#xdevilinthedetailsx

There were a lot of good points to living near El Matador State Beach. Probably. Peter didn’t live there, but he could imagine them. The beach was right there, basically in your backyard, even more so than the rest of LA. Presumably there was more privacy because there were less people in general, which could be very nice. And the view? Breathtaking. Unfortunately accessibility. when you didn’t own a car anyway, was not of those points.

Peter took a bus as far as he could, wearing jeans and a jacket over his spandex, sweating in the early evening heat and regretting his wardrobe choices. The ride itself was fairly monotonous and he spent it staring out the window, considering how he would reveal his identity to Matt. Simple and quick and then they get down to the pizza. That would be best. This would be the first time when he revealed his identity to someone who knew Spider-Man but not Peter Parker. I’m Peter Parker sounded a lot less grand a statement than I’m Spider-Man though at their core, they were the same. Truth be told, he was a little nervous about it, foot bouncing up and down, though there was no real reason for it.

Peter had known Matt for years, all the way back in high school. Of course then he’d only known him as Daredevil, that red vigilante with the horns who happened to be after the same crime boss Peter was looking for. He wasn’t quite sure when their occasional team-up against New York’s seedier side had transitioned into genuine friendship but there it was. And now this year, Christmas presents and relationship advice. All they needed now were friendship bracelets. And of course, Peter telling Matt his real name. Given the level of trust he had for the man, it only made sense that Peter tell him the truth. Anyway, he wanted to. It’d be nice to talk to the guy without having to safeguard his identity while he was at it.

When Peter got as far as he could get by bus, he thanked the driver and stepped off. Peter continued on foot for a bit and soon ducked behind a car. After checking to make sure there weren’t any nosy neighbors about, he slipped on his mask and gloves. His jacket, jeans, and shoes came off and were stuffed unceremoniously into his backpack. He walked the remainder of the distance, feeling strangely vulnerable on the ground despite the lack of buzzing spider-sense. Spider-Man didn’t walk much; he swung and when buildings were too low, as was often the case here, he jumped from rooftop to rooftop like the world’s most colorful ninja. He eyed the trees and considered the benefits of Tarzan-ing the rest of the way before discarding the idea. A few of them looked too fragile and he really didn’t want to be named a tree menace. Anyway, he was getting close.

Oh, you should. Then we’d be able to get together for live readings of hilarious hate mail. You know, like that mean tweets thing. 

I’m sure ol’ J.J.J. would provide you with plenty of material. 

Just your present. Sorry, I’d have loved to do a personal delivery, but I’ve got an opening statement to draw up. 

Don’t worry about it. Merry Christmas.

[Spider-Man] Oh, that would be fun. We could start our own Youtube channel. Jolly Jameson's given me enough to fill a book. Could title it Spider-Man: Threat or Menace? No other journalist has gone to such lengths. It almost makes me miss the guy. I bet he'd be the first to send me mail.

Always working. Well, I'll head right over there. Am I going to play hide-and-seek with it or will you tell me where it is? 

[Spider-Man] Hmm maybe I should set up a PO box for my fans… Joking. I can swing over there anytime. Should I look for you or a package?

[pm] Okay, this, this right here is the sort of thing that you simply cannot afford to say, in any public forum. Not ever. But especially not now.

Stein is gunning for you, for all of us; a statement like that, anything implying that you are somehow responsible for any kind of loss, harm, or distress, could be twisted into evidence of liability. And you are not liable. You stood between the people of Los Angeles and a threat that nobody could have imagined, or prepared for. You saved lives. Say it with me, keep saying it, and hold on to that secret identity of yours. You’ll make it through this. We all will, and the good councilman, he’ll creep back to his zoning contracts and budget reports. 

I’ll take care of this. Just play it smart, and… if you need to talk, well - my door’s always open.

[Spider-Man pm] Okay, um, I didn't know that. Last thing I want is to make Stein's life easier though this was from before the press conference. I'll be more careful about what I say.

I saved lives. I did the right thing and I'm not about to stop. I know that. Even though sometimes I am responsible for people getting hurt... They're not getting my secret identity. You're right; we'll get through this mess. Of course we will.

Thank you for the legal advice, Daredevil. Matt? My non-official lawyer? What do you prefer? And I'll keep that in mind. I might swing by. Figure I could stand to learn more about the legal process and I'm always down for a cup of coffee. Although maybe Spider-Man walking into a coffeeshop wouldn't be a good idea at the moment... So maybe just the chat? 

Matt’s office was in the Bradbury Building. Of course it was. He was the kind of man who respected history and wasn’t scared off by the grunge one had to handle downtown. It was a beautiful space. Wrought iron and floating staircases. It was a wonder they were able to make it look so dilapidated in Blade Runner. Natural light flowed in from the glass ceiling above, washing the red woods and tile in a warm glow.

It was the perfect location for Matt’s combat style. Tiered levels. Plenty of room to swing, to climb. More height than his and Foggy’s previous walk up in the Kitchen, one of those old New York buildings that said both noir and hero at the same time. There had been something older about the place, familiar and warm and organic, but effortless somehow. Worn without being beaten up. She remembered the desk most of all, the grooves of it, small and imperceptible, the only remnants of her mark on both of their lives. Well, aside from her outing Matt and herself in the largest intelligence breach in US history.

“I’m here about the job.” she’d said, eyes cast down, chocolate tresses falling in her face. The persona was buttoned up, a little shy. The hardest skill for Natasha to learn in the Red Room had been not attracting attention. Her body had always been at war with her on that. Almost cartoonishly curved, not bad just drawn that way. They’d told her she wouldn’t eat until she could walk up to the pot without them knowing. She cheated at first, tried acrobatics, combat, even enlisting another girl as a distraction. But she didn’t eat that day. Finally, when she was dirty and exhausted, sure she didn’t even deserve to eat, that she would waste away to nothing, was nothing, she struggled to the pot and no one moved a muscle.

Later she would learn Stanislavsky had pioneered the idea, a series of concentric circles of focus that allowed an actor to project the most intimate of gestures to the back of the theater. Mikael Chekhov continued it, teaching his students to almost disappear at will by giving or taking “stage.” That day Natasha had learned many things, most importantly that how you looked had very little to do with what you looked like and everything to do with how you felt. Matt Murdock would teach her that lesson again many years later, but in a way that sent butterflies to her stomach rather than pangs.

Her sweater was loose over her brown slacks that day, making her look boxy, like she didn’t know what to do with her weapons of mass distraction. Small square frames slid down the bridge of her nose as she lowered her eyes in deference to Mr. Nelson. Counselor Nelson. Counselor. “Oh, don’t you worry about that, Ms. Karina.” He’d said. “Miss.” She’d corrected with a shy smile. “Miss means I’m looking.” She looked scandalized that she’d said it. “You must think I’m very rude. But I’m the best typist in the five boroughs. I know shorthand and have the best NALS scores in the state." She averted her eyes again, apologizing for her confidence. Foggy smiled at her, encouraging. "Where'd you do undergrad?" "Syracuse." "A hometown girl." "Well, Red Hook, sir, but it is nice to be home." "Matt, come meet the Orange. She's here about the job."

When Natasha had first met Matt Murdock, more than anything she had wanted to reach her fingers into his hair and pull. She blamed it on the conditioning. A bit of desire made the act easier to pull off, a matter of chemicals and authenticity. But his curls...soft and red and round. Body awareness of an animal. Kind, but tight lipped, a bit of a scoundrel about him. Deep down, Romanoff growled beneath the persona. The assignment, girl. The assignment. These feelings happened. They passed. Biology was the ebb and flow of life. If this threat assessment went badly she would have to end his. No need to be troubled by a bit of racing heart. "Mr. Murdock. Counselor! I'm sorry, I'm sorry, it's a little odd being out in the real world, you know." Her Brooklyn accent made odd come out as "awd," but when she tried to correct it it got worse. "Listen I know I'm not the most experienced but I work real hard, you'll see." And she'd looked up at him with her big green eyes and for a moment, for a moment, she was sure that blind man saw her. Not Julie Karina. Her.

Matthew Murdock. Alex let her gaze cast over the screen of her phone where she had a web article open - a celebrity gossip site. One that she would, at any other time, refuse to even have open, let alone in public. But unfortunately they were the most frequently updated source she had nowadays. She just had to filter through the updates on outfits and shopping habits, both of socialites as well as the menagerie of the latest superheroes in the city, then usually she could find something worthy to take note of. A recent problem. Connections. A meeting place. A hotel. 

Brown eyes glanced up to the sign of the hotel before her, even that almost as tall as the rooms of her shabby apartment, lit grandly and illuminated with spotlights. Obviously, this man enjoyed the finer things in life. She hadn’t known much about the character before her research that day, though he had been on her radar since his identity was revealed a few months prior. It hadn’t taken much research for Alex to find out that it had been no other than Natasha Romanoff that had been responsible for confirming his identity along with the other deluge of secrets she had let out of the bag the day SHIELD fell. Whether or not this was explicitly against his wishes, she couldn’t be sure. But if there was a chance a potential ally was present, the ex-agent decided it was worth following up on. Since the being that had been causing the ground to collapse and children to topple from top-floor windows had made itself known in LA, the small population she was interested in finding out more about had grown all but stagnant. Presumably in attempts to get to the root of what was happening. Both good and bad for her. Good for her to return unnoticed under the noise of death and confusion without being noticed. Bad for her in the way of research. Murdock, however, had been a tabloid favorite ever since, stories of his night-time ventures across the city consistently being published. 

Hence why she was now outside of a shady hotel at one in the morning. She had been there for two hours now - leant against the cement wall of the building away from the glow of the street lamp, the cold from the flat surface slowly seeping into her bones. She didn’t mind. She knew that the success of any mission she was on was more important than her own comfort. Whether officially given or of her own agenda. If anything, it was the judgemental glances from the passing guests in suits and gowns as she stood, arms crossed, that bothered her, and she had moved to stand a little less obviously from the entrance. Just when she had begun to peer at the time in her pocket a little more often, a familiar face passed her on its way out of the door. It took her less than a second-long glance to confirm it. Auburn hair. Distinct profile. This was who she had been waiting for.