads everywhere, dazzling and flashing and too fucking bright, ow ow ow—

You passed a hand over your forehead, trying to close that sense off, but all it did was make the colors flicker. Another tap had the new colors disappearing, leaving you with only the old. You bared your teeth and hissed as you rapped at your head a few more times like you were flipping through a series of annoying TV channels until you finally managed to close yourself off. 

You sagged back against your bed and groaned. 

What had that old guy done to you? You may not have had your full mental faculties back yet—that would probably take a few more nights’ sleep, if your past experiences with the progression of your abilities was anything to go by—but you were better off than yesterday and could actually contemplate the weirdness of it all. You’d never met someone who could… who could see threads like you. Then again, he’d never indicated that he could see threads. All he’d really done was poke you in the third eye as unerringly as anything you’d ever seen. 

The blind part didn’t freak you out. Not after knowing Matt. It was the rest of it that bothered you. 

He’d been able to target your eye. He could block threads. On top of that, he’d called you… You shuddered involuntarily. Those were two titles you’d done your best to forget over the years, and he’d tagged you on both. Matt’s discussion had hopefully been fruitful last night because you had far more questions than answers right now. Not that you could ask Matt how the old man knew those titles. That… discussion wasn’t one you were going to bring up with Matt on your own. If he didn’t ask, you wouldn’t tell. 

You’d have to leave a message for Matt before you headed out to run your errands today. Not that you were certain you could get through them. Your rough wake-up hadn’t been a good sign, but you were approaching your Run By date at lightning speed and you had things you needed to get squared away that couldn’t wait.

Well, this is going to be fun.

Except that it wasn’t fun. Not at all. 

It started at the grocery store. You were examining the ingredients list on a metallic tea tin, wondering at whether you might take some with you in a few weeks, when a sneeze abruptly sent threads blazing to life like God himself had just pulled another, ‘Let there be light!’ You yelped at the sudden explosion of brilliance and dropped the tin with a loud crash. Apparently, the lid wasn’t closed, either, because a fine cloud of tea leaves shot up into the air around you. The sudden noise, in turn, spooked the elderly woman next to you, who dropped her tin with an equally noisy crash and sent more tea into the air. 

“Sorry, I’m so—” and, fuck, you couldn’t see the goddamn tin because threads were all over the floor. You reached down, trying to surreptitiously sweep the threads away so you could see the ground. You sneezed again, and most of the threads vanished, leaving only blue. You spotted your tea tin rolling around a few feet away. Aha, there you are, you bastard. Yet another sneeze, however, turned everything back on—am I allergic to this tea?! Come on!—and you lost sight of it again. You were left groping around and clasping at nothing but air. “I, um, I just—”

The elderly woman squinted down at you as she shuffled past. “Whatever you’re on,” she chortled, hobbling over and pulling her own tin from the sea of threads like some kind of magic trick, “consider sharing next time. Trips are always better with two. Take it from an old hippy.” Then she picked up your tin, and plopped it back into your hands before pushing her cart away.

In hindsight, you should have just gone home right then. 

Things weren’t much better at the post office, where you made the mistake of scratching at your forehead as you moved forward in line. Next thing you knew, mid-step, you discovered that the middle-aged couple in front of you must have had at least fifty close friends, and twice as many acquaintances. You were so distracted by the sudden blaze of light that you faltered in your steps, the momentary slip sending you stumbling into a rack of postcards. You only barely stopped the display from crashing down onto the head of a small child who’d been walking by with his mother. You, however, were left with at least three paper cuts.

Then there was the library. A distracted frown at someone shouting down the street pulled at something in your forehead, which in turn somehow blinked your third eye open. That led to you walking right into the glass window next to the door with such a resounding crash that the librarians came running to check on you.

You called it quits for the day after that; you just needed to get home.

But even that wasn’t simple. As you headed for a crosswalk, just two blocks from your apartment, some asshole blared his car horn as he sped by. That, in turn, caused another predictable shift, and the threads were so bright you couldn’t see the curb. Naturally, you misjudged it, and unceremoniously face-planted in the street. You weren’t sure if the nosebleed was from opening your third eye or if you’d just bashed your nose in.

You had a miserable day, in short. Courtesy of one horrible, rotten old man who’d skyrocketed to the top of your shit list. If he were on fire, you’d chug water just to go piss somewhere else and let him burn.

Maybe you’d drink yourself unconscious tonight instead. 

It was a good plan. Even if the alcohol fucked with your third eye, you could tie a blanket around your head and then you could get some peace. And here, tucked away inside your apartment, you were relatively safe from the threads of others. There was no one around, nothing but you and your TV, some takeout and some booze. You flipped through streaming options until you had something suitably mindless and distracting. 

Someone slammed a door down the hall and you growled when your third eye snapped open. You’d gotten a slightly better handle on closing it today, and now the threads dropping through the ceiling and passing through your walls were at least slightly less mind-numbingly bright—a seven instead of a ten on the illumination scale. Even at a seven, though, they were still annoying. You closed your eyes and drew in a few deep breaths. You’d found if you were calm, it was easier to close off that part of you.

The threads shimmered and disappeared. You went back to your box of lo mein, feeling a little more confident.

Tap tap tap. Tap. Tap tap.

“Goddamn it,” you coughed, choking on noodles as your third eye fluttered open again. “Fuck, shit—”

“I take it that means you don’t want me to come in,” Matt said through the window you’d cracked open behind you.

“Fuck,” you hissed, darting from your living area into the kitchen so you had a shield between the both of you. With the layout of your apartment, the kitchen was straight ahead from the window he was entering. That would have been bad if there wasn’t a conveniently placed counter that ran along the long edge of the kitchen area. You hid behind that counter now, blocking Matt from sight as you frantically tapped at your forehead. “No! No, um, just give me a minute.”

Off, off, off—

Now all you were doing was flicking through settings again. Bright, dim, bright, dim, some fucking color I can’t describe, only blue, bright, dim—

“You realize I can hear what you’re doing, right?”

You gave a strangled laugh. “Oh, I’m embarrassingly aware, but I’ve had a shit day and that concern ranks low on the list. Trying to turn this thing off, hang on.”

The window slid open further and panic surged inside you as you threw your head back. You couldn’t tilt your head down to face the floor, not like this, because you might see your own threads spilling out of your chest when everything was this lit up. You also couldn’t look too far up because you might see his.

“Breathe,” he told you from the other side of your apartment, the wood sill creaking like it always did when he perched on it with a grace and ease that was, quite frankly, ridiculous because who even knew how to do that? “I’m not inside. I’ll leave if you… if you want me to.”

There was something vulnerable there, a fragile undercurrent running quietly underneath. You could feel it in your bones, in the way his tone wavered at the end before he swallowed it down. That hesitancy changed things. If he needed to talk, then you were going to get a firm grasp on this so you could listen to him without spending the entire discussion in a state of panic. 

“I don’t want you to leave,” you said quickly, before you could change your mind. “Just can’t, um, I can’t look, so if you could keep out of my vision, that would be perfect.”

Except you’ve trapped yourself in the kitchen and can’t come out of it without looking at him, you complete and utter ass.

He was quiet for a moment, and part of you was hoping he’d turn around and leave, because while you had no idea what his senses were showing him exactly, you had no doubt it probably seemed a little unhinged. Then again, maybe he’d seen worse. You heard the sound of the window closing… and then the creak of his footsteps as he deliberately let you track his movement. A moment later, the tv went quiet. 

God, whatever Matt’s threads were, they must be brighter than any you’d seen before. His very presence in the room was causing a shift in the ambient light patterns along the wall above you, as if he were radiating his very own aurora borealis. You were briefly mystified, eyes darting to follow as the colors flowed and ebbed like the tide, a mingling of the light from his threads and that from other threads that passed through your apartment’s ceiling and walls.

Stop looking.

You hastily averted your eyes, dropping your gaze just far enough to stare at the fridge across from you.

His footsteps paused on the other side of the counter behind you, and that itch in your chest had returned. He was close, so very close now. You sucked in a deep breath, trying to calm yourself. He wouldn’t… wouldn’t break your trust by forcing you to see him. That wasn’t who Matt was. Even if he’d wanted to do otherwise, he’d always respected your choices in the past. He’d never taken more than you were willing to give, never abused your trust.

He made a soft, thoughtful sound. “Can you turn about ninety degrees to your right?”

You frowned at the fridge but reluctantly did so, listening to his footsteps as he shifted to follow your back. Now you were facing down towards the end of the small kitchen, with the opening behind you. He made his way towards you, scuffing his boots on the tile, and you instinctively stiffened in wariness. He paused again, and then continued even more slowly until he was right behind you, a burning heat at your back. You weren’t sure what he was doing until he settled down behind you, his back brushing yours. He was mirroring you, facing away from you as you were him. Something about it comforted you and you let out a shaky sigh, leaning back against him. The warm strength of him at your back felt good, and you let your aching eyes return to tracking the shifting patterns of light on the wall. 

“Your nose bled again earlier,” he said softly. “There’s a little now.”

You reached up to the counter without looking, feeling around for the paper towels you kept there. After a second, his arm came up and he nudged them towards you until you could pull them down. You ripped one off and held it against your nose to catch the dribble of blood. You also went back to trying to close your third eye. Matt’s presence was calming, and that seemed to help. Panic was the enemy of learning and control.

“Been having problems with it all day,” you mumbled, your voice muffled. “On, off, on, off, like a switch I can’t get my fingers on. Don’t suppose you noticed an off switch the other night when you were checking my head out.”

“You’re asking the blind guy? I’m just as liable to hit an on switch as an off switch unless you’re hiding braille on you somewhere.”

“Very funny.” You swatted lightly at his hand where he'd reached around to brush against the sensitive skin below your ear.

“I thought so.”

“Well, since we’re out of luck on-off switches or braille, how’d that conversation with the old guy go?”

You could feel his rumble of discontent against your back, all that hard, lean muscle passing the tremor on to you where you were pressed against him. “Stick. He’s—”

“The fact his name is Stick somehow strikes me as the least weird part of this.”

“You have no idea.”

“No wonder I didn't phase you. You have some interesting friends, Murdock.”

“A friend?” He drew the word out slowly, as if he was testing it out for the first time and wasn’t sure it would fit. Then the bitterness crept in. ”I guess you could call him that.” 

That sounded complicated, but without being able to see him, you didn’t have much to go on: just his voice and the feel of him at your back. He’d tensed up, that much you could feel: rolling his shoulders as he shifted and sighed. 

“He is… was my old mentor.”

The past tense correction seemed significant, dragged from him with no small amount of pain. You reached over your shoulder to brush your fingers against him. “You wanna talk about it?”

“I…” The shaky breath he took shuddered through you. “He needed my help. I tried, but he… he killed someone. So we fought, and then he left. Again. That’s all.”

No, that’s not all. 

His words may have said one thing, but the unsteadiness in his voice was what gave him away. It rang with the heavy, agonizing weight of a broken history, of pain and low blows and barely healed wounds. Matt just couldn’t catch a break; was never given a moment to breathe before the next cut came and sliced deep. He didn’t give you a chance to say anything, though, before he quickly moved on, as if he’d said more than he intended to. “He claimed all he did was… was open whatever you had a little wider. He said you’d be grateful.”

“Pretty sure he was just trolling me,” you muttered, getting a startled laugh from Matt as you checked the wad of paper towels to see if your nose was done dripping blood. It seemed fine so you lobbed the stained, crumpled mess into the bin against the wall. “I couldn’t see his threads, Matt.”

That got a sharp inhale behind you. “None? He-he didn’t have any—”

“No, no!” You waved a hand, seeing where that would have led him. You were eager to cut him off before he could spiral. You wanted to draw him out of a bad mood, not send him into one. “Not like he didn’t have any threads, but like he had… I don’t know. Blocked me from seeing them, somehow. He was all misty around the edges.”

Matt sagged against you, for once letting you hold him up instead of the other way around. The motion tasted like relief, and you let his reaction pass without comment. You were going to have to talk to him about the shielding thing later, when he was in a better place mentally.

Except I won’t be talking to him about this. Because by the time he might be willing to talk… I’ll be gone.

It hit you like a punch in the gut, and you covered the shudder with a cough, rubbing at your nose again as if it was just the dried blood bothering you and not… and not the cruel realization you’d just had. It was a testament to how distracted he was that your reaction slipped by him. 

“There was a lot he didn’t teach me,” Matt said pensively. “It would be just like him to learn, I don’t know. How to block something like this.”

“Is that even possible?” And god, if that old man could do something like that, did it mean you could, too? Learn to mask a thread so it couldn’t be tracked? That would be a game changer, a life-altering talent. If you could block threads, you could stop the Man in the White Coat from tracking you. You could… could stay here.

The sudden welling up of hope was one you crushed back down as quickly as it had appeared. How many times in your life had you thought you’d found a promising lead, only to end up at yet another dead end? They never panned out, nothing but traps in your path designed to slow you down. Even if you could learn, who knew how long that would take? That guy was ancient; for all you knew, it had taken him fifty-plus years to figure it out. And that was all assuming it wasn’t just innate talent.

Your head ached. You reached up to rub at your forehead and the threads around you flickered out, dropping you into the comforting darkness again. “For now I’d just be grateful if I could keep this thing turned off,” you mumbled. “I'm good now, by the way, but no guarantees, so just…”

“I’ll stay behind you.”

You dropped your head back against his shoulder with a sigh, letting his slow inhalations lull you into relaxation. It was warm outside but here in your apartment, it was pleasant enough. The tile was cool beneath you, under your hands where you pressed them flat to the floor. Matt, in turn, was a comforting bonfire at your back and under your head, all heat and lean muscle holding you up.

“I’m glad you’re still here,” he said softly.

“Hmm?” 

“I said…” He hesitated. “I was worried that you might… that this might spook you. Stick, and… and what he did. I know you’ve had to run before. But you’re still here.”

You closed your eyes, and the knife inside you twisted deeper. 

You hated this. You hated this so fucking much because with every step you took, you failed to distance yourself. Now here you both were, twisted up. He was going to be cut deep because of you. And why? Because you were weak. You were weak and pathetic, helpless when it came to Matt and the way you felt around him. It was a ridiculous, childish longing for something you were well aware you couldn’t have no matter how much he offered it to you. You’d learned this, over and over and over, and yet here you were again.  

You only had a few weeks left. You had to say something. You had to warn him.

I’m going to leave.

I won't be able to see you again.

I’m sorry.

I’m sorry.

I’m sorry—

“I can’t promise I’ll be here forever.” It was all you could manage to force out. Anything further felt too much like baring your soul. But while you couldn’t quite bring yourself to say what you wanted, you still did your best to infuse those few words with as much meaning as you could, until each word, each syllable carried something deeper, emotion overflowing at the edges.

He drew in every last drop, accepting what little you could give.

“I know,” he whispered sadly, tipping his head to rest it against yours where you’d settled on his shoulder. He’d taken off his mask at some point, and now it was just him, just Matt: soft hair, comforting heat, and faint cinnamon. “But you’re here now. Let me… let me have that at least.”

And you did. You sat there with him on the floor, just talking, as the night grew deeper.

You’d let him take as long as he needed.

-x-

Two days later, you found a letter slipped under your door. 

It was too tattered, too messy to have been Mr. Winter’s doing. The paper this letter was written on was dirty, corners folded without any real care: a far cry from the rich card stock of Mr. Winter’s usual correspondences. The writing on this particular letter had been made with a steady hand, but the sizing was slightly jumbled, with no real concern beyond legibility. You glanced over it curiously.

“You probably still think I’m an asshole. But before you throw this out, read the whole fucking thing. It’s the least I deserve after helping you out.”

You narrowed your eyes. That had to be him, that horrid old man who’d jabbed you in the forehead. Help? He thought he’d helped you? All he’d done was poke a finger in your psychic eye and mock you. You really were tempted to just… chuck it out, or maybe light the whole thing on fire. Curiosity got the better of you.

“You and I both know you’re in trouble, and you’re planning to get the hell out, which the kid would have noticed if he’d wanted to. Only smart thing you’ve ever done was cut and run. But you’ve stalled too long and he’s all emotional. You need to break it off. So, here’s a fucking gift: Matty blames himself for everything.”

“No fucking duh, dude,” you muttered. It wasn’t like it was a secret; you’d been well aware of Matt’s tendency towards self-blame. The fact that it was presented as new information to you had you rolling your eyes. The old man had probably snooped in your apartment too if he knew you were planning to run; you’d have to check your go bag to make sure he hadn’t left you any surprises. You read further as you picked at a torn edge along the paper.

“Fortunately for you, that thinking extends to his dear ol’ dad dying, and his mom up and running off before that.”

Your hands froze, and everything in you stood on end. You wanted to stop reading. You shouldn’t… you shouldn’t be reading this. And yet you couldn’t stop yourself, looking on in horror as a bystander might at a car crash.

“You wanna hit Matty where it hurts? There ya go. You hit him with either of those and it’ll hurt. Hit him with both and he’ll be down for the count. Tell him they’re his fault; tell him you’re leavin’ before anything like that can happen to you.”

Jesus, why? Why would anyone give you this kind of ammunition? Why would anyone Matt called a friend… why would they give you the ability to break him so completely and thoroughly? This was something soul-destroying, what you were being directed to do. There would be no recovering from this, should you target Matt this way, strike him right down in the very center-most part of his being.

“Before you get all fucking weepy, you’re doing it for his own good. When you run, you need to cut him off, or he’ll never let that feeling go, and we both know it. Just think about it. You’ve got a few weeks left at least.”

The letter ended there. 

It was a cold, ruthless calculation and the knowledge he’d forced on you sat sour and heavy inside you. You wanted to retch in disgust, as if you could expel what you’d learned like some sort of toxin, but there was no purging it from your system. In one cruel stroke, he’d given you everything you needed to sever your tie with Matt: a silver bullet that would strike him down so quickly you weren’t sure when he’d get up again.

You vowed then, staring down at that horrible letter, that you’d never use that against Matt. Ever. You’d find another way, no matter what you had to do.

Wouldn’t you?

Chapter Text

You needed to get this under control before you left. And for once, you weren’t referring to your… delicate tango with Matt Murdock.

No, it was your ability you were having issues with.  

You’d had more nosebleeds in the past week than you’d had in the past ten years combined. Each time your fingers plucked up a glittering thread, you were damn near overwhelmed with a powerful rush of emotion that left you gasping for air. You had no idea what all the new, puzzling colors meant. And while you’d made some improvement, your third eye still had the maddening habit of opening at the most inopportune moments, though at least now you didn’t startle and drop whatever you were holding. 

You had one week to figure it out. And then… you were gone. 

You’d already laid the groundwork. You’d paid cash for multiple bus tickets to a number of randomized locations—with each bus departing on the same day. You’d only choose your bus on the day of departure, thus beginning a series of seemingly random and convoluted jumps that would eventually take you to Seattle where you’d settle in. Most of your excess funds had already gone into your various savings accounts scattered around the world, but what little you did keep under the name Jane Hind you shifted around. You always left a portion behind when you ran—draining your whole account in one day was too suspicious—but if you were careful over the next few days and didn’t stall, you could pull out enough cash to keep yourself going until you made it to somewhere a little more permanent. Your go-bag under the floorboards was packed; all you needed was a little more cash, and a few other items you didn’t need to toss in until you were ready to leave. 

And yet, there were certain tasks on your lengthy to-do list that you were avoiding. 

You’d hesitated to write the letters and emails that had long been a customary step of your traditional escape ritual. You should have written the messages, filling them with all the toxic words and carefully calculated insults that would cut the deepest before you prepared to send them off to their intended targets. You should have scheduled the emails and letters to be delivered on the day of your departure. It was an insurance policy to ensure that you’d have no connections left when the time came and that you had no reason to stay. Why remain, after all, when you’d burned every bridge in town as surely as if you’d soaked them in gasoline and lit the match? Lingering over the smouldering ashes would only bring more pain.

You especially should have ignored Matt when he sought you out during those warm, late summer nights. You should have sent him away or slammed the window in his face. Up on the rooftops when you were both hunting your quarry across Hell’s Kitchen, it was easier to remain strong, to avoid him. It was different when he appeared at your window, and you could never bring yourself to tell him to get lost. All you had to do was order him to leave you alone, and he would. You knew he would. It wouldn’t take much effort at all, not when he was so prepared to blame himself for any perceived mistakes. Instead, you’d turn your eyes away, and the invitation to come inside would spill out before you could stop yourself. 

Even without the knowledge that the horrible old man had given you, there was a laundry list of cruel things you could say to Matt. Less life-destroying things, perhaps; words that cut less deeply, but they’d leave the mark you’d intend. He’d given you more than enough ammunition, bared himself to you in enough ways that you could make the calculation if you wanted to. It would be so easy to hit him there and watch the stunned agony blossom across his face as bright as any thread before he hid the pain away and left you for good. Then you could… abandon him, just like the others in his past had. 

You should have ticked off the boxes on your to-do list with an ease that spoke to your years of practice. Only you didn’t. You didn’t lash out at Matt, didn’t move enough of your money, didn’t write those letters because… because it wasn’t time. That was all. 

You weren’t stalling. It was different here. That was what it was. It was different since you had... friends, and if you didn’t time things right, they’d come knocking before you were gone. Then things would be awkward, or they’d delay your escape. You were avoiding any unnecessary conversation that could sway you to remain. 

If only you could believe it. 

-x-

You still had to play the part, and Jane Hind’s routines couldn’t change, not yet. Too much change too early and those around you would become suspicious. Suspicion naturally led to digging, and were they to dig deep enough to unearth what you were planning, well, that was a problem. 

So you walked. You hunted. You slept. And you worked.

The last assisted in letting you stay busy, which you were grateful for since it kept you from having to answer too many questions. You’d mostly been out on item hunts lately—pawned rings, a stolen car, a lost phone—for your usual clients, along with a few odd jobs for Mr. Winter hunting down god-knew-what in boxes you didn’t look too closely at. Matt had followed you on those cases, or you’d thought he had. He couldn’t tell you, of course, and you couldn’t ask, because to do so would break the contract. You couldn’t even tell him when Mr. Winter had assigned you a job. As far as you could tell, Matt just… knew. 

After those cases, Matt would always come by late at night once the bustling city was as quiet and peaceful as it would ever be. He’d talk a little, sometimes just while he perched on your window sill and you sat on the couch, facing away. Eventually, he’d pick up whatever non-verbal clues he needed from you and head back out. Other times he’d enter your apartment, prowling around the space behind your back, searching for… you weren’t sure what, without being able to see him. When he was restless like that, he’d end the visit by brushing his fingers against your shoulder. You’d hear a soft inhale like there was something he wanted to say. And you desperately wanted him to, wanted him to call you out on leaving so you’d have a chance to stay.

He never did. Just disappeared back out into the city.

One week. 

One week to go, and you were stuck in the office filling out paperwork and fighting a massive headache when there was a knock at your door. 

“Come in,” you mumbled, scribbling through forms as quickly as you could. One of the few changes you’d made to your current behavior was finally tackling the paperwork you usually avoided. When you finally disappeared, having all this done would make it easier for Maya to take on your former clients. To help ease the transition, you were ensuring she had as much information as possible. 

“So this is a psychic office, huh? Thought it would have more, I don’t know. Crystal balls. Tarot decks! Maybe some incense?”

You couldn’t help the little grin that pulled the corners of your mouth up as Foggy eagerly poked around, examining the shelves and art along the walls. “All that stuff’s out being cleaned today. Come back tomorrow. You’ll be more impressed I’m sure.”

You avoided looking up at him. You’d gotten very good at resisting the urge to make eye contact this past week. While Matt was your main concern, it was best to avoid seeing the threads of anyone else you were friendly with, and Foggy definitely qualified. With him standing in front of you and you in a seated position, any friendly threads between you would dart right up into your line of sight should you glance up. Not only that, but with your current lack of control, you hadn’t quite managed to fine-tune the illumination level of your second sight yet and that kind of glaring brightness would only make your headache worse. Or set off another nosebleed, which might stain the paperwork, and then you’d have to start all over and where would you be then?  

“You shoulda kept the crystal ball at the very least. Then you would’ve known I was coming. Bad form, Jane. What would the other psychics say?” He plopped into the chair across from you with a theatrical sigh, and you risked directing your gaze a bit lower down your desk. It would bring you closer to your own threads should your third eye open, but it was at least farther away from Foggy. “Seriously, this place is nice, though. All these big windows! Don’t suppose you have any spare office spaces for a couple of lawyers?”

You’re welcome to it when I’m gone.

You clucked your tongue. “‘Fraid not. Not unless you’re willing to get rid of me.”

“You look like you’re about ready to keel over anyway,” he said sympathetically and you grimaced. “You been sick? You’ve canceled three meetings now. Wanted to check in.”

You drummed your fingers and dug around in your desk for more aspirin as you considered telling him the truth. Truth for you was always a calculation, but it wasn’t like you were going to be here much longer, and he already knew about your abilities anyway. It couldn’t hurt. “Dealing with problems with this.” You tapped a finger lightly at your temple, indicating your second sight. One thing you had quickly learned was to avoid any careless touches to your forehead. That seemed to force your third eye to open, and that always ended up being a lot more painful than trying to open or close it naturally without prodding. “Things are brighter than they should be. New colors. And it’s been opening without warning.”

“Is that why you’re not looking at me?”

You popped an aspirin and washed it down with a few swallows of your cold coffee, taking your time to answer. It always amazed you how easily Foggy snuck under the radar. There was a razor-sharp intelligence hiding behind the shaggy hair and beaming grin. It was always a surprise when he let it show, like now when he’d accurately honed in on your mood and reasoning. Fortunately, you could spin your answer in a way that would help you redirect the conversation. You’d been canceling meetings yes, both because of the threads but also because you were leaving soon. He didn’t need to know about the latter; the former would be more than enough.  “I don’t want to see anything, yeah. I’ve been avoiding people.”

“I mean, I wouldn’t mind if you look.” His arms raised in your peripheral. He’d probably held his hands up in a shrug. “What secrets could a guy like me have? I probably just got the usual. Friend strings, family strings—although my family is quite large—and my unhealthy fondness for the bagels at Leiderman’s Bakery. Amazing, by the way. Totally recommend their deliciousness.”

You shook your head even as he tried to cheer you up. “It’s… invasive, is all. It’s one thing when it’s a client, or someone I don’t know. I’m five steps removed from that. It’s different when it’s… someone I know. And it hurts lately, so I’m just waiting until it’s settled.”

“I get that. But maybe you could let Matt know? He’s a little, you know, mopey lately. I think he’s worried about you.”

Of course he is. The man’s heightened senses had no doubt picked up on the roller coaster that was your emotional state this week as you swerved between anxiety, glum melancholy, and a cool emotional distance. It would probably be easier to reassure Matt if you could actually see him and adjust your reaction based on his expressions, but that was a no-go. Oh sure, you’d heard him, had spoken to him, but you hadn’t actually seen Matt for days. Not since that night with the old man. All you’d had were flashes of black in your peripheral before you turned away. It was probably a good thing though. It was easier to pull away when you couldn’t see him.

“I’m sure he’s fine,” you mumbled, going back to your paperwork.

He’ll be ok eventually. Better, even, once I’m gone.

Foggy went quiet, watching as your pen scraped across the paper. You found yourself hoping he would go away before you needed to say something cruel. You liked him, a lot if you were honest. He was a good guy, cheerful and fun, and one of the most kind-hearted people you’d ever met. There were no secrets with him, no hidden motives. He was just… genuinely nice. He didn’t deserve any ill-treatment from you, and you wanted to avoid that if you could.  

“Are you ok? I mean, aside from the psychic thing.”

Your pen paused and you stared down at Jane Hind’s signature, still refusing to look up. “Why do you ask?”

“Because you seem… sorta sad.” His tone was gentle and kind as he tried to draw you out. “Upset. Maybe? I’m thinking it’s not just Matt who’s down, anyway.”

Your brow furrowed and you rubbed at your temple. Fuck, you really had been here too long if he was reading you that well. Or maybe you were just out of practice locking yourself away. You’d started slacking. “Long weeks, hard cases. Lots of headaches… That’s all. I really need to finish these, though, I’m sorry. So—”

He rose to leave, but before he did he put a friendly hand on your shoulder. “Hey, I get not wanting to talk. And that’s fine. But if you want to, me and Matt? We’re here, ok? We’re your friends. So don’t forget you’ve got people in your corner.”

“Thank you. I’ll try to remember that.”

Even if you really wished you could just forget.

-x-

Four days. 

Four days, and at least tonight’s case was going alright. 

You were out on the trail of an antique bracelet. Mrs. Horvat had lost it at some point within the last two days in Hell’s Kitchen, though she wasn’t sure exactly when or where it had slipped off her wrist. It was an old family heirloom, she’d said, and not of exceptional value outside sentiment. That was good for you, since it meant it was a little less likely to have been sold off as something valuable. Those cases were more difficult, when you were left to either negotiate a return or simply alert the customer to where the item had ended up. 

You’d climbed up to an apartment building’s rooftop, as was your habit, to get a sense of where you’d headed and how many more blocks you had left to walk. You liked the height it gave you—the perspective up above the noise and hot city streets. It always seemed cooler up here where the breeze could reach you, too, even if only by a few degrees. It helped that you’d waited until after dark to start this hunt; the additional brightness of the sun on top of the light from visible threads was something you tried to avoid. The sun had long since set and now you eyed the remaining blocks between you and the end of the thread you were trailing, wiping away the sweat from the back of your neck as you did. 

Six blocks to go, looks like. Not so bad. 

Tonight the threads were a little less painful to look at directly, dimmer in your sight, or maybe you were just high enough up that they weren’t quite so overwhelming. Down at ground level, there was a knee-deep sea of color to wade through. Up here, you could breathe. You pulled out a napkin and swiped at the few droplets of blood that had leaked from your nose before you shoved the napkin back in your pocket. You had the blue thread leading to Mrs. Horvat’s bracelet twisted around your pinky on one hand, and with the other, you tentatively touched a glimmering purple thread that trailed through the air by your head. Based on the angle, it started somewhere on the ground behind you. It then followed a sharp angle upwards some ways off into the distance until it eventually disappeared into one of the massive skyscrapers that towered over the city. 

You weren’t sure what all these new colors signified. Black and white seemed fairly rare, as was the strange charcoal grey that seemed to flake in your hands as if it had been burned. Purple was somewhat more common. You edged your fingers along the purple—this one a deep, rich violet. It was difficult to express what you felt when you touched a purple thread; there were hints of… of absolute rapture, the roar of a crowd and a throbbing rhythm in your chest. Other times it was a peaceful wash of bliss, the scent of incense, and the feel of paper under your fingers. The closest you could come to describing it as a whole was worship, but you weren’t sure if that was right. It wasn’t like red—red for affection between good friends, family, lovers. Nor was it blue—impersonal, inanimate. But it wasn’t not those colors either.

You released the purple thread and rubbed your hand over the returning ache in your chest as you considered the other threads you could see from your perch on the roof. There were a few white threads farther down at street level, along with one or two black threads. You hadn’t been close enough to one of those to get a read on them yet, unlike purple. You weren't sure you wanted to. White, especially—white was so bright that up close it left you feeling dazed. Presumably, these issues would get easier to manage as time went on, and as you regained control of your eye. It had been equally overwhelming years ago when you were young and things were new. The scientists monitoring you had quickly learned to keep nasal sprays and gauze on hand because your nose would start to fountain blood the second your third eye was forced open. 

It had hurt then, too.

Tap-tap-tap.

Tap.

Tap-tap.

“Hey, D,” you said quietly, keeping your eyes directed outwards towards the lights of the city. You couldn’t risk closing your third eye, not when it would mean losing the blue thread you were holding. Even if you could have shut your second sight off, though, you wouldn’t have been able to turn to greet him. Not when it meant you might see Matt’s threads.

A pale glow flickered on the ground around you, your form casting a shadow as Matt moved closer. You closed your physical eyes as he greeted you with your name, but that only made it worse. By shutting out the visual stimuli of the city around you, all that was left to focus on was the radiant light of Matt’s threads, drifting around you like smoke in your mind’s eye. Part of you swore you could feel that warmth swirling around you as it flowed past. You rubbed at your chest again where it ached under the fabric of your shirt, your hand sliding over sweat-slick skin, and opened your eyes.

“What’re you after tonight?”

“A bracelet.” You flicked your fingers off in the direction you’d been headed. “Somewhere over there, about six blocks if I’ve got it right. What about you? Who’s the Devil hunting tonight?”

“You.”

You ignored the rush of heat that shivered through you. You weren’t sure what reaction he was looking for, so you went with casual. You snorted and shifted on your feet, rolling the blue thread between your fingers. “I’m not sure I’ve done anything lately to deserve that kind of notice, D. Life’s been pretty boring.”

“Has it? Foggy said you weren’t doing well.” His voice was soft and careful behind you, close enough to be heard but not so close as to invade your space. You didn’t know how far away he was exactly, but he seemed to be respecting the distance you’d put between you both. You also knew he would cross it in a heartbeat if you’d let him. All you had to do was toss him a line, crack the door just a little and he would be there beside you.

Stay strong. You can do this. 

“I’m fine, D.” You winced as soon as the lie left your lips, wanting to bang your head against a wall. The answer had been instinctive, and it was a common lie millions of people told every day. But you’d also forgotten who you were talking to. This was a man who could tell a lie from the truth from a block away, and you’d just handed him a big one. 

Lie. Lie-lie-lie-lie—

You’d slipped, and his inhalation behind you ensured you knew he was aware of it. There was no way around it. It was a blatant lie, one not even you could get away with believing. You were not fine, and it was all thanks to that stupid fucking letter and that hateful old man. It was because of him that you knew that running off would be just one more in a long string of disappearances in Matt’s life. One more case of abandonment, leaving him to pick up the pieces. And what was there to do? You’d doomed the both of you to this fate the second you’d met. The fact that you hadn’t known how attached you’d get did nothing to change the outcome or absolve you of your guilt.

“Why would you lie now? I don’t understand.” There was something plaintive in his voice, some plea threaded through it and you curled your fingers tighter around that blue thread in your hand. “Just talk to me—”

“I can’t.”

“You can.” He was becoming desperate for a real response from you, frustration leaking in around the corners. You could hear it, the frantic edge he’d gained as he dared to step closer, boots sliding on concrete. You’d thought he didn’t know what you were planning but maybe he did, on some level at least; knew what you were going to do. “Please, just-just let me help you.”

Fuck the thread. 

You lifted a hand to your forehead, digging your palm in until you forced your third eye shut and you’d returned yourself to the welcome of the dark. You blew out a sigh and swiveled to face him. 

He stood only a few paces away, his hands curled into loose fists and his body tight with tension. His lips parted in relief, relaxing slightly as you looked at him for the first time in days. He thinks he’s reaching me. A sharp ache shot through you, followed by the realization that it wasn’t just because of the risk of seeing his threads that you hadn’t wanted to look at Matt. No. It was because seeing him was nothing but a bitter reminder of what lay ahead. It was easier to leave when you couldn’t see his face.

You hated everything about this.

“Fuck, D.” You clenched your jaw. Your heart rate was starting to pick up, your body preparing itself for the confrontation that loomed over you. He cocked his head, listening intently even as the tension rose. “Why couldn’t you just leave me be?”

“Because I want to help you.” He wasn’t reacting the way you wanted; he wasn’t combative or irritated. Instead, he planted his feet stubbornly, tipping his head down even as he kept himself open and non-threatening. He was preparing to withstand what you might do, not fight back.

God, you could feel it coming: the surge of emotion inside you welling up as it sensed a crack in the walls you’d built up around yourself and Matt was right there in its path, chisel in hand. You gestured sharply outwards at Hell’s Kitchen, practically spitting at him. “I have survived in this city perfectly fine, ok? I do not need your fucking help—”

“Lie,” he murmured, taking a step closer.

You continued, trying to ignore him even as your hands clenched so hard your nails bit into your palms. “And Jesus Christ, do I just wish you would take a hint and leave me the fuck alone so I coul—”

“Lie.” He took another step, inhaling slowly as he came within touching distance.

“Stop it!” you snarled, pushing forward aggressively into his space until you were practically nose-to-nose and the heat of him washed over you. He didn’t move, unwavering even in the face of your anger as you shoved at his shoulder to force him back. He held fast against the pressure, and you ended up fisting your hand in his shirt instead as if you were going to shake him. He allowed it, accepting and resolute. God, he looked like he was ready for you to hit him, of course he was, and you just… couldn’t bring yourself to. You shook him, or tried to as he laid a hand over yours, and you were close to tears over how you were failing so fucking miserably at chasing him away. 

But then, you didn’t have to hit him, did you? Not physically. 

You could say it. 

Abruptly the words hovered there inside you, rising like sour bile in your throat. 

He tilted his head, mouth going soft. He said your name, but all it did was make your hands clench and you, you were this close, tongue curling to speak—

You swallowed the words down at the last second. Even now, that kind of betrayal felt like too much. Maybe it made you weak, or a coward. If it did, so be it.

“Why are you hiding from me?” he asked, so very gentle. “Let me in, sweetheart.”

His bare hand—when had he lost his gloves?—rose and he brushed his scarred fingers across your cheek as he leaned in.

The affectionate touch was a shock to your system. 

The explosion of light as your third eye opened was more so.

-x-

You’d seen a lot of threads in your life.

They came in a range of colors and a variety of sizes: red as deep a crimson as blood itself, mossy green stretching across vast distances, glittering blue as solid as a steel chain. There were threads so thick they were as big around as three fingers and others so delicately thin they glittered like the strands of a spider’s web. You’d seen all there was to see, or so you’d thought. But Matt’s threads?

Matt’s threads put them all to shame—every last one. He was a beacon, so blindingly bright you could have seen him from miles away, a guiding star in the dark sky calling you home. It took time for your third eye to adjust to that kind of illumination, here up close where you were enveloped within the light itself. Matt said your name, but the sound was distant to your ears as the light finally dimmed enough for you to truly see. You lifted a hand, hypnotized and drawn in like a moth to the flame. You couldn’t stop yourself from reaching out to touch.

He shivered, a startled gasp leaving him as you trailed your finger across the heavy white thread that trailed out of his chest—but, no, that wasn’t right. This wasn’t a thread; that word was too small, too ill-fitting a title. This light was so wide it was practically rope, at least as thick around as your wrist. “What is this?” you whispered.

And as you drew it between your fingers you finally understood what a white thread was. 

You’d once read that the Greeks had multiple words for love or affection. They’d known such a strong emotion couldn’t be limited to just one sound, one feeling. There was love for family, for friends, for lovers, for self, and… for something far larger. You knew why this thread was white, now. 

White was the color of everything: every color, contained in one, from the most inanimate blue to the most affectionate red.

Oh, Matt.

His love of Hell’s Kitchen. His love for this city and every part of it, from the buildings to its people to the very ground it was planted on. The intensity of the connection was pure and sweet, your hand warming as you marveled at the connection you held in the palm of your hand. As you stood there, your mind was awash with snatches of… not emotion, so much as treasured sensation. You basked in the smell of rain on asphalt, in the rich sound of laughter and the crack of a softball against a child’s bat, in the rush of the breeze somewhere up high. Devotion ran like a river under it all, and you knew, somehow, that were you to follow this thread to ground level, it would dive deep down further than you could reach. There it would spread out to the far ends of Hell’s Kitchen: a bone-deep affection that permeated the very soil of the city.

It was one of the most beautiful, tragic, tender connections you’d ever had the fortune to witness, and you knew that no matter where you went, this moment, this feeling, would be something you remembered for the rest of your life. 

He jolted again as you ran a reverent thumb over the glittering white rope in your hand. “What—” his voice was strained, unsure as he fumbled for your hands. “What are you doing?”

“You can feel that?” you whispered, still in awe as you glanced up at him. No one had ever been able to feel it when you touched one of their threads, or if they had, they’d never said anything to you. You supposed it made sense. If anyone was going to pick up on it, it’d be Matt. 

He sucked in a shaky breath and lifted a hand to touch right at the center of his chest where the threads escaped him. “It’s like you’re touching something here but… but inside. I don’t—”

The movement of his hand drew your attention to the threads that had been hiding behind the intensity of the pure white thread until you’d shifted it out of the way, and just like that you were lost again. 

So much green here. There was far more green than you could hold in your one hand, an absolute forest of it stretching out in all directions. You tried to puzzle them out, focusing in an attempt to sense what sort of events had led to their formation. There was a lot of… violence, action and adrenaline, followed by surges of relief. Had these been people he’d saved? You strummed at one thread curiously, trying to dip down into it. He caught your wrist. “A...a woman who was… was being robbed, I think. That’s… that’s who I remember when y-you do that,” he panted. He was breathing hard, flooded with whatever sensations your actions were bringing about in him. You’d been right, though. These people he’d saved, they didn’t know him, but he knew them, and he cared about them, far more than they knew. 

He let you go and you trailed your fingers past the green and hit upon the blue threads next: blue for the feel of soft and satiny fabric under your fingers; blue for the taste of vanilla ice cream that exploded on your tongue.

You slid into red next, and couldn’t help but swallow hard in sympathy. There were… so few of these. For someone who cared so much, there was far too little red. What few he did have, though, were solid and strong: Foggy, and Karen. It had to be. Their threads were thick and heavy, glowing brightly in between your fingers. Their bright scarlet threads felt like laughter late into the night, the comfort of a strong hug when you needed it most. You were glad he had these connections; that he’d allowed himself at least a few people who cared about him.

“Sweetheart, you’re bleeding, you have to stop—”

You could feel the blood beginning to drip from your nose. He was right; you needed to stop. You’d already gone too far, had seen far too much. But then your fingers brushed a thread that thrummed and pulled at something deep under your own skin.

No—

There was a resounding kick inside your chest, a dull thud of impact as your heart slammed into your ribcage. Matt made a startled noise, grabbing at you, but your answering sound was touched with grief. 

No, no—

Static roared in your ears.

An orange thread, tinted with the smouldering red-orange hue of a dying fire, lay against your fingers. The second you’d touched it—become aware of it—it had started a chain reaction you were helpless to stop. Even now as you watched, it slowly began to darken, hesitant rust-red trickling outwards from the center. That lurking undertone had already been there, you could see. It had just been biding its time down in the thread’s center, waiting patiently for its moment. Now that you’d seen it, it was inevitable that the thread would bloom to a full, bloody red. Of course it would. Because how could you deny your connection and affection for Matt when the evidence was right there in your hands, the light about to stain your hands scarlet? 

Sensations, emotions, and scenes rippled through your mind as you held that thread, but the sources were split between you both and you couldn’t separate what belonged to who: the quiet safety of his apartment, the cool relief of your hand against his cheek, scent of cinnamon and salt and warm fabric, chest aching with laughter, his arms around you tight, your hands sweeping down his back and your face buried against his neck. Longing, longing, please don’t le—

Matt had taken your face in his hands. He was whispering something—reassurances, you thought distantly—as he pressed his forehead frantically to yours, but you couldn’t hear it over the panicked sound of your own breathing as you stared down at the changing thread you clenched between your fingers.

No.

If the thread went red, the Man in the White Coat could use Matt to follow you wherever you went. There would be no more hiding. Game over. The end. You’d have cursed not just you, but Matt too, because surely a man like the one tracking you would have just as much use, if not more, for studying someone like Matt. Matt couldn’t protect himself with money and power, like your friend in Los Angeles could. You’d have done that, brought that down on him, and wrenched him away from here. You couldn’t allow that, not after the white thread you’d just seen. 

No. I won’t let that happen.

You reached for a way out. You’d take something, anything, if it meant it would protect him.

Matt tilted your head up, blood dripping from your chin. He’d ripped his mask away and now his eyes darted blankly around you, his face twisted in desperation. He was still talking, his mouth moving quickly as he tried to reach you, but your eyes drifted outwards towards the horizon instead, and towards the escape that lay beyond it.

Your mind found what it was looking for. You glanced down again, waiting.

The orange thread flickered as it shifted, and then finally stalled in its progression, a deep rusty orange. A vein of light red pulsed ominously through the core of the thread, a warning you couldn’t ignore. You didn’t have much room left in you for relief but what little space you had, it stole until you almost gasped with it. It had stopped—you’d stopped it, had managed to claw yourself back from the edge. He’s ok, he’ll be ok. 

There was no room for error now; you’d both eaten that ground away, and that left you with only one way out. You took all of it—all that you had seen, and felt, and heard—and forced it down. Every last bit of emotion went with it until you were as calm and unfeeling as a sheet of ice, the cold shiver of it inside your chest familiar and comforting in the way of any old habit.

Matt picked up on the change, faltering as you closed your third eye. The orange thread disappeared from your fingers, though you imagined you could still feel the tension of it where it entered your chest. You reached up and took his wrists, pushing his hands away from your face. It was a neutral gesture, absent any force that might give you away. You couldn’t afford any lapse now: not one inch, or you’d break.

“What—” He stepped back and you took advantage of the opening.

“We’re done, Matt. This is too much.” Your voice was as toneless and bland as you could make it. You wiped the blood from your face with an irritated grimace, and hoped he didn’t notice the way your hand was trembling. You didn’t allow your eyes to linger on him, directing your gaze away. It helped you avoid seeing his flinch, as if you’d just struck at him. “I’m done. Just leave me alone.”

Hopefully, you wouldn’t need to say anymore. He’d been abandoned before, and you could let his self-blame do the rest here. He was good at that, and you wouldn’t be around to convince him otherwise. You also couldn’t afford to throw an insult now that might give away any hint of emotion. 

You left him there on that rooftop, alone and cold, ignoring him when he called after you.

-x-

Your go-bag was on the bed, a few changes of clothes set beside it on the scrappy dining chair you’d dragged over. You quickly gathered up the few toiletries you couldn’t live without from the bathroom. You’d leave the rest of the items here behind, along with everything else in your apartment you didn’t need to dispose of. By design, there wasn’t a lot here you were attached to. The art on the walls, the jewelry hung with care—all of it was part of a performance, and you had no issue leaving behind what amounted to costumes and set pieces. It was the people you were going to miss.

It was four days early, but you couldn’t wait, thanks to him.

Stop it. People without red threads don’t give a shit about leaving.

A quick getaway was your only hope to keep you both safe, to stall the red thread. People with red threads didn’t just up and abandon people, did they? Someone who cared about Matt, knowing how he’d been abandoned, wouldn’t do that to him again. And here you were, leaving without notice. That proved it.

You ignored the wetness on your face as you shoved your handful of items into the duffle bag. There wasn’t a lot left to do. You weren’t going to have time to withdraw as much cash as you’d intended to leave with, and you hated that you’d stalled for so long when you knew better. You’d have to see if you could pick up more along the road. You also had to write your letters. You’d… you’d have to leave one for Matt.

You’d bought a braille printer a while back. You’d used it to create the instructions back when you’d left food in his freezer. That seemed like a lifetime ago. It figured you’d have to use the printer now to hurt him when you’d originally bought it to make things better. 

You connected your laptop to the printer with numb fingers and pulled up the program. The cursor blinked mockingly as it awaited your input, and your hands shook as they hovered over the keys. It would be so, so easy to type it out. You just needed a few sentences. It would be something short and simple, not too long or elaborate. There was no way around it, was there? He’d forced your hand.

The ache in your chest didn’t abate as you forced yourself to type out the words you knew would cut to the bone. After a long moment, you pressed print. 

You’re going to kill him.

You smacked the cancel button and tore the paper from the printer before it could finish, crumpling the paper and throwing it away with a snarl. You brought your fist down on the table next to the laptop, spitting out a curse. Why couldn’t you do this? You’d done it before. This wasn’t new to you, and in the long run, it was the kindest thing you could do. It would protect everyone involved, even if it was agony in the immediate moment. One day, he’d be grateful for it, and so would you.

You tried to hit print again, but though your fingers brushed the necessary keys, your body refused to cooperate.

“Fuck, come on, you stupid—” 

You couldn’t. You couldn’t bring yourself to do it. You groaned, dropping your head before heading to the sink to grab a glass of water and another aspirin because this whole thing was driving you mad and you were so tense you felt like you were about to snap. You considered the laptop as you chugged the glass of water, stalling so you had time to think.

You couldn't do this to him. It would be too much, after what had happened to him in the past, and he didn’t deserve it. You refused to destroy him, break him down so thoroughly, just to save your own skin. You’d hand yourself over if it ever came to that. He deserved… he deserved the truth. Not a lie, or a knife to the back. If the truth was the only thing you could give him, you would.

You backspaced the text on the screen, and before you could reconsider, you started to type. You had to do it without thought, working to keep the majority of your focus elsewhere. If you allowed yourself time to analyze your actions, you’d end up straying too close to the realization you were avoiding. You’d fall into the open trap that was waiting below you, its jaws wide and ready to snap shut. This needed to be quick.

Your finger had shifted towards the print button again when your phone rang. You didn’t want to answer it, but you were distracted and the instinct was automatic. Late night calls were sometimes clients seeking your assistance, and your price went up after dark.

“Hello?” you said hoarsely. 

“Ms. Hind?”

“Speaking.” You knew that voice. You dug around in the back of your mind until you managed to yank out a name. “You’re, uh, Anya’s owners, right?”

“That’s right! Listen, I know this is sudden but she got out again and—”

You passed a hand over your face, leaning against the table. “Listen, this really isn’t a good time for me.” Even if you hadn’t been planning to leave, it had been a long, stressful, exhausting day chasing threads. You’d barely had time to stop and eat or drink all day, and now you were running on fumes. Your earlier encounter with Matt hadn’t helped matters, the exposure to his threads and the use of your abilities leaving you drained.

“Please,” the woman begged, her voice choked and absolutely miserable. “David had an accident a few weeks ago and we can’t go out and look for her like w-we usually would. There’s construction work nearby and we think she got scared away from her normal hiding spots. We’ll pay! We have cash, we were going to use it for a reward but if you can find her—”

You turned and glanced at your open duffle, and the clothes beside it. You bit your lip. You hadn’t been able to get the cash you’d wanted. That had originally been on the docket for tomorrow or the day after. This could be a gift in disguise, something to help pad your pockets until you’d reestablished yourself elsewhere.

“Please. I… we were going to offer a thousand for a reward. You can have it all, we’ll have cash for you tonight if you can bring her home.”

You shuddered, and swallowed down a sound. Just a little longer. A little longer in Hell’s Kitchen. One last walk-around, and a chance to say goodbye.

“I’ll be over soon.”

-x-

You tracked Anya wearily across warm streets and endless back alleys. The little Russian Blue was indeed treading a new path instead of following her familiar route through her own territory. The change was probably sparked by the nearby construction her owners had mentioned. The noise would be enough to put anyone off, much less a small animal with sensitive ears. Like the last time you’d tracked her, you followed the red thread easily, wiping away the blood from your nose that dripped out every few blocks. The droplets that escaped your hand quickly vanished into the sea of color that swirled knee-deep at your feet.

You tried to pretend you couldn’t feel the warmth from Matt’s white thread, the white that surely pulsed under your feet where it blanketed the city. His love for Hell’s Kitchen encompassed it in its entirety, down to the very streets you walked on now. It was as if each step sent a shock of affection zipping up your tired legs until you swore he was standing there over your shoulder, radiating that warmth behind you. But when you turned to look, there was no one there. It was nothing but your imagination. Of course he wasn’t there. You’d sent him away.

You needed to focus, to find that calm mental space inside you where there was nothing to think on but the movement of your feet and the thread you wound in against your fingers. If you could reach that state, the ache in your muscles, your growing hunger and thirst, and your wavering emotional state would fade away to background noise. Despite your efforts, your mind refused to quiet and give you that peace. You grit your teeth. You’d need to get out of the city fast after this. Your own thoughts would sabotage you if you waited long enough.

Maybe you wanted them to. Maybe they already had, and that was why you were still here.

Shut the fuck up. Just shut up.

You’d find the cat. Get the reward. Leave with cash in hand.

Protect yourself. All else was irrelevant.

In your distraction, you kept your eyes down even as the apartments and businesses around you transitioned into blocks of warehouses. The lights weren’t as bright here as it became more industrial, broken streetlights leaving yawning gaps of shadow between the rare splashes of illumination. You ducked through an abandoned lot, dry grass crunching under your boots. You were headed for the run-down warehouse that lay at the far end of the property behind a rusted chain link fence topped with barbed wire. The building had seen better days, all filthy cement and darkened, dusty windows in need of a good scouring. The thread in your hand shifted back and forth as you walked. You were close now. You hitched the cloth cat carrier higher on your shoulder.

There were plenty of parked cars sitting silently in the small parking lot, which seemed odd for the late hour and considering the windows were dark. You didn’t think much of it as you ducked through a hole in the chain link fence and headed around the back of the building where the thread led you. People kept odd hours in New York, so it wasn’t enough to set off any of your internal alarms.

“Here kitty, here Anya,” you called tiredly, clucking your tongue and shaking the treat bag. “Here kitty, come on. Need to come out so I can leave. Please, silly kitty.”

There was a meow, and you caught a gleam of yellow as Anya’s eyes refracted what little light the streetlights provided here back behind the building. She was perched up on top of a dumpster, her tail swishing as she peered curiously at you with precisely zero regret at the inconvenience she’d caused you. Yup, that was definitely her. The red thread in your hand crossed the space, ending where it disappeared into Anya’s fuzzy chest. 

You tried to let your third eye close but it didn’t close so much as snap shut, the threads around you blinking out of existence in an instant as you stumbled on your feet at the sudden wave of exhaustion that swept over you. Jesus, let’s not open that for a while. At least you’d found the cat before that happened. You kneeled awkwardly on the gravel, grateful for a breather. “Hello, pretty kitty,” you murmured, wiggling your fingers at her. “Here, Ms. Anya.”

“Hey! The fuck are you doing to that cat?”

You lurched clumsily to your feet, your mouth going dry, but a hand on the back of your neck stopped you from turning around. It was a large hand, thick and calloused, and you held your own hands out to the side. “Nothing,” you said, your voice a little shaky before you swallowed it down. Just your luck that you caught the eye of a security guard or a cop. “I’m just here to bring the cat home, that’s all.”

“How do I know you’re not gonna use it for a dogfight or something?” The male voice behind you was suspicious as he shook you lightly. It sounded like it was coming from somewhere above your head behind you, so he was most likely taller than you by a fair amount. He wasn’t standing close enough for you to headbutt, either, so no luck there if you had to fight your way free. Not that you were in much of a condition to do so.

“If you let me get my phone, I can show you a picture and prove it.”

“Where’s your phone?”

“Front left pocket.”

His other hand reached forward and dug around in your jacket pocket until he could fish out your phone. He took your wallet, too. He placed your phone into your hand so you could unlock it while he flipped through your wallet. You unlocked your phone reluctantly, and flipped through the texts until you found the picture Anya’s owners had sent you. They were both smiling in the photo as they held her up between them, Anya’s face the definition of long-suffering feline exasperation. You held up the phone over your shoulder. “See? Her owners. I came to get her and take her home. That’s all.”

“Turn around, slowly.”

“Only if you let go of my neck.” You cleared your throat, rocking your head against his grip meaningfully. You couldn’t turn with him holding you this tightly.

“Fine.” He released you and you heard him take three quick steps away, gravel crunching under his feet. When you finally shuffled around to face him he had a gun in one hand, aimed carefully at your legs where he could quickly disable you without killing you. He flicked on a flashlight in his other hand and you squinted at the bright light as it passed over your face. He glanced down at your wallet and then back up. “Well, I’ll be damned. You really are that psychic. The one James was talking about. Thought you stole her license or something.”

Jesus, I need to get some more confidentiality agreements drawn up. 

“You know James?”

He rolled one shoulder, lowering his gun and you tried not to sag in relief. “Nah, not really. We live on the same block though and our girls talk. Whole block was on about the psychic and the lawyer who helped out after though. Hard to miss.”

“Well, that’s me.” You waved your phone. “Believe me now?”

“Yeah,” he sighed, holstering his weapon and handing you back your wallet. He didn’t look like a cop or a security guard. His clothes were too casual for that: jeans and a t-shirt with no name tag or company logos. He was lean, far taller than you, and had a scrappy mop of curly blonde hair that had frizzed up in the humid night air. Even though he appeared relaxed, he still moved with the smooth grace of a man who was accustomed to violence even if he didn’t go looking for it. You needed to be careful. “Sorry, you have no idea how many people pick on cats. Makes me so fucking mad. But I figure you’re good.”

Your brow furrowed as you peered up at him. “Why?”

“Cause if you’re the psychic my girlfriend was talking about, you also found Tony Esposito’s cat when James sent him to you and Tony said the cat liked you.”

Huh. Kinda nice to be recognized for something nice for once.

“And also, you know.” He gestured at you and raised his brows. “Heard about Oscar.”

Fuck.

He watched you as you knelt down again and psspsspss’d at Anya, trying to lure her back over. “Figured you’d be making too much money to be chasing down cats.”

You shook the treat bag again as Anya came trotting over to you, purring and rubbing your fingers as she sat for her treats. He seemed to have a soft spot for cats based on the way he crouched next to you and gave the cat a fond stroke down the spine. Maybe you could use that to get out of here. “Well, you know how it is. People freak when they lose their cat; I had to help.”

He nodded, picking up a treat Anya had dropped so he could offer it to her. “My girlfriend would definitely lose it, and I kinda would too if we lost Smokey. Fuckin love that cat. You gotta hurry though, Ms. Jane. I’m the only one out here right now but that changes in ten minutes and they ain’t as nice as me.” He reached over and held the cat carrier open as you lured Anya inside with a few treats, and you quickly zipped it shut the second she was inside, sweat starting to slide down your temple. 

There was trouble lurking here somewhere, it sounded like, and you needed to make your getaway ASAP before it came looking for you and your night got worse.

“Done. Thanks.” You hefted the carrier up with a grunt, slinging it over your shoulder. Anya let out a mournful wail of displeasure at having been so summarily caged, and you shushed her as you started to walk. The man shadowed you, trying to hide you from view as you headed toward the fence. Once you were past the parking lot, it was a short jog across the open abandoned lot back to the next building. You didn’t cherish the idea of crossing that empty space when someone might be looking for you, but you didn’t have much of a choice. You’d just have to keep your head down, move quickly, and try not to collapse for a nap in the middle of the dried grass.

“Hush, kitty,” said the man. Anya had only upped her volume as you both trotted along, and it was going to attract notice if you weren’t careful. He patted the carrier at your back, trying to soothe her. “Hush kitty, hush kitty—”

“Jason! You got another delivery over there?”

The man’s hand came up and grasped the back of your shirt, yanking you to a stop. 

That can’t be good. 

“Fuck,” he spat, his fingers curling tight in your shirt. “Fuck—”

“I take it this is bad.” You licked your lips, trying to calculate whether you could make a run for it, even tired as you were. Adrenaline was a hell of a drug, after all. As if he could sense what you were about to do, he tightened his grip on your shirt in warning.

“Jason! Answer me, fuckhead! What’re you doing over there?”

“Play along or she’ll fucking shoot and then your boss will kill me, understand?” he hissed, swiveling around. As he did so, he took the cat carrier from you smoothly and marched you forward towards the side of the building where a metal door had opened. A figure stood in the open doorway, the glow of a lit cigarette still held in one hand. The woman must have come out for a smoke break; just your luck. “Jesus, just chill the fuck out Sarah.”

“The fuck were you doing?”

“She was looking for that cat wandering around earlier,” he snapped, dragging you along until you both stopped in front of the open doorway. He indicated the bag over his shoulder. “Was helping her get it so she could leave.”

“You and your goddamn cats, Jason, I swear to god.” The dark-haired woman standing there exhaled a puff of smoke with a roll of her eyes. She was dressed casually like Jason beside you, and she was equally armed, which meant if you tried to run, your odds of being shot had just risen astronomically. Her hair was pulled back away from her face, exposing sharp cheekbones and eyes that were far too intelligent for your liking. This woman wasn’t going to miss much. She clicked on another flashlight and aimed it at your face. You lifted a hand to block some of the light. “She looks familiar. One of— Jesus, that’s one of his, you goddamn dumbass!”

“She’s not—”

“Shut up!” She shoved at him, dropping her cigarette and catching you at the collar as you started to run. You snaked your hand down for your knife where it was hidden in your jacket and lashed a kick out at her, but this wasn’t a couple drunken dudes looking to steal a few bucks and you were exhausted. She dodged your kick and caught your wrist with ease, twisting it up before you could even get close to the hidden knife. Just as fast, she hooked one of your legs with her own and knocked it out from under you, sending you to one knee in the gravel with a grunt. The sharp stones dug up, digging hard through the denim of your jeans as you tried to get your feet under you, but she shoved you down again. “You come to spy on us, huh? Did he send you?”

“I’m just here for the cat, I swear,” you croaked, leaning away from her grip as your heart raced. “God, I was just hired to get the cat—”

“You’re lucky I don’t shoot you,” she muttered. She yanked you up off the ground and pushed you back towards Jason. “Take her downstairs with the others and toss her in a cell. We can’t kill one of his or we’ll be in deeper shit, but we can keep her like the others until we’re ready to leave. Don’t tell the boss or we’re all fucked.”

“We don’t have any more working cells,” Jason objected harshly, taking you by the back of the neck again as if holding you while he dragged you through the doorway. His hand was sweating, cold and clammy against your skin and the second you pressed back, you received a kick from behind that sent you stumbling forwards.

Cells? They’re gonna put me in a cell?!

“I don’t give a shit,” she spat at him. “Find room, and keep your mouth shut. She’s your problem and if she dies or gets found, it’s on you.” And then she slammed the door shut behind you, closing you into the dark of the warehouse. 

“This is not good,” he muttered after a beat, as if it weren’t obvious. “Sorry.”

“No shit,” you panted. Your eyes darted around as you searched for an escape route, but there wasn’t much to see. It was dark in here, though not dark enough to hide thanks to a dozen or so halogen work lights that had been positioned around the open layout of the warehouse floor. Here and there, freight trucks and moving vans were scattered about, with roughly half-a-dozen people you could see moving quickly and efficiently to shift cargo into the vehicles as a cargo elevator at the far end opened and a few people came through, hauling pallets of crates behind them.

“Come on, then. We’ll take the stairs.” He led you deeper into the warehouse, and by extension: further away from freedom. Even Anya had gone quiet, as if she too were trying to escape notice. Eventually, Jason brought you to an old,  rusted steel staircase tucked away in one darkened corner, and you were forced to take it. 

You’d thought the building was busy enough upstairs, but it was underneath the warehouse that it became a swarming hive of activity. Men and women passed you on the steel staircase without a second glance, and when you hit the bottom level, the space opened up to a sea of carefully-organized chaos. Well-lit metal tables were placed at regular intervals around the room where groups of people were busy packing up everything from disassembled guns to carefully wrapped bags of white powder. Each case was labeled and marked before it was set aside, presumably to be taken upstairs where it would be packed away into one of the trucks you’d seen. The business-like bustle of it was almost startling and you cast your eyes left and right, taking it all in as Jason pushed you onward.

God, Matt would have a field day in here.  

You were guided down a twisting maze of tiled hallways, passing noisy rooms full of workers counting money and wrapping up even more packages, until at last you and Jason were the only ones in the empty hallway you’d turned down. The lights flickered dimly above you, poorly maintained here down a less-used corridor, and he directed you towards a closed door farther down. Pushing it open revealed a supply closet, shelves stacked high with dusty cleaning supplies and various tools. He shut the door behind you both and flipped on the lights, holding a finger to his lips when you opened your mouth to speak. You both waited a few minutes, and when no one came knocking he let out a breath. “We can’t be in here for long, but—”

“The hell are you guys going to do to me?” you hissed. “The fuck are you—”

“Hey! I saved your goddamn life!” His tone was equally furious as he set the cat carrier down. “She’s a fucking marksman and would have shot your ass otherwise.”

You eyed him, your hands curling. He was bigger than you, and still armed, but in close quarters like this you had a chance if you could get to your knife, or maybe take his gun. But then what? You were in a building surrounded by enemies who’d watched him walk you down here. You were tired, drained, and hungry. There was no way you were fighting your way out of here. You needed to find another way.

“And so I ended up down here now, trapped?” You gestured weakly outwards and raised your eyebrows meaningfully. “Tell me how that’s saving me.”

“Listen!” He groaned, scratching his hands roughly through his curly hair. For the first time, you noticed how spooked he seemed to be. He hated this just as much as you, it seemed. “Boss wants us out of town in three days, ok? Your boss has made things too hot. So we got a few people, you know, in cells as a precaution. They all get let go when we all leave without getting shot up. We can’t kill you, so you go in a cell, you get out in a few days, no harm done.”

“How are they going to miss someone new in the cells?” The very idea was ridiculous; someone would notice you if they were keeping track of the prisoners at all. Captives didn’t just spontaneously appear inside their cells. 

“It’s one person to a cell. I’ll tell ‘em boss said only I can talk to you. That should make them leave you alone.” He rubbed at his chin, thinking. “There’s only one cell I can put you in. The water doesn’t run there, it’s why we aren’t using it, but I can bring you food and water. Ok?”

“And if it’s not ok?”

“I mean, you could try to leave but they’d just shoot you, and then probably me too, so…”

Fuck, fuck, fuck—

How the fuck were you supposed to get out of this one? You’d just… you’d just wanted to find the cat and snag one last easy payday. Of course it all had to go to shit because that was what your life was now, just a seemingly endless series of fuck-ups. And yeah, maybe you’d put yourself into this situation, but goddamn it, you wished you could catch a break.

“You can’t lead me out from another exit?” You pinched the bridge of your nose, trying to hold back the tears of frustration. If you came out of this, you were never delaying an escape for money again. Next time you’d just book it, cash be damned.

He shot you a look. “Sarah up there will kill us both if you get out, and to be fair… she’s right. We can’t risk you getting out and telling him before we get out of town. Just hang tight for a few days. That’s all.”

“Why are you doing this?” you asked him, confused as you wrapped your arms around yourself. God, you were thirsty and exhausted and sweating, and this room felt far too crowded, and Matt wasn’t here and you just wanted it all to go away. Anya meowed pitifully as if in agreement, clawing at her carrier. “Why are you trying to help me?”

He glanced at the carrier down by his feet. “You’re supposed to be good people, and me and my girl like cats,” he said sheepishly. “You helped my bro find his cat. So, you know. You’re owed, I guess. He was pretty broken up about it, would have done anything to find her and you—”

An idea began to blossom in your mind, but… no. You’d closed that door, slammed it shut in his face, and it would be the height of selfishness to reach out now just because you’d gotten you into trouble again. Even if you were willing to, how the fuck would you spin that to yourself? To him? You were supposed to sever that connection and leave for good. Lighting that thread back up would undo all your progress tonight, and you weren’t sure you’d be able to pull off a clean break again.

Except… you were about to be put into a cell, with no easy means of escape, and you were scared. They might let you out in a few days, as promised, or… they might not. You could die here alone, all because you'd refused to accept the help you’d long known was there waiting for you. And now you were just desperate enough to consider taking that hand Matt had held out to you for so long.  

You knew where this would go if you put your plan to action. You knew… where it would end, could see that path as surely as miles of open road on flat land. You wouldn’t be able to close this door once you opened it again. He wouldn’t let you…and you wouldn’t want to. New York would be where you’d stay, and damned be the consequences.

You made the decision, and something cracked inside your chest like the fracturing of old ice. 

“I have the address if you want to take her back,” you said softly, keeping your eyes low. You had to play this just right, or all your agonizing over your choice would amount to less than nothing. You needed him sympathetic enough to do what you were going to ask of him. “They miss her a lot.”

He sighed. “Yeah, alright. I know I’d be broken up too. You gimme the address and I’ll take her over there. Then gimme your phone, I can’t let you keep it. Sorry.”

You nodded, pulling out a pad of paper and pen from your pocket and writing down the address you pulled up from your phone. Then you handed him the address and your phone, the latter with great reluctance. You’d had the brief thought that you might send him to a very different address, but he’d already seen the photo of Anya’s owners on your phone and you had no hope anyone would even be home when Jason made it over there. Not at this time of night. No, the real part of your plan came next.

“Also, I, uh... Listen, I get what you’re doing and I’m grateful,” you said, biting your lip and letting your breath hitch. “But I’ve got a guy who’ll be worried about me.” It was the truth, you knew, so you were able to say it without lying. The angle you were taking made sense. He’d said he had a girl, and his voice had warmed with true affection when he mentioned her, so hopefully, this was the right path to take with him.

“Oh come on,” he groaned again. “It’ll just be a few days. Look, you want me to leave a note or something—”

“I would, but my… my fiancé,” you licked your lips as the lie slipped out smoothly, shifting on your feet and letting your voice pitch low and mournful, “he’s blind. And he’d… he’ll be so upset if he comes home and I’m not there, you know? You have a girlfriend. Can you even imagine how upset she’d get?”

He grimaced but you could see him wavering when you mentioned his girlfriend. The thought of her finding him missing had hit him hard, as intended, and you tossed in one last bit of bait. 

Please, please, please, let this work. 

“And look, he’s a lawyer, right?” You held your hands up. “So he’d be a good guy to have in your pocket if you’re ever in trouble. Even if you could just call him and tell him I’m… that someone needed my help, that’d be enough. I’d be really grateful, and so would he, if you catch my meaning.”

Someone knocked on the door and he grabbed you by the shoulder again. “Listen, I’ll try to let him know. What’s his name?”

I'm sorry. I’m so, so sorry.

You swallowed hard, drawing in a breath. 

“Matt Murdock. Nelson and Murdock legal practice.”

-x-

He led you back down the maze of hallways, only now you took a different path. You tried as best you could to track the twists and turns but it wasn’t long before you lost your sense of direction and were hopelessly lost. The people that passed you generally ignored you, though you got a few knowing looks that made you uncomfortable enough to edge closer to the wall. Eventually, you came to a large, narrow room with seemingly only one other occupant—a guard, sitting in a folding chair near the door and reading a magazine. He grunted when you and Jason entered but didn’t otherwise move as you looked around. 

There wasn’t a lot to look at. The walls and ceilings were a dull, unpainted concrete, clearly built for utility and not for enjoyment or artistic beauty. Pale light flickered overhead, cast from cheap fluorescent bulbs that did a poor job of illuminating what lay across from the entry door. There, set evenly along the far wall, were six inlaid, rusted-steel doors. Each had a small slot at the bottom, presumably where food and water could be passed through. Only the door at the far end on your right was open, and it was the one Jason led you to.

You had a moment of panic as you stood in front of the cell. Though the door was open, little light penetrated the darkness that waited to swallow you up and your body reacted to the familiarity of it. No. Not this. Not another one. Not again. Your body locked up and your heels skidded to a stop, your breathing momentarily pitching up as you resisted the pressure at your back, resisted being forced back into another dark cell, back into a nightmare you'd thought long gone.

The hand at your back pushed a little harder. “The guard’s looking. If you don’t go in, we’ll both die.” His voice was careful and cautious, trying to goad you without alerting anyone else. “Please. I promise I’ll bring you what you need, but you have to go in.”

You didn’t have a choice. You didn’t have a phone, or another way out. All you had left was your knife, your wits, and a sense of trust, not in the man behind you but in the Devil you hoped still had your back.

You forced yourself to walk into the cell, and the door closed behind you with an ominous bang, leaving you in the dark. 

-x-

Matt, still garbed in black, quietly raised the window and slipped into your apartment on silent feet. As he did, his heart sank.

You’d pulled your bag out from under the floorboards. He’d known it was there—had smelled it and its contents on your hands the past few weeks, had long ago noted its presence the first time he’d ever set foot inside your apartment—but he’d hoped… hoped you’d never have reason to use it.

Now it was clear what was happening, and why you’d pulled away from him. He cast his senses out, searching for you even as something inside him twisted in grief. Your escape bag was on the bed, packed with supplies and ready to go, and you’d placed some clothes on the chair next to it. You’d gone through the apartment to gather a few select items up, but you’d left most of your belongings alone. He could feel the fading heat in the floorboards where you’d walked, your familiar scent rich here where you spent so much time, but both had started to dissipate. You’d been gone for… hours at least. Had you just… decided to leave the bag? To trick him into thinking you were coming back for it? You’d run before; you probably had stashes elsewhere should you need to leave without returning to your apartment. You could have left this one to throw him off.

He’d just wanted to give you some time and space before he came to you again, but he’d waited too long. He’d waited too long and now you were gone, vanished with nothing left for him but ghosts.

He’d done this. He’d… he’d finally scared you off now that you’d seen he cared for you. And why wouldn’t you run from him? You had enough issues without the massive pile of baggage he dragged behind him everywhere he went, without the inherent danger a man of violence like him presented. He’d wanted you to be afraid of him, and maybe now you were. It was because of him you’d become more involved with Fisk, because of him that you’d had to cut ties and run. 

Run. Left. Just like all the others. His chest hitched, but you weren’t there to hear it. He couldn’t sync his breathing with yours; your soothing heartbeat wasn’t anywhere he could hear. You weren’t there to talk him down in soft tones, and your hands—cool and kind and so very wanted—couldn’t brush against his face until he’d settled. That comfort you’d once offered him had been stripped away. Instead, he was alone yet again. 

The chair beside your bed was a victim of the surge of despair that swept through him. It smashed against the far wall, leaving a hole in the drywall where it had impacted after he’d thrown it aside. Chest heaving, he traced the path you’d taken around the apartment. You’d come in the front door and headed straight for the bag, which you’d pulled out from under the floorboards. You’d paced: your feet warming the floorboards beneath you more than the surrounding floor. Then you’d started gathering things up from the bathroom and returned to shove them into the bag.

He tasted salt in the air. You’d cried. Not much, but enough for it to pass across his tongue.

You’d wound up at the kitchen table and he wandered towards it. You’d brought out your braille printer, and your laptop hummed quietly beside it in sleep mode. The scent of adrenaline and aggression was strong here. You’d been fighting yourself on something that had to do with him—there was only one person a braille letter could be for, after all. There was a crumpled piece of paper on the ground nearby and he retrieved it, unfolding it with hesitant fingers. A part of him didn’t want to hear what you had to say, couldn’t bear the thought of this night cutting any deeper, but he’d never been one to avoid pain even when he could.

There was a tear along the bottom edge, and minute scratches in the paper. You’d pulled it out before it could finish printing. That was… odd. There were no other finished notes or letters around; why pull this out if you didn’t plan to finish it? 

He tried to stifle the hope that rose in him—hope that you were coming back, that he could talk you down from whatever escape plan you were enacting—and tugged one glove off. He licked his lips and ran his shaky fingers over the paper quickly, as if by reading at speed he could lessen the blow of whatever you’d been planning to tell him.

Whatever you’d intended to say, you hadn’t let the printer get very far. There wasn’t much for him to read, not even a full sentence. 

‘Matt. I know abou’

There was nothing else, no further words to decipher or agonize over. He ran his fingers up and down the paper a few more times, searching out any further clues. Why? Why wouldn’t you finish the letter? Why leave the cash, the documents? You hadn’t destroyed the laptop or any other items that might leave some real trace of you behind. You’d only taken your phone, your wallet, and your—

He turned and scanned through the apartment again, trying to find some trace, but no. You’d taken your keys, too. Why would you take your keys if you weren’t coming back?

He turned back to the laptop and printer. Both were still turned on, and when he nudged the touchpad it made a quiet beep, the screen flickering on with a hum. Not that he could read it, but… maybe he didn’t have to. 

The control key on a board for the sighted was in the lower left corner, the P up on the right. You may not have had a braille setup, but he'd used enough modified keyboards to know his way around. That wasn't the issue. The issue was he couldn't tell what he was printing. For all he knew, you'd closed the program already. After a long moment, he held down the two keys and then tapped enter.

For a second he worried he’d gotten it wrong, but then the printer sputtered to life and began to print, rapidly indenting the paper with the series of dots that would give him… something. He paced as he waited, tracking your past movements further as he did.

“Talk to me. What were you doing?”

You’d wandered into the kitchen after you’d crumpled up the paper. You’d pulled down a bottle of aspirin, and used a glass of water to take it. The glass was still in the sink, the imprint of your lips lingering on the edge. You were tired, and aching—he could taste that much on the air, if the aspirin hadn’t given it away. Then you’d come back to the printer, and typed something before you’d left, seemingly abandoning your plan for the moment. Had you gotten a call? 

He passed his hands over the wall in front of where you’d stood for a long moment, and he could just barely feel the lingering condensation. You’d been speaking here. There hadn’t been anyone else in the apartment, so it was most likely a call, as he’d suspected. A job? You’d always been honest with him about your desire for money, and though at first he’d judged you for it, he’d understood once he’d had time to think it over. Had you put all this off for one last job? 

The printer beeped, signaling it was finished printing. He’d just have to hope that whatever was on the paper, it gave him what he needed to track you down, maybe change your mind. Or… or let him know for sure you were done with him.

He lifted your letter from the printer tray as if the paper was made of glass, and his fingers hesitated. For all he knew, you’d never intended for him to read this. Just because it had been ready to print didn’t mean you were going to send it. Not only that but… but this could hurt. You’d mentioned how you’d cut people loose before, how thoroughly you sliced that thread apart.

He shuddered at the fresh memory of your hands doing… something to him. He’d felt it before, a strange hum along his skin when you used your ability to take hold of the threads he couldn’t sense. It was different when those connections were his. It was like you’d slid your fingers deep inside his chest, each gentle stroke along a thread dragging memories and emotions out of him unbidden as you held his connections in the palm of your hand like they were something delicate and worth treasuring. And then you’d touched what he presumed was the thread between the two of you, because not only had he been kicked headlong into a swirl of warm thoughts and memories of you, he could have sworn he received a rush of warmth directed back. It had all quickly been overwhelmed, though, by a surge of panic—not his, but yours. 

He needed to know, one way or another, and so he forced his fingers to drag across the paper and read what you had to tell him.

By the time he was done he knew what he needed to do, a small, tentative bloom of hope tucked away deep inside him. He left the paper there on your table, and disappeared back into the city. He wouldn’t stop until he found you.

-x-

Some blocks away, one Jason Bronewen was being handcuffed against the hood of his car, arrested on drug charges and a pile of unpaid parking tickets. He’d been caught on the road for expired plates not long after returning a small Russian Blue to her owners in Hell’s Kitchen. 

Thanks to a sting the previous evening resulting in a backlog, it would be roughly 12 hours before he had access to a phone. He would use his one phone call to seek legal counsel.

The human body can survive without water, on average, for three days.

The clock was ticking.

Chapter Text

Your cell was roughly six strides by six strides.

The interior was sparsely furnished as far as your questing fingers could tell. There was no mattress. No toilet, either—just a narrow hole in the cement floor where it had once been, though that hole was at least large enough for you to use should it come to that. Somewhere up above you was a vent that periodically spat forth a rush of warm, stale air. There was an old sink, grimy and covered in dust. Nothing escaped the faucet when you finally managed to wrench the rusted handle into the ‘on’ position. Even if it had worked, you weren’t sure you’d trust what came out of the pipes.

Then again, you were pretty thirsty, and that thirst would only get worse unless someone came by with some water. 

You spent what must have been hours restlessly mapping the cell and messing with the door if only to keep your mind off the darkness around you. Your efforts proved futile: the heavy steel door was sealed tight and no amount of prying from you could work so much as a screw free. All the attempts did was leave your nails chipped and bloodied. You had a little more luck with a small vent you found set low against the wall, though ‘luck’ was a relative term. You used your knife to loosen the four screws holding it into the wall, and then you had… a vent panel, and four rusty screws. 

Maybe you could hit someone with the panel? 

This is not going well.

You were well and truly trapped.

Panic welled up inside you, snapping its teeth and straining against the heavy chains you’d bound it down with, ghosts that whispered of padded rooms filled with nothing but pitch black murk roiling upwards from the depths of memory. You lifted a hand to bite your fist, taking a few calming breaths, trying to anchor yourself to the present. Above all, you needed to remain calm because even though the vent above you only rattled to life occasionally, it was still running often enough to keep the cell unpleasantly warm, and you couldn’t risk sweating more than you already were. A panic attack could kill you, here. 

You weren’t unaware of what might be coming as time dragged on. You’d lived in warmer locales, in cities where summer heat waves were common and everyone with the means sought shelter during the hottest parts of the day when the sun burned so bright your shoes could melt against the scorched asphalt. With all the time you spent outside while tracking, it had been in your best interest to learn the symptoms of dehydration and heat stroke.

So focus. Think. Take stock.

You’d had a glass of water before you left your apartment, but that had been hours ago and you were fairly certain you’d sweated most of it out as you chased after Anya. It was also warm tonight, so you were likely already dehydrated, if only mildly. Hopefully it hadn’t affected your cognition yet, but that would come in time, along with other unpleasant symptoms if you weren’t careful. Though you were trapped underground—something that normally would have kept you cool—there was a heater above you ensuring the cell stayed warm. Lastly, there was no water to be found here that might help you replenish what you'd already lost. 

Until Jason came with water or Matt found you, you needed to conserve your energy and avoid any unnecessary exertion.  

I'm on my own until then.

You’d been in a cell before thanks to the Man in the White Coat. You’d survive this one, too. There may have been a few minor differences—this cell wasn’t padded to prevent you from hurting yourself, for one—but the darkness that pressed down on you like endless fathoms of lightless water was familiar. You’d come to loathe that pitch-black emptiness, and it had taken you years to shake off your fear of darkness like this. But if you kept your mind busy and Matt found you quickly, you'd be alright, though you wouldn't be surprised if you wound up having nightmares again. Nightmares I can handle. Just keep yourself occupied. You went back to the low vent, moving more slowly this time and careful not to work up a sweat. Maybe there was something inside the small opening you could use. 

The vent was just large enough to get your arm through, so you stretched out flat on your belly and slid your arm inside shoulder-deep. There was no vertical space to move your arm, only a path forward, so you reached as far as you could, feeling around until your sore fingers eventually brushed what felt like another vent panel. The panel you’d left on the ground scraped noisily against the concrete when you bumped into it, the sound painfully loud in the confines of your cell.

“Hey, you wanna keep it down over there?”

You paused at the voice coming through the vent. Whoever it was on the other side, their voice was low and smooth and… bizarrely, completely relaxed. They weren’t anywhere near as worried as you were.

“Hello?”

“Yeah, I can hear you, kid.”

Jason said there were other prisoners. Wonder who this guy is?

At this point, it didn’t really matter.  You were just glad for the company. That was something you'd never had when you were younger and found yourself in a cell like this. You almost laughed to yourself in relief, pushing yourself up and leaning back to sit against the wall next to the vent. It was as close as you could get to another person right now and you’d take it, all things considered. “I was kinda worried I was alone in here to be honest. Sorry for the noise.”

“No worries. We’re all stuck in here together. Bound to go a little batshit ‘til they let us out in a few days.”

“I wish I could believe that.”

God, you were thirsty, and hungry too. Your eyes felt dry, so you let them drift shut. It wasn’t like you could see anything anyway and you were exhausted and aching. It wasn’t comfortable here exactly, tucked into the corner between the door and the low vent, but you’d make due. Sitting still was the best thing for you right now as you tried to think. It had been around two when you’d come back to your apartment, if you remembered correctly. 

“Do you guys get fed on a schedule?” you asked suddenly.

“What?”

You cleared your throat. “I said do you guys get fed at a certain time?”

“As far ‘s I can tell. Not like they got a clock in here, kid, unless you got somethin’ I don’t in that cell of yours.”

You tugged off your jacket and folded it up so you could place it behind your head, giving you something a little softer than concrete to rest against. It was too warm for the jacket anyway. You drew your knees up, letting your arms rest on them as you got comfortable. You were probably going to be here a while. “Breakfast? Dinner? Three meals?”

“Why the twenty questions?” Despite his jab, he sounded amused and not particularly unfriendly, so you kept going.

“Can’t a girl be curious about the luxurious accommodations?”

Your neighbor snorted somewhere on the other side of the wall. “Breakfast and dinner, seems like. Nothin’ much to write home about but hey, food’s food, right?”

You drummed your fingers against your knees. Well, the meals may not have been a clock, but the schedule would be enough to give you a rough estimate of the time and just how long you’d been in here. “Can you tell me when they bring you food?” 

The sound of a rough chuckle drifted through the vent, warped and tinny as the sound bounced around inside the small opening before making its way to your cell. “If you’re really that interested, sure.”

“Thank you.”

You fell asleep there against the wall, tired and aching and thirsty. 

-x-

He searched until dawn.

He tried to follow your scent trail outside your apartment building but only got as far as the curb where you’d presumably entered a cab. 

He couldn’t hear your voice or your heartbeat, though he listened.

He couldn’t catch your scent, though he worked his way back and forth in a grid pattern across Hell’s Kitchen.

He couldn’t feel you in his chest, though he tried to open up that part of him you’d inadvertently touched when you’d seen his threads. 

You were just… gone. 

The possibility that this was what it seemed—that you’d left—was a prickly thought, a shard of glass that burrowed in deeper every time he moved, but he refused to consider it. It wouldn’t make any sense, not when you’d left so much identifying material behind and not when you’d failed to put your escape plan into action. Your letter had made that clear. 

The letter.

He’d steeled himself against the multitude of cruel things he might read in that note he’d printed from your laptop. You’d warned him months ago that you left no ties, cutting to the bone as cruelly and mercilessly as you could on your way out. The truth was the last thing he’d expected when you were so adept at dodging questions, an expert at lying without actually lying. But instead of half-lies or calculated insults, he’d found honesty instead. 

You were sorry. You were scared at what you might bring down on him. And all you wanted was to stay.

He knew he might be able to change your mind if you gave him the opportunity. There’d been too much uncertainty in your words, your will crumbling even as you prepared to run. All Matt wanted was a few minutes, one more touch, one more chance to offer his hand. And then… then he’d let you go, if that was still what you wanted. He wouldn’t, couldn’t force you to stay, but he also couldn’t shake the notion that you were safer here where he could watch your back. There had to be a way for him to help you, if only you’d just... let him in. 

You’d opened the door with that letter, just a crack but enough for him to see you. There was hope, and he had to try.

But as the cruel hours ticked by with no sign of you and dawn chased back the night in streaks of pale color he could feel but not see, that hope inside him began to wither. Another visit to your apartment confirmed you hadn’t returned, and his own apartment remained equally empty despite his hope that perhaps you’d sought refuge there using the key he’d left for you. 

Where were you?

She's gone.

The idea seized his heart and squeezed with iron fingers as he let himself back into his apartment from the rooftop door. He dragged his mask off with heavy hands, rubbing tiredly at his eyes. At what point was he just going to accept that you were gone? You’d seen all you needed to make the smart move and get the hell out of his life. He shouldn’t have expected anything else. This was pointless, it was all—

His work phone rang where he’d left it on the table, a robotic voice announcing Foggy’s call. He leapt nimbly over the broken floorboards at the bottom of the stairs, striding to the kitchen table and only just managing to answer before it went to voicemail. 

“Foggy?”

“Hey man. You coming in soon?” Foggy’s cadence was off, stilted in the way it always was when he was trying to figure out how to deliver unpleasant news painlessly. Matt had heard that tone more than once, and there was no mistaking it. 

“Is something wrong?”

“It's about Jane. Her partner called. She’s gone missing.”

-x-

Noise in the neighboring cell stirred you awake. The abrupt movement as you lifted your head made you a little dizzy despite the lack of any visual reference point inside your cell. You tried to focus, making out the rough scrape of a metal across concrete. They must have slid a tray of food through the slot next door. You directed your eyes towards the tiny crack of light along the bottom edge of your cell door. Jason had said he’d bring you food and water, so surely he’d be here soon. 

Minutes ticked by, without so much as a shadow to interrupt that narrow band of light.

Maybe Jason had forgotten you. Or worse, he'd never intended to bring you water at all.

Dread raked ice-tipped claws down your spine, so sharp you'd swear you felt your skin freeze and fracture. You forced yourself to breathe through the sudden terror, forcing air in through your nose and out through your mouth in a steady rhythm. You needed to keep your mind centered on the here and now. There wasn’t anything to see, so you focused on other sensations instead: on the rough, cracked concrete under your fingers; on the smell of dust and rusty pipes; on the taste of blood where your lips had cracked and bled. You were here, and you were alive, and someone would come to let you out.

Probably Matt. And then he’d beat the shit out of everyone and maybe let you hit them too with that stupid rusty vent panel you’d ripped out of the wall until every last one of them got tetanus. 

“Hey, kid. You soundin’ a little fucked up over there. You ok?”

"Yeah.” The word slipped out scratchier than intended after the rough bark of laughter you’d let out, and you swallowed around a dry throat before you tried again. “Yeah, just… don’t like cells is all.”

“Tell me about it. Guess you heard we got breakfast, huh?”

“Yeah.” Instead of curling up again in the corner, you settled yourself down on the ground, dragging your jacket under your head with a sigh. You’d been right earlier. You were dehydrated thanks to last night’s activities, there was no question now, and that meant you needed to be even more cautious. The cement beneath you was cool, a blessing you could take advantage of. You shifted until the low vent was above your head, your eyes locked onto the narrow band of light leaking in under the cell door. If food or water came through the slot, you wouldn’t miss it, no matter how much you wanted to spit it back in someone’s face. “Mine’s not… not here yet, I guess.”

A confused grunt echoed through the vent. “They usually feed us pretty regularly. ‘M sure yours is comin’, kid.”

Until that meal arrived, maybe you’d sleep again, just for a little while. It wasn’t much different from when you were small. Back then, the scientists had trapped you in darkness to see if your second sight would grow stronger without your physical eyes there to fuck things up. Now, you were here so you couldn’t alert Fisk to whatever the hell these people were up to. In either case, your theory was the same: if you slept long enough, someone would show up to let you out. Eventually you drifted off again. 

You dreamed of a murky creek that carried two currents, one above and one below. Try as you might, you could never quite reach the shadow of the man who swam along the bottom, turning over stones. 

-x-

Foggy ran a hand down his face, pacing restlessly, while Karen chewed on the plastic pen she’d used to take notes, running back over what she’d written in neat shorthand. Matt meanwhile sat stiffly in front of his laptop, quickly running his fingers back and forth over the refreshable braille display as it processed last night’s police reports on the screen into something he could read. Even after hours of discussion, urgent phone calls to potential witnesses, and a search of public records, the list of clues they had to go off of was far too short. 

“So,” Karen said, fiddling with the pen. “We know she told them it was a bad time on the phone, but they offered her money, which she accepted. She came by their apartment around 2:30A.M., and then she left to go track down the cat. That's the last time anyone saw her. Another man showed up at their house at 4:45A.M., dropped off the cat, and said Jane sent him to return it. She won’t return anyone’s calls, and she hasn’t talked to her partner.”

“So I’m going to be the first one to say it, even though I hate it,” Foggy said, the rhythm of his steps pausing as he turned to face the table. His heavy sigh stirred the papers on the table minutely. “I think we have to consider that she might have just—”

“No.” Matt’s voice was sharp and clear, his fingers pausing in their movements. “She didn’t run.”

Foggy shook his head, floorboards creaking as he shifted back and forth on his feet. “Matt, she told us she had people after her. She used a fake name. I know you liked her, and we did too but—”

“She didn’t run,” he repeated, refusing to budge so much as an inch, his jaw clenching. “There’s too much that doesn’t fit.”

“There are a few things here that are weird, Foggy,” Karen agreed slowly, frowning down at the paper and tapping her pen against it meaningfully. “Why take the job for the money and then not come back to take it?”

“And why send someone else?” Matt pointed out, following Karen's line of thought. “She generally works alone. She doesn’t use partners when she’s out looking for something.” Except for himself, but as far as he knew, he was the only one you’d ever allowed to tag along. There’d never been anyone else you'd let get close enough, not that he’d sensed. This stranger, whoever he was, was a sharp deviation from your usual pattern.

Foggy’s footsteps slowed to a more pensive stride. “Alright, so let’s play this out. You’re her. You’re using a false identity and you take a job for money. You really like money, because it makes you feel safe. You rarely turn down a chance at more. So, what could stop you from coming back to get it?”

“Something threatening that safety,” Karen said, thinking out loud and leaning back in her chair. “If she’s trying to make money to be safe, then that money being unsafe could stop her.”

“Have we looked at her clients?” Foggy asked, directing his question to Matt. 

Matt nodded. He’d spoken with Maya earlier. “Jane’s partner knows them. The cat’s something of an escape artist, but the family’s always checked out. She vouched for them.”

“Ok, so if it’s not them, what else makes you walk away from that kind of money if you’re her?”

“Whoever’s chasing her could be here in the city.” Karen glanced guiltily at Matt, her heartbeat skipping in concern before she said, even more quietly, “or if she… um, couldn’t come back. For some reason.”

He ground his teeth together. He couldn’t pretend he hadn’t considered the thought himself as he’d hunted for you last night, the idea that someone had snatched you up and prevented you from returning to your apartment or calling for help. If that were true, then that only made him more determined to find you, no matter who he had to go through to do it. And if those people had hurt you...

He dropped his hands under the table so no one could see the way they clenched into fists.

“So someone could have spooked her, or caught her.” Foggy blew out a heavy breath, rolling his head back to relieve the strain in his neck with a dull pop. “Do we know if she’d been back to her apartment?”

“She didn’t come back after the case,” Matt said, his mind racing for an excuse as the two of them turned to look at him curiously. “I-uh, we-we were supposed to meet at her apartment early this morning, and she wasn’t there. Her neighbor said she hadn’t been back either before I got there. I waited for as long as I could, but...” Karen set a kind hand on Matt’s shoulder and squeezed before she went back to her notes, adding the extra detail as Matt continued. “I’ve… I’ve been in her apartment. She told me she has things there she wouldn’t leave if she had to run.”

“So we’re back to: something stopped her, or someone spooked her so bad she had to leave everything behind.” Foggy went back to pacing.

“But if someone did grab her,” Matt said, tilting his head, “then why send someone to return the cat?”

They all sat with that for a moment, puzzled. Matt ran a heavy hand through his hair, thinking. The news that you’d sent someone to return the cat, someone who hadn’t collected the reward, had only complicated things. You weren’t someone to turn down the money, and you definitely weren’t someone who’d send another to do your own job. It was a point of pride. If you’d been spooked, you wouldn’t have bothered to find someone to return the cat. And if you’d been captured, why would your captors send someone else to return a cat? Was it to avoid arousing any suspicions? 

“We need to know who this guy is so we can talk to him.” Karen dragged her pen across the paper, the smell of ink strong where she’d just underlined, ‘stranger returning cat’. “He seems like he’s the last person to have seen her.”

Matt nodded, standing and letting his hands give the appearance of helping him navigate around the table. “I can go and talk to her clients, see if they have anything to say.” If nothing else there was a chance he could catch your scent nearby, or the scent of the man who’d come to return to the cat. Even if the street was busy and he had to dig, it wouldn’t be impossible. And then maybe, just maybe, he could use what he found to track down you or the stranger. 

Foggy rapped his knuckles against the table, less tense now that they had a plan. “And I’ll call a couple guys who live around there, check if they’ve seen her. Some of them keep pretty late hours.” 

“I’ll help,” Karen said quickly, gathering up her notes. “Maybe somewhere there’s a, um, convenience store or something? We might be able to see her on a camera somewhere.”

As Matt gathered up his things out front and shut the door behind him, he tried to ignore the conversation they started up in hushed, dejected tones once he’d left. 

"I'll... call the hospitals, too. And the morgues. See if... if anyone came in that matches her description."

"Thank you. I didn't want to bring it up with him here. At least one of us deserves to have a little hope right now."

-x-

You couldn’t tell if it was night yet. There was nothing inside your cell you could use to track time but at least you were getting caught up on your sleep. You tried not to worry, instead focusing on conserving your energy. Every once in a while you’d shift along the floor to a new spot, somewhere your body hadn’t yet warmed the concrete. Jason still hadn’t shown, and you weren’t sure why. Things weren’t dire yet, you told yourself. You refused to think that way, at least until your neighbor got his dinner. Then… maybe then you’d allow yourself to freak out a little. 

When you weren’t asleep, you listened, laying yourself out near the door and pressing yourself close to the open crack along the bottom. The hallway outside the room containing your cells was rarely used based on how often you heard someone pass by. Whoever was on watch didn’t pay much attention to the cell doors, either: you’d tracked the scuffing of their footsteps when they got up to stretch or move around, but they never came towards the cells.

The other muffled noises you could hear took up most of your attention. Every once in a while people would speak loudly enough to be understood as they moved down the hallway, and you caught snatches of conversation. Generally it was the usual inane chatter between coworkers—weather, sports, weird news stories about body snatchers in Miami and Mothman sightings in Virginia. Sometimes though, they talked about their boss’s hurry to leave. That was of far more interest to you. Whoever was in charge here was a small fry compared to the Russian Mob and Fisk, and that little fish wanted out as quickly and quietly as possible. 

When someone mentioned the Devil of Hell’s Kitchen, you couldn’t help but grin just a little.

That moment of satisfaction was quickly washed away by a wave of anxiety and no small amount of guilt. You’d tried to get a message to him but even if it had been received, even if he’d known what it meant, why would he bother to track you down? You’d slammed that door soundly in his face, knowing what it would do to him. Hell, even before you’d seen that thread, you’d been planning to run. If he’d gone by your apartment while searching for you, he’d have sensed your bags, packed and ready as you prepared to abandon ship. You may not have stuck the intended knife into his back, but you’d sucker-punched him hard enough to leave a mark. You curled up tighter, your breath hitching.

No. He'll come. He wouldn't leave me here.

If there was one thing you knew about Matt Murdock, it was that he was always, always too ready to help. It wouldn’t matter what you’d said, or that you’d been planning to abandon him. You’d… asked for his help. And he’d give it, no matter how much it hurt him to do so.

You didn’t even notice the familiar rhythm your fingers had begun to drum on the floor. 

Tap-tap-tap. Tap. Tap-tap.

Tap-tap-tap. Tap. Tap-tap.

Tap-tap-tap. Tap. Tap-tap.

-x-

The scent of you outside your clients’ ground-level apartment may have been faint, but it was there, buried beneath the tangle of other scents that always flowed down a busy city street. It was easy to lose track of your path on the sidewalk where foot traffic was heavier, but up near the front door there had been fewer people passing directly over your trail. He parted his lips, drawing the air across his tongue until he could taste you. 

You’d definitely been here, though not for long. You’d been stressed, your scent dripping cortisol, and you'd also been tired, your footsteps leaving scuffs where they'd dragged across the pavement as you’d climbed the three steps leading to the front door. The natural oil from your hands marred the handrail when normally you’d have left it untouched, and you’d leaned against the door for a moment to rest. 

The man with the cat that had along come after you—young, healthy, a few grams of coke in his pocket—had been nervous, the sour ripeness of adrenaline lingering as he knocked on the door, leaving a trace of gunpowder. He’d been armed at some point. The man’s pheromones were stronger, more recent than yours, but… he’d definitely brought your scent with him. He hadn’t just seen you: he’d touched you, enough for the smell of your skin to transfer from you to him… and you’d been scared. 

His hands tightened into a white-knuckled grip on his cane. This only confirmed for him what he’d already suspected. You may have been planning to run. There was no mistaking your packed bags and the letter he’d read in your apartment. But something had interfered with your plans, and had prevented you from carrying them out. He knew you well enough to know it would have to be something serious. You were in trouble.

Where are you?

He wasted precious hours trying to track your scent. His efforts met some success initially as he followed your trail, sorting through stimuli and following the little clues you’d unknowingly left behind: a brush of your hand against a crosswalk button here, a scuff of your boot there. That success only lasted a few blocks until he came within range of the nearby construction site where they’d just begun to lay down a hot layer of asphalt. Whatever trace of you remained was quickly overwhelmed by the pungent, burning stench of petroleum and he was forced to retreat. He tried to circle the area, eating up more time as he worked his way methodically outwards but wherever your trail reappeared, he couldn’t seem to find it.

He didn’t have any luck with the man’s scent, either. That trail began and ended at the curb in front of the apartment, tinted with the smell of gasoline, old leather seats, and one very angry cat. The man had brought his own car, though you hadn’t been in it. Which meant the man had found you elsewhere, and had left you there. It wasn’t much, but at least now he had something he could use to identify who this man was.

That was fortunate, since your client had little to share, though he did his best. The physical description was unhelpful to Matt, but potentially valuable to Foggy and Karen. The stranger had also, apparently, been very emphatic that his returning the cat had been at your direction.

“Did he say anything else? Maybe about Ms. Hind?”

The client, David, shook his head. He was seated in his wheelchair, broken leg propped up in a heavy cast. Beyond the faint traces of you in the doorway, there was no indication you’d been inside, and David’s heart rate was steady and smooth, if slightly elevated in his concern. He’d had nothing to do with this. “Just that she was sorry she couldn’t return Anya herself. She’d looked pretty exhausted when she showed up here earlier, but it was late and we were both grateful she’d shown up at all, so it didn’t seem that unusual. We tried to call her to thank her, but she didn’t pick up. That was why we called Maya this morning. I’m sorry I can’t tell you more.”

He’d found a few more clues, but still not enough, nowhere near enough to find you. He was running out of options, short of hunting until he found your scent somewhere beyond the fumes of the construction site. That could take hours at street level, and he grit his teeth at the thought of more wasted time. 

Maybe later tonight, he could climb up to the rooftops and see if you’d done something similar. Up there, above the burn of asphalt and the cacophony of noise, the fresh breeze could easily carry a part of you to him. One of the few commonalities between your after-dark activities was the matching penchant for climbing up high to get a lay of the land. It was how this had all started, how he had first approached you, back when you’d been carrying a little wooden duck. You were always scrambling up fire escapes to the rooftops, trying to estimate where you were going to end up. Surely you’d done the same thing last night.

Except… you’d also been tired, your client had said, and that kind of climbing was a lot of work, especially with how hot it had been. No, if you’d climbed up onto a roof last night, it would only have been to catch the cat. You’d have stayed on the street whenever possible, and your trail indicated you’d chosen to remain on foot instead of taking a cab.

Eventually he started walking again, taking a wide berth around the construction site, his cane tapping rapidly as he moved. Your trail had to start up again on the other side somewhere. Even if your path led downwind, eventually the scent of asphalt would dissipate enough that he could find you again. He tried to contain his growing frustration as he searched, on the alert for any trace of you, but it quickly became obvious there was too much ground to cover, even for him. He growled and turned back towards his office. If he was lucky, Foggy and Karen would have something. 

It was by sheer luck he passed down the street he did.

That scent, not yours but the stranger’s, was all over the brick exterior of a local dry cleaner’s. Matt jerked to a halt, ignoring the mumbled curses of those who now had to dodge around him. He turned his head, tracking the path from the wall to the street.

The stranger had stopped here, and had left his car, though it had long since been towed away. Why?

The scent of the man was strongest up against the brick wall, and Matt hovered near it, picking up notes of copper, sweat, and adrenaline. There was a small smear of blood there on one of the bricks where the man had been shoved against the wall, his feet kicked wide until they’d scuffed the pavement. The trail proceeded to the curb where it disappeared again, this time into an altogether different vehicle. That, combined with the unique scent of gunpowder, city-issued handcuffs, and latex gloves told Matt all he needed to know. 

The man, whoever he was, had been arrested. You hadn’t been with him in the car. Matt still didn’t know where you were, or what had happened. But this… this was promising. If the stranger had been arrested, then there was a possibility he was somewhere in lockup right now. That, combined with the description your client had given, vastly narrowed the field. 

He was about to call Foggy when his phone rang, and he quickly lifted it to his ear. 

“Foggy, I found something.”

“So did I. You’re never gonna guess who called wanting our legal expertise. Tell me, my dear Matthew: when were you going to mention you were getting married?”

-x-

Your mouth was dry, and you were getting tired of the dark. 

Without daylight or a way to keep track of how long you’d slept, you didn’t have much hope of telling the time. You didn’t know if it was late or early, or if the sun had set. They hadn’t served dinner in the next cell yet, so you suspected it wasn’t quite evening at the very least. The blackness inside the cell also made your occasional trips over to the hole in the ground a little awkward. 

Sometimes you thought you saw things there in the dark—shadows within shadows—when you allowed your mind to drift, so you tried to keep your mind busy, gathering more information. You listened to the passersby outside, and had a few whispered conversations with the captive in the next cell. He seemed nice enough, at least, and he was open to conversation, to just talking as you listened, drifting in and out, safe in the knowledge you weren’t completely alone here.  

The three guards watching over the cells worked in shifts, according to your neighbor. You’d been listening for the shift change, waiting as patiently as you could in hopes that you might overhear some mention of the time. That would give you a better sense of just how many hours it had been since you’d been tossed in here. The guard currently outside was clearly growing bored, and you could hear the tinkle and chime of what you presumed was his phone as he played some sort of game. Every once in a while he’d greet someone, though, and now and then one of the other captives would get a visitor, the harsh squeal of rusted doors opening on their hinges setting you on alert.

Your door, however, remained closed. 

Time passed, slow and fluid as you pressed your face to the small crack of light under the door and listened. Sometimes you imagined you could taste the cleaner air, parting your lips to breathe it down. It may not have smelled like roses in the room beyond yours, but it was better than here, where the air was stagnant and unmoving outside the rare, blessed moments when the vent in the ceiling kicked on.

Dinner came, and went. 

The shift changed.

You remained alone.

And now… now you were starting to freak out a little, panic finally ripping free from its binds. You couldn’t help it, the way your heart began to race, your breathing coming faster and faster. And that was bad, because you’d been working very hard not to waste any energy or use up the water in your body you did have. You tried to slow your breathing, pressing your face against the crack in the door again, but it wasn’t helping like before, because now it was just pressure on your face and you began to claw with frantic, bloodied fingertips at the bottom of the door and then at the slat that opened from the other side because you couldn’t get enough air—

It wasn’t a surprise, really, that your third eye opened.

The sudden explosion of color after hours in the dark would have knocked you on your ass had you been standing. Instead it stunned you into silence as you rolled backwards, away from the door and the crack of light that lined the bottom of it. 

Now this… this was just as familiar as the old cell.

You knew your physical eyes were seeing nothing. You knew that, logically, and yet… with the overlay of threads across the floor, some of the darkness seemed to recede. Being underground limited the amount of threads that passed through your cell, but they were still there, filling what had once been an empty void with warmth, color, and light. That included the ones coming out of your chest. You reached out trembling fingers and ran them over the threads that were now visible.

Quite intentionally, there weren’t many to be found. While you appreciated money, you’d become fairly non-materialistic over the years—it came with the territory when most of your possessions amounted to nothing more than props and set pieces you were forced to leave behind.  That left little room for blue threads, and you had only a few that you knew would lead to the contents of a small box, tucked away inside your escape bag. Green threads you did have, though far fewer than Matt did, since your chosen defense was generally to keep people at arm’s length from day one. It made it easier to leave, in the end. Still, you had… people in your past you hadn’t been able to avoid developing an affection for, people you’d had to cut yourself free from. 

There was no white, no black that you could see against the dark of the cell; a few trails of yellow, though, shimmering lines of buttery gold. There was also a pale, peach-orange thread, sparkling cheerfully like the early afternoon sun. That was probably Foggy. He’d made no secret that he was open to a real friendship with you, the door thrown wide for you to enter at your leisure. You wondered, absently, if Matt had told him you were missing. It was possible Jason, if he’d even bothered to call Nelson and Murdock, had gotten Foggy instead. A touch to the thread brought to mind memories of hearty laughter and the victorious taste of cheap drinks shared with friends. Distant worry and determination shivered along beneath it, a faint hint of his mental state.

Despite your best efforts, even without Matt you had two of your own red threads, though these were pulled so tight they were only the width of your smallest finger. No wonder, when the ones tied to the other ends both lived some 3,000 miles away. You couldn’t tell what your old friend and his daughter were up to, but the tiny trickles of sensation you got from the threads seemed… happy enough. Content. That was more than worth you leaving.

That left Matt’s thread: a deep, rusted orange shot through with slivers of sullen red. You held it gently, drawing it closer. Did he even know what had happened? You ran a thumb over it, seeking comfort in the connection and warm memories, but like the other threads it was stretched too thin for you to get more than vague flashes of what he was feeling. There was anger there, you thought. Frustration, and… worry, more than enough that you could taste it as you rubbed the thread between your fingers. When you touched it like this, did he think of you? He’d said he’d felt it, had said—

You paused, fingers frozen.

He’d felt it. He’d felt you touch his threads, hadn’t he? That was what he’d said, and that touching your threads had brought up memories. Would he feel it now? Could you get his attention, let him know you needed help?

It had been easy to connect with him when you’d been standing right in front of him. The thread had been slack and open then, with little distance to travel between the two of you. This was an altogether different matter when you were farther apart and the connection between you was stretched thin and narrow. You tried to press down mentally into the thread, attempting to recreate that sensation you’d had before when the thread had drawn you in, but you’d have had more luck squeezing your physical body into the pipe in the corner. You snarled in anger, yanking hard on the thread. 

A faint puzzlement drifted to you, far away like a distant echo across a canyon. 

Did he feel that? 

You needed to make the thread bigger, or open it wider so you could get through to him. But how? You’d only ever seen a thread grow larger with time, or when it turned...

Red.  

You pressed a hand to your face as your nose began to bleed, drops sliding free to stain the concrete below you. 

If you wanted to get his attention… you’d need to remove that final, hastily erected barrier you’d placed between you. A part of you recoiled at the very thought. You’d worked too hard to keep something like this from happening. You’d left people behind, hurt them, shredded every last inch of their hearts before leaving them to sew up the bloody pieces alone. You’d been leaving New York specifically to avoid a thread like this. And yet you were surprised to find that, by and large… the idea of letting Matt in didn’t provoke the horror you’d expected. Because you’d known, hadn’t you? You’d sealed your fate the second you’d directed Jason towards Matt. You’d known that if Matt came for you here, you’d be staying in New York. There would be no going back, no rebuilding that wall once you’d torn it down. You’d seen that red coming, had felt it there waiting… and you’d chosen to step forward anyway, knowing what it would mean.

You could pretend it was a matter of survival, but that was only a part of it. A large part, yes, but also…

You liked him, cared about him, so very much. You didn’t want to leave, longed so badly to stay here with him that you ached with it. And as much as you cared for Matt, you also liked it here in New York, liked the other people around you. You’d been looking for Matt to push you into staying, but that wasn’t fair to him. This was your decision, and you needed to walk through this door of your own free will. It was your choice what happened now. You could try to escape, once you got out of here, or… you could take that leap.

You’d been running for so long. Maybe it was time to stand and fight for the life you wanted instead.

You closed your eyes, holding tight to that orange thread as you let your body go slack, your mind floating inwards. You didn’t need your physical eyes to see the thread when you could feel it where it sat cradled in your hands, all soothing heat and the rush of a breeze somewhere high. 

Time passed and you thought of Matt. You thought of the way he felt when he wrapped his arms around you. You thought of late nights on hot rooftops and banter over stupid things. You thought of his feral smile and how his face softened when the stoic mask was gone and he was open with you. You thought of his jokes with Foggy and Karen, and of a blinding, tragically wide white thread large enough to encompass an entire city, its roots radiating warmth even here below ground where you were tucked away.

You thought of him… and all the ways you didn’t want to lose him; of all the ways you… cared about him.

The thread in your hand flickered once. 

Twice.

And then... 

A blush of dark wine-red color bloomed beneath your touch like the first blossoming flowers of spring. That wave of acknowledgement rolled down the thread, rust orange vanishing in a breath, consumed, expanded by warm affection and tender care and... and maybe hope for an even closer bond one day, too. The feeling that sang in you was so rich your eyes fluttered closed for a moment as you basked in the connection you'd so long denied yourself. It wasn't the vivid scarlet of something grown for years, but it was red enough. More than enough.

Blood began to pool on the ground in front of your face as you held the red thread tight and reached.

Chapter Text

I will march down an empty street like a ship into the storm
No surrender, no retreat, I will tear down every wall
Just to keep you warm
Just to bring you home

-Banners

-x-

Even as late in the day as it was, the refuge of true night was still a few hours off when Matt met up with Foggy in front of the precinct.

“Is he still here?” 

“Yup, he’s waiting for us now.” Foggy paused until Matt had taken his arm before starting towards the door. “According to him, she told him to call us if he was in a bind—steps here, watch your feet—oh, and he said he had news about Jane ‘if we were interested’, and since that sounded exactly like what a kidnapper would say, I figured we should come talk to him. Opening the door, hang on.”

Matt waited impatiently as Foggy tugged the door open, the smells and sounds of the busy precinct washing over them in a sudden wave. Very few of those sensations were enjoyable, but Matt had long since grown accustomed to it. He nodded stiffly as Foggy led him inside. “If he’s the same person that worker saw getting arrested last night, this could definitely be him. Based on what the witness said, he matched the description you gave me.” It had been a lie, but a necessary one to explain how he’d known that the suspect had been arrested and tossed into the system somewhere. And now? Now they had a lead.

“I checked. Looks like he’s up on some unpaid parking tickets, expired plates, and a couple misdemeanor charges for possession. Normally he would have been out on bail by now but there’s a backlog and they’re behind. Hey there, Susan! Looking lovely as always.”

“Heya Foggy. Who you here for today?” 

As Foggy went through the usual sign-in process, Matt cast his senses out into the precinct. The scent of the suspect was definitely here under the usual scents, buried down deep. Focusing too much on scent was unpleasant, as was taste—too many drunks, too much sour vomit and urine—so he listened as well, seeking out heart rates. It had clearly been a busy night, and most of the interview rooms were full, as were the cells downstairs. That would have been the backlog Foggy had mentioned.

“Matt, this way.” He let Foggy guide him down the familiar, busy hallways, heading towards the room that contained their potential client. He had to force himself to stick to Foggy's pace, as much as Matt would have preferred to go charging down the hall. “So how do you wanna play the engagement story? Not ever letting that go, by the way. I don’t even have a tux!”

“You’re about as unprepared as I am, considering I only found out an hour ago.”

And hadn’t that been a surprise? What he was curious about was why, though he had his theories. That you were engaged to him had been a blatant, obvious lie that would have been pointless unless you’d been trying to grab their attention. That had to be why you’d done it. It was a sign that all wasn’t well, a distress signal received as surely as a scream in the night.

Then again, maybe the lie hadn’t been for Matt and Foggy so much as a lie meant to influence the man they were about to meet. There was no telling until they could speak with him.

Matt shook his head and continued. “Anyway, I figured we could keep it up for now. Don’t confirm or deny it. She told the lie for a reason; let’s find out why.”

The man they were there to meet, Jason Bronewin, was tall, fairly healthy, and had thick, curly hair. Matt tilted his head subtly, sorting through sensory information as he and Foggy settled themselves into their seats across from him. The man’s heart had already been keeping up a rapid tempo, and that quick pace had spiked further when Foggy and Matt entered the room. He’d been sweating with anxiety that had only gotten worse with time, and he’d been arrested roughly thirteen hours ago. He was covered in scars, though most looked defensive. He had a cat at home, and a woman he spent time with often.

Your scent, fearful and highly stressed, lingered on Jason’s hands. 

Matt’s hands tightened marginally on his cane, but he forced down any expression that might give him away. He needed to remain calm, tie down the rage and the hunger inside him for now. While it would have been far more convenient if he could simply beat the man until he provided your location, there wasn’t much hope for that here in a crowded precinct. There was also a chance, however marginal it might be, that this man, too, was a victim. 

Jason practically trembled under Matt’s cold, unwavering focus, so Foggy cleared his throat and flipped open the folder he’d brought with him. “Hi there, Mr. Bronewin. I just want to let you know we’re going to do our best—”

“Listen,” Jason blurted out, leaning forward in his seat. “I’ve been through this thing before. Blah blah blah, legal introductions, you’ll help. But I just—” he shivered, and the sudden, sharp bite of fear in the air slapped Matt in the face, “—I need to get out of here, ok? Arraigned so I can make bail. And it’s taking longer than it usually does despite my rights to a quick arraignment, or I wouldn’t have called. So you get me out, and I can go help Mr. Murdock’s fiance. That’s the deal.”

The tension in the room suddenly grew thick. Even Foggy sensed it, going still beside Matt.  

“Is that a threat, Mr. Bronewin?” Matt asked, his voice dangerously quiet. Something furious and hard clawed around inside him, gnashing its teeth as it strained against its shackles. It would be so simple to reach across the table. Jason was sitting off center, easy to throw off balance. One good yank on his shirt collar, another hand behind his head, and Matt could ram his face down into the table with little trouble, breaking his nose. The hallway outside the room saw a lot of foot traffic, but there was no one moving down it at the moment. He could do it, could grind Jason’s face down into the table until he struggled to breathe, until he told Matt where you were, long before anyone came running. So quick, so easy, so—

Stop. Not here, not now. 

Foggy set a hand on Matt’s arm, seemingly sensing Matt’s growing rage. Matt rolled his shoulders at the grounding touch, letting some of the tension drain out of him as he breathed deeply. Foggy wasn’t exactly happy about the way the conversation had swerved either, and his brows furrowed as he frowned at Jason. “Look, if you think you need to force us to help you, that’s not true. So if you could just tell us what happened—”

Jason shook his head sadly, crossing his arms and staring down at the table. He licked his lips before speaking. “I can’t. Not without putting me and people I care about at risk. You just need to get me out fast, for both my sake and Ms. Jane’s. Please.”

Foggy’s voice pitched soft and earnest as he made another attempt at persuasion, but Matt focused in on Jason’s heartbeat instead, digging down past muscle and bone until he found what he was looking for. Though the pounding of Jason’s heart was quick and skittish, the rhythm remained consistent. This wasn’t a man who was going to bend, no matter how much they tried to convince him. Matt clenched his jaw, teeth grinding. 

‘For both my sake and Ms. Jane’s’. It was more confirmation that you were in trouble somewhere outside his reach, and the thought of that ate at him. The fact that this man had been directed to Matt and Foggy meant you were trying to get word to him. You needed help, had fired a desperate flare into the dark night sky to gain Matt’s attention, and here he was with no way to let you know he’d seen that brief flash of light. Perhaps more frustratingly, this man knew where you were but wouldn’t—or couldn’t—reveal that information. It left Matt with no option but to play along even as the clock continued to tick. Well, if that was the way he needed to play it, he would, if only so the Devil of Hell’s Kitchen could pay Jason a visit later and finally get some answers. 

“We’ll get you out,” he interrupted.

Foggy shot him a look, kicking Matt lightly under the table, but Matt ignored it. He’d do whatever it took to find you; the consequences could be dealt with later. There wasn’t another path forward that he could sense, and besides: he’d read the list of charges, and it wouldn’t be much longer until Jason was arraigned, even without a few helpful nudges from the legal side of things. He was also fairly sure that between the two of them, they could get Jason out on bail with little trouble. 

Matt leaned over and to mutter in Foggy’s ear. “We need to ask around, see if Mr. Bronewin can be moved up the schedule.”

Foggy sighed and nodded, standing up. “I’ll see what I can do to get things sped up. My partner can run over more of the case with you while I go out and see where the bottleneck is.” Foggy patted Matt on the shoulder and stepped out, shutting the door behind him and leaving the two of them alone. 

Matt took a deep breath, trying to remain focused instead of letting himself be distracted by the thoughts of you that were racing through his head. There was a pressure centered in his sternum, too: a mild ache buried down below the muscle. He resisted the urge to lift a hand to press against his chest, puzzled. Someone had probably clipped him there at some point. He came home with too many bruises to keep track of all of them.

“I’m really sorry about this, man. If I could tell you, I would. Your girl is… is really nice.” Jason’s voice was soft, dripping guilt as he stared down at the table. His breathing and heart rate didn’t change; he was telling the truth. True regret could only do so much to soothe Matt’s ire, however. “She was ok when I left, just so you know.”

Matt shifted, restless. He hadn’t slept in almost a full day, and even despite that, he was still left with the desire to move, to hunt for you instead of waiting for this current lead to pan out. “That doesn’t help as much as you’d think.”

“I wish I could tell you. Just… trust me. You want me out of here fast.”

-x-

With Foggy working his magic on no less than four separate people, Jason was soon scheduled for arraignment the next morning, and they’d lucked out with a friendly judge Matt and Foggy were familiar with. Now there was nothing to do but wait and review the case in the hopes they could ensure Jason was given a reasonable bail amount, although Jason claimed price wasn’t an issue as long as he had the opportunity to get out. 

And yet all Matt wanted to do was go in swinging, tearing through the obstacles in front of him until he found wherever you’d been hidden away. He knew, though, that any search he started tonight was likely to end the same way it had the previous night—with nothing to show for his efforts but more exhaustion. The best thing he could do at the moment was fight with his head and not his fists. They would get Jason out, and then? 

Then the Devil would hunt.

Once they were back outside in front of the precinct, warm humid air swirling around them as night fell, Foggy quickly flagged down a cab. “So since we can’t exactly talk to the cops about any of this, I’m thinking we grab some takeout and take it back to the office so we can hit the books. It doesn't look complicated to get bail, but we need to be sure we’ve got this. Like, really sure.”

As Foggy opened the cab door, Matt waved him off. “You go ahead. I need to… clear my head a little.” He still hadn’t quite shaken off the edge of disquiet that had settled over him inside the precinct, and he needed to free himself of it if he wanted to focus on Jason’s case.

“Ok, buddy. Just don’t… take too long. Me and Karen will meet you back at the office. We’ll get this guy out and Jane will be fine.”

Foggy hopped inside the cab and Matt started walking once it had pulled away from the curb. He himself wasn’t so sure you’d be alright, and his worry only deepened now that knew you were deeply, dangerously in trouble somewhere. You’d been right when you’d said your job came with risks regardless of Matt’s involvement. You were familiar with finding yourself in the thick of things, and used to having to find a way out of it on your own. He still couldn’t help but wonder if this was his fault somehow, as if what he’d done or the growing affection he felt for you was the reason you’d ended up here. Maybe if he hadn’t scared you into running, you’d have asked for his help last night, even asked him to accompany you as you had previously. Instead you were somewhere hidden away from him, and his chest ached with the knowledge that you were probably scared and alone—

The sudden wave of emotion that crashed over him—dark, so thirsty, please let him hear me, please—left him staggering, and he threw out a hand to catch himself against the side of the building he’d been walking by. A few people stopped, concerned and pausing to check on him. He waved them off, mumbling something about tripping on the sidewalk. He tried to turn away from the street, shielding himself from the curious looks as his chest heaved. The entire time you were there with him, making yourself known in the phantom memories of your touch on his skin, your scent, the sound of your voice as you rasped and whispered and desperately called his name. He pressed the heel of his palm against his chest where he swore he could feel you.

You were reaching out to him somehow, a repeat of the incident last night, only now it felt entirely intentional. A sweet, familiar warmth filled him, followed by flickers and snatches of emotion: fear, desperation, hope. Was that… you? Your emotions, rippling down the line to him? Then the sensation, the heat in his chest began to throb, as if you were plucking the thread in a familiar rhythm. It was a cadence that left no room for doubt.

Three pulses. Then one. Then two.

The code the two of you used with one another. 

The code that said, I’m here, please, can you hear me?

He swung himself around, attempting to hone in on where the feeling was coming from but the sensation was too overwhelming, too uncontrolled. Instead of a pressure coming from one direction, your unpracticed efforts seemed to surround him, leaving him with no clue on which way to start running. He tried to reach back as best he could, tried to signal to you that you needed to pull back just a little and temper your efforts into something softer. With a gentler touch, he might have a better chance of narrowing in on where you were.

He took a deep breath, centering himself. Even if your efforts were overwhelming, there had to be some sign in them of where you were, some angle where the pressure was strongest. 

Abruptly the pulses began to flicker, weakening as they faded, and he scrambled for anything, any sensation that might help him find you—

Stay with me, please, please—

The connection sputtered and died, and just like that, you were gone again.

-x-

You gasped into the small puddle of blood that had pooled in front of your face on the cool cement. You’d been thrust into the dark again now that your third eye had snapped shut, and you were once more completely exhausted. You weren’t sure how long you’d managed to hold the connection open, but it had been long enough to reach him. You’d felt that—felt his distant shock, and then a clamoring desperation as he tried to figure out where you were. You’d strummed the thread as best you could while focusing, hoping to provide what he needed. It had been more difficult than you’d expected. It was like trying to rein in a river, forcing the current to carry what you willed even as more water slid through your fingers. You didn’t think you’d held it open for long, but he’d felt you.

His reaction meant he was looking for you. You just knew it, the certainty settling in bone deep and weaving itself into your core. You’d tasted the desperation once he’d realized you were reaching for him. It had been unexpected, though certainly not unwelcome. There was no hint of resistance, no resentment towards you despite what you’d been planning to do—just the frantic need to find you. He hadn’t abandoned you. The Devil was coming. And that was worth the effort you’d just put yourself through, even if you’d lost blood in the attempt.

You dragged yourself away from the blood puddle until you found another spot on the ground that was cooler and relatively cleaner, letting yourself sag down into the ground and pillowing your head on your arm. The frantic edge you’d felt touching upon Matt’s thread made you think that, while he was indeed actively searching, he wasn’t having as much luck as you’d hoped. In a city of millions, that was to be expected. There was a lot of noise above ground to fight through, so many scents and sounds and tastes. You needed to help if he was going to find you, give him something for his enhanced senses to latch on to.

You kept up your efforts throughout the night, drifting in and out of a fitful sleep in between. Those brief, comforting moments of connection fueled you and kept you from losing hope. In the dark without the warm light of the threads, shadows within shadows lurked in your peripheral. But when your third eye was open, when you held Matt’s red thread and reached for him, you could almost pretend the Devil was there crouched over you, the blazing heat of his presence driving off the ghosts of memory.   

You should have stopped, but you didn’t, even as the sticky puddles of blood became more numerous and your mouth became drier. 

As your head began to pound. 

As your hands began to tingle.

Unbeknownst to you, that night you passed the 24-hour mark since you’d had any water at all.

-x-

He had a headache by the morning.

He was lucky Foggy was there with him for the late morning arraignment. Matt had spent the previous night alternating between frantically working with Foggy on Jason Bronewim’s case, and being overwhelmed when you managed to open your thread to him. It always started the same: a spark of heat in his chest and his thoughts turning to you before the sheer force of it knocked him sideways and punched the air from his lungs. It made it difficult to sleep when he and Foggy finally headed home for a few scant hours of rest before the arraignment. 

It didn’t help that those pulses had begun to taper off by morning, the moments you reached for him dwindling in number and losing strength with each subsequent connection. He’d thought that a softer touch would give him what he needed, but he was wrong. Because now, even when he thought he’d started to narrow in on what direction the sensations were coming from, that tenuous open connection between the two of you never lasted long enough for him to be sure. He could only imagine what this effort was doing to you, how much you were draining yourself.

You were slipping out of his grasp, your presence fading, and he still couldn’t reach you, couldn’t get to you, and for all he knew you were out there… dying somewhere, alone and holding out a hand to him, and he couldn’t find you to take it. The Devil inside him raged and snarled at that helplessness—hungry instead for the taste of blood and the feel of splintered bone as he tore into whoever was holding you—but for now, there was no outlet towards which he could expend that fury. 

Not yet, anyway.

“Bail is set for $1,000. Next case.”

At the bang of the judge’s gavel, the courtroom quickly became a bustle of activity as the room was prepared for the next case. Matt reached out to grasp Jason by the arm as the man started to rise beside him. Matt lowered his voice, speaking quickly. “We’ve held up our end of the deal. Where is she?”

“I told you I can’t say,” Jason mumbled, trying to sound reassuring and failing miserably. “But I’m gonna go get her out as soon as I can. Don’t you worry.”

The guards led Jason away, and Matt?

Matt was done waiting.

-x-

You couldn’t get your third eye open anymore. 

You weren’t sure when it had happened, or when you’d gotten too tired to try. Maybe it was around the time you’d wasted valuable energy desperately breaking the sink in the hopes that there would be water in it somewhere, only to find nothing in the pipes but dry metal and rust. Or maybe it was when you’d started pounding on the door, screaming hoarsely for help that never came. You’d gotten dizzy and passed out after that, you thought, but it was hard to tell in here.

Your neighbor in the next cell had tried to get someone’s attention when breakfast was brought to the other cells, but his attempts were met with jeering and laughter.

“If the boss put her in there to die, then she dies. Quit complaining, and just be glad you’re getting out tomorrow.”  

You were still aware enough to know what was happening, and things weren’t looking good. You’d stopped sweating despite the fact the cell was still too warm—a dangerous sign—and your hands and feet had gone cold. Your body was working overtime to keep more vital systems running. You’d wasted far too much precious moisture in your feverish, panicked attempts to break the sink, and in your struggle to open your connection with Matt in hopes it might lead him to you.

“Hey, kid. You don’t sound like you’re doing too good.”

You dragged your head slowly across the cement to face the vent that was set somewhere in the wall above you. You’d curled up on the ground near it, an attempt to stay close to whatever human contact you could find. You’d long since given up hope that Jason would show up with water. Whether that was because he’d run, or chosen to abandon you, was of no consequence now. “No water,” you said hoarsely, curling up tighter. The movement exhausted you. “Tired.”

“Hang in there, kid. Just another day or so before we get out.”

Ridiculous as it seemed to you, all you could think of now was how much you missed Matt. You wished you could at least hold onto the thread between you, even if it was just to comfort yourself. You wondered, vaguely, what he was doing and where he was. You knew he was looking for you, or he had been hours ago, but now you were starting to question if… he’d ever find you down here. Maybe you’d just been hidden away too well, trapped below ground. For all you knew, he’d passed overhead without any awareness at all that you were locked away beneath him.

You flicked your tired gaze towards the crack of light under the door when you heard the guard moving around outside.

“Two o’clock smoke break, assholes. Try not to run off while I’m gone.” The jab was mocking, cruel and uncaring as the man shuffled off laughing.

If two o'clock had arrived, then you’d gone without water for close to 36 hours.

Where are you, D?

-x-

As a general rule, Matt didn’t suit up before the sun set. There was too much risk, too many curious eyes who’d have loved to get a good look at the Devil of Hell’s Kitchen in the light of day. Night was his domain, when the shadows grew long and his prey struggled to detect his approach. In the dark he could tread where he willed, confident in the knowledge he prowled unseen. A daytime run, even if it was late afternoon and the heat of the day was slowly receding, was a rarity but he couldn’t afford to wait any longer. 

Agonizing hours had ticked by as Jason’s case crawled through processing, but he’d paid his bail as promised and eventually he’d been released. Now he jogged down the sidewalk, phone to his ear, as Matt silently shadowed him from the rooftops. All Matt needed was the right opportunity, the right alleyway. This was reckless, but he didn’t have a choice. Your last attempt to reach him had been so weak that you’d only managed one full pattern before the connection had faded.

That had been hours ago and he hadn’t felt anything since. 

He could have followed Jason: given him an opportunity to do the right thing, to let you go, but Matt wasn’t going to take that chance, not when your life might depend on him getting it right. Jason  had been far too willing to keep quiet, helping only until the risk became personal. Then it had been silence, and that sin was one Matt wasn’t in the mood to forgive. 

There were two buildings being renovated up ahead, and a deep breath dragged the chalky, powdery taste of new drywall across his tongue. The buildings were quiet, with nothing but the rustle of a few rats and the sharp snap of plastic tarps waving in the breeze. Wonderfully, mercifully empty of any soul that might object to his actions. There was an alley that ran the length between the two structures, darkened just enough in the lengthening day that there were shadows in which he might hide. Dumpsters full of debris provided cover should someone pass by. 

His target was headed right for it. 

Matt slipped ahead, leaping nimbly from the roof of the first empty building to the opposing building’s fire escape, swinging down from the steel railing in short drops until he was low enough to drop to the pavement. Even that impact with the ground was soundless, muscles flexing to absorb the excess energy as he smoothly landed on the balls of his feet and dropped into a crouch. There wasn’t room for mistakes, not when the day was still light, so he moved in absolute silence. 

Then he waited, patient and unmoving in what limited shadow the two adjoining buildings provided, slowing his breathing and letting his senses reach out. Jason wasn’t exactly trying to conceal his movements, making it easy to track the scrape of his sneakers and the rustle of his clothing as he placed his phone back into his pocket—a pocket that also contained your phone. Matt grit his teeth, muscles tense as he bided his time until Jason finally, finally passed the open alley.

Were someone to glance over, they’d have seen little. Perhaps, if they were really looking and not distracted by the noise of the city or the passing cars, they’d have caught a brief flash of dark cloth and a baring of teeth. But then, just like that, it was gone, as was the man who’d been hurrying down the street.

Jason didn’t have a chance to react before there was a hard, muscled arm wrapped tight around his throat, preventing him from making a sound as he was dragged out of sight of the street. Matt hauled him halfway down the alley before releasing him with a hard shove that sent the man stumbling up against the side of the building. Jason whirled back around, swinging wildly at the figure behind him, but Matt was all too ready. For the first time since you’d gone missing, he had a target for the rage that had been simmering inside him.

There may have been power behind the rough haymaker Jason launched towards Matt, but even without Matt’s enhanced senses, the move was telegraphed from a mile away. Matt rolled back a half step, neatly dodging the swing with a growl of contempt. The air currents shifted, stirred up as the continued momentum threw Jason off balance. It took even less effort to catch Jason’s opposing arm and force him to continue the turn. As he did, he made sure to wrench Jason's arm back and up until the elbow joint groaned like the creaking of old timber. Just like that, Jason found himself right back where he'd started: shoved hard against the wall. Just for the pleasure of it, the sheer satisfaction, Matt made sure to grind the man’s face against the brick exterior, applying more pressure to the arm in his grasp until the muscles themselves threatened to tear.

“Oh fuck, oh Jesus, you’re the—”

“I’m not in the mood for games,” Matt hissed, leaning in. The scent of fear and adrenaline wafted up around him, and he savored the taste of it. Good. Now Jason would see how it felt. “Where’s the woman you kidnapped?”

“I swear I was going to let her out!”

Matt twisted the arm up further until the elbow popped free from the socket with a loud crack, and only the fact that Jason’s face was mashed into the dusty brick kept the sound of his cry from carrying. 

“They’d kill me and my girlfriend if I told anyone!” Jason howled, and Matt tilted his head, listening to the stuttering, truthful beat of his heart. That… that was the truth. His grip slackened slightly. “I was gonna let her out, I swear! I was gonna bring her water, it’s not my fault the cops found me!”

Realization washed over him, his body gone cold and still. 

No. No, no, no—  

How long had it been since you were taken? Since Jason had been picked up?

Two days. 

Two days of no water. 

If they were lucky, a human could last three. And if they weren't...

Matt bared his teeth on a shaky breath, a ringing in his ears. He needed to be sure, no matter that something inside him went cold and frantic, no matter how much his body trembled in a sudden rage. “Are you telling me she hasn’t had water? And you left her like that without telling anyone?”

“I’m sorry, ok? I’m sor—”

Matt snarled, kicking Jason’s leg out. Without any hint of remorse, he lifted his own leg, ready to stomp down. He’d already plotted out the action, his muscles burning with eagerness. He knew the precise force needed, the angle required, to bring his boot down in such a way that the bones and tendons in Jason’s ankle would snap and tear, an injury he'd likely struggle with for the rest of his life. The satisfaction would be sweet, so very sweet, and he could bask in the knowledge that no matter where this man went, he would be left with a reminder of the sin he'd comitted. The ankle, and then the wrist, the shoulder, every joint Matt could find.

But then Matt shuddered... and froze. 

There’s no time for this.

Jason was already terrified, whimpering and compliant under Matt’s hold. He would give Matt what he wanted, and exacting vengeance now would only drag things out, maybe even make Jason lose consciousness, as satisfying as his pain might be at another time. Not only that, but the screams would surely attract attention. People were always more curious when the sun was still in the sky, and he couldn’t be sure he hadn’t been spotted already. 

Matt’s voice was a low rumble, furious and seething as he wrenched Jason’s head back by the hair. “You’re going to tell me where she is right now, or that dislocated arm will  be the least of your problems.”

By the time he was done, he was in possession of both your phone and your location. The sun was just beginning to set, heat dipping below the horizon as Matt clambered up the fire escape towards the roof. He knew you couldn’t hear him, and yet he spoke to you regardless, as if the force behind the vow would allow the words to reach your ears. 

“I’m coming for you. Just hang on.”

Night was approaching, and the city would soon belong once more to the Devil of Hell’s Kitchen.

-x-

Your neighbor had torn something—a scrap of fabric from his shirt, maybe, or a rag he’d already had in his cell with him. He’d soaked it as best he could in his working sink before managing to work the waterlogged cloth through the vent in his cell. You’d only just had the energy to get your arm up into the vent until you could grasp it.

The tiny bit of water you sucked free from it may as well have been ambrosia to your parched mouth and cracked lips, the first bit of water you’d had in god knew how long. You tried to get as much water as you could out of the rag before you attempted to pass it back down the shaft between your two vents, but guiding your hand down that small space took more energy than you had in you. 

You lay there instead, returning to your pattern of waiting and drifting in and out of sleep in between your neighbor’s attempts to funnel water to you. You weren’t sure what you were waiting for exactly—to pass out, to shrivel up, for Matt, for something. All you knew was… you’d take one last swing if you could, when the time came. 

You would not die quietly.

You dragged the rusty vent panel closer, setting one tired hand atop it until you could shift your fingers with a minimum of effort.

Tap-tap-tap.

Tap.

Tap-tap.

Tap-tap-tap.

Tap.

Tap-tap.

-x-

The warehouse had been busier a few days ago. The acrid, gasoline-rich scent of multiple freight trucks and moving vans still lingered on the ground floor as the remaining workers inside packed up what little hadn’t already been shipped off. They were nearing the end of their three-day race to escape. At Jason’s estimate, there had originally been thirty-five or so workers here, all of them willingly employed under a petty, small-time crime lord who was hightailing it to a city that was a little more friendly and a little less explosion-prone. Matt only counted sixteen heartbeats now, not counting the muffled beats he could barely detect down below ground, centered inside six concrete cells. That would be where you were.

He slipped through the shadows of the parking lot until he was up against the side of the warehouse. Then he lifted a hand and pressed it to the outside wall, tracking the movement inside.

There were five men—four of whom were armed—just inside on the ground level where they were loading heavy crates into the final three moving trucks. More gunmen and workers were underground scattered throughout the complex, their movements echoing along the piping and framework of the building itself. He couldn’t find your heartbeat through the noise and the concrete, though he tried. Jason had said the cells were in the farthest room away from the staircase, and Matt had a rough mental layout now.

Too many of them had already gotten away, and that would bother him later, maybe even enough to track down the ones that remained in his city. But for now? For now there were more than enough to satisfy him, and he slipped inside unnoticed, his eager heart beginning to race at the thought that his hunger might soon be sated.

One of the halogen work lights was his first target, and he unplugged it with little fanfare, making sure to twist the prongs so it couldn’t be used again. A section of the warehouse dropped into darkness, drawing irritated shouts and curses. 

“Alright, which one of you stupid fucks tripped over the cord again? Ivo, go and plug it back in.”

“I’m going, god. Don’t get your panties in a wad.”

The man broke off from the pack, wandering into the darkness as he tried to trace the cord back to the outlet. With how bright the work area had been, he was practically blind. 

Matt enjoyed the irony as he wrapped an arm tight around the man’s throat, wrenching him backwards and dragging him away. As the man struggled, Matt squeezed tighter and tighter until the man began to sink into unconsciousness. The sharp blow Matt dealt to the man’s face ensured this one would stay down for the time being. There was no need to take his time here, not when there were so many more to be dealt with, so he shoved the man behind a dusty pile of boxes, and moved to his next target.   

Two more lights, two more missing workers quietly dragged away, and only then did the two men left standing begin to get nervous, the delicious scent of fear wafting off of them. They drew their weapons but they were too few of them now for it to matter. 

It was almost laughably easy.

The last of the halogen lamps went out, and the Devil prowled like liquid shadow through the sudden absence of light, hunting in silence. 

“Who the fuck is out there?” one of the men screamed, hands shaking as he swung his gun about wildly, air currents shifting and allowing Matt to track the movement.

Matt slid by, snatching the gun away and throwing the man off balance before a precise kick to the knee with one of his heavy boots snapped the man’s leg like a toothpick. The man’s partner swung around at the sudden, agonized scream, scrambling towards one of the trucks. Matt was already there waiting for him.

“You picked the wrong city,” Matt breathed, baring his teeth before he caught the man by the hair and slammed him forward into the side of the truck so hard the man’s nose shattered on impact. The man dropped to his knees, and Matt kicked him back. Then he swung down again, and again, growling with the force of it as blood spattered in hot droplets against him, until at last the man lay still.

He cast his senses out, but there was no one else mobile on this floor. Still he was unsated, filled with a burning hunger for more: more blood on his hands, more bone breaking under his fists. Fortunately there was better hunting down below and oh, how they would suffer for keeping you from him.

-x-

The dull sound of distant gunshots barely registered, a thought filed away for later consideration when you were better able to focus. You let your eyes stay closed, too tired to do anything but tap out a comforting rhythm into the vent panel you held. The odds of the noise having anything to do with you at this point were slim. 

Out of it as you were, you didn’t hear the faint, hysterical screams that the Devil had come, nor did you notice the crack of light below the door vanishing as the power to the basement level was cut. 

You were just cold.

-x-

He cut a merciless path through the gunmen in the warehouse, never slowing, never stopping even when the odd blow thrown his way managed to hit its mark. He was operating entirely on instinct now, primal and furious. Each bone that cracked under his hands, each splatter of blood only goaded him further. 

Locking you away was only one of the many sins these people had committed. He could smell it on them—the blood, the drugs, and the gunpowder poorly masked by the sour stench of fear. Now that he’d cut the power, they moved blindly in the darkness he’d forced them into. He on the other hand slid confidently around them even as they fired in random directions, only able to mark the Devil’s progress in the brief light of muzzle flashes and by the sound of the screams.

Here he was in his element. He prowled amongst the shifting shadows, reveling in the thrill of the hunt, in the rich tang of copper in the air as horrible people broke under his hands, horrible people who had stolen and harmed someone he cared about.

He wasn’t sure when he began to snarl or when the rage swallowed him up fully, but once it did, there was no escaping the heat of it. His strikes became reckless as he sacrificed stealth for the satisfaction of sheer force even if it left him open and vulnerable to counterattacks. They landed more blows of their own, sharp impacts against his face and torso, but he barely felt it. The taste of his own blood, his knuckles bruising under his gloves, the sharp spike of pain when someone slipped past his defenses—all it did was stoke the fire inside him further until it threatened to burn him alive.

When the main room had been dealt with, he turned to the hallways and connecting rooms, stalking the panicked heartbeats of his prey even as they fled his wrath. But there was no escape, no shelter for the wicked as he dragged them from their hiding places under desks and inside closets, driving his fists into their faces over and over, until there was not one man left standing save him. 

He paused there in the dark then, slick with sweat, his chest heaving. Blood not his dripped from his gloves while his own trickled from his chin. He licked his lips slowly, savoring it. 

Tap-tap-tap.

Tap.

Tap-tap.

That noise. Fingers on metal. 

He tilted his head with a cold, predatory curiosity, darting his tongue out to taste the air as he drew in a deep breath. 

Familiar. 

You. 

He made his way silently down the halls towards the sound, stepping over unconscious bodies and puddles of blood. He moved without thought, without hesitation as he slipped through the dark. His senses were at their strongest now that his blood was up, every part of him on alert for further attacks that may come his way.

Tap-tap-tap.

Tap.

Tap-tap.

Six cells. Concrete. Rusted doors. The steel chair a guard had once sat in lay empty, tipped on its side. He’d come running at the commotion in the main room, abandoning his post once Matt had begun to pick targets off one-by-one. Inside the cells, captives shouted and pounded on the doors, demanding to know what was happening. 

“Hey, let us out!”

“What the fuck is happening out there!?”

Tap-tap-tap.

Tap.

Tap-tap.

Your voice was notably absent even as he approached the last cell and the faint drumming coming from within it. Now that he was closer he was finally able to cut through the sensory noise around him, slide his awareness within your cell. 

Blood, puddles of it crusted on the dirty floor. 

Dryness. 

A stuttering heartbeat. 

You. 

-x-

If it weren’t for the sound of the door wrenching open, you wouldn’t have known it had opened at all. 

Fresh air flowed against your skin, a welcome relief after the past two days, even if you didn’t have the energy to stand up and greet it. Someone was panting in the doorway, their breathing harsh and heavy somewhere above you. You blinked dry eyes where you were curled up in the corner, and weakly reached out a hand, brushing your fingers over… rough boots, thick fabric. You weren’t… imagining it. Someone was there.

You weren’t sure why you couldn’t see now that the door was open, but it didn’t matter. You may have been on your last legs, your strength depleted, but you wouldn’t go down without leaving a mark. With what little energy you had, you grasped the stupid, rusted vent panel and swung it spitefully at the shin of whoever was standing beside you.

You missed, or maybe they moved. Whoever it was caught your wrist instead, firm but surprisingly gentle as the vent slipped from your weakened fingers with a loud clang of metal. Then there was a second sound, a dull thump of impact, as the person holding your wrist dropped to their knees beside you.

Fabric rustled, something plopped onto the hard cement, and then a hand brushed against your face, startling you. The touch seemed familiar, kind and affectionate as callused fingers traced your cheek. 

Matt?

“It’s me. I’m here.”

And it was him. You’d recognize Matt—that voice, the warmth of him—anywhere. Something in you seized, your heart stuttering as relief swept over you. You reached out for him, and his response was instant. He quickly gathered you up and pulled you in, cradling you against the burning heat of his chest. You could barely move but you managed a small, grateful noise, the sound of it bone-dry as he lifted you up entirely so you were laying against him, seated on his lap and not on the floor. 

He’d found you. Matt had found you.

“D,” you mumbled, burying your face against the sweat-slick skin of his throat and breathing in even as the world seemed to spin on its axis in the dark. He smelled like sweat and blood, copper and musk hanging in the air, but you didn’t mind as you lifted a shaky hand to hook your fingers in the collar of his shirt, a weak smile crossing your bloodied, cracked lips. “You came.”

He let out a shaky breath, his arms tightening around you as he buried his face against your hair. “Always.” 

“‘M sorry I tried to hit you.”

His chest rumbled under you, a hoarse, relieved laugh. “Under the circumstances, I don’t blame you.” His voice was shot, rough and ragged, and you wondered what he’d been doing to cause it. He shifted his grip, pulling you higher up his legs until he could rock back onto the balls of his feet and hold you there with one arm while he grabbed his other glove to slip it back on. “I need you to hang on to me. Can you do that?”

You did the best you could, winding tired arms around his neck. Once he had a good grip on you, he rose with a quiet huff, the casual display of strength something you would have enjoyed at another time but now just made the world spin. You closed your eyes, letting your head rest against his shoulder as he began to move quickly, side-stepping unseen obstacles. You weren’t sure when your awareness cut out again, or how much time you lost, but the journey back through the warehouse up to street level seemed to come in disjointed segments as you drifted in and out.

“You’re ok, I’ve got you. Stay with me, alright?”

You tried, god, you tried but you were just so fucking tired, and Matt felt so solid under you, the gentle rocking as he moved lulling you into peace. And besides that, the streetlights hurt after two days in the dark. You twisted your fingers tighter in Matt’s shirt, pressing your face against his neck again.

He called someone, though you weren’t sure who, the buzzing vibrations of his voice pitched low and rough under your ear. And then you were being set down on… something cool and hard. A wooden bench, maybe; you weren’t sure. When he started to pull away, your heart stuttered in sudden apprehension.

“Hey, hey, it’s ok.” His hands were gentle when they passed over your face, blood-stained gloves gone as he brushed your hair back and tried to soothe you. There was blood on his chin, you could see now. He must have been hurt, trying to find you. “I called an ambulance. They’re a few blocks away, but I have to move out of sight before they get here. I’m so sorry—” 

You swallowed around your dry throat, sagging on the bench as he took your hand. You didn’t want to be alone, not now, not when you’d spent the last two days trapped. “Can’t you just take me home? I don’t—” You wanted to say you didn’t need an ambulance, didn’t want one. Not when you could just… 

He pressed his forehead to yours, and your eyes closed again at the solace his touch provided. His presence alone was a comfort you leaned into, soaking it in. “I wish I could but you need a hospital, sweetheart. You’re… very sick right now. I promise you I won’t be far, and once I can change, I’ll meet you there, alright? I won’t leave you.”

And, well, you’d trusted him to come for you, to find you, and he had. Compared to that… this wasn’t much to ask for. 

At your weak nod, he pulled back even as you kept your eyes closed. You felt the softest touch a moment later, as if he’d ghosted his lips across your forehead. You weren’t entirely sure you hadn’t imagined it and when your eyes fluttered open, he was gone. 

Thirty seconds later, the ambulance pulled up and you were rushed away.

-x-

God, the light stung.

It wasn’t the best thought to have when waking up but, well, at least there was light, stark and harsh even with your eyes closed. The scent was just as unpleasant, the sharp, astringent burn of antiseptic and cold, medical-grade steel reminding you of places you’d rather forget. You’d take it over the dark cell you’d been stuck in, though. 

Someone was holding your hand, and they squeezed as you worked your way up through the haze of sleep. You blinked gritty eyes open, taking in your surroundings. Like most hospital rooms you'd been in, this one was austere and sterile without decoration, though there was a window off to your left that showed you the city, wreathed in shades of deep violet as dusk fell. You flexed your left arm, grimacing at the dull sting of the I.V. needle, and finally rolled your head to look to your right. You were unsurprised to find Matt there, sprawled in a chair beside the bed. His expression was… tired, with dark circles under his eyes that even his glasses couldn’t hide. His stubble was at least a few days old, approaching an actual beard, and he was dressed casually, grey sweats and a sweatshirt that almost managed to cover the sullen edge of a vivid bruise across his collarbone. One bruise of many, no doubt.

How long was I out?

"A day or so,” he said quietly, reaching up to scrub his free hand through his hair. You hadn’t realized you’d said it out loud. “They’ve been rehydrating you, and you’ve been in and out of it. This is the first time you’re really awake, I think.”

You licked your lips, far less dry and cracked then they had been before. “Have you been here the whole time?”

He ducked his head, running his thumb over your knuckles fondly. “I did promise you. What kind of lawyer would I be if I didn’t tell the truth when it mattered?” 

You shook your head, and then your eyes caught on the bright bloom of color beside you on the bedside table. You blinked in bafflement at the ‘Get Well!’ balloon, the little vase of yellow flowers, and the brown teddy bear holding a plush crystal ball. 

“...what?” you croaked.

Matt huffed a laugh. “Gifts from Foggy and Karen. Foggy sewed the crystal ball on the bear himself. I think it was originally meant to be a gift for your six-month anniversary as our client.” 

He let go of your hand as you reached out to brush your fingers over the soft fleece of the bear. It stared back at you with shiny button-eyes and a stitched-on smile. You had to admit: it was cute… and a far kinder gift than you’d expected. “Do they know I was… what I was going to do?”

The bit of good humor that had been on Matt’s face drained away and then he just looked tired again, broken and alone. You hated yourself for it. “They know,” he murmured, dropping his head and plucking at the edge of the blanket where it hung over the side of the bed. “Apparently they went over to get a few changes of clothes for you, convinced the super to let them in. They saw the bag you pulled out.”

Which meant he’d probably seen—or rather, sensed—that bag too. He knew you’d been planning to leave, that you’d been prepared to abandon him and his friends. They all knew. And yet instead of returning your abandonment in kind, Matt had come for you, and Foggy and Karen had brought gifts.  You had to force down the emotion that threatened to choke you. 

Why? Why had they done that?

You reached out and tentatively hooked your fingers in the fabric of his sleeve. He swallowed hard, his fingers freezing against the blanket, but he still didn’t lift his head enough for you to clearly see his face. You weren’t sure what to say but you needed to try. “Listen, Matt—”

“Sounds like someone’s awake in here.”

And apparently those words would have to wait. At the very least, the interruption would give you time to figure out how you’d broach the subject of your escape plan with Matt. Just as important was the need to tell him you’d decided to stay, but the curtain drawing back was a harsh reminder that you weren’t somewhere private enough for that heavy a conversation. Matt quickly composed himself, the vulnerability you’d glimpsed hidden away behind a calm, casual mask. He tilted his head at the dark-haired nurse in blue scrubs that entered, then dipped his head towards you. “Claire, this is Jane Hind. Jane, Claire.”

Ah, the nurse friend. 

She rolled her eyes at the formal introduction, and you found yourself liking her already. “Look at this guy, acting like I haven’t had him bleeding all over my couch,” she mock-confided to you, her voice low so it didn’t carry but still managing to hold a fond note of exasperation. She moved around the bed to check your I.V. bag. “Figures I’d only meet one of his friends after she was in bad enough condition to need treatment.”

“That bad?” you asked, watching as she eyed the readings on the monitors and picked up your chart to scribble in a few notes.

“Well it sure as shit wasn’t good,” she snorted, and then shifted her teasing gaze to Matt, who did his best to look innocent. “That seems to be the norm around here though since he showed up. Don’t think I haven’t noticed that bruising, Matt.”

His lips quirked. “Not my fault I’m just so clumsy.”

“Oh, don’t you even start.”

“He’s always like this,” you told her roughly. God, your throat felt raw now that you’d been talking for a few minutes. You pointed weakly at him. “I’ve tried training him but haven’t had much luck.”

He reached up unerringly and caught your hand before you could dodge his grip, your movements still slow and uncoordinated. He lowered your hand back to the bed but he didn’t release it, letting his own hand rest atop it instead. “I came when called, didn’t I?” 

The affection in it left you overwarm, and you stared down at his hand. “Yeah… yeah, I guess you did.”

Matt cleared his throat, turning his attention to Claire who was staring at the two of you with a knowing look. “When can I take her home?”

Oh god, yes please. You’d never been a fan of hospitals—too much memory tied up in the sights and scents. That discomfort must have come across to Matt, or maybe he just hated them as much as you did. You'd have to compare notes later.

Claire sighed, fixing Matt with a look. “Technically she’s been here for twenty-four hours. The doctor will want to run a few more tests but then she should be alright to go home as long as she follows her discharge instructions. You hear me?” She hooked your chart back on the railing at the end of your bed. “You’ll get a list of liquids you can have and how much you should drink every hour when you’re not sleeping. Keep that up, rest, and try not to overdo it for a few days.”

“No running a marathon,” you said. “Got it.”

“I’ll go let the doctor know you’re looking to finish up here.” 

It took a bit longer before you were released—there were additional tests they wanted to run to ensure you were properly hydrated again. Bless Maya for ensuring you had decent health insurance or this could have seriously eaten away at your savings. Eventually, though, you were released into Matt’s care, and thank god.

You really didn’t like hospitals.

-x-

Matt was quiet on the cab ride home, dangerously so, and it left you on awkward footing. You weren’t sure how to break the silence, and while there were plenty of things you couldn’t say where the driver could hear you, you still should have been able to say something. An apology, maybe. God, you needed to apologize. And later: a confession, that you were staying. You’d also have to tell him that you’d allowed your thread to go red, though you suspected he already knew. He needed to know what that entailed, even if it meant he’d know you… cared for him. Instinctively, you wanted to reject the idea and retreat into denial. Your heart skipped a beat, its rhythm climbing, but… that ship had sailed, hadn’t it? 

You needed to accept what had happened, and that there was no undoing it. You’d made your decision, had finally given in and set your course to match his. Only by accepting this could you both ride out the distant storm looming on the horizon. The ramifications of the past few days were only just starting to sink in, and there would be consequences for this unless you were careful. Matt had no idea what he’d gotten himself into. But how were you supposed to tell him that? Where would you even start?

Your heart rate began to slow, and it was only then you noticed Matt had taken your hand, running his thumb over your knuckles, helping to calm you even as he kept his head turned away. You sagged against your own window, focusing on his touch. You’d… you’d figure it out, and hopefully he’d be here for it. But first you needed a shower, and then more sleep. Just leaving the hospital had worn you out again and you had no doubt you smelled horrible even if you’d changed into the clothes Foggy and Karen had brought you. That cell had been filthy, and dark, and empty—

Matt’s hand squeezed, grounding you again and bringing you back. You threw him a grateful look you knew he'd feel.

Shower. Then sleep. Then… then you’d talk.

Matt stayed silent on the way up to your apartment, shadowing you without a sound, and you were just as quiet. At your door you paused, and so did he. You stood there for a long moment, fiddling with your key, trying to put into words what you were thinking. 

You wanted him here, so desperately, but you also needed a little time to collect your thoughts. 

“Do you want me to leave?” he murmured. 

You blew out a heavy breath. “No, but… but I need to shower and sleep. And figure out how to say what I need to say.” He stiffened and you didn’t look at him, but you had a guess at where his thoughts were heading. You still don’t know how to broach that topic but you needed to make at least one thing clear. He’d know it was truthful, feel it in the steady beat of your heart. “I’m not going to run, Matt. Not anymore. And I know we need to talk, but we both need sleep before we come at this. When’s the last time you slept?”

“On and off,” he said quietly. “In the hospital, snatches in between looking for you.”

So he’d been searching for you almost constantly the past few days. You swallowed down the guilt. He needed sleep as much as you did. “Go get some rest, Matt. I’ll… be here, when we’re feeling better.”

“Are you sure?” The hesitant hand on your shoulder was a softness you didn’t deserve, not after what you’d done, but you were too tired to reject it. 

“I’m sure. Goodnight, Matt.”

-x-

If you’d thought the cab was quiet, your apartment was absolutely dead silent. Most everything was as you’d left it, save the go-bag on your bed that had shifted a little, and the paper you didn’t remember leaving out on the kitchen table. You left the balloon by the door and set the flowers and teddy bear on your kitchen counter along with your wallet, keys, and your phone Matt had apparently found and slipped into the bag containing your belongings. You’d figure it out tomorrow. 

Your discharge instructions had been very clear on drinking the oral rehydration solution they’d sent you home with, so you filled a bottle with water from the sink before adding the packet of powder and shaking it up. It tasted like shit, salty and bitter, but you threw it back without complaint and then headed for the shower. You were grimy and filthy, crusted in dried sweat and dirt. That needed to change before you could sleep. You had no idea how Matt had been able to stand being so close to you with his enhanced senses.

It was difficult to shower, and you probably should have skipped it, but you needed to do this, to get that place off you and erase it from your skin. You leaned against the tile wall as you determinedly scrubbed yourself clean under lukewarm water. By the time you were done, you were practically falling over in exhaustion but damned if you weren’t clean. You kept your eyes away from the mirror as you dried off and pulled on clean clothes. You didn’t need to see yourself to know you looked like death. Even clean, you still felt like shit as you flipped off the light and left the bathroom. 

You hovered over your go-bag on the bed, considering the space under the floorboards where you’d originally hidden it. Eventually you just shifted it to the floor. You’d have tucked it away again but for now you just wanted to be in bed. That done, you pulled the curtains shut, flipped off the lights, and crawled into bed. 

It should have been peaceful. It should have been, and it was at first as you drifted off. You were safe, hydrated, in a bed and not on the concrete floor. There was no danger. You could relax. 

That peace had fled when you woke a few hours before dawn. You weren’t sure what had woken you. You couldn’t see, after all, because it was still dark outside and worse, it was dark here. 

Dark, dark, dark—

The swell of panic hit you out of nowhere, a cruel current that yanked you under before you could blink. Just like that, you were trapped in that old cell again. You could smell the stinging antiseptic, hear the cold, clinical mumblings of the Man in the White Coat somewhere in the room with you and now you couldn’t see him. 

Your third eye sputtered open, the threads around you dim and unsteady as you shot out of bed in a blind panic, your chest heaving. The red thread at your chest was a comfort, and you held it tight in one hand as you tore across the floor until you could slam your hand against the light switch on the far wall. Light flooded your apartment in an instant, casting away the shadows, and you sagged against the wall, gasping in relief as you took in the familiar sights around you. 

You weren’t in the cell. Not the Man in the White Coat’s cell, nor the cell hidden below a warehouse. You were… you were in your apartment. You were safe.

You let out a shaky breath, not quite a sob, but something close to it, lifting your hands to press them against your eyes. God, now you couldn’t even sleep despite being exhausted. It had been too much in too short an amount of time: first those cruel two days in the darkened cell and then the hospital, bad memories piling up until your mind couldn’t help but let them float to the surface.

Your phone rang, a sudden shock of sound in the quiet apartment, and it was only then you realized you were still holding the red thread in your hand: one rippling with panic in sputtering jolts. 

Fuck. He knows.

You stood up on shaky legs and snagged your phone off the counter, lifting it to your ear as you ground your palm against your forehead and forced your third eye shut. It didn’t take much prompting; you’d used your ability far too much the past few days. You were surprised it had opened at all. 

“What’s wrong? Where—” Matt’s voice was on edge, tense and sharp. A door slammed somewhere, and then you heard the sound of wind.

Was he… was he leaving his apartment, because of you?

Guilt welled up again, and you tried to keep your voice steady, leaning against the counter. “I’m fine Matt. Just a bad dream. Sorry for waking you. Goodnight.”

You hung up before he could say anything else and you pinched the bridge of your nose. So… you were afraid of the dark again, and you wouldn’t be sleeping for a while, not until the adrenaline had worn off and you could crash. This wasn’t an unfamiliar situation to you. You’d been here before, though these bouts with shadows had been more frequent years ago when you’d first escaped. You hadn’t had to deal with this in some time, but that didn’t change your response. You knew what to do when the old memories came. 

The first thing you did was head to the bathroom and turn that light on, leaving the door halfway open to remove any similarities between this and your last cell door. You turned the kitchen light on too, dimming it so it was bright enough to chase away the dark but not so bright it would bother you later when you inevitably tried to sleep again. You turned the TV on next, dragging it across the floor until you could see it from your bed across the room. You’d never been so thankful for your open floor plan as you set the volume to low but audible, skipping through options and categories until you found a lengthy, somewhat boring documentary series. The narrator’s soothing tone couldn’t have been further from the voices you’d heard in your memories. You tossed the remote onto the bed so you could change it later if you needed to. 

You drank another glass of the oral solution, no matter how disgusting it tasted, if just to give you something to do. 

So. You’d fixed the darkness issue, and you’d provided noise. What else?

Window. Need air circulation.

When you went to shove your window open, however, you found you only had to lift it halfway before you were assisted. 

Matt wasn’t in his usual black outfit, instead in sweats and a hoodie, though different than the ones he’d been wearing in the hospital. It looked like he’d been sleeping, his hair mussed and his eyes tired, glasses nowhere to be found. He’d just… rushed over. Because of you. 

“I thought I told you to go back to sleep,” you said, feeling guilty as you stepped back from the window, letting him slide into your apartment. He tilted his head, expression difficult to read as he took in your apartment for a long moment. No doubt he could tell what had happened, smell or taste the panic that lingered in the air and on the rumpled sheets even as you’d finally started to calm. “You didn’t need to come over.”

“I wanted to make sure you were ok.”

“It was a bad dream, that’s all,” you sighed, heading back to your bed. He followed behind you on quiet feet. You dropped onto the edge of your bed, leaning forward to press your hands to your face. That was still a bit too dark for you so you shifted your hands enough that you could see. “I… woke up, and it was dark, and I couldn’t hear anyone else and it… it freaked me out, is all. Which is crazy, because all I want to do is sleep. You’d think that’d be enough to knock me out. And yet here I am, all the lights on, and I’ve bothered you again—”

The bed creaked as he moved to sit beside you a few inches away, the radiant heat of him comforting as always. The man was a furnace. “You’re never a bother. I was having trouble sleeping anyway.”

“I feel like that’s a lie,” you mumbled into your hands, letting out a watery laugh. He ran a hand down your back and the unfamiliar comfort only made it worse, a little hiccup of sound escaping you. He wrapped his arm around your shoulders and you couldn't help but lean into him. “You were up for two days looking for me. You should be tired too, and I know I should tell you to leave, but...”

“Do you want me to stay?” There was no judgement in his question, no pressure on you to answer one way or another.

Did you?

You stared down at the ground, considering. He’d leave if you told him to, regardless of what he himself wanted. Like before, this was your decision on whether to continue down the path you’d started on two days ago when you’d directed Jason towards Matt in the hopes that the Devil would come for you. It was true that you’d already created the dreaded red thread with him, something you'd denied yourself for years. That connection was still there, still burning bright even if you couldn't see it, but... but if you really fought it, really pushed back at Matt, really twisted your thoughts in denial, there was a small chance you could change that, especially now that you weren't so desperate. That was an option. Or... or you could finally accept the friendship and connection he’d been offering you for the past few months now. And oh, how you wanted it, with every fiber of your being.

God help you, because you leaned into him further, burying your face against the soft fabric covering his shoulder, your breath hitching as you pulled that door open at last.

“I… yes. Please stay.”

He blew out a heavy breath, abruptly relaxing as if he’d been waiting on edge for your response, unsure of which answer you’d give. He nudged your shoulder until you got what he was asking and lifted your legs to stretch out on your side of the bed. He shifted too, kicking off his shoes and sliding up behind you as you lifted the blankets for the both of you. After a moment you reached for the remote and muted the tv. You weren’t willing to turn it off entirely, not yet, but you had a feeling Matt’s presence would provide the same security you’d hoped the noise of the tv would. What you’d needed was a sound, a presence that said, you aren’t alone, I’m here. 

He ran a hand down your arm, sighing as he settled in, the rough back-and-forth drag of his fingers gentle and soothing as you finally started to relax, something inside you quieting, tension easing as you suddenly found yourself protected, comforted by someone other than yourself for the first time in a long while. And he seemed just as happy to be back in bed as you were, even if your mattress wasn't as soft as his own.

“Are you ok?” you mumbled, shifting with a rustle of fabric. “Forgot to ask earlier. Saw the blood. The bruises.”

He hummed behind you, the rhythm of his hand never faltering. He had the pressure and speed of it just right, exactly what you needed to help you ease down, your eyes falling half-closed despite yourself. “They got a few hits in. It was worth it, though. To make them bleed.”

And god, that hint of smoke at the end of it almost did you in, but then your eyes drifted across the room and your eyebrows shot up. He groaned behind you, ducking his head to bury his face against the back of your neck. 

“You gonna tell me why there’s a hole in my wall and my chair is busted?" you asked in amusement, too tired to be annoyed. “Or are you just gonna hide back there?”

He mumbled something that sounded like an embarrassed apology, and you reached back to ruffle his hair as he tentatively wound an arm around your waist. When you didn’t object, he left it there, and you had a feeling you were both grateful for it. You forgot, sometimes, how touch starved he was, and how much he seemed to need these moments of physical reassurance just as much as you did.

Then your thoughts moved on. His apology had reminded you of the one you still needed to give. You stared at the go bag on the floor, and he must have noticed where your eyes had fallen because he went quiet behind you. 

“I’m sorry.” You lifted a hand to press against your eyes, trying to stall the tears, equal parts embarassed over crying and flooded with guilt over how you'd hurt him. “God, I’m sorry, Matt, I’m so sorry—”

“It’s not your fault.”

“It is.” You shuddered, resisting the urge to curl up. “I hurt you, and you didn’t deserve it. I fucked up. I fucked up, Matt. I’m so sorry, I’m—” 

He rolled you over and pulled you in. You buried your face against his chest as he got his arms around you and ok, so maybe you were crying a little, because you were exhausted and you weren't used to being held when you were hurting and you’d had a very hard few days, or maybe a very hard few years, and fuck if you weren’t going to accept the comfort right now just when you needed it. Matt murmured reassurances somewhere up above your head, sweeping his hand up and down your back, and you fisted your fingers in his hoodie, your breathing stuttered and shaky. He needed to know what might be coming if the Man in the White Coat ever found you. 

“We have a red thread, Matt. It means we’re friends, and that… that I care about you.” His chest hitched and you felt his heart skip where you were pressed against him. Your own heart matched the stutter as you finally admitted to what you’d secretly known for some time but refused to face until now. “But you know what that means. I’ve told you. It’s why I was going to run.”

His arms tightened around you. “You don’t need to,” he said, voice rough, all smoke and fire. “Not anymore. Not while I’m here.”

“But he's going to come. Matt, what happens when he—”

“When he does, we'll fight. You and me, together.”

Laying there curled up in his arms, you let yourself believe, if just for a little while, that maybe, just maybe, with the Devil on your side... you could win.

Chapter Text

You woke up in Matt’s arms, regretting precisely nothing. 

At some point during the night the two of you had returned to the position you’d started in. Your back was once more to Matt and he was curled up close behind you, one arm thrown over your waist, his breath slow and even against the back of your neck. You felt… safe with him here, as if you’d stepped inside a solid building while a storm continued to rage beyond the doors you’d entered through. As if even sleep couldn’t fully temper his desire to protect those around him—and you were fortunate enough to be included in that category. Maybe you should have started to carefully extricate yourself from the embrace before he woke up; you’d certainly done so the last time this had happened. But after having been alone in that cell for two days, you couldn’t quite work up the courage to pull away. Not now when he was so warm at your back, the sheets beneath you were smooth and soft, and the routine commotion of the city reminded you that you were above ground.

You’d have to get up eventually though, as much as you wouldn’t mind staying here for the rest of the day. You had to get out of bed, drink more of that shitty solution, and eat breakfast. Somewhere in there, you also had to figure out what to say.

You’d apologized to him last night, and you’d told him of the red thread now connecting the two of you. By extension that meant you cared for him, and you’d verbalized that truth to remove any doubts he may have. But what you still needed to discuss was what that meant. There were ramifications to what you’d done and how the two of you felt. You needed to decide how you’d… handle those consequences when the time came.

The rhythm of breathing behind you had changed, and Matt went stiff as awareness set in. You could almost feel him cataloguing every contact point between your bodies—and it was a long list, one you weren’t inclined to examine too closely yourself. He ducked his head down behind you.

“I’m sorry,” he said quietly, radiating embarrassment as he started to untangle the two of you. “I shouldn’t have—”

You laid your arm atop his and lowered it with little resistance until it was around you once more. “I’m not complaining if you aren’t, D.” Especially not when you both needed the comfort. The past few days had been an ordeal. The two of you were entitled to this for one night, surely. “Did I wake you?”

There was a pause, a careful intake of breath behind you as Matt seemed to process the truth of your acceptance. The lack of tension in your body as you pointedly relaxed further seemed to help settle things, and Matt huffed a quiet, sleepy sound of contentment. He slowly settled back in, tightening his arm around your waist and dragging you close again, your back cradled against his front. “I could hear you thinking.” 

“Lots to think about,” you mumbled, pressing your face back down into the pillow and closing your eyes. It was a testament to your exhaustion, or maybe Matt’s presence, that you’d even been able to fall asleep last night considering all the thoughts clamoring for your attention. “Brain probably woke me up.”

“You can sleep longer if you want; I won’t go anywhere.”

And god, the offer was tempting. Matt was warm curled up against you, and light spilled in from your opened windows in pale, diffused shafts of buttery yellow. You were both exhausted. Who would blame you if you both drifted off back to sleep and hid here a little while longer? Except… that had been going on too long, hadn’t it? You’d spent years hiding away, and when that hadn't worked, you'd run, as fast as your legs could carry you. If you were going to stay, that pattern couldn’t continue and you needed to grab the bull by the horns.

But first you needed to eat something. 

You reached down and squeezed Matt’s hand before untangling yourself from him so you could sit up. You yawned, swinging your feet over the edge of the bed to land on the worn laminate. A careful stretch upwards towards the ceiling popped a few joints in your spine, making you grimace. Unfortunately, the strain from two days of laying on nothing but concrete lingered even now.

A chill ran down your spine at the memory and Matt reached out to run his hand down your back. The touch soothed you, reminding you that there was someone here with you now. You weren’t alone. Not anymore. Not with Matt here. For now at least, your apartment was a safe haven. 

You rubbed a tired hand down your face. You needed to keep that line of thinking going, stay focused on immediate issues instead of the past or what might come in the future. The best way to do that was to start moving and give your brain something else to think about.

Right. Step one: Bathroom. Teeth. 

“I’d rather get the day started,” you told Matt, rocking up to your feet as his hand fell away. It took you a minute of distracted wandering before you remembered where you’d put your phone the night before, and you headed to the kitchen counter. Thumbing your phone’s screen brought up the time. “Little after ten, looks like. May as well get up.” You glanced back, and paused.

“What?”

He just… looked so comfortable, the long line of him unwound and relaxed in your bed, seemingly at peace. It was a visual that existed in stark contrast to the terrifying Devil of Hell’s Kitchen that had been so breathlessly described in the news of late: someone wild and dangerous and feral as he prowled the dark alleys in search of prey. You had no doubt that he was that, too, of course. That Devil was the same one that had come for you in the warehouse. You’d seen him in action, had even been afraid of him yourself before you’d gotten to know him. And yet he was this, too: soft, vulnerable affection, messy hair, his face still slack from sleep. He tipped his head up on the pillow and focused somewhere beyond your shoulder, expression kind and open, if a little curious at your pause. 

“Nothing,” you said, shaking yourself out of it and turning to the bathroom. 

Nothing at all.

-x-

It was a little late, sure, but breakfast was always an option as far as you were concerned. Despite a brief crisis over what to cook—If I’m staying, do I need to keep being Jane Hind? Do I cook what I want now? Make choices like me, or her? Fuck, I can’t handle this right now—it wasn’t long before you’d thrown together two plates of breakfast. You enjoyed the routine of it, the familiarity, even with the addition of another person in the kitchen: someone who was, somehow, never underfoot no matter how quickly you turned around. It wasn’t quiet exactly but it wasn’t noisy either, neither of you ready to break the ice just yet and begin the conversation you very much needed to have.

The braille printer and your laptop were moved to the counter without comment once the food was ready, which you were grateful for as you slid the plates onto your kitchen table. The letter you’d intended to leave him was a lot more vulnerable than the other messages you’d planned to send, and that wound still felt raw enough that you’d avoid poking it if you could. Matt settled down across from you, his back to the wall with you opposite him.

You got the most unpleasant task out of the way first, chugging down a glassful of the salty concoction Claire had sworn was important. Matt chuckled at the face you pulled as you shoved the empty glass aside and switched to uncontaminated water. That taste you were far more grateful for, though it would never compare to the water your cell neighbor had managed to slip you. You’d never been so thirsty, or so grateful for water, and you hoped you never would be again.

Which reminds me.

“What did you do about everyone in the cells?” You cleared your throat, pushing around at the eggs on your plate. You weren’t entirely sure about how to go about bringing your cell neighbor up. He’d probably been a criminal, or that was what Jason had implied. You knew how Matt felt about them, but that man had also saved you, you were fairly certain. You had a debt you needed to repay.

“I called the police. They probably got rounded up with everyone else. Why?”

You rolled one shoulder, shifting awkwardly. “Guy in the next cell managed to get a little water to me through the vent. So, I-I don’t know. Maybe we could see if he needed legal help. Or something.”

There was a pause as he considered your request, and you glanced back up when he eventually hmm’d in seeming consent. “I’ll look into it. In the meantime, I’d like to know what happened, if you’re alright talking about it.”

Here we go.

You nodded slowly, taking a few bites to buy time as you thought about where to start. You’d had a very busy week, and events had proceeded rapidly after you’d... left him on that rooftop. He didn’t need you to run back over that unless you absolutely had to. “Where did you lose me? Like, did you,” you waved your fork, gesturing towards your apartment, “do your super-sense thing and figure out what I was up to? I don’t—where do I even start? I’m not even sure how you found me, now that I think about it.”

He dropped his head, hiding his expression from you. You wondered if he missed his glasses now that he was here without them. You’d have to ask him later if he wanted to keep a pair in a drawer somewhere for the future. In the meantime, you let your gaze fall to your plate again so he’d feel a little less vulnerable. 

He sighed across from you. “I came to your apartment after what happened and found everything set out and you gone. I thought that maybe you’d… left already, and that I was too late.” There was no way for you to deny what you’d been planning, and no reason you should. You’d known what you were doing, and it had been intentional. Implying he was at fault and leaving without warning had been a cruel calculation designed to wound him. You wanted to reach out and take his hand but he continued before you could complete the motion. “We tracked you as far as your clients’ home, but I lost you somewhere around the construction site. Tell me what happened after that.”

And so, haltingly, you detailed what had occurred a few nights before. Your tone was quiet, and grew more so as your verbal recounting crept closer and closer to the cell you’d been kept in. Not once did he interrupt you, allowing you the space and time to form your words. Once you reached the part of your story in which you’d been forced into a cell, you purposefully let your voice and thoughts go clinical and detached in between measured bites of food, running over that time in as few words as possible. That had less to do with your concern over his reaction and far more to do with your desire to move past this part of the story as quickly as possible. You avoided too much detail when describing how you’d turned your thread red, as well, instead simply describing it as you no longer denying a friendship with him. You did make sure to mention your cell neighbor, though, and what he’d done for you.

Matt’s recounting of events, on the other hand, had you captivated and you listened with rapt attention as he filled in the gaps. There was a lot to take in, with implications of their own floating beneath the surface. Practically, what interested you most was how he’d felt when you’d reached out to him. You’d only gotten a glimpse of that up on the rooftops a few nights ago but this was a magnitude larger, and while apparently it hadn’t been enough to lead him to you, the possibility was there. You’d been on the right track when it came to getting his attention. Now you just needed to figure out how to lower the intensity when you reached out.

As for the rest of it: his fervent, determined race to find you, the emotion that ran under his words? If you were reading him right, he cared about you just as much as you cared about him. That kind of gift was a fragile one, delicate enough that you risked crushing it in your hand should you make the wrong move, or should you let go without warning. 

Shit, am I even ready for this? 

When was the last time you’d done something like this? Gotten into a friendship that meant so much, carried such weight? It had been years at least. Yet as you looked across your kitchen table at Matt, sat there in the weak sunshine with him, you couldn’t deny that you wanted, more than anything, to try. 

You weren’t sure how to do that, though, when the specter of the Man in the White Coat continued to loom over you. The thought was like a cold bucket of water and the chill followed you even as you both moved to the kitchen to wash off your plates. Whereas before the normalcy of standing at the sink would have calmed you, now it simply grated. All of this was futile if you couldn’t find a solution to the problem that had plagued you since you’d first gone on the run.

“Jesus, what are we doing, Matt?”

He tilted his head next to you, thoroughly rinsing the soap off his plate. “I mean, I thought we were doing the dishes but—”

You groaned and leaned against the counter, dropping your head. “I mean this, Matt. Being all… all—”

“Clean?”

“Normal!” you snapped, shoving away from the counter to pace in the kitchen behind him. “As if there’s not someone after me who could fuck up your life now that I’ve decided to stay. I did that to you.” 

“I wanted you to stay. And you wanted to stay, too. You shouldn’t have to give that up.” He shook his head stubbornly as he flipped off the water. “The only person at fault here is the man after you.”

“It doesn’t change the fact that he’ll use the red thread that we have, Matt.” You wanted to tug on your hair, or maybe kick at something, but that would get you nothing but bruises. “He could hurt you. God knows he’d love another enhanced to fuck around with.”

Matt dried his plate off and turned around. Despite the fact that you were still on edge, when he took a cautious half-pace towards you, you growled and moved closer, unwilling to reject the offer. He set his chin on top of your head and you wound your arms around his waist, fisting your hands in the edge of his hoodie. 

“Who is this man that’s got you this scared?” Matt murmured. “I haven’t seen you like this about anyone else. Not even Fisk.”

“Dunno his name.” You buried your face against his chest, breathing deep. It felt… easier to talk about it like this when you were tucked in close against the hard lines of his body. “He was only ever called Doctor or Sir in front of me. Ran a program called ‘Project Beagle’. Three guesses who that referred to.”

Matt stiffened, presumably stirred up by how they’d referred to you as a beagle. But that’s what you’d been to the Man in the White Coat: a useful working dog, but one small and nonthreatening. Not so much a pet as a tool he planned to train, leash, and take out every now and then for a hunt before returning you to your kennel.

“Why? Why would he do that to you?” His tone was all barely-contained fury, a rumble in his chest you could feel where you were pressed against him.

You shrugged one shoulder. “He claimed studying me would lead to being able to do all sorts of things for his sponsors. Surveillance, tracking, even body swapping. None of it ever worked except for tracking. But it didn’t matter. He made promises, and so he’s stayed on me.”

“You don’t think he’s given up by now?”

“He’s invested too much in me. Besides, all he needs is one person connected to me with a red thread who’s not protected by a bunch of money. Then he can track me wherever I go.” You both knew who you were talking about even if you didn’t come right out and say Matt’s name. Just the thought of it made you sick. If the Man in the White Coat found Matt—or worse, found out about his enhanced senses—then there was no telling what he’d do to Matt. Matt wasn’t invincible, as his previous injuries demonstrated. 

He shifted against you, realization creeping into his voice. “You’re worried about me.”

“Yes.” You fiddled with the fabric under your fingers, restless in a way you couldn’t quite explain. “We have a red thread, and you’re enhanced like me. He’d love to find two of us for the price of one, and I don’t want that. I care about you and you... care about me, I think.” 

The warm hand he swept up and down your back and his sigh spoke volumes, but he wasn’t content to leave the sentiment unvoiced. “I do.” He turned his head to rest his cheek on your hair, voice soft and quiet. “Very much so.”

You shivered. The reaction to the admission was instinctual, a gut-deep response. You wouldn’t have a red thread with him if he hadn’t felt the same, you knew, but there was something different about hearing the words spoken aloud. You hadn’t heard anything like this in so very long, hadn’t allowed yourself to hear it, much less return the sentiment, even in the privacy of your own thoughts. And now here you were, standing in your kitchen, hugging Matt Murdock and finally, finally allowing yourself to care about someone and be cared about in return. It was both incredibly unsettling and encouraging, to know that someone had your back like this. 

All that meant was you’d need to fight even harder to protect this, whatever ‘this’ was. Whether that was friendship—a worthy prize of its own—or… or maybe something else, one day. But that wasn’t something you were ready to allow yourself and you retreated from the thought as quickly as it had come. Friendship was a big enough challenge for the time being.

“Then we need a plan.” You listened to the steady, comforting thump of his heart, trying to commit it to memory. “If I’m going to stay. Because he uses red threads. I don’t know how, but he gets inside them, follows them to me somehow. I assume he could do the same to you if he got to me first, but I don’t know.”

“I have some ideas on that.” His arms tightened around you. “If you’re open to it.”

“If you’ve got something, I’m happy to hear it.” You turned your face up, looking up at him curiously. This close, and with the soft light of the morning, his eyes almost seemed more grey than brown as his blank gaze fell down somewhere around your mouth. “You’re in this too, now, whether you like it or not.”

One corner of his mouth tilted up as a flash of hunger passed across his face. “I’m always up for another fight against some asshole who deserves it.” 

“I’m aware,” you said, not without amusement, “of your penchant for punching shitty people, and he certainly qualifies. But as much as I love the thought, the real question is how we go about this, D. We can’t wing it on this one.” 

He leaned back against the counter, getting comfortable. “You said Stick had a shield around him. So could I learn to do the same thing? Would it block the man after you?”

“Maybe? But I wouldn’t know the first place to start.” You furrowed your brow, running your fingers along his back in thought. “I was having enough trouble just trying to reach out to you so you could find me, and even that didn’t work all that well considering I was trying to lead you to me.”

“Agreed.” He sighed, shaking his head. “Then we’ll start there, so that I can find you in the future if you get taken. I can’t…” He shuddered, muscles locking up. You leaned into him in response, pressing your face against his neck and taking slow, deep breaths until he calmed. He let out a quiet, grateful groan. “I don’t want that to ever happen again. I need to be able to find you if something happens. And I want you to… to be able to stay here.”

“...ok then, D. Tell me what you’ve got planned.”

-x-

That ‘plan’, as it turned out, would have to wait. Not because either of you were unwilling but rather because you were still recovering from your bout with dehydration. Admittedly it wasn’t the best time to push your limits and risk a major nosebleed. And since you were recovering and couldn’t use your third eye anyway, that meant Maya ordered you to take the week off… as did Matt, who refused to do anything with you until you’d had a few more days to recover. 

And that was a strange feeling. 

While you were fortunate enough to be able to take a day here and there, the concept of an entire week to yourself was foreign. A week’s worth of money wasn’t anything to sneeze at, even now that you could afford to take some time off. Even then, what were you supposed to do? You couldn’t leave the city since separating yourself from the herd stripped away the anonymity you could find in a crowd. That meant your vacation options were limited to within the five boroughs. And there was no reason to stay in a hotel somewhere when you had your own apartment.

And then there were your habits. You liked doing things and taking action. It was a surefire way to keep yourself distracted—there wasn’t much time for introspection if you were constantly on the move. All you had to do was stay busy until you left town, and things were fine. But now? Now you’d decided to stay. It changed things. You didn’t have to fear a sense of stillness anymore. 

But habits were habits.

You were supposed to spend time resting, but a person could only sleep so much. Oh, you tried but by day two the novelty of it had worn off. You managed to kill a little time cleaning, though your apartment was already pretty spotless save the hole in the wall and some splintered wood from the broken chair Matt had thrown. Going for a jog was also out of the question, so instead throughout the day you ran through some rudimentary stretches that helped work the lingering stiffness out of your sore muscles. By day three, though, you’d given up any hopes of being productive.

Fuck it. Netflix it is.

A good binge would definitely carry you through the daylight hours, though you weren’t sure how much longer you could stand to be alone with your thoughts. Maybe you’d go to the library after this. Browsing the shelves could still count as resting if you took it slow, right? 

As it turned out, life had a different plan in store for you: a surprise in the form of a knock on your door halfway through the afternoon. You hadn’t been expecting anyone, at least not until after dusk when Matt would stop by to check on you before he went out on patrol. Hell, you were still in your pajamas, halfway through a bowl of popcorn and a marathon of the first series that had seemed interesting. The only reason you hadn't completed the cliché with some bunny slippers was because you didn't own any.

Your eyebrows shot up when you opened the door. “Foggy! Hey, I, uh—”

He held up a bulging cloth tote bag, grinning at you. “Before you say anything, please know I come bearing gifts.”

“More gifts?” You stood back from the door, letting him in and shutting the door behind him. “You didn’t have to do that.”

“In my defense, most of this is stuff some googling told me would help during dehydration recovery,” he said, setting the tote on the counter. “So if you want, think of it as purely a practical gift from Nelson and Murdock for you, our client, so that you can continue to be our client and not, like… shrivel up. We need you hydrated and healthy, not mummified."

You shuffled over to the counter and peered down as he pulled an assortment of contents from the bag. There was more than you’d expected based on the size of the tote, and you didn’t want to think about how much all that coconut water and fresh fruit cost him. Your guilt welled up again, as it had when you’d woken Matt up with your panic attack. “Then as a client you need to let me reimburse you. I don’t deserve all this.”

“Motion to reimburse denied,” he said cheerfully, ignoring you as he swept up the fruit and headed around the counter to rinse it off in your sink. “Seriously, don’t worry about it. We just want you to get better so you can get back to the mystical thing. How you feeling, by the way?”

“A little tired. Drinking a shit ton now, so I’m peeing all the time.” You popped the top on one of the waters as Foggy laughed. “Other than that, I’m just… bored. I don’t like sitting still.”

“And by that, I assume you mean literally sitting still and not, you know… fleeing the state?”

You winced, dropping your gaze when he turned around to look at you. What was strange was he didn’t even seem mad. Just… curious, and a little sad. “Yeah, I heard you guys found the bag.”

“We didn’t mean to snoop or anything.” The fridge creaked as he opened it, presumably to put some of the fruit inside. “We really did just want to get you some clothes so you could wear them home from the hospital.”

You nodded, still not looking up as you picked at the little cap you’d pulled off the water. Cupboards rattled as he bustled around in your peripheral. “Yeah, Matt said. Thank you for that, and for the bear. It was cute.”

“Not a problem at all! But I mean, I gotta ask now that it’s kinda all out in the open. Are you still gonna, you know—vamoose?”

A plate was pushed into your line of sight, pieces of watermelon and a handful of strawberries arranged into a smiley face. You stared down at the strange offering in disbelief before finally glancing back up at him, meeting his eyes. His eyebrows rose and he pointedly nudged the plate again. You furrowed your brow. “Why are you being so nice to me?”

He scoffed. “I’m not allowed to be nice to my friend?”

You made a frustrated noise. “I was going to leave and I wasn’t going to be nice about it, either. You have to know that.”

“And?” He stole a strawberry from your plate, leaving the smiling face with only one eye. “Look,” he said, taking a bite and squinting at you. “You were fairly upfront with us that you were enhanced and had people after you, so we kinda knew you might take off eventually. Do I wish you’d have felt comfortable telling us? Sure. But you were clearly scared, and at least you warned us ahead of time.”

You reluctantly took a strawberry when he tapped the plate. “And you’re really not mad?”

“I like to think I’m a pretty easygoing guy.” He gestured towards himself. “Tell me the truth and don’t, like, kick puppies or anything and I’m usually ok.”

You snorted, finally popping the strawberry into your mouth, tart sweetness exploding across your tongue. He made it sound so simple, like the very act of them knowing about what you could do wasn’t a risk in and of itself. “You’re making this way too easy.”

“I mean, I could yell at you for a while but I might start crying halfway through and I’ll just end up eventually forgiving you and then probably hugging you, I’m going to warn you right now,” he sighed. You pushed the plate until it was an even distance between you both. He accepted the unspoken offer to share and took another piece of fruit, as did you. “Anyway, I ask again: you staying?”

You blew out a heavy breath, chewing and swallowing before answering. “Yes, unfortunately for all of you.”

“Why ‘unfortunately’? No 'unfortunately'! Only good fortune. You're a psychic, make it happen.”

“Did you miss the part about bad people after me, or…?”

“Ok, so, we plan.” He tapped his chin, and you were baffled for a moment at just how willing he was to jump into helping you, regardless of the risk to himself. In that moment, you understood more than ever why him and Matt were such good friends. They may have had different ways of going about it, but their desire to help was the same, and it was something woven deeply into the fabric of their souls. “We’ll think of something. You wanna come in next week and share anything you’ve got? It’ll give me, Matt, and Karen some time to come up with a few ideas and you probably need a few days to rest anyway.”

“I don’t have much,” you warned him. “I’m not sure how much help it’ll be.”

“Then we work with what we’ve got,” he said kindly, coming around the corner of the counter. “We’ve got this. Permission to provide a supportive hug?”

You rolled your eyes with good humor, holding open your arms. “Permission granted.”

-x-

Day four of your mandatory vacation delivered an additional surprise, one you were somewhat puzzled by as you set it on your counter. You eyed the gift on and off throughout the day, occasionally rummaging through it as afternoon wore on into evening. The elegant note that came with it made it clear who it was from, even if the contents themselves hadn’t been enough of a clue. But it wasn’t the who or the what that stirred up your thoughts so much as the wording of the note itself. He was far too good at saying things without actually saying them, and his ability to do so even in written form was something you begrudgingly admired even as you cursed it. You still hadn't gotten around to putting it all away when Matt stopped by that night. 

“Hey, D,” you called, muting the tv as he climbed in through your open window. You dropped your head against the back of the couch to glance at him.   

You’d expected some sort of response from him but he went stiff the second he fully entered your apartment, tension radiating off him in waves. His hands clenched and his lips curled as he zeroed in immediately on your kitchen counter. You waved him towards it. Knowing his anger wasn’t directed towards you, you were unperturbed by the reaction and couldn't blame him after he'd been given such a thorough runaround by Fisk. “You’re free to go examine it if you like.”

“What is that?” Matt growled, prowling in fluid steps across your apartment towards your kitchen. He was all black fabric and lean muscle now, his head lowered in aggression. Even his gait changed, an instinctive alteration so that his every movement was soundless. It was clear what he thought of the gift on your counter.

Threat.

“It’s a gift from management, if I’m not mistaken.” 

Matt stopped in front of your counter, his back to you. You could only imagine the fierce scowl on his face  as he stared down at the ridiculously expensive gift basket. Unlike the last basket, this one did have crackers: some sort of Dutch mini-toast that tasted pretty damned amazing when combined with the fancy cheeses that had also been included. You may or may not have eaten some of the Belgian truffles too. You couldn't fault Mr. Winter for his taste. It was a delicious gift despite being funded by some sort of dastardly criminal mastermind. 

“His smell is all over it.” His voice was so low and rough you could barely hear it, all distant thunder. He took a shuddering breath and reached up to run his hands distastefully over the basket, as if he were loath to touch it even through his gloves.

You hummed in agreement, sprawling back and stretching your legs out. “I’m not surprised. I’m not sure if he puts the baskets together himself or if he just looks them over, but—”

“He added things. Touched them.” Matt’s hands clenched again before he turned his attention to the card beside the basket. You read the questioning tilt of his head as surely as if he’d asked you out loud. 

“Yeah, the note’s sort of unclear. It’s just a vague apology for the, ‘unfortunate incident’, a hope that I’ll feel better soon, and then, uh—”

“What?” Matt asked tersely, turning to face you. 

You frowned and gestured at the note. “Then it just says, ‘the situation has been handled and will cause no further issues.’ Cause that's not scary at all.” That was what had been bothering you all day, in truth, because what did it even mean? Had they ensured the cops wouldn’t come knocking? That the men who’d held you would never again see the light of day? You had a feeling heads had rolled—maybe literally—but the note was unclear, a fact that was no doubt intentional.

While it was true you were now on retainer with Fisk, you hadn’t quite seen yourself as truly in his employ until today. Now there was no mistaking it: you worked for him, no matter how far removed from the man himself you were. If the note had been referring to police involvement, then Fisk’s interests were undoubtedly served by keeping the cops off you so that you could continue to operate freely. If the note instead was an insinuation that those involved had been punished, well, that made sense, too. An attack on you was an attack on him, and he didn’t seem the kind of man who tolerated that sort of disrespect. Your friend in Los Angeles had operated similarly, and you weren’t unfamiliar with that particular code of conduct. 

No matter what the answer was, you weren’t inclined to press the matter. You just hoped the man that had been trapped in the cell next to yours was alright. Maybe Matt could check on him.

You refocused on Matt when he began to pace in front of you, restless and on guard. “I don’t like it,” he told you. “You’re grabbing their attention.”

You arched a brow at him. You were responsible for a lot of shit, but this particular matter was not on you. “I’m trying not to. You know that.”

“I know. I’m sorry. It’s not—I know I’m the one who pushed you into this, but…” He stopped short, growling in frustration. You gave him a moment, letting him collect himself before he tried again. “I just thought I’d have Fisk by now, that I’d have found something to nail him to the wall with, but I just can’t get anything. Meanwhile you’re getting drawn in deeper and deeper.”

You considered him thoughtfully for a few beats. You’d known Matt for months now, both as Matt Murdock and as the Devil of Hell’s Kitchen—that meant you’d become familiar with how he operated and just how easily he could be pushed into recklessness. He’d backed off just a little since the explosions, had taken more care, but all it would take was a carefully calculated nudge to push him in the opposite direction. His drive to take down Fisk, combined with the desire to protect someone he cared about, would be less of a nudge and more of a shove, a splash of gasoline thrown onto a smoldering fire. 

There had to be a way to help both of you.

You tilted your head towards the couch and he accepted the invitation to sit beside you, sinking back into the cushions with a sigh as he tugged his mask up. You swiveled in place, drawing one leg up and half-turning so you could face him as he stretched one arm over the back of the couch beside you. Once you’d both settled, he let his own head roll back, the long line of his throat bared as he closed his eyes. You nudged his leg. “So what are you worried about with me specifically, here? Talk to me.”

“That you’ll get taken again, but this time by Fisk,” he said quietly, shifting until his body was angled towards you. You met his gaze, even if he couldn’t return the gesture. “I’m worried that… that I wouldn't be able to find you, if he took you and hid you somewhere. I keep thinking about you trapped in that warehouse, and what would have happened if...” He swallowed and you tracked the motion, letting out a slow exhale as you did. You couldn’t say the risk of being snatched up by Fisk hadn’t ever occurred to you. He seemed happy enough to wait for you to give in of your own accord, but there was no guarantee that would continue long-term. Matt’s concern was justified in that regard.

But Matt also seemed more affected by your kidnapping than you’d thought. You should have seen this coming—you’d felt that surge of desperation when you’d first reached out to him over your red thread, after all, and you knew he felt things so very deeply. This was a man who threw himself full-heartedly into emotion, all passion and fire made stronger by his training as a warrior. He wanted to protect people, and you’d almost been killed despite his best efforts.

“Hey,” you murmured, reaching out. You caught the edge of his shirt, your fingertips brushing the heated skin of his hip unintentionally. He couldn’t hide his sharp inhale at the skin-to-skin contact, but you let the reaction pass without comment as you tugged lightly on the fabric, which is what you’d been trying to do in the first place. “Hey. I’m alive. You got me out.”

“It took me too long.” His arm twisted, coming down around your shoulders. At his questioning tug, you scooted closer until you could lean against his side. He sighed, dropping his head to rest on top of yours as he finally relaxed, his body going slack. “It can’t take that long again.”

You laid your head on his shoulder, still fiddling with the edge of his shirt where it had ridden up. “You said you had ideas on that. Maybe we can kill two birds with one stone. Would that work?”

“You’re supposed to rest. Doing too much too soon could—”

You snorted and reached out to tickle at that spot below his ribs that had gotten you a reaction previously. He grunted, arching his back and twisting under your questing fingers until he finally huffed and grabbed at your hand. “I’m fine Matt. I’m honestly bored out of my mind, so having something to do would be nice as long as it’s not running around. Tell me what your idea on this is.”

“Not unless you can safely use your ability again.”

You sighed, your physical eyes half-closing as you relaxed there against him and focused. He twined his fingers with yours, squeezing when you frowned in concentration. 

“Don’t push yourself."

“Hush, devil-man,” you muttered, not without a touch of amusement. “Seriously, just give me a second.” You drew in a deep breath and dropped your head down, gradually shifting your awareness to that space just above and between your physical eyes. You knew it was there. It hadn't gone anywhere. 

Relax. Prove you can do this.

It only took a few more breaths before, for the first time in days, the threads of the world flickered to life. 

The sparkling illumination that escaped the web of threads around you now was far dimmer than it had been a week ago—most likely because your body was still recovering—but you didn’t much mind for the time being. It meant you needed less time before you adjusted to the brilliant light of Matt’s threads. You released his hand and reached out to stroke your fingers through the tangled strings of light that escaped the center of his chest, gentle but firm as Matt shivered against you. Eventually you found what you were looking for.

You ran a thumb over the red thread, deep and dark as spilled wine, that started in his chest and ended somewhere inside yours, a line that bound you both together. You didn’t try to push or open the thread, not this time. You just held it in your hands, allowing the both of you to take in the comforting flood of warmth and memory. 

“Is this doing anything bad to me?” you asked, setting your head back on his shoulder. You closed your eyes but continued to hold the red thread in your hands, dragging your fingers along it. This thread had helped give you hope—ironic with how much you’d once feared it—and you didn’t realize until now how much you’d missed holding it. “Is my nose gonna bleed? Anything?”

Fabric rustled and then he set his bare hand against your cheek, thumb passing over your nose and cheek. You let him do it, let him sense out whatever it was that went on inside your skull when you were doing this. 

“You’re ok, for now," he said after a moment. He tapped your temple. “But let’s not push it if we want to start working on this.”

You let your third eye blink out, the threads around you vanishing from sight. You sighed, not letting on that it had given you the tiniest headache to do that, as if you’d pulled and released a sore muscle. “I think I've made my point. So spill. How is this going to work exactly? You weren't super clear before.”

"That's because I'm not sure how difficult it will be." He reached up to rub at his mouth. "When you were trying to reach me before, I couldn’t figure out which direction you were in because there was too much sensation. We need to practice, learn to communicate without it overwhelming me.”

“So I need to pull back a little,” you said thoughtfully. “Less force.” You weren’t sure how to do that, but it wouldn’t hurt to try now that you were safe and not driven by panic. If you thought of your thread like a river, then maybe there was a way to slow the current, ease the pressure until it was closer to a trickle than a rough wave.

He nodded. “And once we have that down, we can start working on doing it over a longer distance. See what the limitations are.”

It… wasn’t a bad idea, actually. You knew he could feel it when you opened that thread, and that he could seemingly pick up on your emotions. If you could use that to reliably lead him to you, it would be a huge advantage: one the Man in the White Coat wouldn’t see coming, much less Fisk. And you could already find Matt, so your side of that particular equation had already been solved. 

“And what about shielding yourself?” you asked.

He shook his head. “Let’s work our way up to that. We can practice this first, so I can find you if I need to.”

“And how are we gonna do that?” You tilted your head back until you could see his face. “I lead you on a merry hunt across Hell’s Kitchen?” 

His smirk, the hint of amusement and playful hunger that you caught in his expression, had your breath catching in your throat.

“Well, if you wanted me to chase you, sweetheart,” he murmured, “all you had to do was ask.”

Chapter Text

Despite your caution, your first attempt at reaching down the thread for Matt without overwhelming him went somewhat poorly.

It made sense. To you, each soul was like a lake, endlessly deep and overflowing with emotion and memory. A red thread appeared to operate as a channel, allowing a small amount of emotion to travel between the two people that resided at either end. To part the thread, to reach for Matt, was to throw open the floodgates. The wider you opened the doors, the more of yourself rushed through, until Matt risked drowning beneath the sensation. The chance of that occurring rose when there was little distance between you, as you’d quickly discovered the first night you got together to practice.

Slumped against one another on your couch, the red thread between you had been as slack and open as it could be, and it had parted all too readily under the pressure you’d applied. You’d grit your teeth, trying desperately to control the sudden surge of emotion as your awareness rolled over Matt like a wave at high tide. 

“Fuck, you ok, D?”

“Ah! Ah—” he’d gasped, chest heaving as he gulped in air, fingers scrabbling against your couch. “Too much, too—”

It’d been clear he needed less from you when you reached out for him. The question was how. Your only saving grace so far had been that you weren’t back up to full strength yet, and that seemed to limit how much you could slip inside a thread. But that limitation wasn’t going to last. Though the threads around you were far dimmer than they had been a few weeks ago, with each new day the light of them grew brighter, and it wouldn’t be long before your abilities reached their peak once more. You needed to figure this out sooner rather than later so you’d have better control when that happened.

Your first attempt at this new method of communicating had been a week ago. Since then, the lessons had occurred nightly at either his apartment or yours, the both of you spending at least an hour practicing before he went out on patrol. It had been a week of nosebleeds for you, ones gradually decreasing in severity. The upside was: it was also a week of Matt.

Tonight was the first night, though, that he actually seemed to be having real fun with this. You were too, to tell the truth, now that your control had improved some.

“Again.”

You tilted your head at Matt. You were both seated across from one another on the floor, his legs crossed and yours sprawled open as you leaned back against one of his chairs. He’d forgone his shades tonight, though his eyes were still closed, his expression peaceful and calm. Spread throughout the apartment were familiar trails of light, threads of connection slicing through the air with little concern for obstacles like walls and furniture. Most of Matt’s own threads spilled from his chest in a waterfall of color, dropping down until they passed through the floor and out of your sight. The exception was the deep red thread you held between your fingers: that line hung suspended between you both, one end cemented inside your own chest. 

You narrowed your eyes, focusing on the red thread in your hand. Reaching, as you’d begun to refer to it, wasn’t like holding a thread. When you held Matt’s thread, you could usually pick up on what he was feeling—pain, joy, rage—as well as direct his mind towards fond memories he had of you. It worked similarly for you: a warmth and wealth of affectionate thoughts drifting through your mind as you held that flush of delicate red between your fingers. Those thoughts, that warmth, was stronger the closer together you both stood, with the reverse being true as the distance between you grew and the thread pulled taut. 

This was different. Now, instead of simply nudging his thoughts towards you, you were trying to reach out and touch him, slide your awareness inside him in order to grab his attention. That meant sending at least part of yourself down inside the thread and riding the current it contained. It was tricky, delicate work even without the panic that had gripped you in your cell. 

Just a little. Gentle. Slow. 

You bit your lip, twisting your thumb and imagining the thread parting minutely under the pressure you applied. The thread flickered under your touch, electricity shivering its way up your arm. Warmth began to bloom in your chest next, the heat of a welcoming bonfire as memories of Matt and his current emotions trickled in. You resisted the urge to react. Were you to become too excited, the thread could snap shut, or you might press too hard in your distraction. 

Matt drew in a deep breath, long and even. When you glanced up there was the slightest smile on his face, his eyes crinkling at the corners. You rolled your eyes in amusement, letting yourself flow down the thread one last time just for the noise he made before you let the thread snap shut again. 

These attempts weren’t just for you. Matt, for his part, was learning to adapt to the sudden sensation of you around him, while he also tried to hone in on how those sensations changed based on what direction they were coming from. Though you did your best to  control how wide you opened the thread, your attempts were still a little clumsy and you had no guarantee your practice would hold up under pressure. That meant Matt also had to prepare for the possibility that your future efforts to reach him would be far less gentle.

Not that we’re going to think too closely about what could cause that.

You clambered to your feet with a groan, far from graceful as you shook out your stiff limbs. You were out of practice if sitting on the floor for an hour had left you tense. “Did you feel that one?”

“Mmhm.” He rolled his head back lazily, stretching the muscles in his neck. His eyes were still closed, his face relaxed. “You’re getting better. Want to try circling again?”

It was something you’d tried on and off this week: you circling around him as you reached through the thread for him at random intervals. It allowed him to experience the sensation at different angles, while you focused on being able to walk and press down into a thread at the same time. In theory, it would eventually lead to him being able to discern your direction at distance, and allow you to reach out even when distracted. 

“May as well.” You swung off to your right, starting to circle him in a wide arc and twining the red thread around the fingers of one hand. You flicked your thumb in random patterns against the thread without actually opening it. He needed to be ready for it to happen suddenly and without warning, since neither of you could predict what sort of activities he’d be up to when you finally, truly needed to reach for him. The last thing you wanted was for him to end up with a knife in his gut because your reaching had proved a distraction. He didn’t seem all that concerned, though. Quite the opposite. “You’re in a good mood tonight.”

“Is there a reason not to be?” He tilted his head in your direction as you passed and you reached out to run your fingers absently through his messy hair. He gave a little sigh of pleasure at the gesture, leaning into your hand before you finished by ruffling his hair and moving on. 

“How about the fact that you’ve been sitting on the floor, cross-legged like a monk for the past hour?” you asked him, wrinkling your nose. “My back’s killing me.”

“You’re not that—mmm.” You pressed down into the thread again, just for a moment, just long enough to feel the stirrings of his contentment, before you pulled back. This part, opening and closing threads, was at least something you’d been able to practice on your own. Even when Matt wasn’t there, in a city like New York, there were always plenty of threads dangling nearby to browse through at your leisure. Though for the sake of those connected, you’d generally focused on blue threads tied to inanimate objects. He cleared his throat, trying again. “You’re enjoying yourself too. I can tell.”

You arched a brow at him from across the room, giving a wide berth to the staircase with the suspiciously broken bottom step that you were definitely going to have to ask about at some point. “Let me guess: my body gave it away? Such a traitor.”

“You’re not exactly trying to hide it,” he chuckled. Then he reached up, tapping a knuckle against his chest as his eyes opened. “But also, when you reach for me, I can feel you a little here. Probably not as much as you can feel me, but it’s… nice. You’re happy.”

Your cheeks may have grown hot, but you didn’t bother denying it. The truth was, you were pretty damned happy, especially here with him. You’d thought that your decision to stay would have invited dread; and it did, the emotion buried somewhere deep down inside you. But now that you’d solidified your decision to stay, it was like a piece of you had settled into place. For the time being, you were allowing that comfort to eclipse your fear. It didn’t mean you didn’t still shudder awake at night, sweat-soaked and afraid at the thought of what might come, wishing Matt was there. It just meant that… you would enjoy what you had. You’d been living in the moment for years, and you were happy to do so here. You could let the darkness sleep, for now. 

“I may be happy, but I’m still not sure how well this is going to work long-distance.” You moved behind his couch, thinking out loud as you padded back towards him on quiet feet. “Even if you couldn’t hear me moving, you’d subconsciously pick up on my footsteps through vibrations. There’s no way for me to make you guess where I am, and that’s the real issue, D.”

“Are you insinuating I’m cheating?” As you passed him again, his hand darted out to grab playfully at your ankle, making you yelp and dart away with a laugh. “I take such accusations very seriously, Ms. Hind.”

“So sue me. Shouldn’t be any trouble as a lawyer,” you challenged, thumbing at the thread again. Instead of startling him like you’d intended, all the effort did was drag another pleased noise from him, his eyes fluttering shut. 

He really is enjoying this, isn’t he? 

You wandered over to stand in front of him where he still sat on the floor. Since you still held the red thread in one hand, you used the other hand to catch his chin, tipping his head back so you could look down at him. His eyes crinkled at the corners as he grinned up at you, his aim hitting the mark even if he couldn’t see you. That look was ridiculously charming and the bastard knew it.

Not about to be distracted, you took his stubbled chin between your thumb and forefinger and used your grip to shake his head lightly in fond exasperation. “You’re stalling, my dear devil. Why don’t you want to try this at a longer distance?”

Abruptly some of his smile slipped away, one corner of his mouth dropping. “Because of that,” he murmured. At your puzzled frown, he tapped his own nose in indication. You groaned, letting your third eye close before you headed over to the table to grab a tissue from the box he’d set out for you. You used it to catch the few droplets of blood that had trailed down your upper lip before you tipped your head forward and carefully pinched the bridge of your nose.

“It’s been bleeding less over the week with all the practice,” you said, voice muffled and only a touch defensive.

“Less is still bleeding.”

“Oh, you do not, sir.” You rolled your eyes, pointing one accusatory finger in his direction. “You’re forgetting that I’ve helped fix your stitches after you went out to crack skulls too soon, D. Pick another argument.”

“I suppose that’s fair,” he muttered, rising with a fluid grace you envied. He stretched briefly, lean muscles shifting with the movement, before he sighed. “I just want us to be safe. I don’t like that you’re still bleeding, even if it’s only a few drops here and there. Not after what you went through.”

“And I get that,” you said, waving your free hand. “I don’t like it either. But this stuff happens, Matt. It’s… normal, whenever I try something new, and it goes away. On top of that, I’d argue the bigger threat is what would happen if we didn’t get this figured out as soon as possible.”

“Maybe,” he admitted reluctantly as you settled into one of the chairs by the table. He slipped by you into the kitchen, the clink of glassware and splashing from the sink alerting you to his activities. A moment later, he placed a glass of water in front of you. You gratefully accepted the water, both because you’d never turn it down and because it seemed to make Matt feel better if he got you to drink something after a nosebleed. Then he held up the small trash bin for you, and you tossed the bloodied tissue in. Matt would know better than you when the bleeding was done. He turned to take the bin back to the kitchen, his voice drifting back to you over his shoulder. “We’ll have to experiment with your ability, but we need to be careful about it.”

“Agreed. We can set limitations,” you told him distractedly, the wheels in your mind already turning. You were unfortunately familiar with experiments involving your third eye, so this wasn’t new ground at least.  “And we’ll control the usual variables: distance, time-frame, limits on location. Etcetera.”

It was coming back to you now, memories scratching around even as you tried to keep your thoughts clinical. How many of your younger years had you spent jumping through hoops and running through the tasks assigned to you? How much time had you spent with scientists studying you? Each one tracking your vitals on clipboards, marking down the amount of blood you lost, and carefully noting just how long you could hold your third eye open down to the millisecond. You’d learned enough to know how to run something like this.

Your nose twitched and your gaze shifted around, searching. For a second you’d thought you’d smelled cigarette smoke, but that was ridiculous. Matt would never have allowed that in his apartment, and he would have caught it long before you.

“And you’ll have your phone with you,” Matt said, distracting you as he returned from the kitchen to sit across from you in the other chair. You weren’t sure why but you watched his hands, scarred and worn, as they settled in his lap. “We need to stay in contact.” 

“Of course.” You nodded distantly, and the familiar refrain came out before you could stop yourself. “Standard experimental procedure: the subject must remain in contact with the handler at all times.”

“Subject twenty will remain in contact with the handler at all times. Is that understood? Repeat it back to me, subject twenty. Go on.”

Matt had frozen across from you, his entire body gone stiff. 

Fuck.

You hadn’t meant to say it, not really. It had just kind of… slipped with the way the conversation had gone, key words and patterns of thinking connecting like links in a rusted chain until they had inevitably dragged up the familiar recitation from your memory. You’d been forced to repeat it each and every time you were taken out on another experimental hunt, the cadence of it drilled into you until it could surface on instinct. 

“Is that what you think this is?” he asked softly. He still hadn’t moved, as if he’d been momentarily stunned into stillness. A flash of pain crossed his face and you quickly dropped your gaze. “An experiment like that?"

You frowned down at the worn, chipped tabletop. No, that… that wasn’t right, because it wasn’t the same. There were no charts, no punishments, no desire to push past where you were comfortable. This wasn’t something cold and calculated, a checked box. It was just… you and Matt, learning. So why had you said it?  

“I… no.” You scrubbed your hands over your face, abruptly frustrated. “I’m sorry. I know it isn’t the same, you aren’t… you aren’t them. I don’t know why I said that.”

“Is it because…” He paused, and you glanced up. His dark eyes darted left and right sightlessly. He didn’t seem angry or hurt, now—just thoughtful. Then his eyebrows rose in realization and he licked his lips, considering you with a focus you could feel in your chest. “Maybe we were going about this the wrong way.”

“How so?” 

“We were turning it into something clinical. And it isn’t. Not with us, not with… how we are, and how we feel.” There was more lurking underneath his words, and you mentally stuck a pin in that thought to consider later when you were alone. He tilted his head, gesturing between you both. “So what if we changed it, kept it closer to what it was earlier? Made it a game.”

“A game,” you said slowly, rolling the idea around in your mind. It was certainly a lot more enticing than the thought of another experiment, and the more you considered it, the more settled you became. The way you’d been thinking of going about this a moment ago really had bothered you, even if you hadn’t noticed it immediately. You and your abilities weren’t an experiment, not anymore, not ever, and the way you’d been learning with Matt was as far removed from that as could be. This would help emphasize those differences. 

A game? You could play a game.

He nodded, seeming pleased at your reaction. “We can set a time limit, not as a variable but as a challenge. I try to beat the clock by finding you. You try to run it down by hiding somewhere in Hell’s Kitchen where you think I’ll have trouble finding you.”

You rubbed your mouth, already considering the possibilities. Unlike before, there was an eagerness to your thoughts now, something in you igniting at the thought of a playful challenge. It was a hint of the thrill you’d felt the night he’d proposed this idea with a barely disguised hunger. That feeling returned at the thought of him giving chase even as you both remained safe. “Like a game of hide and seek.”

“Exactly. If I don’t find you within the time frame, you win. If I do find you, I win.”

“So they’re not variables. They’re just game rules.” In this new light, it was easy enough to reframe your plans. You drummed your fingers against the table as you puzzled things out. Even if this was a game now, you’d need to make sure it still taught you both what you needed to know. That meant you’d still have to reach for him at regular intervals.  “So, a rule: I have to open the thread once every few minutes.”

“Let’s make it five to ten based on how you’re feeling,” he said firmly. “We shouldn’t overdo this in the beginning.”

You snorted, nudging him with your foot under the table. “I’m not going to fall over, Matt.”

His lips quirked and the smirk he shot you was just this side of sly. “If you still feel that way after a few rounds, we can raise the stakes.”

“You’re only saying that because you think I won’t win,” you said, narrowing your eyes.

“If you’re so sure, then pick a prize for our first round.” He sprawled back in his chair, all smug satisfaction. Was he really so sure he’d win? Oh sure, in theory you should want him to win, since the end goal was him being able to find you when you reached out, but you’d been challenged now. You’d show him. If the Devil was going to catch you, then he was gonna have to work for it.

Bring it on, D.

“Fine,” you shot back. Your eyes darted around his apartment, trying to think of a prize. 

His sheets? No, too pricy to take.

Drinks at Josie's? No, you needed a trophy. 

Finally your eyes landed back on Matt, lounging as he was in grey sweats and a worn t-shirt. As you stared at him and all that fabric, memories of burying your face against his shoulder came to mind, and something clicked. “I want one of your shirts,” you blurted out. 

And oh, you almost folded at his arched brow.

“I wasn’t aware we were going to follow strip poker rules, but—”

You cleared your throat and reached out to pluck at his sleeve in demonstration. “These are stupid soft. I want in on this and I need one until I can get some of my own.”

He laughed, letting you off the hook for the time being. “Alright. You can have my shirt if you win. And if I win—”

“Hit me.” You crossed your arms, waiting. 

This’ll be good.

“—if I win,” he repeated, “you put something up on your wall that you actually like.”

On the hastily assembled mental list of ‘Things Matt Murdock Might Want From You’, you’d thrown in a lot of possible rewards. But this? This certainly wasn’t one of them. You stared at him, baffled. His smile turned soft and knowing. “What are you talking about?” You gestured sharply, trying to cover your confusion. “I have stuff on my walls I like just fine.”

“You have set pieces,” he corrected gently, shaking his head. “Foggy’s told me about them now that he’s seen your apartment, and you’ve hinted at it. I’m willing to bet there’s not one piece of art or a photograph hung up that you like.”

“And if there is?” you asked quietly, though the question itself was pointless. He was right, and you both knew it. It was almost uncomfortable sometimes, the way he could so unerringly chip away at the bits of your public persona you’d erected around yourself. 

“If there is, then there’s no harm adding something new.” He reached out, taking your hand. “It can be whatever you want: a picture, a painting. But it has to be something you actually want to look at.”

“Jesus, Murdock,” you sighed, twisting your hand until you could twine your fingers together. “Were you planning this ahead of time? My prize feels a lot less introspective.”

“Oh no, you’re not changing your choice.” He squeezed your hand warmly and released it. “After all, the least I can do if you win is share one of my shirts. Especially since we’re getting married.”

“Oh my god, Matt—”

Chapter Text

You’d both selected an evening for your game. You’d decided on prizes and rigorously debated the rules until you'd settled on a heavily modified version of hide-and-seek. And you, without Matt’s knowledge, had already scoped out some potential hiding spots that just might give you a shot at winning. You were prepared. All there was left to do was wait. 

Waiting, though, was proving far more difficult than you’d expected. Every time you thought about the coming game, you had to bite back a smile, your heart skipping a beat. You weren’t even sure why you were this excited, why you waited with all the eagerness of a child at Christmas. Maybe it was because the very idea that you could run and hide while also wanting, just a little, to be found was such a foreign concept that you still couldn’t quite believe it was happening. Even now the urge to escape was still there inside you, hovering like a wraith at the edges of your awareness, and oh, how eager it was to possess you when the light faded and the shadows tasted of cigarette smoke and blood. But now, if you were lucky, Matt had given you another way to run… a way to scratch that itch and silence old ghosts without you being forced to hurt anyone at all. 

Or maybe the reasoning was simpler, or rather, lower: centered just a short distance below your abdomen, a sweet rush of heat every time you thought of Matt, sweat-soaked in the warm night air as he raced along after you, the Devil snapping at your heels. You couldn’t deny there was something heavy in the air between you two since that night at the warehouse, though for now you were both doing your best to ignore the massive, prickly elephant in the room. But even so it was still there, and it only added to the intensity with which you looked forward to the game.

When the day finally came, you were practically trembling with anticipation as you went about your work day. It was difficult to think about anything else, considering how preoccupied your mind was and how much you longed for the first streamers of dusk to stretch their deep-blue fingers out across the sky. You did the best you could, but you barely dodged Maya and Daniel’s questions about your good mood, managing an innocent face only thanks to your years of practice.

The early hours of the evening were spent making final preparations. You changed from your work outfit into something that provided more freedom of movement, forgoing your leather jacket for jeans, a t-shirt, and sneakers. You’d already marked out a plan on the map of Hell’s Kitchen you’d saved to your phone, but you went over it again as you ate a hasty dinner, making a few last minute modifications. Perhaps most important was the small backpack you filled, the items within chosen with care: water, three tightly sealed packages still unopened, and a key from one of your neighbors. You weren’t entirely sure just how much those items would help, but they might buy you a little time. 

You’d hopefully planned enough to pull one over on your favorite Devil.

-x-

The night air was pleasantly mild along your skin, helped along by a cool wind blowing in from the sea as the summer heat finally began to recede. You were grateful for the breeze as you made your way up the fire escape to the chosen meeting place, just a few minutes early. The rooftop you were on now would act as your starting position, for both you and Matt. It wasn’t far from the building upon which you’d first met months ago, and the irony of it didn’t escape you. Back then he’d been tailing you thanks to a perceived threat and the puzzle you’d presented. And now? Now he was going to follow you again, but for a very different reason. 

At first glance, it seemed you were alone. You poked around, peering into shadows and looking for that familiar line of black or flash of skin that would give him away. You didn’t bother to keep quiet, letting your sneakers scrape and scuff as you went, trusting he’d hear you even if he hadn’t already picked up on your presence. 

Tap-tap-tap.

Tap.

Tap-tap. 

You turned towards the sound as Matt appeared at the edge of the rooftop, dressed in black as always. You may have been excited, but at least you weren't the only one. There was a barely constrained eagerness to his movements as he approached you, something predatory in his easy stride that made your breath hitch in your chest.

“Was starting to wonder if you’d show,” he said, one corner of his mouth quirking up. 

You scoffed, shifting the backpack straps on your shoulders as you eyed him. “As if. You’re losing that shirt, D.”

“We’ll see,” he murmured, beginning to circle you with all the grace and fluid hunger of a tiger hunting in tall grass. You resisted the urge to turn and follow his movement, even when you felt the warmth of him pass behind you, a more noticeable sensation without the usual protection of your leather jacket. You refused to let him get inside your head, no matter how much of a show he felt like putting on. “Do you have everything you need?”

“Water, cell. I set the alarms. Almost brought a book. Figured I could take a nap instead while waiting for you to show, if you do at all.” You examined your nails in mock disinterest but couldn’t keep the corner of your mouth from turning up. 

He huffed a laugh somewhere behind you. “That confident I won’t catch you?”

There it is. 

“Let’s just say I like my odds tonight.” You shrugged one shoulder, watching him as he once more entered your line of sight off to your right.

“Remember the rules?” He circled out wider, passing in and out of your view as he moved between pockets of deep shadow. You tried to follow him with your eyes as best you could but he was putting in effort at hiding now and it wasn’t long before you lost him entirely. You were fairly certain he’d drifted around behind you again, though.

“Already written everything down,” you threw over your shoulder. “I’m ready if you are.”

There was a sudden line of radiant heat at your back, his breath stirring the fine hairs on the nape of your neck. His head brushed against yours so very lightly as you suppressed a shiver, his lips hovering beside your ear. His voice, when he spoke, was almost a purr. 

“Then you better start running, sweetheart.”

-x-

Rule Number 1: Stay Within Hell’s Kitchen.

“I mean, that one’s fairly obvious, Matt.”

“I’m a lawyer. I felt the need to clarify.”  

Hell’s Kitchen wasn’t all that large. 

The entire neighborhood—though rich with history, culture, and containing within its borders more than enough trouble for the both of you—was roughly twenty blocks by four, its total area encompassing less than a mile. While your own travels frequently took you out of the neighborhood entirely, you’d both agreed to keep your game within the boundaries of Hell’s Kitchen for now. The smaller size would help ensure you didn’t overtax yourself trying to reach for him, and would also allow Matt to move about freely within his own territory. But even within that smaller field of play, you had plenty of space to work with. 

Construction sites. Old buildings. Apartment rooftops. Alleys and nooks and crannies: a million convenient hiding spots to tuck yourself away in. Had you been trying to hide from someone who operated without the benefit of enhanced senses, it wouldn’t have been fair. But with Matt, you had to up your game. The usual spots wouldn’t do. 

You’d kept an eye out while working this week, making a note of promising locations as you passed them by on foot or by cab. You still had to follow the rules you and Matt had set, but within those rules, you were allowed some flexibility. How you made use of that advantage might be the difference between winning and losing, and you'd need a few aces up your sleeve if you were going to get your hands on one of his shirts. After all, Matt couldn’t exactly turn off his senses. If he were to happen upon your trail—some snatch of scent, the distant rhythm of your heartbeat—that would be it for you.

That meant you had to act quickly.   

You flew down the fire escape, not bothering to quiet your noisy descent or stifle the abrupt burst of laughter that spilled out of you. Even if Matt was trying to turn his attention elsewhere, there was no way he wouldn’t hear you when you were this close. It didn’t matter how quiet you tried to be, and it would have been a wasted effort to try. Besides, you didn’t have time, not with the clock already ticking. And so the first thing you did when you hit street level was gallop to the curb and hastily flag down a cab. 

You needed to put some distance between you both. Only then would the game really begin. 

-x- 

Rule Number 2: Twenty Minute Headstart.

“Twenty minutes feels like a lot, though.”

“Not when I’m chasing you, it’s not.”

You only allowed the cab to go two blocks before you requested the driver make a turn, directing him towards a different section of Hell’s Kitchen than you'd originally specified. He grumbled but agreed once you promised you’d pay for the distance you’d already gone. The first two blocks had only served to give you some breathing room. You couldn’t very well keep going in the same direction, not when Matt had no doubt listened in. It was a delay that might cost you, but you’d been willing to take the risk considering the possible benefits: quickly escaping Matt’s awareness, and avoiding leaving a clear trail on the sidewalk for the Devil to follow. 

As the cabbie adjusted his course, you grabbed your phone and pulled up the map. You’d circled multiple locations on your map, each one a potential hiding spot you’d found. This may have been a game, but you knew how to run. You also knew you needed to make your next decision, and it was a big one. Matt may have agreed to stay put during your twenty minute headstart so that the two of you didn’t risk bumping into one another, but once those twenty minutes were up, he’d start hunting, regardless of whether you’d found a hiding place. Even with the car carrying you along quicker than you’d go on foot, there was an unusual amount of traffic tonight. 

Should have asked for thirty minutes instead of twenty. Move it, people!

You skimmed over the map again, thinking. The address you’d directed the cabbie towards was one that lay within quick walking distance of three prime locations you’d previously scoped out. There’d been a lot of promising options initially but most you’d eventually ruled out for one reason or another: too predictable, too open, not enough foot traffic nearby. Hiding from Matt was a challenge like none you’d faced before—it was less about visually hiding and more about masking your scent and the way your heart skipped along in a rhythm he was dangerously familiar with. Your fingers strumming at the red thread that bound you both together would only speed things along.

You tapped the far end of the map again, zooming in. One thing you’d learned about New York was there was always construction somewhere, and just a few blocks away from the address you’d chosen was an excellent example: a massive, skeletal spire of steel and concrete, still open to the air and strangely empty. A little asking around had revealed a stall in the project due to mismanagement of permits. Work wasn’t expected to begin again for another week… and they’d left behind their construction elevator, conveniently located in the center of the building. The chain-link around the site had presented an issue, at least until you'd spotted a hole in the bottom of the fence. You’d carefully tied a scrap of fabric to the fence to mark your way in, just in case. 

Using a construction site was a devious calculation on your part. Matt had mentioned the smell of construction smothering your trail previously, and you weren’t ashamed to make use of that knowledge. The downside, however, was that the very same open framework that allowed you to slip inside the building also allowed the wind to carry your scent. The site would be your last choice of the final three thanks to that. For now it would be better to remain at ground level where scents mingled together, and away from rooftops where the breeze would work against you. 

Your second option had taken a little sweet-talking. The dry cleaning business run by your neighbor was a clean, neatly run affair, but you were less interested in the front of the building than the cargo area towards the back where it butted up against an alley, closed up behind locked loading doors. It was an area usually used for offloading the array of chemicals required for cleaning. If you could get inside and lock the doors behind you, you were fairly certain Matt would struggle to find a way in.

Your neighbor had been puzzled by your request for a key for the night, especially since the bay was empty and you’d have needed a separate key to let yourself into the rest of the building. But after you’d helped her find her missing engagement ring last month, she owed you. You were banking on the acrid fumes from the trucks and chemicals covering up your scent if you ended up hiding there, but it was also a quiet back alley, and there’d be little to mask any noise you made.

No, you had a better option. 

You dragged the map, focusing on one apartment building in particular. You’d climbed up the fire escape at its edge last month while chasing a cat, and you’d quickly discovered that someone in the building had a habit of leaving the rooftop door cracked open. Based on the wealth of cigarettes on the ground, you assumed it was some smoker. That open door provided you with access to the building itself, and you had no doubt you could find a good spot to hide inside, even if it was just on the inner stairwell. You’d be out of sight, out of the wind, and the kids you’d heard stampeding around inside might help mask the noise of your own body. It had everything you wanted. 

It was good you’d made your decision, because by the time you hopped out of the cab, you only had a few minutes left before Matt could leave the starting zone. You quickly paid the cabbie, leaving a generous tip, and took off at a pace just short of a jog. The apartment building was about a block and a half down the street, but you had one stop to make first.

As you pulled open the door to the little coffee shop on the corner, the timer on your phone began to buzz. Well, there went your headstart. You quickly silenced it and set a new timer, but before you could slip it back into your pocket, your phone began to ring. 

Incoming Call From: D  

You weren’t about to let him hear the chime of the coffee shop bell, so you quickly moved over to the empty alley beside the shop. Only when you were sure there was nothing to give away your location did you answer the phone.

“Can I help you, D?” you asked innocently. 

“Time’s up.” The sound of wind on his end told you he was still outside, probably on the same rooftop you’d both started on. After a moment there was a distant thump of impact, most likely him flinging himself to the next rooftop in that jaw-droppingly confident way of his. The man was a goddamn mountain goat. “I’m assuming you’ve gotten to where you need to be?”

“Now why would I tell you that?” you laughed, shifting your backpack. “You’re supposed to find me by my thread. I’m not just going to tell you; not when I want one of your shirts as a trophy. Maybe I’ll pick the one you’re wearing right now.”

Oops. Too much? You lifted a hand and dragged it down your face, resisting the urge to take your words back.

“Mm, you’re gonna have to win before I strip for you, sweetheart.”  

Holy shit, this man was trying to kill you. You face grew hot at the warm timbre of his voice, and you quickly cleared your throat. “Big words for someone who hasn’t found me yet.”

“That’s because you still have to do your part.”

You snorted but let your physical eyes close, taking a few deep breaths. It was an easy enough matter to open your third eye. That had rarely been an issue for you, and now that you’d finally begun to adjust to the newfound intensity of each thread’s light, it didn’t sting the way it had after the obnoxious old man had jabbed his thumb into your forehead. It was the rest of the process that was going to be more difficult.

Still breathing slow and even, you hooked the glimmering deep-red thread that spilled from your own chest and lifted it up. The comforting glow of it soaked into your hand, bringing a smile to your face. Matt’s emotions were a distant hum like this, spreading up your arm as if you’d just sunk your hand into warm water. Snatches of him came to you as you focused: a hunger mingled with a feeling of… joy almost, though it was hard to tell at this distance without opening the thread.

Here we go.

You licked your lips and pressed down into the red thread, trying to dig your thumbnail in until the line of red parted under your touch. Your mistake before, you thought, had been trying to slide all of yourself inside the thread to reach him. You didn’t need to though, not with his senses. So this time, instead of letting yourself get lost in the current that connected you to him, you tried to let just a fraction of yourself drip down into the thread. It was a struggle, different than when you’d practiced with Matt in his apartment. You grit your teeth, having to fight back against the thread to prevent it snapping shut. Only when you thought you had it did you twist one of your fingers to strum in the familiar rhythm. 

Matt noise was thoughtful but a little breathless. “I-it’s still a little much. Easy. I’m right here, I can… I can feel you. Just—” His words morphed into a sigh when you tried again, plucking at the thread even more gently this time. “There, just like that. I think we’ve got it.”

You grinned, wondering if he could feel your growing excitement as you strummed one last time before letting the thread snap shut. You turned towards the alley entrance, making your way to the coffee shop once more. “If you’ve got it then come find me, D. I’ll be waiting.”

“Ready or not, here I come,” he murmured before hanging up. And that left you alone, strangely warm, and maybe breathing a little harder than you should have been for someone who’d just been standing around in an alley. Definitely not suspicious at all.

The real game had begun. You needed to get back on track before you attracted the wrong kind of attention.

There were only a few weary-looking customers inside the corner coffee shop, the air rich with the smokey scent of ground coffee beans and steamed milk. The lone barista behind the counter gave you a bland look as she wiped down the aging countertop.  “Can I help you? We’re closing in about thirty minutes.”

“I’ll take a water, if you’ve got it,” you told her. She retrieved a bottle from behind the counter and you dug out a five dollar bill in exchange. 

When she went for change, you waved it off. “Keep it. Real quick though,” you said with a polite smile, “can I use your bathroom?”

-x-

Rule Number 3: The Seeker Has Sixty Minutes.

“Trust me. One hour’s all I need to find you if we do this right.”

When you exited the bathroom, you received a few puzzled looks from the other customers and the barista, but they kept quiet and so did you, throwing the barista a cheerful wave as you headed out the door. Once you were outside you broke into a jog, sneakers slapping pavement as you headed down the street towards the apartment building. There were still some older kids running around outside, with more you could hear inside the inner courtyard. Most of the lights in the various windows you could see were on. The potential amount of noise produced by all these people grouped up in one building had you grinning.

That grin faltered when your alarm went off. You groaned, moving off to the side to work your third eye open without holding up the usual flow of New York foot traffic. You grimaced at the red thread once you had it in hand, but you’d made a deal. You went through the process of slowing your breathing again, parting the thread and strumming a little more clumsily than before in your haste. There was a surge of emotion in return, and the thread in your hand actually flickered, a brief flash of light only you could see. He was definitely feeling what you were doing, and you couldn’t help but pat yourself on the back a little as you let the thread close back up.

As much as you and Matt were enjoying yourselves, learning to manage the difficulty of this—of finding focus even while distracted, of parting the thread just so while under a certain amount of pressure yourself—was, in actuality, one of the main goals of your game tonight. It was essential you mastered this skill until you could reach for him gently, and as easily as breathing.

One day, you’d have this down. For now, though, the time you had to spend doing this was just another point in Matt’s favor.   

Tucked around behind the apartment building was your way in. You kicked and shuffled around the alley as if bored, all while you carefully scoped out the windows of the adjacent buildings for any curious eyes. When you were reasonably certain the coast was clear, you reached up to the black steel ladder above your head and pulled it down, beginning your climb up the fire escape. The going was a little slick with your soft gloves but you made do, scaling it quickly until you hit the first landing and could start up the stairs. 

As predicted, the rooftop door was slightly ajar, held open with a small rock someone had wedged inside the doorway. The door itself barely made a sound as you carefully pulled it open further, touching it as little as possible. Even with gloves on, there was no way to avoid leaving some trace of yourself behind, but you didn't need to make it completely obvious you'd passed through. 

The alarm went off on your phone again, so you let go of the door just long enough to go through the process of reaching for Matt. The little ripple of satisfaction that traveled back along the thread to you had you wary, and you squinted down at the thread suspiciously. He was far too confident… or maybe he’d already picked up your trail. 

Come on. There’s no way he’s found me yet. 

This was just another attempt to mess with you. You were fine. You just needed to stall, drag this out for a little while longer. If you were lucky,  within the hour you’d be the proud owner of the shirt off the Devil’s back.

-x-

Rule Number 4: Hiding Place Must Be Devil-Accessible.

“That means no hiding anywhere I’m liable to be noticed. Or shot at.”

“Should it concern me that you mention being shot at like it's only a minor inconvenience?”

The darkened interior of the stairwell was quiet, and you let the door slip shut behind you as you peered downward over the worn railing. The lighting here at roof level was far too meager for your tastes. It was only the glow from the flickering red exit sign over the door that allowed you to see your immediate surroundings—and allowed you to breathe, though the discomfort with even this level of darkness was an unpleasant chill down your spine. 

You were standing on a small, unadorned landing, with the only path available being down the cement stairs before you. Down on the next landing where it was far better lit was another dark metal door with an inlaid glass window. That door presumably opened to one of the apartment’s floors. From there the steps made a sharp turn and progressed further downwards and out of sight. The lingering scent of pot and cigarette smoke was inescapable in here; apparently some residents didn’t bother making the full journey up to the roof. You crept down and carefully peered through the window set into the first door.

Nothing to see out there save a long, empty hallway and some violently psychedelic carpeting not updated since the seventies. Still, it was noisy enough when you put your ear to the door and listened, the audible sounds of people going about their lives resonating through thin walls and the metal of the door you were pressed against: TVs, arguments, the wail of a baby. The sound of your breathing and small movements should blend in nicely, as long as you stayed quiet otherwise.

You turned and climbed halfway back up the steps. Halfway up, fortunately, was still comfortably out of reach of the shadows lurking at the top of the stairwell. Tucked away here, you were out of the immediate sight of anyone curious enough to glance through the glass set into the door. And as long as you were out of sight of residents, you were technically following the rules. You were hidden away yes, but more than accessible to Matt should he come looking.

You pulled out your phone, checking the time. You’d set the timer to go off at regular intervals, and you checked now to ensure it was set to vibrate only. If things started getting hairy, you’d have to turn it off entirely. If Matt was close by, the last thing you needed was for your phone to give away your presence like a giant, buzzing beacon that bellowed, ‘Heya! Psychic hiding from the Devil over here!’

You tugged your backpack off before you settled down on the steps, turning so you could rest your back against the railing as you pulled out a bottle of water. It wasn’t incredibly comfortable but you’d had worse. It was certainly more comfortable than being out on the street in the open where people might ask questions or pester you every time you were forced to stop and focus on your red thread with Matt. It would have been different if all you’d been doing was tracking a thread. Reaching like this required more active participation on your part. You’d take the unyielding pressure of the cold railing at your back if it meant you could make your next few attempts in private.

The alarm on your phone went off, and you lowered your now half-empty bottle of water, setting it aside. Then you let your physical eyes half close, tuning out your surroundings. It would be harder to stay alert for Matt like this, but it was a risk you’d have to take if you were going to follow the rules. Once you’d settled your heart rate and found that calm space inside you, you opened your third eye. Threads burst into being around you, a familiar kaleidoscope of color weaving in shifting patterns through the air. Normally you may have taken a moment or two to admire it—to take in the absolute abundance of connection this particular building contained—but you had a schedule to keep. So instead, you went looking for your own red thread. 

The familiar deep red glittered up at you, as brilliant as any ruby, and you ran the length of it through your fingers, appraising yourself of Matt's emotional state. Like before, there was a determination and eagerness coloring his mood, infectious enough that you had to breathe through it yourself so you didn’t get swept away on the feeling. The way the thread itself spilled down into the floor told you he wasn’t on you just yet. As he got closer, winding the thread in, it would gradually grow tighter until it hung suspended in a rigid line. That should give you some warning. 

Once more, you parted the thread under your thumb. As you’d discovered earlier, it was… different when you were further away. The thread itself felt thinner, more reluctant to open. There was a strange resistance pushing back against you as well, as if there was less space inside it for you to fit unless you were willing to pry the thread open wide and make space. The temptation was there to simply shove and claw at the thread until you could force your mind inside it and ride that heady current between you both, but you resisted. That was what you’d done before, and you knew now how badly it had overwhelmed Matt. You needed to keep this gentle. 

With every bit of your focus on the thread, you carefully flicked against the thread in the familiar pattern. The returned awareness and affection from Matt let you know your efforts were appreciated, and you soaked it in like sunshine after a long winter even as you cast a wary glance at the doors above and below you. While you were dedicated to winning the game, you weren’t going to risk Matt being seen. If someone noticed you and started to cause trouble, you were going to have to beat a retreat and head to another location.

The construction site was the farthest away by a few blocks, which didn’t seem like much until you were trying to dodge the Devil. The dry cleaner's was the midpoint between the apartment building and the construction site, but in order to reach the back entrance you’d have to leave the busy streets and take to back alleys. If Matt was going to grab you anywhere, it’d be there when you were alone. You could just imagine him swooping down, unseen and silent until, without warning, he’d snatched you up. Game over. The end. You lose.

The thought didn’t bother you as much as it should have. You hummed to yourself, slipping somewhere meditative as you thumbed the thread again. Of course you wanted his shirt—that was a trophy you’d happily drag along with you no matter where you ended up—and your pride would never allow you to fold now that the gauntlet had been thrown by both of you. But you’d have been lying if you said there wasn’t a small part of you that wanted to be caught by him.

I need to stop thinking about this.

You turned your attention back to the thread instead. Every now and then you almost thought you could feel what Matt was doing: the scuff of his boots on grated steel, the pleasant rush of wind along his skin, the rich scent of coffee. Then again, maybe you were just imagining it. What you did know, beyond a shadow of a doubt, was that he was enjoying himself tonight. There was a languid undercurrent of contentment to his emotions, and each time you reached for him, you got just a taste of it. Then a sudden burst of confusion rippled its way down the thread, splashes of bafflement across your tongue and you couldn’t help but bark out a laugh. You could just imagine the puzzled cant of his head as he paced the rooftop above the coffee shop, trying to figure out what you’d been up to.

A door slammed somewhere down below you and you froze, hardly daring to breathe. You waited for a long moment, listening, but when no one appeared you let out a long breath. However, during your pause, the thread in your hand had begun to shift. Whereas before it had rested slack in your hand, now it was angled out in the direction of the coffee shop. There was still enough slack in it to indicate he was a block or so away, but the fact that the thread’s trajectory had moved at all was telling. Your eyes widened, and you glanced down at your clock on your phone. You were supposed to reach for him in about a minute or so, but with him this close, he may not even need it, and you still had a little less than thirty minutes left before the game was over. 

Your phone rang. You lifted it with a groan, thumbing accept and putting it to your ear. 

“Hey, D.”

“Changing your outfit was an interesting move. Just how covered up are you now?”

“Long sleeves, hat, gloves, all brand new and unopened until now. I assumed it would keep less of me from being left behind.” You grinned even as you carefully watched the continued motion of the thread in your hand. It was drawing up tighter and angling around behind you. That meant he was probably on the rooftops across the street. He’d most likely caught your scent by now. With your experimental ploy discovered, you quickly stripped out of your hat and the long-sleeve shirt you’d thrown on over your t-shirt, stuffing both back into your bag. You might have to start running soon, and you weren’t interested in experiencing heat exhaustion for a second time. "Why? Is it working?”

“It may have bought you a few minutes, but not much more. Nice try, though.” 

Damn, only a few? Well, you’d made an effort, at least. Point to Matt and his enhanced senses. “May not have worked but it was worth it to feel your confusion just for a second. And who knows? Maybe a few minutes was all I needed.” You carefully rose, zipping up your backpack as quietly as possible and sliding it back on.

“We’ll see. Especially now that I found the fire escape you used. The steel caught a few strands from your gloves.”

Shit. Shit shit shit—

The thread in your hand abruptly jerked upwards and you whipped your head up to stare at the rooftop door, trying to quiet your breathing as you listened. 

“Aren’t you forgetting something?” His voice was soft, tone radiating amusement. Was that the intentionally-loud scrape of heavy boots above you? Now he was just being a dick. “It’s been at least five minutes.”

Fuck! The thread. 

But reaching for him every five minutes was a rule, and one you technically couldn’t break until he 'found' you, no matter how much it wasn’t needed. 

“I can hear your heart racing," he breathed.

“Maybe because the Devil’s sniffing around at my door,” you said dryly. You carefully retreated down the stairs until you had the door against your back, considering your options. You weren’t going to lose, not this easily, and not without putting up a fight. You still had a little less than twenty-five minutes left. The game wasn’t over yet if you were smart about it. Your eyes darted up the stairs, then back down. You reached back and tried to jiggle the handle of the door but it didn’t budge. Locked, or at the very least jammed unless you were willing to put in a whole lot of effort.

Fuck, that has to be breaking about fifty different fire codes. Assholes.  

Up on the darkened landing above you, the rooftop door slowly crept open without a sound. You hung up your phone and slipped it into your pocket even as you kept the red thread wrapped tight around your fingers. Your brain was frantically assembling a new plan, and keeping hold of that thread was vital. You prepared to run, your muscles tensing in readiness as your heart kicked into high gear. 

Even though you knew he was coming, your mouth still went dry when the Devil finally made his appearance above you, his silhouette wreathed in shadow, backlit in red as the exit sign above him flickered. His mouth curled up into a satisfied smirk. “Come out, come out, wherever you are,” he purred, voice pitched so low and rough it was like a physical weight across your skin. And fuck if you weren't going to admire his entrance later, the magnificent bastard.

You rolled up onto the balls of your feet as he took one step down the stairs, all that power focused on you with unwavering intent, his head lowered as he parted his lips to draw the scent of you in. But rather than calling it quits, you instead shot him a shit-eating grin you knew he could feel, even as you twisted your thumb against the thread and bobbed your head at him. “You may have found me, but you still have to catch me.”

Then, without warning, you parted the thread between you and reached.

Up close, it was a far easier task, the thread giving way easily under the pressure you applied, though you were careful not to push too hard. You weren’t trying to hurt or overwhelm him after all. You just wanted to give him something of a nudge instead of the gentle touch you’d used previously. The rush of it hit him all at once and he staggered just a little with a startled grunt. With that, you took off down the stairs, your laughter echoing up behind you. The emotion from the thread you still held between your fingers surged up, a wave of absolute exhilaration flowing from him to you before he gave chase. 

You were far from graceful as you charged down the stairs but you got the job done, letting your third eye close so it was easier to see. You skipped steps wherever you could even if it meant the brutal jolt upon landing sent hard shock waves up your legs. You were going to ache something awful tomorrow but you couldn’t bring yourself to care. Your only focus now was on putting some distance between the two of you. You skidded across another landing, using your grip on the railing to swing yourself around the hard turn. If you could get down to ground level—

You let out a startled yelp when a dark shape swung down from the railing one level up. Apparently Matt wasn’t interested in using the stairs anymore, of course he wasn’t. He began to swing himself up over the railing with a playful growl and you ducked away from him. You were never going to make it to the ground floor at this rate. Then your eyes caught on the landing door. You made a split-second decision and bolted towards it.

Come on, please open, open, open-open-open—

The door gave way with a metallic shriek as you shoved at the push-bar and tried to scramble through it. You almost didn’t make it, lurching to a brief halt when Matt caught your backpack, but a quick roll of your shoulders left him holding only the bag as you threw yourself forward and out of his reach.

Abruptly you stumbled to a halt, meeting the judgemental eyes of the middle-aged woman who’d just left her apartment two doors down. She gave you a suspicious look, squinting at you. And really, you couldn’t blame her. Your face was surely covered in a sheen of sweat, and you were breathing hard, your mouth open as you gulped in air. You cleared your throat and straightened. Then you did your best to calmly saunter past her as if you hadn’t just come tearing in from the stairwell, out of breath and with your appearance in disarray. She sniffed and grumbled at you as you made your way down the hall, keeping an eye out for the elevator as you caught your breath. Predictably, your phone rang and you lifted it to your ear, composing yourself. 

“Hello?”

“That wasn’t very nice.” 

“I have to keep you on your toes somehow.” You were still a little breathless, giddy at your narrow escape. You finally found the elevator and pressed the down button. You’d lost track in the stairwell of how many levels you’d passed but it couldn’t be much further to the ground floor. “How many people would actually stick around if they saw you coming?” 

There was an outraged noise behind you, and you glanced over your shoulder at the same woman from earlier. 'Rude' she mouthed at you. You raised a brow and went back to your conversation. 

“Besides, I still have, what? Twenty-five minutes?”

“Twenty-two. And you’re forgetting I know where you are now.”

“Knowing and catching are too different things,” you shot back, stepping into the elevator and swiveling around to rap a knuckle against the button for the ground floor. The woman followed you, not even bothering to hide that she was still eavesdropping on your side of the conversation as the doors shut and the elevator lurched into motion. 

“Changing the rules?” 

“You said ‘catch’ earlier. I'm just following along. I figured you’d appreciate the loophole as a lawyer.”

The chuckle you got from him was deep and throaty, and it filled you with warmth. 

“Alright then. Let’s see how far you can get. Same rules apply, but I’m not giving you any extra time.”

“Agreed,” you said, stepping off the elevator into a lobby that was surprisingly bland in contrast to the disco-ball vibe of the carpeting upstairs. So, you’d still need to be accessible as you ran, no hiding in amongst a crowd. You stared out the front doors with a frown as your pace faltered. The second you were outside, it would become far easier to catch you or pull you into an alley. 

“Worried the Devil of Hell’s Kitchen is waiting for you?”

“Catch me if you can,” you muttered, and hung up. 

-x-