The Average Spider-Man

(WORK IN PROGRESS)

Summary: From Montauk to Manhattan, all you have to is survive this transfer assignment and you can go back home. With your friends, with your family, and, with your badge.

Warnings: Violence & mature themes

Ao3 Version (complete on there 🙏)

-Prologue-

Chapter One: Butterfly Chapter Two: Haunted Chapter Three: Apocalypse Chapter Four: Wonderland Chapter Five: Champagne Coast Chapter Six: You're So Dark Chapter Seven: Reflections Chapter Eight: Die For A Smile Chapter Nine: Bird in a Cage Chapter Ten: The Other Side of the Door Chapter Eleven: Jump Then Fall Chapter Twelve: Too Sweet Chapter Thirteen: Flightless Bird Chapter Fourteen: Empire Now Chapter Fifteen: Girl Song Chapter Sixteen: Hellfire Chapter Seventeen: Just A Man Chapter Eighteen: Settle For A Draw Chapter Nineteen: Little Soldiers Chapter Twenty: For Forever Chapter Twenty-One: Anybody Have A Map? Chapter Twenty-Two: Talk (Part 1) Chapter Twenty-Two: Talk (Part 2) Chapter Twenty-Three: All Is Fair in Love and War Chapter Twenty-Four: Everywhere, Everything Chapter Twenty-Five: Heaven's Light Chapter Twenty-Six: Fire Chapter Twenty-Seven: Partners in Crime Chapter Twenty-Eight: Endgame Chapter Twenty-Nine: Welcome to New York

-Epilogue-

Anywho, here’s a Ryland Grace oneshot with a GN!Reader abt this topic! So a warning for panic attacks, religious themes—particularly Christianity and Catholicism but this is more… reckoning? Than actual religious practice. Enjoy!

Rocky’s asleep.

And Grace’s about to be. Long day spent on pilot training that didn’t show much improvement. He has time before reaching Tau Ceti-E. All of you do. It’s been showing, mostly on Grace. Leaning on Rocky’s xenonite ball, his elbow propped on the top of it, blinks getting slower and slower as the hums of Hail Mary’s engine lull him deeper.

The lights are off, leaving only this yellow gold light to fill the space. Mix of sodium, helium, and ammonia interacting with the ship’s energy. You regard the window, the main source of this light. Its hazy waves pass by slowly, a star popping up every so often like a little reminder of where you are. Space.

Both you and Grace are the farthest a human’s ever been from Earth, well, farthest living humans. The pale sunken faces of Yáo Li-Jie and Olesya Ilyukhina play in your mind, their bodies—graves. Their graves depositing from the ship to float endlessly in the cosmos. Neither you nor Grace mentioned it after the ceremony, thankfully, but you can’t help but think about it.

What happens for them now? Their bodies now probably freeze-dried floating around something. Does God find their souls up here? People say he created all this, the golden gas you’re flying through, the stars inside it, and apparently, you. Humans like you and Grace.

Not Rocky.

You glance at his sleeping form, light reflecting the sharp angles of his ball, body refreshing whatever functions make him have such an attitude. Does he go to hell for a God he’s never heard of? Or do Eridians have their own religion? Something to mention later. You sigh, standing with your arms tucked around yourself. Grace doesn’t stir, glasses anchored awkwardly across his forehead—you walk toward that window.

Sodium, helium, ammonia. And that’s just what’s making this light, there’s millions more… everything. From this window you could name thousands of chemical reactions, elements, atoms. Let alone the whole universe.

A whole universe.

It goes on forever, much grander and complex than you’ll ever be. You lay a hand flat on the window, ice cold. Someone designed all that, one person made everything. Everything. Genuinely everything. But how can someone create infinity? That hand curls into a fist, your knuckles biting against the thick glass, as if you’re about to knock on God’s doorstep. They’d be here, right? At the pinnacle of creation, of life, of your eventual death.

“Hey,”

“Jesus!”

Ironic.

Whirling around, Grace stands in your shadow, bracketed by the gas glow. He holds up his hands in surrender, head dipped down to probably hide the smile he’s fighting from finally getting the jump on you. “Sorry, sorry.”

Definitely snickering. “I thought you were asleep,” you mutter, turning back to the window.

Grace’s footsteps creak along the ship’s floor till he appears at your shoulder. “Nope,” he pops the ‘p.’ “Resting my eyes.”

“Uh-huh.” Your eyes peek at him, he’s wearing a shirt detailing a rather happy proton with the words ‘Think like a proton! Always positive.’ on it. Stupid. “Well, you should sleep. Rocky finished his Predator Collector, he’s going to have you on pilot trialing all day. And…” Grace meets your gaze, his own far too blue to be comfortable with. You watch the star nearby extra intently. Big fiery ball of plasma. “And you look tired.”

He doesn’t reply for a while, lets the Hail Mary groan from pressure on its hull. You’ll check that out when Rocky wakes. It’s likely the atmosphere changing as you approach Tau Ceti-E—yes, for sure. Who knows if Tau Ceti-E’s atmosphere is heavier or lighter than Earth’s, you’ll have a long day off the ship trying to reinforce vulnerable areas. Very long day. Off the ship. Away from Grace and Rocky’s bickering, peaceful—

“I could say the same thing about you.”

Tension in your shoulder unfurls, sinking back to their rightful position. “I’m fine.” It’s automatic, if not then maybe an octave softer than normal.

“Uh-huh,” he mimics. You only give him a side-look. Eventually, he exhales, a faint scratching sound coming from him as he messes with his hair. “You can talk to me, you know. Human-to-human. Plus I, uh, I would appreciate if you didn’t avoid me.”

That sends a hollow pang inside your chest. Congratulations, you managed to make the only other human-being on this ship think you’re avoiding him. Which is, kind of true. Facing him, you start proper eye contact. He returns it, starting at you over the gold rim of his glasses, a much lighter shade than the one outside, that one shines on his hair, makes it look blonder.

“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean…” you chew your lip. “I’ve just been thinking, a lot.”

“About what?”

Million dollar question, right there. What the heck are you thinking about? God? Your death? What Rocky’s existence implies for the universe has a whole? “Are you religious, Grace?” Is what comes out. Amazing.

His eyebrows shoot above those glasses, “W-wow. Uhm.” He turns to the window, one hand on his hip and the other dragging down his mouth. “I guess not? My grandparents were, but other than that I was always skeptical about it. But it’s a nice idea. Why are you asking?”

Nice idea.

Your mind lingers on that, nice. It is nice. The idea all you have to do is follow these rules somebody else made and you’ll be rewarded when you die. It’s a handbook for life, an answer to what happens after death. Two things humanity wants but can never have. You study Grace’s side profile, the collection of stubble around his chin, brows strung tight.

“Curious,” you say. “One person—one God, I mean, is supposed to have designed everything. Designed Earth, Tau Ceti, billions of planets we've never heard of. And the lifeforms on it… like Rocky, who probably doesn't even believe in any God.”

It feels like you're still talking, mind still running through the vastness God had to create. And you’d die before getting halfway.

“So you want to ask Rocky if he’s heard of Jesus?” Grace grins.

“No.” You frown, already walking to your workbench seven feet away. Which got Rocky’s cleanliness approval. Tools organized from today’s use, however you pick them up, trying to tidy nothing. “We’re going to die, Grace. Slowly. Painfully. And I'm trying to make myself believe there's an afterlife because I need one b–but it doesn't make sense and—fuck!”

The drill in your hand gets flung onto the table, it collides with a toolbox and they all crash onto the floor in ugly, metallic notes. Its clatter is still in your ears when they start ringing too, a high thin whine underneath everything, like the ship itself is screaming instead of you.

“Hey—hey, okay—” Grace is moving, somewhere. Saying your name, but it comes through wrong, warped.

Your hands won’t stop shaking. Chest doesn’t work right. You breathe in and it stops halfway, catches on stardust, what you all are made of, but the next one is worse, faster. Doesn't stop time. You’re going to die out here.

Not abstractly. Not someday. Actually, specifically, your body. In a ship shaped like a bullet aimed at a star that doesn’t care what you believe or are afraid of.

“You don't get it,” you manage. A clammy hand on top of your cheek. “I thought I was ready. That it didn't matter. But now I'm here, seeing space this close and…”

Grace’s hands land on your shoulders, they're heavier than you expect. Also rare enough that it halts your brain. “I don't want to die either.” It’s only you two breathing for a moment, then Grace presses his thumbs into your shoulder-cap. “And I don’t have an answer for you,” he continues. “About God, or after, or any of it. I really wish I did. But I think if I made something up right now you’d know.”

“I would.”

“So I’m not.” His eyes dart away for a moment but refocus on you. “But don’t think you’re alone in being scared. I just—didn’t say it earlier. Which was stupid, in retrospect. You're kinda the only person I got.”

The only person you got. A quiet, mission-minded engineer he never predicted he’d have to die alongside. You look at him then, fully, not worried about being caught or seeming weird. His glasses are straight now, hair flat on one side from an edge on Rocky’s ball.

“Yeah,” you whisper. “You're all I got.”

Certain notches in your heart settle into place once you admit that. The gravity of being the only two humans for a hundred trillion miles who understand what the other is feeling. “Soooo.” Grace releases your shoulders. “We should actually get to know each other. Before Rocky puts us to work.”

Despite your mini-episode, you glance at Rocky’s ball with a small smile. The dormant pile of rocks that'll soon be abuzz with life. “I’d like that.”

“Really?”

He’s so shocked you're almost offended, it’s not like you hated him. “Of course.” Your eyes wander to the fallen toolbox from earlier. “And… thank you, Grace. Really.”

“Call me Ryland,” he requests, and when you look at him he’s smiling. “Seriously. Please. My students call me Grace. It's awkward.”

It hits you then, how infectious that little smile can be. One pulling wider on your own lips. “I like Grace. It's pretty as a last name.”

An airy chuckle punches out of him, his hand stuttering as if it couldn't decide to scratch his neck or his hair before giving up. “Aah-aha, thanks. I was born with it.” He gestures to your toolbox with a jerky motion. “L–let me help you pick that up.”

Author's Note: Mexico and Brazil losing in the same day k m s. But this brings me to (Y/n), as like a character, not our placeholder. YES 'OUR'

I honestly don't remember how I got the idea for this fic now, just wanted to write abt Daredevil. I had only vague concepts about her, random scenes I wanted, but really I met her the same time you did and her character just idk talked to me, and I just ran with it.

Masterlist

Most people hide at night. Daylight, you’re learning, has its perks: your blind spots are visible, pedestrians give cover, and you can watch the building across the street.l

At the front doors to Wesley’s complex, there’s no doormen, but you counted five cameras from your bench. Where you’ve watched the garage attendant in his sharp suit since 4:00 p.m. It’s 5:21 now.

This place valued privacy, status, not strangers smeared in bruises. Even if you played the ‘cop’ card, you’d have no warrant to back it up.

A buzzing in your pocket gives something else to focus on. Matt’s calling. The sight jerks your heart. Karen and Foggy call all the time; Matt never has.

“Hello?”

“You need to come back to the office.”

Matt’s voice is like how it was during Healy’s trial. Sharp, firm. The voice of someone who’s tired of being patient, and you got a hint why.

Over the line, Foggy blurts nonsense about ‘She’s paid to do stuff like this.’ Then Karen interrupts, closer to the phone. “Yeah, don’t be mad at her. I’m the one that roped her into it.”

“I’m mad at all three of you. Equally.” Matt retorts.

“Wait, wait, wait.” Your free hand picks at your jacket’s zipper. “What happened?”

“Karen cracked and told Matt everything,” Foggy explains, there’s a protest in the background from Karen.

That hand stops picking to pinch the bridge of your nose. Less than a day after Foggy joins, Matt already knows. “Right.” You inhale. “What entails ‘everything?’”

“Is there something else I should know?”

Foggy, Karen, and you all shout some variation of ‘No!’ A couple of heads turn. A mom tugging her kid along scowls. You duck lower on the bench, phone pressed to your ear while Karen assures Matt that everything meant everything

“Look,” he starts, “You need to come back from wherever you’re investigating before you get hurt.”

Given how this stakeout has gone, returning to Nelson & Murdock is a good idea. Talk things over with Matt, make sure he isn’t too upset by everyone’s sleuthing.

“Yeah, I’m sorry,” you rub the side of your neck. Hand heavy on the skin. “I’ll head over soon.”

All three of them go quiet for a second, like they didn’t expect the relent. Karen speaks on it first. “Did… the investigation not go well?”

You don’t say it aloud—the day is wasted, a ledger of nothing gained. “Eh, no, but I mean, it's part of the job.”

“You know you’re supposed to be off-duty, right?” Foggy mentions. “‘Cause if not we might have to sue your station for breaching labor laws.”

A smile sneaks up on you, easing your posture against the bench. “Don’t worry, I do. Just call it pro bono, in lawyer-speak.”

“Darn it,” he snaps his fingers. “That would’ve been a major cash check.”

Laughter spills from both ends of the phone, but Matt cuts through it. “We’ll see you soon.”

The other two add in similar words before ending the call. Without their chatter, everything feels lonelier, especially under today’s failure. You stand, bones aching from the metal bench.

At least it’s over, the words repeat themselves as you study Wesley’s building one last time. It joins the neighboring structures with its height, paneled in glass that reflects to your side of the street, making it warmer.

Something, you’re still waiting for something to make this day count.

Across the street, crowds of people make their way past Wesley’s building. In that fast gait only New Yorkers can maintain. Then one of them stops with a limp.

The man is either seriously drunk or hurt, your foot steps closer but stops mid-air.

Oval cheeks, thinning brown hair, a face stamped into memory by fear. His features root in your gut, Claire’s kidnapper.

There’s bandages yellowing over his head. Burn marks on his jaw. Must’ve survived the bombings.

If he’s here. How many others survived?

With renewed purpose, you speed to the crosswalk before the timer ends. Once you’re on the other side, a chill hits, colder here from the high-rises blocking the sun.

Claire’s attacker is still up ahead beside the alley to Wesley’s building. He lingers, then hobbles into the crevice.

On your back, the undershirt holster digs in the skin. Not leaving home without that anymore. Reaching for the firearm, you round the corner inside the alley.

Traffic fades behind you, replaced by the drip of water off a rusted fire escape and the sour smell of garbage. A muffled Russian curse fills the silence, yet you don’t see him.

“Hello?” You load the gun with a harsh click that announces you’re armed too. Even if he’s hurt, he can have a weapon.

“Who’s there!” The Russian tries to bark, but it becomes a wheeze. His voice leads you beside a dumpster, where he’s weakly holding a knife pointed at nothing till he sees your frame.

“You,” he glowers. It’s rare that someone's more beat up than you. He knows it too, shrinking into the shadow of the dumpster. “Bitch cop.”

Actual strangers have called the police much worse, it rolls off by now. “Remember me, huh?”

He attempts to stand, but you pointing the gun forces him to freeze. “From the alley,” his free hand wipes grime off his mouth. “With that masked dog.”

Simba is the dog you think of, but no, the venom in his eyes is for the Devil of Hell’s Kitchen. Your eyes squint. “You were there?”

“I run when Vladimir was shooting.” He spits. The saliva lands a few inches away from your boot.

Unmoving, you nudge your head to Wesley’s building. “And why are you here? You know James Wesley?”

“I tell you shit—”

“You’re getting arrested no matter what happens.” A hand goes to your phone. To call someone you haven't decided, trust is sparse in the 15th precinct lately. “So you can answer my questions, get a plea deal. Or we can drop you in a cell and force out where your other buddies are hiding.”

The Russian is quiet, not due to him thinking, at least not about your offer. He sinks back on the floor, his knife going slack. “I’m the only left.”

Wind rustles through the alley, muffling the distant car horns and other city noise. You wanted to demand all sorts of things. Jessie, Wesley, Fisk, the Yakuza. So much that you forgot what higher-ups praised you for back home: Patience.

“Then help me bring down Wilson Fisk.” His eyes widen when you say the name. Perfect, your gun comes down to your side, finger still on the trigger.

“Because it’s him you should want. He almost had me arrested. He’s trying to kill the masked man with the press. And he has the most to gain by cutting out your people, the middlemen.”

“Why’d I trust you?”

The man slurs the vowels together, leaning his head back to meet your eyes. He flashes his knife once, a reminder. You resist rolling your eyes, knife to a gunfight here.

“You don’t have to trust me. Just hate Fisk more than we hate each other.” Against your better judgment, you crouch to his level, gun angled so he can’t forget who has more power. “You’re already going to prison. Make it mean something.”

He holds your gaze for one long moment. “Fine, but I tell no other officers about Fisk.” The man coughs trying to work out a glare. “I go to prison. Quietly.”

That’ll have to do.

The man’s name is Sergei, information you didn’t get out of him. Instead, it was Brett Mahoney. The only officer you still trusted and thought could trust you back.

Plus he’s the reason you know where Wesley lives in the first place.

“I get that part,” Mahoney says after you explain Sergei, minus the Fisk-shaped holes in it. “But why are you here?”

His squad car smells much cleaner than others, or the station had them washed. Lemon soap.

“I tried to investigate James Wesley but didn’t find anything.” Your head slumps against the headrest, toward Wesley's building. “There’s no way for me to get in.”

“I see why,” he tosses his police hat onto the dash, its small golden badge shines into your eyes. “You look just as messed up as that guy.”

Through the glass, your blank stare reflects back at you with the discoloration on your cheekbones. “Thanks.”

Bus breaks squeak as they park in front of the car, people spill out onto the sidewalk, some glance at you and Mahoney who rubs his palms over the wheel. “How’d it happen? I never heard.”

The breath in your throat catches. “Uh,” Maybe if Sergei wasn’t cuffed in the backseat, you’d find admitting his mob kidnapped you easier. “It… it was the Russians.”

Thankfully, he fills in the context himself. “Oh. Sorry about that.” He says, your small ‘it’s fine’ barely heard over the bus’s engine starting up.

Mahoney doesn't speak again until it drives off. “You know, I think I got a way to get us in.”

“Really?” Your neck whirls to face him.

“Yeah,” he meets your eyes, his own are dark enough to be black, but there’s light in them. A faint one. He thinks you’re going to say no. “It does need you to be in the back, though.”

What he didn’t include later, was that it also included you being handcuffed in the backseat. Seated next to Sergei as co-conspirators with how you two looked.

“What,” Sergei coughs. “Are you two doing.”

Mahoney rolls down the window partition before you could answer. “Alright, you guys play nice back there.” The engine starts, and Mahoney weaves through afternoon traffic to the parking garage. “Or say something helpful.”

Beside the security booth, Mahoney tilts his head at the attendant. Even from the backseats, you read the name tag. Atticus, a young Asian man who reminds you of Officer Sullivan.

“Hey, good evening, sir.” Mahoney greets, a hand pushing his hat further on his forehead. “I found these perps skulking around out back.” He points behind him, “Think they were trying to get in here. Mind if I check?”

Both of Atticus’s brows shoot upward, his eyes skirting to you and Sergei, who’s staring bullets into your side profile. The attention has you press against your door

The things you do for intel.

“Ah, I’d have to call my manager, our security system auto-flags anyone I let in.”

“No, call him. It’s alright.” Mahoney’s elbow rests on the windowsill. “I’d like to talk after I drop them at the station.” Hand hanging out, he points it inside the garage. “Just want to check if anything’s busted in there. I don’t know if these guys were working alone.”

“Wait, wait, wait.” Your free hand picks at your jacket’s zipper. “What happened?”

“Karen cracked and told Matt everything,” Foggy explains, there’s a protest in the background from Karen.

That hand stops picking to pinch the bridge of your nose. Less than a day after Foggy joins, Matt already knows. “Right,” you inhale. “What entails ‘everything?’”

“Is there something else I should know?”

Foggy, Karen, and you all shout some variation of ‘No!’ A couple of heads turn. A mom tugging her kid along scowls. You duck lower on the bench, phone pressed to your ear while Karen assures Matt that everything meant everything.

“Look,” he starts, “You need to come back from wherever you’re investigating before you get hurt.”

Given how this stakeout has gone, returning to Nelson & Murdock is a good idea. Talk things over with Matt, make sure he isn’t too upset by everyone’s sleuthing.

“Yeah, I’m sorry,” you rub the side of your neck. Hand heavy on the skin. “I’ll head over soon.”

All three of them go quiet for a second, like they didn’t expect the relent. Karen speaks on it first. “Did… the investigation not go well?”

You don’t say it aloud—the day is wasted, a ledger of nothing gained. “Eh, no, but I mean, it's part of the job.”

“You know you’re supposed to be off-duty, right?” Foggy mentions. “‘Cause if not we might have to sue your station for breaching labor laws.”

A smile sneaks up on you, easing your posture against the bench. “Don’t worry, I do. Just call it pro bono, in lawyer-speak.”

“Darn it,” he snaps his fingers. “That would’ve been a major cash check.”

Laughter spills from both ends of the phone, but Matt cuts through it. “We’ll see you soon.”

The other two add in similar words before ending the call. Without their chatter, everything feels lonelier, especially under today’s failure. You stand, bones aching from the metal bench.

At least it’s over, the words repeat themselves as you study Wesley’s building one last time. It joins the neighboring structures with its height, paneled in glass that reflects to your side of the street, making it warmer.

Something, you’re still waiting for something to make this day count.

Across the street, crowds of people make their way past Wesley’s building. In that fast gait only New Yorkers can maintain. Then one of them stops with a limp.

The man is either seriously drunk or hurt, your foot steps closer but stops mid-air.

Oval cheeks, thinning brown hair, a face stamped into memory by fear. His features root in your gut, Claire’s kidnapper.

There’s bandages yellowing over his head. Burn marks on his jaw. Must’ve survived the bombings.

If he’s here. How many others survived?

With renewed purpose, you speed to the crosswalk before the timer ends. Once you’re on the other side, a chill hits, colder here from the high-rises blocking the sun.

Claire’s attacker is still up ahead beside the alley to Wesley’s building. He lingers, then hobbles into the crevice.

On your back, the undershirt holster digs in the skin. Not leaving home without that anymore. Reaching for the firearm, you round the corner inside the alley.

Traffic fades behind you, replaced by the drip of water off a rusted fire escape and the sour smell of garbage. A muffled Russian curse fills the silence, yet you don’t see him.

“Hello?” You load the gun with a harsh click that announces you’re armed too. Even if he’s hurt, he can have a weapon.

“Who’s there!” The Russian tries to bark, but it becomes a wheeze. His voice leads you beside a dumpster, where he’s weakly holding a knife pointed at nothing till he sees your frame.

“You,” he glowers. It’s rare that someone's more beat up than you. He knows it too, shrinking into the shadow of the dumpster. “Bitch cop.”

Actual strangers have called the police much worse, it rolls off by now. “You remember me, huh?”

He attempts to stand, but you pointing the gun forces him to freeze. “From the alley,” his free hand wipes grime off his mouth. “With that masked dog.”

Simba is the dog you think of, but no, the venom in his eyes is for the Devil of Hell’s Kitchen. Your eyes squint. “You were there?”

“I run when Vladimir was shooting.” He spits. The saliva lands a few inches away from your boot.

Unmoving, you nudge your head to Wesley’s building. “And why are you here? You know James Wesley?”

“I tell you shit—”

“You’re getting arrested no matter what happens.” A hand goes to your phone. To call someone you haven't decided, trust is sparse in the 15th precinct lately. “So you can answer my questions, get a plea deal. Or we can drop you in a cell and force out where your other buddies are hiding.”

The Russian is quiet, not due to him thinking, at least not about your offer. He sinks back on the floor, his knife going slack. “I’m the only left.”

Wind rustles through the alley, muffling the distant car horns and other city noise. You wanted to demand all sorts of things. Jessie, Wesley, Fisk, the Yakuza. So much that you forgot what higher-ups praised you for back home: Patience.

“Then help me bring down Wilson Fisk.” His eyes widen when you say the name. Perfect, your gun comes down to your side, finger still on the trigger.

“Because it’s him you should want. He almost had me arrested. He’s trying to kill the masked man with the press. And he has the most to gain by cutting out your people, the middlemen.”

“Why’d I trust you?”

The man slurs the vowels together, leaning his head back to meet your eyes. He flashes his knife once, a reminder. You resist rolling your eyes, knife to a gunfight here.

“You don’t have to trust me. Just hate Fisk more than we hate each other.” Against your better judgment, you crouch to his level, gun angled so he can’t forget who has more power. “You’re already going to prison. Make it mean something.”

He holds your gaze for one long moment. “Fine, but I tell no other officers about Fisk.” The man coughs trying to work out a glare. “I go to prison. Quietly.”

That’ll have to do.

The man’s name is Sergei, information you didn’t get out of him. Instead, it was Brett Mahoney. The only officer you still trusted and thought could trust you back.

Plus he’s the reason you know where Wesley lives in the first place.

“I get that part,” Mahoney says after you explain Sergei, minus the Fisk-shaped holes in it. “But why are you here?”

His squad car smells much cleaner than others, or the station had them washed. Lemon soap.

“I tried to investigate James Wesley but didn’t find anything.” Your head slumps against the headrest, toward Wesley's building. “There’s no way for me to get in.”

“I see why,” he tosses his police hat onto the dash, its small golden badge shines into your eyes. “You look just as messed up as that guy.”

Through the glass, your blank stare reflects back at you with the discoloration on your cheekbones. “Thanks.”

Bus breaks squeak as they park in front of the car, people spill out onto the sidewalk, some glance at you and Mahoney who rubs his palms over the wheel. “How’d it happen? I never heard.”

The breath in your throat catches. “Uh,” Maybe if Sergei wasn’t cuffed in the backseat, you’d find admitting his mob kidnapped you easier. “It… it was the Russians.”

Thankfully, he fills in the context himself. “Oh. Sorry about that.” He says, your small ‘it’s fine’ barely heard over the bus’s engine starting up.

Mahoney doesn't speak again until it drives off. “You know, I think I got a way to get us in.”

“Really?” Your neck whirls to face him.

“Yeah.” He meets your eyes, his own are dark enough to be black, but there’s light in them. A faint one. He thinks you’re going to say no. “It does need you to be in the back, though.”

What he didn’t include later, was that it also included you being handcuffed in the backseat. Seated next to Sergei as co-conspirators with how you two looked.

“What,” Sergei coughs, “are you two doing.”

Mahoney rolls down the window partition before you could answer. “Alright, you guys play nice back there.” The engine starts, and Mahoney weaves through afternoon traffic to the parking garage. “Or say something helpful.”

Beside the security booth, Mahoney tilts his head at the attendant. Even from the backseats, you read the name tag. Atticus, a young Asian man who reminds you of Officer Sullivan.

“Hey, good evening, sir.” Mahoney greets, a hand pushing his hat further on his forehead. “I found these perps skulking around out back.” He points behind him, “Think they were trying to get in here. Mind if I check?”

Both of Atticus’s brows shoot upward, his eyes skirting to you and Sergei, who’s staring bullets into your side profile. The attention has you press against your door

The things you do for intel.

“Ah, I’d have to call my manager, our security system auto-flags anyone I let in.”

“No, call him. It’s alright.” Mahoney’s elbow rests on the windowsill. “I’d like to talk after I drop them at the station.” Hand hanging out, he points it inside the garage. “Just want to check if anything’s busted in there. I don’t know if these guys were working alone.”

It looks so easy, Mahoney’s lie, one you wonder if you could pull off if your face didn’t look so beaten. He adds the perfect mix of details and vagueness, it’s impressive, and it works. Atticus lets him in.

As Mahoney drives for an open space, you’re scanning each car for Wesley’s Cadillac, doubt he’d leave anything important in it but you want to see it.

“Hey, so I’ll go inside and see what I can find on Wesley.” Mahoney palms the wheel into a spot next to a white Lexus. He powers off the car then turns to look at the backseat. “And you’ll…”

Talk. “I hope so.” Your gaze wanders to Sergei, he mutters a few words in Russian—really hope so. Sighing, you face Mahoney. “Thank you, Mahoney. Really. You didn’t have to do this.”

He gives a rue smile that falls into a small line. “Don’t thank me. I had to see my city get blown up two days ago. I’ve been waiting for a chance like this.”

His city.

Moments after Mahoney leaves inside the apartment, you and Sergei are silent. Surrounded by luxury cars that echo when a tenant starts up the engine.

“So,” the word rasps on your throat. It resets the silence between you. Interrogation is different when the playing field is level. Both handcuffed, both hurt, both would rather be anywhere else.

“Who’s James Wesley?”

“I don’t know that name.”

Great, that’s how he’s going to do this.

“I know you worked with him. I’ve seen his car next to your taxi company. Just tell me who he is, what he does, and how he’s related to Fisk.”

The burn marks stretch on his skin as he bites his cheek. It stays bitten till he puffs a weak raspberry. “He is Fisk’s man.” Sergei starts, “Does all the work so he can hide behind shitty name ‘employer.’”

“He’s the right hand, then.” He nods. Doesn’t expand on it. “Okay, if Fisk is an employer, what’s the company called?”

“There are many company.” Sergei leans his head back, his adam’s apple visible. “Never same. Easier to hide in many small business."

Your shoulders sink into the seat. Classic move. Create a whole bunch of subsidiaries to spread out the money, discourage investigation, and hard to pin down.

“Last thing.” A dark something coils inside you, and it shows in your voice, Sergei goes rigid. “Jessie McNair, shot in an alley outside a bar by your people.” You needed to breathe, to stop your voice from shaking. “Who killed him?”

Sergei thinks about that one longer than any others. It causes you to strain against the cuffs. Just say anything, lie if you need to.

What if he says it was him? He killed Jessie. The thought makes you glad you’re handcuffed.

Because you’d punch him. Keep punching him. With no one to restrain you from your own pain.

“Anatoly.” The name is a punch, but the fist never moves. “Said he found the boy your detective warn us about.”

Vladimir’s brother. Dead from what Aaron said. Jessie’s killer is dead, you repeat that thought to try and feel something.

This should be amazing, it’s all you’ve ever wanted. It’s why you’re here. Answers, something to tell Jessie’s family at his funeral, whenever that is. It’s one less thing to think about at night.

But nothing changes. Still here, beside a Russian mobster, feeling the exact way you did when he died.

The truth isn’t setting you free, and now you’re getting worried nothing will.

Once Mahoney returns, he hightails out the parking garage, and you get back in the passenger seat. Free from the cuffs, but not the hollowness seeping deeper inside your chest.

On the way to the station, he tells you he got shipping records. By telling the front desk possible harmful items are being mailed throughout Hell’s Kitchen. He glosses over that part.

Three bottles of Marcel ’75 Brunello di Montalcino were shipped to a woman from James Wesley. Paperwork redacted. All there is, a sticky note with the woman’s name.

You huff. “More names.”

“Look her up,” Mahoney’s chin juts to the MDT on the dash. “See how many Vanessa Mariannas live in Hell’s Kitchen.”

Shifting to power on the computer, you type in her name. There were multiple Vanessas, each spelled different. Though looking back and forth on the sticky note, only one spelled Marianna with two consecutive n’s.

“Think I found her.” As you read through the hit, her car is insured by a Scene Contempo Gallery. Place of work. That’s… something. “Got where she works.”

He glances at the screen. “You’re gonna go after Wesley’s girlfriend?”

The word girlfriend makes you laugh, just imagining Fisk’s right hand has time to date is insane. He must be busy with whatever Fisk makes him do. Assignments, meetings, deliveries.

Deliveries.

Your smile drops. “I don’t know if it’s his girlfriend.”

That’s assuming she’s dating Fisk at all, she could be anyone. Cool it down. It’s just three bottles of wine. The last thing you need to process is Fisk having a girlfriend.

“What do you mean?”

“I dunno, it’s nothing.” You stammer out, pushing away from the MDT. “Or, it might be nothing. I’ll find out later.”

Mahoney keeps driving, but throws you a few looks. Waiting for elaboration. When it doesn’t happen, he waits until the car is next in line for the stoplight. “And what’re you going to do in the meantime?”

“Uhm,” your gaze flicks to your phone. Foggy texted, asking where you are. It’s been half an hour, and you didn’t want to lie to them. Not again.

‘I’m sorry I got caught up in something

I’ll tell you guys about it soon I’m omw’

“I gotta go visit some friends.”

The light stays red, Mahoney drops his hand from the wheel. “That’s probably for the best. I’ll give you credit in the report when I write it though.”

Half of you wonders if he’s saying that because of what happened with you, Meghan, and Mia. Or he has a point, you shouldn’t go to the station.

“How are things over there, actually?” You ask.

His head rolls to the side. “Depends. If you’re asking about your two friends, they’re fine, but everyone’s calling you the girl that lost her shit.” A pained noise escapes you at that, Mahoney hears it, looking your way. “Sorry, you didn’t need to know that.”

“You’re fine, it doesn’t matter.”

In two weeks it won’t, unless you succeed with Fisk, then they’ll have new things to talk about.

After Mahoney drops you off at the front of the 15th precinct, you stand on the sidewalk to watch the sunset behind the building. Yellows and oranges creating a special warm rainbow in the sky.

Other officers come in or come out, some give a sideways glance. Doesn’t matter.

What does, is that Mia’s in there, hurt by what you said. You’re hurt by what she said too, what she hid with Meghan. And you don’t know how to fix it, only that Nelson & Murdock is waiting. That you can fix.

Author's Note: Dear Evan Hansen was still on my mind after the last chapter and it fits here. Also I'm just stabbing my own heart in this one atp. Writing Elena myself made me like her more, she represents what everyone in the story is trying to protect so well. 💔

Masterlist

The to-go coffee sleeve warms your palms against the chill leaking into Ben’s car. His engine’s off. Parked at Pier 15, just off the Brooklyn Bridge behind.

Hidden and unwatchable, Ben called it.

“I’ll tell you, I did some research on Wilson Fisk.” Ben glances at you in the backseat through the rearview. “Absolutely nothing. It’s like he doesn’t exist.”

In your lap, your phone’s lockscreen shows the numerous texts and calls you snoozed since Nelson & Murdock. Aaron saying he and Simba are okay. Meghan apologizing. Ari asking if you’re alright—he might be the only Long Island transfer without a secret.

Not a single notification from Mia.

“I know,” you sigh. “I bet there’s nothing on him at the station either. He owns half the cops there. They probably keep his records off the books.”

From the passenger seat, Karen anchors her coffee to her chest. “You really think he’s the guy behind all of this?” This the first time she’s hearing Fisk’s name, after her failed paper trail on Union Allied, a name is the biggest step all three of you have. “Union Allied? Elena’s tenement case? The bombings?”

Just a man, your phone powers off below, making the backseat darker. “I just need to connect some names and, yeah, I know he is.” You straighten your posture. “James Wesley, the man that gave Healy’s case to you guys. I saw him go in Elena’s apartment and he was talking to Blake a while ago. If I can prove he’s working with Fisk then…”

“Then what?”

“Then nothing.” Ben cuts, “It’s not enough to put ‘em away.” Between a long coffee sip, he looks at you through the rearview again. “She knows that.”

His dark eyes stare till you look down. He’s right. You’re a cop, you know this better than anyone. There isn’t enough evidence. No records, phone calls, texts. It’s all circumstantial.

The sodium light flickers overhead. If Ben had parked the other way, you’d have Brooklyn Bridge to look at, something gorgeous to watch while the three of you share discoveries.

Karen picks up on the mood. “Hey, it’s a step forward.” Her clothes shift to face Ben. “Come on, didn’t you find anything?”

“Bits and pieces.” He admits, “Yakuza.”

“Wait,” she stutters the word. Yakuza is definitely a new name, if only to you. “The Japanese mafia?”

“Triads, too. Drugs, I think—”

The connection is lightning fast. “Heroin.” You grip the coffee tighter. That came out stronger than it needed. “They’re selling heroin.”

Ben twists in his seat to look you in the eye, the motion is fast enough to askew his glasses. “How do you know?”

How would they react to Aaron? No, too many questions he wouldn’t appreciate.

To stall time for a lie, you drink the coffee Ben bought for everyone. “One of their runners got caught. He said the Yakuza deliver the heroin and the Russians would ship it out.”

Half-truths, the only lies you can stomach. Ben sets his coffee in the cupholder, sinking back in the seat. “And the Russians got taken out by the bombings, so that’s a bust.”

Barbed wire cinches tight around your skull. The Russians, you replay the radio conversation with Fisk. He claimed the Russians acted on their own accord, maybe that’s why he got rid of them.

That’s been your goal, to take down the Russians for Jessie. But the job’s not finished. There’s still the Yakuza and whoever Madam Gao is, who provides heroin, so they must have more power, or something Fisk wants.

Another wire sticks to your head, not even caffeine dulls the throb anymore.

“God.” Karen’s elbow props on the door to rub her own head. “I mean, it’s like... It’s like trying to straighten out a bowl of spaghetti.”

Perfect comparison.

Downing the rest of your coffee, you draw a breath. “Look, tomorrow I’ll go investigate James Wesley and see what I can find.”

“I can go with you after work.”

“No, he’ll recognize you.” It’s easier to handle Karen investigating when you’re not there to worry about the details. “I can handle this on my own.”

She lets out a tiny huff, about to protest when Ben drops his hand onto the driver’s stick. Purposefully loud. “She’s right.” He says. “There’s a reason they haven’t tried to kill her yet, because it’s going to create a lot more noise if an officer is killed on transfer.”

Duncan. You haven’t even been on your phone today, yet you’ve got notifications from the news app detailing that same headline: Cop shot under transferal command.

“You,” Ben continues, pointing at Karen. “If you’re not careful, they might want a second crack at it.” That hand shakes, just once before falling back on the console in a fist. “Anything happens to you it’s gonna be on me, and, uh I don’t want to be responsible for that. I can’t.”

The image of his simple wedding band rests in your memory, he has a wife. Someone he loves. A risk in this business. Ben speaks like someone who knows what it costs, personally.

“I’ll be okay,” Karen says, more confident than she’s been this whole conversation. “They’re not gonna win.”

With a long sigh, Ben picks up his keys and locks them into the ignition. “This isn’t a game.”

“…I know.”

Nobody says anything else.

On the drive to Elena’s neighborhood, you get a perfect view of the Brooklyn Bridge. Star-like city lights, reminds you of when the masked man stood beside you on the roof, the night before you two realized how fragile your life is.

This isn’t a game. Too many people you care about have gotten hurt, the most important one is dead. It won’t happen twice.

          After the bombings, most of Elena’s food was ruined alongside the rear of the building. It was Karen’s idea to buy her new groceries, you agreed to join. To help put them away.

And to see her.

“Gracias, mija,” Elena approaches the table where you were unloading the groceries. She’s wearing a collared shirt patterned with marigolds, just above her eyebrow, a gauze pad sits atop the stitches. “Pero, deberías estar descansando.”

The most you get from that sentence is ‘rest,’ although Karen’s nod beside her said she’s referring to yourself. “I’m alright,” you grab a bag of tomatoes and jalapeños. “Won’t stop me from just putting away groceries.”

It half did; anything too heavy pulled at your stitches until it felt like the limb would tear.

They didn’t need to know that. Despite their murmured remarks about your stubbornness in Spanish. It’s odd hearing that adjective attached to you more often—Jessie was the stubborn one.

“Cuánto te debo por la comida?” Elena asks Karen once you rise from the fridge, her beige purse in hand.

She’s quick to put her hand on top the purse. “No, no, no, no. Put that away.” Karen stammers, trying to lead back into Spanish. “No quiero tu dinero.”

That you understood. On your way back to the bags you wanted to say that you didn’t want her money either, but Elena is more comfortable speaking Spanish.

Night and day, compared to when you first met her, where she stumbled through sentences to communicate in English.

“No, no acepto caridad.” Elena replies.

Karen makes swift eye contact as you pick up a cabbage. It causes you to linger, almost worried you missed something, eyes bouncing between the women.

“Está bien.” Karen tucks hair behind her ear. “Puedes pagarme con información?”

Information.

The word meant so much differently now, it tenses your shoulders, digs your fingertips into the cold plastic wrap. Information isn’t only a who, what, when, where affair anymore, it’s lives saved or lives lost.

”Qué te puedo diga?”

Another glance. This time you nod, bringing the cabbage to the fridge. Whatever Elena tells Karen, she’ll relay to you later.

In the meantime, you translate some very interesting words from the living room. Something about a Señor Foggy being handsome and in love.

Seems Elena caught on to Foggy’s crush too. Despite nobody else around, you still bite back a smile like he’s in front of you. Karen mumbles an ‘Oh Christ,’ at the concept.

Wonder how she felt about it.

The next word you catch drops that smile. Playa. Mr. Tully, then beach. He must’ve run from Hell’s Kitchen to a beach vacation. You glare at the poor brussels sprouts in your palm.

Beach? No one longed to be at the beach like you did. Mr. Tully didn’t deserve it. The sand scratching his legs, the beautiful blues, sun on his skin.

Admittedly, you drop the brussel sprouts too rough in the drawer. “Sorry,” you whisper. The word beach shouldn’t upset anyone this much.

When all the groceries are put away, it’s the wrong time to join the conversation. Karen is kneeling, hands on Elena’s knee, harshly saying: “Then we will have their dicks in a vice.”

“Senortia Page!” Elena gawks at the crude diction. The Jesus portrait on the right side of the home suddenly becomes more poignant under the gold lighting. Heaven’s light, maybe.

“Sorry! I’m sorry!” She jumps to her feet, a hand on her chest while the other holds a palm to the portrait. And you’re frozen as if you entered the wrong bathroom.

“Sólo yo y (Y/n) hemos estado,” her hands motion to the air, searching for words. “Trabajando mucho en esto.“

Neither speaks for a moment, till Elena rises from the couch. “Ella también está investigando?”

Also investigating? Karen follows Elena’s point toward you. “Sí.”

“Uhm…” You trail off when Elena walks closer, she holds both your hands, a tighter grip than you expected, and spews lines of Spanish too quick for you to understand outside her firm stare.

She ends with a ‘gracias’ and hug. Her clothes smelled freshly washed, a fuzzy warm laundry detergent, the kind a mom would use.

Elena must be an amazing mother, wherever her children are, or if she has any. Something to ask next time you see her.

“Be careful,” Elena adds. That phrase ties the core of her tangent, worry.

“I promise.” You squeeze her hands, meeting her gaze with all the strength, hope, and love Elena has given you since you met. She smiles, lets go, then goes to Karen, who’s smiling wider.

Of course, you’ll be careful. It’s Elena who's asking.

          “She really likes you, you know,” Karen says once you two exit her apartment, she nudges your elbow.

Rubbing the point of contact, a tiny warmth flashes in your face. “I like her too.”

The pair of you walk down the steps to the sidewalk, where a single crow spooks away from your presence. “I also heard she likes Señor Foggy too.” You relish in how Karen instantly covers her red cheeks. “Something about love?”

“(Y/n)!”

“Just saying, I’ve seen it.”

She gasps, giggling as she tries to swat your arm again. “No way!” Her efforts are all missed by you jogging out her reach. “Seriously?”

“Seriously.” You wait for her to catch up beside a fire hydrant, hands in your pockets. “I mean, batting practice at Chelsea Piers is as romantic as it gets.”

Up above Karen the moon shines in a gibbous shape, though you didn’t know which way is waxing or waning, you hope a full moon is soon.

“Not as romantic as a date when the entire city’s on fire." She smirks, her blue eyes filled with sparkling humor.

That tiny warm flash turns into a full blaze, though your deadpan suggests otherwise. “Do not tell me you actually believed what Foggy said back there.”

More of Karen’s laughter fills the night, but it falters at the sight of something behind you. Dark tension spreads once you hear footsteps scrape along the concrete.

Heavy thuds, one pair. Karen doesn't give you the chance to look, hooking your arms with hers and rushes to the opposite street. In her free hand, she pulls a mace bottle attached to her keychain. She’s prepared. You’re not.

You didn’t bring your gun, you’re not in uniform. Nothing to scare whoever this is.

Their footsteps get faster, following. You’re the first to look behind, it’s a bald man, his large fist raised to strike.

“Move!” You push Karen out the way, the two of you splitting. She stumbles toward an alley, the one with the weapon, while you are face-to-face with the bald man in the middle of the street. Defenseless.

If you can’t fight. Talk. Just start talking.

“What do you want?”

His smile crawls, silver tooth flashing. Then he nudges his head to where Karen went. A metallic BANG! rings out the alley, and the pitchy yelp from Karen. It’s hard to see in the dark, but two bodies are there.

“Karen—!”

The bald man lunges, one arm crushing your ribs, the other smothers your mouth. Air hisses from your lungs; world narrowing to the leathery feel of his skin and the shadow of the knife you swear to see.

He didn’t have Pavel’s sickening pine cologne, instead something worse, his strength. The man drags you across the street, your boots kicking up rubble—the darkness gets deeper, consuming you into the past.

You’re fighting for a different reason now. Not to save Karen, or even to get away. Because, you’ll swear your life that Pavel is going to appear in the alley, his serrated knife in hand.

“Stop whining.” The man’s grimy hand grips your jaw. “Maybe this’ll teach ‘ya to quit poking your nose in that old lady’s—”

A thud, a duller one. The bald man collapses, sending both of you crashing onto the street. While you manage to catch yourself, the man rolls off your back, his weight sears painful floods in your stitches and shoulder.

Somewhere your name is called, but you’re panting too hard, like you’re trying to heave out the vomit in your gut.

“(Y/n)!” Karen’s hands grab your elbows to stand you up. “Are you okay? Breathe, breathe.”

Each new breath centers you back in the present, gradually. Karen has ocean blue eyes, not Pavel’s poison green. “…I’m fine.” She lets you step back, where you see Foggy of all people picking up his baseball near the bald man’s head.

In case he’s another illusion, you’re sure he is, your body jumps backward. “Foggy!?” He looks up, not an illusion. “What the hell are you doing here?”

“You guys were acting weird!” Foggy exclaims, his aluminum bat gleaming along his legs. An object that made him smile an hour ago, not panic. But he holds it steadier than he knows. “I was worried!”

“So you followed us?!”

“Yeah!” There’s fire in his eyes. The kind you’ve only seen on Karen and Matt, yet Foggy makes it all his own. Frazzled, unprepared, somehow firm. “I wasn’t gonna sit around while you two played Nancy Drew!”

Karen steps in between you two, her mace hanging on her finger, a white foam is built up at its tip. “We can worry about that later.” She looks over her shoulder to the alley.

There her attacker lies motionless, mace in his eyes. Your own gaze lands on Foggy’s baseball. It’s absurd. Foggy Nelson with a bat, between you and an unconscious man over half his size.

Absurd, yet exactly what you needed. “Yeah. Foggy, thank you.”

“You’re welcome!” He points his bat to the left. “Now can we please discuss this away from the maniacs?”

“Wait, who are they?”

Taking your arm, Karen leads you down the street with Foggy. “They’re the fake repairmen Elena sent away.” She explains, her voice shaking. “Elena described them to me back in her apartment.”

          It’s a short deliberation, made of Foggy’s rapid questions about what you and Karen have been up to. Eventually, Karen folds, deciding to take Foggy to The New York Bulletin. Ben’s office.

The place looked different during the night, a small lamp brighter than it should be shadows a warm yellowish light. It felt secretive. What didn’t change was Ben’s scowl as he stood in front of you three.

“What part of ‘Don't tell anyone about this’ didn't you understand?”

“Foggy’s not just anyone all right?” Karen defends, “He’s a kick-ass attorney, and sooner or later we’re gonna need one of those.“ She pauses to breathe, her hand pointing to Foggy as she lowers to a whisper. “…And he just plain kicks ass.“

Beside you, the fabric of Foggy’s grey suit jacket brushes upward on your arm. If you were a betting type, you’d call this preening. “When the need arises.”

His signature grin doesn’t budge Ben’s stony face. “Foggy,” you nudge. Ben already isn’t fond of cops, lawyers likely fall under the same category.

“Sorry, bad timing.”

Things sit for a breath, filled by the chinks of printers and reporters talking. Really bad timing.

“He’s like (Y/n), they’re one of the good ones.” Karen steps forward. “If you could trust her then you can trust Foggy.”

Out of everything to convince him, you were last on that list. And it works? Ben sighs, arms still folded. “Show him the board.”

Once Ben walks to the right side of his office, Karen leads to the left. This is your first time seeing ‘the board’ too.

It’s a corkboard, pinned with newspaper clippings and playing cards like a type of flow chart.

Some cards have names, ones you recognize. Vladimir and Anatoly, the leaders of the Russian mob. After all your work, Jessie’s work, you never got to meet them.

That’ll never sit right.

“All right, Ben has everything laid out.” Her hand hovers over the lowest newspaper clip. ‘Kidnapped boy rescued’ Ethan’s picture is next to the headline, he credited a female cop and a masked man for saving him. No one ever found out who.

“All of the, uh, possible connections starting at the bottom and moving up.“

That hand rises to the top of the chart, another card. “The king of diamonds?” Foggy tilts his head.

“The man at the top.” The three of you turn to face Ben, who’s uncapping an Expo marker from his desk. Slowly, he walks toward you, handing over the marker.

Marker in hand, you have no clue what he wants you to do with it. “Any idea who he is?” Foggy asks.

Ben glances at the marker, then you. “We do now.”

Oh. Your grip tightens on the marker.

He’s letting you take the credit.

Swallowing down the overwhelming sense of honor, you approach the corkboard, to write the name Wilson Fisk over the card.

Each squeak of the pen can either be a bullet to the head, stab to the heart, or the sound of handcuffs clinking around Fisk’s wrists. You’ll find out when it’s too late.

“Wilson Fisk.” You declare, “I did some of my own digging. He’s behind all of this.”

“There’s another player on the field.” Ben slides beside you and pins a different card next to the king of diamonds. “Man in black.”

The card is a red jack of hearts, drawn across the joker’s head is a black cowl. Karen and Foggy debate whether the man in the mask works for Fisk or against him.

You tune it out to stare at the pair of cards. If Fisk is the King, the masked man is the Joker. What does that make you?

Author's Note: YES I'M A DEAR EVAN HANSEN FAN. That musical meant so much to me in middle school, and the message fits in that ironic sense. For forever. But glad to finally be back into posting now that S2 is done ♥️

Song: Heavy by The Marías, I wanted something soft and dare say a lil dreamy with the chorus at the start of this chapter, lots of cute Matt x Reader development to decompress after last chapter

Masterlist

Nelson & Murdock has the same handwritten sign on the door when Matt opens it. He’s in a white collar shirt with a striped red and grey tie around it, cuffs rolled back.

“(Y/n), I hope.” His brows pinch beneath the red lenses like he’s straining to ‘see,’ but the curve of his smile makes it playful, not pained. “Karen told me you were coming.”

“Good eye, Matthew.”

“I try my best.” He steps aside to let you in. Despite the sign, Nelson & Murdock looked different now: copiers, fax machines, and aging office machinery cluttered the once dusty and sparse corners.

Still, it brought the place together. A real office. “Whoa, where’d you guys get all the new equipment?”

“New’s a little generous.” Chimes from Matt’s keys ring as he slides them back in his pocket. “Karen got them at an auction she went to.”

“Karen went to an auction?” You follow Matt to where all Elena’s casework seems to be taking place. It’s clean for now, as the day goes on you imagine the table is going to get less tidy.

“You’re telling me,” Matt sits in his chair, a stack of braille papers in front of him. Scanning the table, you can tell who sat across from him.

Foggy’s leather satchel and suit jacket hung over the chair, while a hair tie sat on top a dark green folder in the spot next to Foggy. An empty chair at the table’s end-cap is where you take off your own jacket.

“I heard your power went out during the fires.” Settled in, you watch Matt’s hands glide over the braille. It’s interesting in ways you didn’t expect. Entire words from tiny bumps. “Everything alright?”

His hands pause to shrug a shoulder. “I’ve learned to manage without the lights on.” A brief smirk is on his lips when you look up. “What about you?”

Your back pushes against the chair. “Me?”

“Your voice sounded shaky,” he gestures to his ear, like it’s an inside joke he forgot to explain.

It did?

“Oh.”

An ‘I’m fine,’ sits on your tongue, to get him off your case. So you can talk about nicer topics. He wouldn’t question it, or see the signs you’re lying to him.

But maybe, it’s the lighting. Sunny strokes softening the morning’s jagged edges to a distant memory.

“I mean, I had a rough morning.” You force your hands to still. It’s Matt, he can handle the truth. “But it’s better now.”

Matt fully stops this time. “Good,” his voice vibrates low. Good. The word flutters in the silence, steady as a heartbeat. No questions, no suspicion, just relief that your day is better.

Your stare darts to Matt’s stack of paper. Nicer topics. Clearing your throat, it's a sound that isn’t as natural as you’d wish. Worse, Matt notices, again, the corner of his mouth lifting.

One saving grace is: he can’t sense the heat rising in your face, so a shred of dignity survives. “Actually, this reminds me,” you point at the papers. “I’ve always wanted to ask how you read braille.”

“Really?” Both his eyebrows raise, an action you accidentally nod at before saying, ‘yeah.’ Matt pauses, fingers tapping on the paper. On the hand with his watch, the window’s light bounces on its gold lining from his taps.

The gold is nice, yet you can’t help thinking silver would look better on him. Not James Wesley’s slick silver, rather the kind that rims Matt’s glasses. Unshowy, deliberate.

“Want me to show you?”

His voice pauses your mental image. “You would?”

“Yeah,” Matt scoots his chair, nudging to the free space. For you. It takes a second to process, although you’re picking up your chair soon enough.

Beside him this close is new, unlike the times you’ve walked together. Side by side. Here, you two aren’t moving, just sitting. Side by side.

“First thing I learned as a kid is you have to feel for what’s not there as much as what is.” His wrist grazes yours as he angles the paper between you, the cold sting of watch metal and warm skin. “Each grid is six possible dots, so each letter is a combination of those.”

As a kid. That means Matt wasn’t born blind if he remembers learning. You sneak a glance at his side profile, worried he’ll catch you somehow. “Learning W was hard.” Back on the paper, Matt hovers over ‘W.’ “Since the French don’t have it in their alphabet.”

“Braille came from France?” You question, already looking at his face again.

He smiles, it looks different this close. Warmer, or maybe that’s you. “It did.” Matt continues his mini-lesson, offering you to try.

Of course, your favorite parts were when he’d add a tidbit from his childhood, they were cute.

Plus his voice is easy to listen to when it’s this near your ear, like he's reading you a story instead of teaching from case files.

The lesson slows the room down. The hum of an old fridge in the break room becomes the only other sound outside Matt’s voice. The dots are blurs under your fingers, but Matt reads them the way you wish you could read him.

Your focus drifts lower on his hands. To his knuckles. A knot pulls tight in your stomach. Bruises, the same he had during Healy’s case.

Red bruises, from hitting. Not the purple that colors your face, from being hit.

“Hey,” you mean to sound stern but it comes out soft, equally afraid of his answer or avoidance. “Your knuckles are bruised again. What’ve you been doing?”

Matt’s shoulder tenses against yours, hands halting on ‘T.’ A letter he told you he used to mix with ‘Q.’ Even his breath, you hear it hitch, sending a shiver along your neck.

For a minute, he’s quiet, and you’re about to backtrack when he turns his hand palm-up. “Are you worried about me?”

“Matt,” you groan his name without realizing it. The tiny smirk growing on his expression sets your deadpan deeper. “Yes, I’m worried.”

“You shouldn’t be,” He pushes from the table, smile dimming as soon as his other hand touches his knuckles.

Prepared for that being all he says, you lean toward the paper, your shadow casting on its white surface—Matt’s shadow is just outside its edges.

A random question about braille nearly comes out your mouth, you’re glad it didn’t.

“Remember when I said my dad was a boxer?”

As if someone cut audio cables, everything stops to make sure the gravity in his tone isn’t lost. “I do.” You shift to properly face Matt, he stays facing the table.

“The gym he went to is called Fogwell’s,” His fingers close in a loose fist, but it flinches back open. Pain. “I go there when it’s empty.” He slips the hand under the table. “Sometimes I forget to take a break.”

A place he goes to for his dad. Matt didn’t seem to be the sentimental type, and you’re honored he shares at all, but you’d rather him be comfortable, especially with you.

So, you inhale and think. The picture of Matt alone in a boxing ring, striking till the skin breaks, lingers.

It's the running your body ragged, hiding that pain from others and yourself. Awfully similar to your grief, though Matt got the better bargain.

“You box?”

“I do.” Now Matt turns to you, matching your hush. He’s facing the window, which gives his red lenses that fiery glow you remember so well. “Not people, for…”

“Reasons.”

“Reasons.”

While you laugh at the jinx first, it’s Matt’s laughter that slows yours, struck by how easily it lightens the space between you. His teeth curved in a grin bracketed in smile lines on the corners of his lips. You’ve seen him smile before, laugh too—but never like this, when it’s just you two.

          Long after Karen and Foggy came with lunch, you learned that they had an eventful night too. Once you left Elena’s apartment they were there when the explosions hit, one of them was scarily nearby.

Elena got stitches in her head. Foggy got stitches in his side. Both are fine, and the only thing preventing you from guilt-ridden worry is Foggy teasing that you and Matt went on a ‘date.’

“This is the second time it’s happened! You both were conveniently not at the phone at the same time and had the same excuses. Hence! A date.”

Obvious flaws in his theory are that you were slumming it with a vigilante. The masked man. He has a name in the press now:

“Devil, my shapely Irish ass.” Foggy enters the room with a newspaper. The overhead light is on now that it’s night, it casts a yellow haze that makes Foggy’s blonde hair look almost brown. “Guy’s a coward.” He tosses the paper on the table.

Grabbing it, you read the headline ‘DEVIL OF HELL’S KITCHEN’ in big blocked letters beside a grainy picture of the masked man. Footage from where he beat up those cops.

In black and white ink, he looked every bit the devil they wanted him to be. The headlines did the rest. He bombed the city, shot those cops.

All the while he was in that abandoned factory with Vladimir. Whatever happened to them afterward, you wish the man would tell you.

This had to be Fisk’s doing, he wanted to make you irrelevant, trapped. What’s happening to the masked man is the same idea. A statewide manhunt for his arrest, in a city where Fisk owns over half the police force.

“What I wouldn't give for the chance to rip that corny mask off and…” Foggy scrunches his face, two fists shaking in a vague threat.

Karen raises an eyebrow. “And what?”

“Punch him,” He pumps the fist holding a baseball. It’s an old one, brown at the edges. “In the face, with my—fisticuffs.”

“That’s a word?” You maneuver the newspaper around different soda cans, glass cups, and other mess to set it down. It finds a place by Matt’s section, who’s been silently reading a file, hands ever moving.

Foggy leans right, his unstitched side, on the doorframe. “It is.” He points a finger-gun. “Which reminds me, based on your prior experience with this nut job, what are my odds against him?”

A sad twinge hits your heart at ‘nut job’ but it’s curbed at Foggy’s bright grin. “I don’t think you can take anybody in a fight, Foggy. Let alone him.”

“Aww, c’mon! Tell me, what was he like?”

Two things happen there. First, Matt’s hands stop, second, Karen watches you. They’re curious.

If you’re being honest, so are you. How would you describe the masked man? They knew him as the Devil of Hell’s Kitchen, a person who helped you once to save Karen, not the man who also helped you save a cat.

“Uh, well,” You wring out your hands. “He was…” shaking when I almost died. “He didn’t say much, just that he knew Karen was in danger.”

They clearly want more details than that. Everyone’s silent for a couple beats before Karen breaks it, usually, that’s Foggy’s job. “I wonder how he knew.” She says.

“He said he had a contact in the police? I mean, maybe somebody told him where you were at.”

“Or he’s just a stalker.” Foggy stands straight to face you. “Have you ever thought about reporting it? I know he ran off and stuff but, you know. I bet your station is dying to find him after what he did to those cops.”

Not once, except when you first saw him at your window. 

“If she goes to the police, she’ll only cause more trouble for herself.” Matt’s voice after being quiet for so long, has you staring. “Best to wait it out.”

“True,” Foggy throws the baseball up, he catches it, but aggravates his stitches. “Gah–” He curls inward, his right hand feels his side as he groans.

Seeing Foggy in pain reminds you of your stitches—you knew exactly how he felt. That’s the worst part. A man like Foggy should never be in your kind of pain.

Karen winces at his expression, her voice softening. “How’s your side?”

“Downgraded to agony.”

At least he’s good-natured about it, a trick you’d like to learn. Karen appreciates it too, chin in her palm giving him a tiny smile.

“I brought some ibuprofen with me if you want some.” You offer, “I know day two hurts the worst.”

“Nah, I’ll be fine.” He waves a hand, propping himself on the doorframe again, and still he bounces the baseball between his hands, gentler now. “The only thing that’ll make me feel better is punching that guy in the melon for bombing the place. They had to pull glass out my side! And Elena needed twelve stitches.”

A woman like Elena should never be in pain either, your fingers begin flicking against each other. Wilson Fisk. You can run his name in MDT. Or use what you have. James Wesley.

Finish what you started the night you found Gigi.

On the other side of the table, Karen gestures to the newspaper. “Come on, this is just all speculation. Nobody knows if he's a terrorist or what.” Her eyes glance at you, that night you and the masked man saved her in them.

The memory weighs, it couldn’t be that long ago, and so much has happened since. Jesus, no wonder you’ve been drowning lately.

Foggy rolls his head back, a shorter, exasperated groan passing through. “Matt, back me up here.”

“She’s not wrong,” Matt folds his hands on top the braille paper. “Whoever this man is, whatever his motive, he shouldn’t be tried and convicted in the press. We’re lawyers, we know that’s not how it’s supposed to work.”

“Ah yes, the ‘allegedly,’ our favorite word.” Foggy uses air quotes. “So allegedly there’s a guy out there blowing up our backyard.” He points the baseball at Matt, who doesn't realize it, but everyone’s watching him. “You’re telling me that doesn’t piss you off?”

Matt’s shoulders rise as he sucks in a tight breath. “What happened to Hell's Kitchen, to you and to Elena, and to all the people that were hurt.” He lists, you recognize the quiet intensity in how he tries stretching the tension out his jaw. “Yeah, it pisses me off.”

Nobody speaks, his words hanging over an unspoken emotion you see on everyone's faces and feel in your chest. Helpless anger. Matt and Foggy grew up here. You and Karen bled here.

“Just a thought,” Karen breathes, her hands sliding on either side of her neck before gathering her things. “But we may wanna go a bit peppier at the end of the day. Leave on a note slightly higher than deeply depressing.”

“She’s right.” Foggy gives a point each to Karen and Matt. “You're bringing us down, Murdock.”

”Me?”

Matt chuckles, but Foggy grabs something from the opposite office. A bat. Your eyebrows raise. It's sturdy, no sticker decals or anything, pure metal. “You own a bat?”

“For our company softball team!” Foggy gives it a slight swing at you, like a sword he’s about to knight you with. “When are we starting one?”

“We?” You point at yourself, laughing. “I don’t work here.”

“You’ve been hanging out here all day!” He reasons, “Without you, we only got three employees. And one of them’s blind.”

Over in the main room, Karen laughs at the jab while Matt mutters a soft ‘rude’ beside you. A company softball team, you stare at the point of the bat up to the grin of its holder.

Two weeks. The reminder presses down, heavy as you reach for your jacket. “Then I think you're all set, right?” You tease on your way past Foggy.

“Naysayers, each and every one of you.” Foggy follows you to the main room. Where Karen is putting on a jacket she left there. “Karen, come on. Batting practice, you and me, Chelsea Piers. What do you say?”

“Uhm, I—”

“Or not.” He interjects quickly, ducking his head. “Totally cool.”

No way.

Your head snaps to Foggy, a fit of giggles bubbling in your throat. He shoots what he thinks is a strict look, but it just spreads your smile impossibly wider.

He likes Karen.

After all his teasing about you and Matt, it’d be foolish not to use this. You bite the inside of your cheek to keep from laughing. This is priceless.

“No, no, I would, I would.” Karen’s fingers wrap around her keys. “It's just that I, um, me and (Y/n) have this… thing.” She meets your eyes, and your smile falters.

It’s the look she gave when you first met, in the examiner’s office, and outside the station. A glance that screams: I need help with something. You’re the only person I trust to tell.

“You do?” Foggy motions between you two.

“Uh,” you swing on your jacket, accidentally reaching too far and tugging a stitch. “Ow–yeah, we do.”

He raises the palm not holding the bat. “Yeah. Go, do that thing. Not a problem.”

If it wasn’t for Karen’s ‘thing’ you would’ve slid in a taunt, instead you trail behind Karen to the door. “Bye, guys!” She waves. Foggy’s there waving back. Matt’s still in the office room, though he waves too.

Two weeks. This is yours for two weeks.

          Outside Nelson & Murdock, Karen stands under a streetlight buzzing with moths, and hands in her black jacket. It looks good under her blonde hair. “Sorry I kinda sprung this on you,” she starts, “There was just never a good time with Matt and Foggy around.”

It must be about Ben, since she's hiding it from them. “No, it’s okay.” You join her beneath the light, a cone-shaped glow. “What’s up?”

“Ben messaged me earlier, he said he wanted to meet up and talk about our progress on Union Allied.”

The company’s name whistles through you, it’s where it all started but has slipped your mind under everything else that happened. “You two have been investigating? I thought he was still on the fence about it.”

“He was,” Karen tucks a hair strand behind her ear. “But me and him met at this auction three days ago, they were selling the old Union Allied equipment there.”

Three days ago. Your stitches become tighter somehow, now that you’re more conscious of them. Karen had a better night than you did that day.

Stop thinking about it, you can’t freak out here.

“That’s where all the new stuff came from?”

She nods, smiling. “Yeah, you should’ve seen Foggy’s face.” A strong wind shivers the smile off her face, you frown, her jacket’s too thin. “But, uhm, the point is Ben asked if I could invite you to come. Something about you guys talking on the phone yesterday?”

Playing along with Ben’s story, you rub the side of your neck. “We did. After I left Elena’s he called me and said that you’ve been, um, putting in the good word for me and stuff.”

Her smile returns, brighter this time. A tiny vapor exhales out her mouth from a red-faced chuckle. “I have. I… Ben told me doesn’t trust cops a lot, but I just knew if he gave you a chance he’d like you.”

“Really?”

When your head tilts, Karen’s smile grows softer. “Yeah,” Her eyes linger on you, steady under the humming streetlight.“You’re a good person.”

The words settle in your chest, too heavy and too light at once, like she put her hand straight on your heartbeat. You thank her, not just for the compliment, but for believing in you. If she hadn’t, Ben wouldn’t have helped, and you’d already be behind bars.

Now that Elektra’s back its abouta be hell on Earth in the DD fandom 😭

I was lwk shocked by how bad it got in DDBA S2, and it's only downhill from here. Which sucks bc half the hype around Elektra's return is tied to Matt. Honestly, it would be so cheap to have Matt switch up on Karen like he did in S2, since their relationship is so different now. And it's like, so why did we even develop their relationship so much if they weren't gonna be the end result? That’s precious screentime that could've been utilized for other things in the plot.

Honestly bringing back a character who died twice already is kinda cheap but I see why they would. No body found and all that. Plus it’s Elektra so I'm not complaining. But genuinely why NOW? What has she been doing over the past decade? And how has she changed? I mean she can't be the same frivolous adrenaline-chaser from the OG, well she can, but dying twice has to change smth in you and she's much older now.

If we’re doing the Elektra becomes Daredevil or her own figure while Matt’s in jail I love that idea, but other than that idk what the showrunners will do with her. She's not connected with the Hand anymore, right? After all the shit they did to her, but Ofc who the heck knows atp. It just sucks that Elektra’s return is just ship fuel. DDBA is never passing the bechdeal test I'm afraid, I kinda had the same problem with S2, like Elektra never existed without Matt—love them both but Elektra never had a scene without Matt, talking abt Matt, or doing smth related to Matt. (Even if their scenes were really good)

And I would be afraid of this happening in DDBA S3 but I doubt we’ll have the time with all the characters coming in and the 8 episodes they'll have to share.

I'm not sure how good DDBA S3 will be with all these components, let alone how little we’re gonna see of Matt in his own show. But idk I always hold out hope, and ideally all my worries will be stupid in the long run bc I am really excited to see everyone come back. 🫶

As always this is just my opinion, and I do want to hear discourse abt this so I can see other perspectives unrelated to shipping. BUT ANYWAYS, Elektra is back, anything is possible:

I made a lil mood-board in honor of S1 & S2 of my DD fic being completed! Reader is a police officer from Long Island sent to the 15th precinct on a transfer assignment with some others to ‘assist’ with their Russian Mob problem. Ofc, we both know it goes deeper than that. I follow the canon plot but it shifts with (Y/n)’s involvement, relationships, and character arc. It's really abt making you feel like a real DD character. Also my pride and joy for the year! This mood-board showcases S2 but you can read all of it on the Ao3 link here. Hope you enjoy <3

Because S2 Matt is completely different from Matt in DDBA S2.

What I noticed abt his and Elektra’s partnership (??) is that she came back when Matt needed her most, in the worst ways possible.

They're toxic, no ifs or buts abt it, doesn't mean they're a bad ship no no. Look at Lapis and Jasper from Steven Universe, the toxicness is part of the appeal. Like a trainwreck. Not everything has to be endgame, or healthy, just enjoy the moment.

Matt was very adamant abt rejecting Elektra’s return earlier in the season. When everything was going right for him, prosperous law firm, kissing the girl he had a crush on, relative peace, and things he could control.

It's when his life went sharply downhill he started showing that obsessiveness. The Foggy & Karen fallout, Frank’s escape, Fisk regaining power, the Blacksmith, the Hand.

Matt burned all his bridges and all that’s left is his college ex encouraging and allowing him to ‘let the devil out.’ So of course he’s done with law, friends, and willing to just runaway from it all with her at the end of S2, he has nothing in New York anymore, why wouldn't he stay with the last person who wants him? Who knows him?

Dude was going THROUGH IT in S2 😭

Not to excuse what he did. Especially with Karen—which I shall get into.

Literally all of their problems were their own secrets. Matt didn't explain Daredevil so when Karen found Elektra in his bed, wth else is she supposed to think? Then once he confessed his identity, Karen’s own past half stops her from recommitting to even a friendship with him.

That ‘im not so sure Daredevil’s the problem’ line? DAW said she fought for it and was also talking abt her past. So again secrets, secrets, secrets.

Which makes DDBA so fascinating to consider. Bc this is a Matt & Karen with no more secrets between them, and a commitment to doing it together. Karen understands Matt’s darkness, (i.e., Josie’s speech in DDBA finale) AND his light, which is what Elektra gave him in S2.

But with Elektra comes with this fundamental problem. Matt loses himself with Elektra, he may say ‘im free with you, like with no one else’ but he also said ‘we need to stop corrupting each other.’

S2 showed us he believes Elektra can be good, over and over again he believes this. To the point I think he just wants it to be true because over and over again Elektra kills because she likes it. That’ll never change abt her and that’ll never fly w/ Matt. It's this constant cycle of obsession then disappointment when Elektra is just being herself.

Like that suicide pact in Defenders makes great ship material but PLEASE DO NOT GET INTO A RELATIONSHIP LIKE THAT. SUPERHERO OR OTHERWISE.

So if Elektra returns, I'm gonna be in the edge of my seat. If the writers do it right. Her seeing how Matt’s changed over the years and even how she might’ve changed herself.

SPOILERS

there's levels to this, I'm actually so impressed by how they handled his character. He's so easy to write off, make an annoying temporary roadblock with a one-note personality.

But the writers did like textbook ‘how to make the annoying character likable.’ And it's not his personal actions or choices that made him interesting or sympathetic, it came from his relationships. Which is exactly how you do it.

BB and Buck did a lot of heavy lifting, and the genius is that it's all a positive feedback loop.

Daniel and Buck humanizes them both, and it especially works with a second character so they can ‘buy into’ each other, inadvertently making us buy in as well. Or if you're more hesitant, make yourself pause. But personally that push and pull of liking Daniel vs. hating him was half the intrigue.

And none of their scenes are just about showing their connection; that would make us, as the audience, feel like we're being told how to think. Like ‘oh this is obviously to make us like xyz’ It all furthers the plot, the bond is the subtext.

SUBTEXT IN 26 ♥️

Plus BB gave us more off the clock Daniel than it would with Buck, which is why when those two start to collide, it's so stressful because the prior scenes between them (i.e., the forest scene) showed us what that means.

While I'm focusing on Daniel this is genuinely some Netflix Daredevil level of side charactering. My only gripe is how for as good as BB, Daniel, Buck, and even Heather are, none of them circle back to support Matt’s character or story like in the Og show.

Hence why they're side characters and not SUPPORTING characters ig, but I just miss being so in Matt’s head all the time.

Regardless I'm expecting a lot of great things from the DDBA writers. They proved that they have the bones—Daniel’s death really got me, and the ripple effect this might carry on Buck and BB could really be something.

Though my heart will always yearn for Welsey, Ray, those Russian dudes from S1, more Mahoney, my dearest Foggy, AND CLAIRE I WANT CLAIRE. I can see they're trying, it’s not always perfect, but they completely cooked with ep. 7, I might be ranting again for ep. 8. Or I'll have other news, whichever comes first.

Lwk after seeing the discourse abt the new ep of DDBA I couldn't help myself writing this.

Matt was absolutely right to stop Karen and Frank would've stopped her too.

Ofc she has every right to be angry, no question. And I'm not trying to make this abt shipping, I love Karedevil and Kastle. But it's so much more complicated than that.

Karen didn't want Matt to kill Fisk back in S3, where we also learn how haunted she is by Wesley, which was self-defense. Same for that AVTF guy she shot. Killing Dex would be straight-up murder and Karen knows that. I believe that's why she hesitated, not just because of Foggy, Wesley, or anything else. But because she KNOWS she's crossing a completely different line that's not who she is. And, as Frank said to Matt in S2, once you cross his line, there's no going back. That's why Frank would stop her, he absolutely wouldn't want Karen to be like him. He understands the weight of what he does can do to someone, and why he thinks he's bad for HER.

I just hate how some ppl deliberately misunderstand that scene because of shipping. Or make it abt how Matt and Karen are bad together. It's like Deborah Ann Wolf said, Karen’s more than someone's girlfriend. That scene was so phenomenally acted and written. The anger, love, guilt, and exhaustion.

She's not Karen ‘let's shoot everyone fighting against us’ Page, there's so much more to her than that. She's no killer, but she's willing to be for the people she loves. Which is why she butted heads with Matt, it’s all love, just a different way of thinking abt it.

Author's Note: HAPPY DAREDEVIL DAY. I thought I'd be super original and post a new chapter! Still working on S2, I can't wait to share it ♥️ Lwk these last chapters made me feel the growing pains I've been writing (Y/n) have, and it's like… damn, I don't have the same girl from chapter one anymore. LITERALLY SLIPPED FROM UNDER MY NOSE, or fingertips, but still. I felt the growing pains alongside her, which helps and hinders in a way.

Masterlist

Mia’s standing over you when you wake up, hand shaking your arm. Eyes sharp. Your eyes weren’t, they felt puffy and unable to process the situation. It could be the pills, or you’re just that tired. Both sound right.

“Where have you been.”

Those puffy eyes lull to the ceiling, the orange tint’s gone, replaced with the piercing white of daylight. Here we go.

“Long story.” You strain yourself up on rigid muscles. Everything’s sore now instead of painful. It’s almost worse.

On your feet, the world wobbles till you lean on the dresser. Why were you here? Hell, why did you get up? You stare at the stray lotions and hair products for answers.

“Long story?” She crosses the room in angry bursts. “I’d sure love to hear it!”

That’s why. Your fingers rub your forehead, not because it aches, because you hate that it will.

“Mia, please—”

“No, Blake had to tell me you’re in the hospital ’cause the goddamn Russians attacked you. Blake! He told me!” She grabs your right shoulder, about to spin you till you bat the touch away.

The quiet hit of your hand on hers sits between you, louder than the shouts. Her face freezes, you avoid it, looking at yours in the desk mirror.

Without the bandaging over them, the bruises show their real color. An ugly, monstrous purple marbled across your cheekbones. A hand comes up to touch them. It stops midway at Mia’s voice.

“What’s going on with you?” She asks.

Fair question, the hand falls, curling around the dresser’s edge. “I’m just going through a lot right now.” You mumble, “I got attacked, sent to the hospital, now I'm here. Sorry I didn't answer your calls.”

“It’s not that simple.”

“I don’t want to talk about this anymore, please.”

Mia follows your path to the bathroom. “I was worried as hell about you!” You turn to face her at the doorway, her brows are firm and thin, yet something about her feels smaller. It’s new.

“You really think, after Jessie died I want to lose another friend? You’ve been running off on your own, keeping secrets, quieter than usual. And now—” her voice catches on the bruises scattered on you, even the ones she couldn't see. “—now you’re back looking beat to shit and won’t tell me a thing.”

Her comments come fast, stacking one on top of the other until they press against your chest. “I’m not doing this on purpose.”

“Then why?” She steps back, as if giving you space might make the answer easier to explain. It doesn’t. It only stretches the silence wider. “Why, (Y/n)? I feel like I don’t even know you anymore. You’re so… different.”

Different.

The word lands heavy. Different means not the you she remembers. Nothing's different, that’s what you want to say, and it’s true—you like the same foods, hate the same, believe in the oath you both swore to.

But that's not what she’s talking about, and that’s not what’s changed.

When you speak, it’s mostly air. “I still care about you, Mia. That’s never changed.” Desperately you want to shrink yourself, to become simpler for yourself and her. “Just… this city is nothing like back home. I mean, we knew that when Coronado sent us to Hell’s Kitchen for three months, right?”

That joke didn’t inject the levity you hoped. Mia tucks her arms around her torso. It stung your own, she’s closing off.

“Coronado’s coming back.” She said, not meeting your gaze. “Today.”

You blink. “What?”

“Check your phone.” Mia sidesteps to clean a path to your bedroom, you take it, unplugging your phone to read the most recent message. A group chat of all the Long Island transfers, and Captain Coronado.

‘In light of last night’s events I’ve elected to drive over and speak with their captain. I understand this transfer has not been easy. You all have done enough. I will meet you there, officers.’

Rereading the message didn’t change its contents. These were things you all knew, anyway. This was temporary. The Russians are gone.

Mission complete.

          The walk to the 15th precinct nearly killed you, your breath heaving after two blocks. But you didn’t want Mia to know the pain. It would only make her more upset.

Dear God, did you think you were going to throw up soon though.

All the looks didn’t help either.

At home, your medkit didn’t have big enough bandages to cover the bruises, now even the most unflappable New Yorkers stare. You try to focus on answering messages from your family, but you know they would get worse at the station.

They did. When you and Mia entered, officers did double-takes at the gnarly purple. Like a devil dragged from punishment, left for them to gawk at.

Before this, none of them looked at you as anything at all. It was better that way. Except the one time you played hero, then they looked a second longer. Now, they’re looking at you a lot.

You feel ugly.

Captain Coronado is at the doors to the meeting room, beside the 15th’s captain. He gestures to the main room, while the other captain keeps ushering him to the meeting room. Somebody didn’t want this public.

Their forms were shrouded by another person you’d rather avoid. Meghan. Her glasses caught the lights above, hiding her eyes in a white sheen. “Oh my god, are you okay?” She prattles about the same things Mia had earlier:

Worry, didn’t know where you’ve been, that Blake told her about you—she told Blake about Jessie.

That’s the kicker. Your heartbeat slows, a grey cloud billows from your boots to encase the city to just you two. Meghan. You. It’s a condescending comfort, the cloud.

You just wanted Jessie to be here. For him to say he’s proud, to remind you that despite everything. You’re still you, a cop.

But he isn’t, because of Meghan, and she never told you.

“Hey?” Meghan tilts her head, a pair of brown braids swinging across her white lab coat. “Are you okay?”

How long were you standing there is the better question. You wet your lips, sour with dread. “Were you ever going to tell me that you reported Jessie to Blake?”

Even with her eyes hidden by the light, Meghan’s mouth drops open enough to say the ‘no’ she won’t. “How did-did you know?” Her hand grazes her chin, like she is making sure it doesn't fall off.

The question hangs a moment, you should’ve taken a breath during it, but that grey comfort tricks your composure. “Blake told me at the hospital. You reported Jessie for stealing his files.”

“Oh, (Y/n),” Those hands rush to her hair, pushing back the loose strands her braids didn’t catch. “I didn’t,” she breathes. “I didn’t think he’d die. I thought he’d get a slap on the wrist. Suspended, reassigned. Not–” Her voice breaks on the last word.

True, it was insane for him to do that, you told Jessie as much the night he died. Then again, you’ve done things you’d scold Jessie for too. Maybe you’re becoming more like him.

“But come on,” Meghan continues, a frenzied laugh on her lips. “Blake wouldn’t seriously—”

“He would.”

With how much talking is around, it drowns in the screaming inside your head. You stalk two steps toward Meghan. She takes two back. “He would, Meghan, and he did.”

“How—”

All these questions.

“Because he told me!” You snap, unable to stop. “He told me he ordered it to happen! Unlike you, who’s been lying to me this whole time!” There you take a breath, but it’s too late. “And you still haven't answered! Were you ever going to tell me?”

Meghan’s head tilts back, as if you’re taller than you are. Pale in the face, she swivels around. People are probably staring. They already were, anyway. If they wanted to look, you could stand being uglier.

“We were going to tell you—”

Something dark burns in your eyes. “We? Who else knows?”

Her glasses lower to someone behind you. Mia’s behind you. “No,” your boots squeak on the waxed tile as you turn. Mia’s arms are bent, trying to resist folding them, and her mouth grim.

It hits you, Meghan wanted to talk to Mia during Healy’s case. A ‘check-in’ Mia called it, an incident that inspired you to have a sleepover with them out of your guilt.

That entire time, they were hiding their own.

A sick, sick, feeling balloons inside you. “You knew?”

“I did.” Her answer is too quiet, too steady.

More bile, you’re worried you won’t be able to swallow it down anymore. “And you just… kept it from me?”

Don’t cry, don’t cry, please don’t cry.

“You’ve been so in your head since he died!” Mia plants her arms at her sides, to hide their shakes. “We didn't know how to tell you.”

“Are you serious!?” Hot tears blur your vision, everything’s a blur. The anger, the weight in your bones. “This has nothing to do with me!” A finger jabs at her. “This is about you keeping secrets.”

“You’re the one keeping secrets!”

“At least mine aren’t about my dead friend!”

It echoes throughout the station, and a chair scrapes somewhere in the back. Otherwise silence. This may be the loudest you’ve ever shouted. You feel it in your chest. And Mia, she’s gaping at you with an alarm you never thought you’d see, let alone cause.

Meghan presses your arm. “(Y/n), calm down.”

Calm down. Why do you have to be the one to calm down? Why can’t you be angry?

“Don’t touch me,” You shrug off her touch, keeping your back firmly away from the rest of the station on your way out. Meghan calls for you, but you couldn’t hear it over years of friendship shattering beneath your burning footsteps.

          The good thing about New York is that they mind their business, always. You could be screaming every thought in your head, and they wouldn’t bat an eye at the beaten officer bent into herself crying.

That’s the only good thing happening. You’re racking sobs on the bench outside the station, it’s as far as you could bring yourself to go. Each hiccup or blubbered breath bounces off the metal walls you built around the bench.

You can’t pinpoint the core that’s making you cry—only the raw, scraped feeling it leaves. Hands yank your hair, a grounding pain you can’t process. Last night was supposed to be the nightmare, not today.

At your feet, there’s a clutter of bird feathers that are kicked around by your twitching legs. If your cries didn’t give it away, people might think you’re having a seizure.

Damnit, why did you say that? What’s wrong with you?

Redundant questions, the scary part is you didn’t know how to fix it. Fix you.

The air is cold, and it stinks, like urine and forgotten garbage. That’s Hell’s Kitchen, it finally got you, then left the pieces at this very spot. You thought it never would.

“Officer,”

Your hands snap from your scalp to the bench’s edge, clutching it hard. Above, Captain Coronado stood with his hands behind his back. The third last person you wanted to see.

“Captain!” You stand too fast for your body. Making sounds swim for a moment. “I’m so sorry about what—”

“I know,” he rumbles, firm enough to silence you. “Sit.”

Coronado sits in the vacant spot beside you, adjusting his tie while you wipe the tears from your face. Not saying a word. He should just yell at you, somebody should. It’d be deserved.

Eventually, he speaks. “You look different.”

A watery scoff escapes you as you watch the New Yorkers walk. They’re all commuting to work or school, it’s still early. A few taxis drive by. Your arms wrap around yourself. “I feel different.”

“Why?”

Oh, where to begin. Your head lowers to the scattered feathers, a poor attempt to push down the lumps in your throat.

“Captain, I–I’ve done so many things I don’t even recognize. It’s horrible. I just want to do something right, but nothing’s working and it hurts, so bad. I don't even feel like me anymore.”

Maybe the masked man is right, you should’ve never been close to all this. You’re not made for it, you’re supposed to be in a prison cell. Or dead.

Wet spots dampen your pants from your tears one by one, like a stuttering rainfall.

Beside you, Coronado takes a deep breath. “Being right is for numbers.” He says, “Being good, that’s for people. I see you’re starting to understand that now.”

Not true. You didn’t think you’re right. Good, once or twice, sure. But you’ve broken the law you’ve sworn to. That’s…

“I also understand why it would be a hard lesson for you to learn.”

You look at him then, and Coronado shifts his body to face you. “Back home, your moral compass was your greatest attribute. The tragedy being the world doesn't always share your values.” His eyes lowered, a glance at your bruises before meeting your eyes. “Now here, they're forced to evolve.”

Tragic idealists too relentless and bound to your principles to evolve.

In your lap, you pick at hangnails. “I wanted to do this the right way.”

The legal way.

“Everyone wants things to be done the ‘right’ way, Officer.” Coronado sighs, “But it’s impossible, and often, doing the right thing prevents you from doing the good thing.”

The good thing. Saving Karen was good, and Ethan, Claire, and Sullivan. Hurting those Russians felt good.

All those were illegal in some way, but you'd do them again. Save them again.

“Captain, the things—”

He tuts, raising a finger. “Whatever antics you’ve gotten up to here, you can save for a confession box. I know Hell’s Kitchen isn’t getting any accolades for being straight and narrow.”

Captain Coronado lets the quiet settle, where the sounds of New York City become clearer. Car engines, chatter, the wind. It still reeks of garbage. You still bled for it.

“What’s important is that the things you’ve done here matter.” He smiles at your furrowed brows, sly. An emotion you never liked on him. “That rookie Sullivan, he came up to me after that… argument. He filed a report. IA’s investigating as we speak.”

“Really?” Your heart soars, almost flying you off the bench until Coronado steadies your shoulder. Even then your eyes remain on the station. In all its greystone and muddled glory.

An investigation likely didn’t mean anything in the long run. Elena suffered the same inconclusive fate, but you’re helping her. Nelson & Murdock are helping.

It’s a step forward, it’s a good thing.

“Don’t worry over anything happening in there.” He tells you, “Focus on yourself.”

If you didn’t know him so well, you’d protest. But Coronado would just prattle on about his authority and competence—then he does, without any outside prompting.

“I’m your captain, Officer. It’s my job to get you all out this city, and home where you can start mending the pieces. Believe me, I’m more than capable of striking a bargain.”

After everything this city put you through, the idea of leaving when you’re at the cusp of uncovering it all… is smart.

Be home with your family, your own bed, see the beach. You’ve longed for those things.

“I don’t think I can leave yet.”

The earth halts when Coronado freezes, the whites of his eyes stark against his darker skin “May I ask why?” He asks slowly.

A fire hits your chest, not the all-consuming kind you felt in the station, instead the kind that gives strength. “You told me to save it for a confession box.”

“If this is because McNair then I—”

“It used to be.” You admit, “But it’s bigger than that now.”

Fisk wanted to put you away. Going home is giving him what he wants.

“And that is?”

“What it’s always should’ve been, to save people.”

Under Coronado’s gaze, those often intense eyes, familiar feelings build. Of how you’d listen to him ramble or scold you below those signed vinyls he keeps, just to brag.

If he’s still looking at you the same way, you couldn't have changed that much. He’s your captain, it’s his job to keep you in line.

He gives you a once-over, inhaling deeply when a sheepish smile sneaks onto your face. “Then save who you can. But two weeks, Officer. After that, you all are coming home.”

         Fix enough external wounds, maybe the internal ones will heal too.

It’s 10:39, late enough for Karen to be a little mad at you. Early enough to get away with it. Truly, you wanted to call her right after your talk with Coronado, but you were in no condition.

What you need is a long nap and food. Things to make you feel like a regular person again, a person who can click the call button without hesitation.

“(Y/n)! Oh my god.” Karen answers on the third ring. “Are you okay? Where have you been?”

“Hi, Karen,” You tug the drawstring to your sweatpants. “I’m fine, sorry I worried you, just… my power went out during the fires. ”

Hearing her voice from the worried voicemails she left last night was better than hearing it in person. Same for Foggy’s.

“Oh really?” 

Despite just thinking about Foggy, his voice, sudden and drawled, earns a flinch.

“That’s exactly what Matt said earlier.”

Karen laughs, telling Foggy to ‘stop’ in a way that means he’s probably smirking. Matt’s also a name that came up in their voicemails, said they couldn’t find him either. Foggy compared it to when he tried to get you two out for drinks.

At least, you won’t be the only one in trouble.

“I guess we live in the same area?” Your hand comes out from under your bed’s comforter, it rests loosely beside your head.

There are more of Foggy’s smug remarks before Karen shushes him. “We’re just glad you’re okay.” A different, muffled voice cuts through the line, an order number being called. “…Did you want to come by the office? Me and Foggy are picking up food right now but Matt’s there to open the door for you.”

“We should really get her a key,” Foggy adds.

The offer rattles around in your brain like a game-winning buzzer. This past minute with them. Being worried about, being teased, and being accepted.

It creates a happy glow you’d chase farther than a few blocks for.

Author's Note: I LOVE THIS SONG. And it fits with the whole greyness going on in this chapter. Draw settling, I also watched Stardust for the first time last night. AHHH SO GOOD. Tristan is an angel. Charlie Cox’s is an angel but plays a semi-literal devil

Masterlist

The things people say about cops are true, they’re liars.

During your academy years, that’s the first thing your commander said. Police lie, because they’re just like everyone else. They get scared in dangerous situations.

But officers can’t be scared when a civilian stares at them the way Ben is. So you lie. Told him to just breathe and to crouch behind the door. Let the police handle it.

That’s when another bullet fires—you’re ready for it this time.

It’s too loud for a handgun, the shots aren’t rapid either. They must be aiming. At who? You push down the question. There’s a sniper out there.

For two foolish seconds you eye the rooftops, no way to see the sniper among the dark. Focus. Media crews are scrambling with their equipment, ducking their heads as much as they can.

You rush toward them, almost chasing the helicopter’s light on the street like a cat does a laser. Sporadic. And unsustainable, your heartbeat gagged on its own speed.

“Hey, hey, c’mon, man. Please,” A voice croaks. To your left, Hoffman is bent over Blake. Deep red tarnishes the white of his collared shirt. “Blake!” Hoffman pushes his hands on Blake’s chest, the source.

Good riddance, it should’ve been, but Hoffman’s tears curbed the idea. He’s sobbing, shaking his head, for Blake.

Internally you’re complaining each step to his body. “Hoffman,” He flinches, though it’s nothing compared to how his eyes widen under your stare. It’s telling and pleases you, just a bit. “Move your hands, get an EMT en route.”

“How did you—”

“There’s a sniper somewhere,” a bruise pinches as you kneel beside Blake. “Know anything about that?”

The helicopter circles its spotlight on the three of you, clocking the body. It gives a shiny sheen to Blake’s blood. Also reveals Hoffman’s throat bobbing. “He didn’t say Blake was gonna be shot… he didn’t. ”

While his hands stay on the bullet wound, they’re easily moved by yours. The second your hands touch the blood it burns along your stitches. Your blood had been this warm too. Spilling down your arm.

“Fisk?” His name is another bad memory you’re trying to choke out, it tastes sour. “He planned this?”

Hoffman gawks instead of answering, too long, there’s lives on the line and he’s still protecting Fisk. You press harder on Blake’s injury. “Just get an EMT.”

That he does listen to, he buzzes codes on his radio. Over all the screaming, you couldn’t hear what they said back, but Hoffman rises. “They’re here but the road’s closed, they can’t drive in.” He hesitates leaving, eyes on you.

“I got Blake.” Your head points to the side. “Go. Other people might need help.”

“Thank you.” He breathes.

His gratitude is a bruise pressed too hard. Maybe because who you’re saving. The person who ordered Jessie to be shot. Nobody would blame you for letting him bleed out. Jessie died the same way.

But you want to do this the right way, watch him rot in a cell. Slowly, year by year.

“I wish I had the heart to leave you.” Your gaze narrows at Blake’s, his dark pupils blown wide at the sky. Fight-or-Flight setting in.

Even in his delirium, Blake hears that, those pupils drag to yours. Doesn't say a word. His walkie-talkie pops the quiet bubble. “We’ve entered the factory, sir.” An officer informs. “We believe the masked man has moved the Russian to the lower floors. Proceed or surround?”

Both your heart and eyes jump to the factory, all of ESU is gone and the door is busted down. Time slows, too many ideas flooding your brain to process it. He’s in there, ESU ready to kill him. You grab the device faster than the words came, your left hand presses tighter on Blake to make up for the loss.

He grunts. Hard to tell if you’re keeping him alive or just slowing the inevitable.

“Sir?” ESU prompts.

Police lie. 

“Internal Affairs, Division 14.” Hell, that didn’t even sound British. “This is Amya Bryant. Supervisor Gonzales has ordered an immediate pullback.” In your baited pause, ambulance horns and tire screeches cover the accent. Thankfully. “She wants your shady business operation topside. If you’re all still inside when the Feds arrive, your names go in her report, not mine."

“What the hell? Internal Affairs? No one was told—“

“Obviously, no one was told. That’s the point of IA, we find this out ourselves.”

The factory door is a black hole. Dark, absorbing your attention. No one knows what’s beyond it. Except you. “Now, did I say curse at me or come up here?” They’re silent. “Good. Don’t keep us waiting.”

Like you never spoke, you toss the radio. “Funny.” Blake rasps, his body shifting under your palms.

One by one ESU exits the black hole, but the shouts of EMTs force you away. They didn’t ask questions yet, and you slip before they do.

Blake will be okay. For better or worse. His blood is slick on your hands, there’s so much of it, you wipe it on your pants, regretting the soggy stain instantly.

“That lady didn’t tell us where.” Up ahead the crowd of ESU trudges to the chaos’s center.

Crouching behind a squad car, you let them pass before jogging into the factory. Should’ve brought Blake’s radio.

Rotted wood is the first smell that hits you, old dust after you’re farther in. “Stranger!” Your voice echoes.

A muffled whine stops your walk. “Stranger?” More whines in higher pitches. Cries? You dash toward it—him. An officer duct taped to a pillar, a small trail of blood trickling down his neck. “Hey, hey, are you okay?” Once you remove the tape from his mouth, his age becomes apparent. Young.

“They tried to kill me.” He gasps, the breaths turning into wheezes. It took a while to calm him down, but eventually, you get the story out of him. Officer Sullivan, a rookie.

The masked man knocked him out after he called the 10-13, when he woke up he was tied here. ESU came in later, one officer almost stabbed his neck before they left.

“I don’t-don’t know why’d they do that. I—” He swallows. “I didn’t do anything wrong.”

“You didn’t. But there’s a lot of corruption here, and it starts in our station.”

At least you had years of near-death situations before facing off with Hell’s Kitchen, this must be Sullivan’s first. Seeing the trauma harden his eyes hit too close to home, like a distorted mirror.

Still, you’re glad you saved him.

“Do you got a knife?” Your hand points to his restraints.

“Uhm, yeah, left side of my belt.” Sullivan waits till you free him to clear his throat. “How do you know about ‘corruption?’”

The real answer felt too heavy, or honest, to tell. His eyebrows are raised at you, cradling his raw wrists. A man who thought justice is given, not bleed for. “I experienced it.” You offer him a hand. “They took my best friend.”

On his feet, Sullivan oh’s, a small sound too delicate for the mucky space. “I’m sorry.”

For your own sake, you ignore that in favor of looking around the floor. Stray wood planks, rocks, and holes in the walls. Hard to imagine this was a factory, it’s empty aside from the rubble.

No sign of the masked man either, probably good news, but you'd rather see him. “I’ve been trying to uncover it, for him.” Your face turns to Sullivan, his eyes drop to the bandages on it. “I could use your help.”

“Me?”

“You don’t have to.” Both your palms go up. “Just- If you report this, we have a chance of IA looking into it and finding something that’ll stop this from happening again.”

He refuses to meet your gaze, his silence letting the noise pour through the windows. No more screams or bullets, only wails of sirens and the helicopter’s propellers.

Funny thing about shootings, they’re short. Forgotten about in a week or so, then the next hits. Repeat.

People like Sullivan won’t forget, not ever. What separates those people is what he’s choosing now. “It can be anonymous.” Your last attempt before handing his knife back. Sighing. “Where’s your car? I don’t want ESU to see you.”

The knife clicks as he folds it back into his belt. “Over where the Russian base blew up. I can take you there.”

“Sorry, I can’t, there’s people I need to talk to here.” Your lip tingles from how hard you bit it. “Will you be okay by yourself?”

“Yeah, uh, I got in through a back door, anyway. I can retrace my steps, it’ll be easy.”

Lie: Sullivan’s voice shook, hid his hands—he’s also scared, but saying otherwise. A true cop. “Alright,” It’d be hypocritical to call him out. “Be safe. Stop for nothing. Okay?”

“Yes, ma’am.” He says, “And thank you, so much.”

His gratitude felt right, worthy of the small smile you give him. “Of course.”

Sullivan skirts off into the darkness, and you have to face yours. “Stranger?” This one’s a whisper, if his hearing is as good as he said, he’ll hear you. Give a sign, maybe.

No answer. “I’m gonna call you.” You mutter, exiting the factory. Stubborn man better have capitalized on the time you bought him.

Outside, ESU surrounds Detective Hoffman, demanding answers about an Amya Bryant. When you pass by, Hoffman makes eye contact, and you flash a blood-stained hand. A reminder. He looks away.

Weaving through the maze of police cars, ambulances and other vehicles fill the space media used to be. It’s an octave quieter now, the sirens are off. Helicopter’s pulling away too. Eerie quiet, with snipers you don’t know if they’ve left, or patient enough to wait.

“(Y/n)!”

Aaron shouts, he’s running to you, a black wire trailing from his fist. Ben’s two paces behind him. No Simba. “Wher—who’s blood is that?” His feet skid on the concrete.

“Some cop that got shot, he’s with EMT.” Blake’s name would only cause problems, you point your chin to Aaron. “What’s that?”

The fact Aaron doesn’t answer a few beats too long twists your gut sideways. “It’s Duncan’s body cam.” And there it is. He opens his hand to show the black camera, blood’s on it. “…He got shot too.”

“What!?” You stomp forward, twice. Mind spinning from the impact rattling up your bones. “So you took it off his dying body and left?”

“I didn’t leave him for dead!” He flinches back. “EMT people got him.”

Your fingers pinch your nose’s bridge, groaning. This can’t be happening. “Aaron, are you kidding me? This is evidence tampering.”

“Ain’t no one can prove he had it! All the other officers there were knocked out, Duncan knows that too. I wasn’t gonna to let him leave with evidence to destroy our lives.”

In reality, he’s correct. But, you’re supposed to be different from cops like Sterna, and now Duncan, two people who’d definitely not question this the way you are.

Two wrongs don’t make a right.

None of this is right.

“Look, what’s done is done.” Ben pants, winded by the run. “We need to get out of here before the cops start questioning us.”

“Can’t, I need to find Simba,” Aaron speaks softer. “Duncan told me he’s here somewhere.” He pushes the body cam into his jeans pocket. “You two go ‘head, I’ll text.”

You stare at the outline the device makes in the denim. So small, wrong to take, and was about to ruin your life.

Swung keys harbor you to the present, Aaron clasps them in his hand. “Duncan’s car.” He explains at your stare, it’s quick to move onto Ben afterward. The one who took those keys. “He’s not gonna use it.”

“Aaron…”

“I’m givin’ this one back.” He pauses for your sigh before giving his goodbyes. You should’ve told him to be safe, stop for nothing, but you’re too slow and he was too fast.

          Ben’s car, a 2000 Buick Century, smelled like worn leather and stale coffee. To you, coffee sounded amazing, the remedy to the eye bags weighing you down. Yet the idea sent your gut reeling in terror, if it ate anything, it’d go right out.

“He’s not answering?” Ben asks. One of many once you revealed having the masked man’s number. Most didn’t get full answers.

The orange-ish streetlights he drives past bounce off your phone screen. The man’s alive. Alive enough to decline the first three calls then let the others ring out.

Stagnant again, maybe that’s the problem, you’ve been too wishy-washy. On the move, stuck, on the move, stuck. Your nervous system wants to either stay on the roller coaster or get off.

This headache isn’t helping that decision. “No.”

The engine is a strong hum you feel in the floorpan, which’s surprising given how old it looks. Ben taps a finger on the wheel, a quaint silver wedding band sits on the ring finger.

Married. There really are a lot of things you haven’t told each other. No part of tonight is a good conversation starter, though.

He saved you anyways, thanks to Karen. She’s called too, many people have. Safe to say your morning won’t be a quiet one.

After the havoc at the factory, seeing the stillness of Hell’s Kitchen is acting like it never happened. “Why are these roads closed?” You squint at the orange sign. “The factory is nowhere near here.”

“The factory wasn’t the only place that got bombed.” Ben u-turns to take an intersection. Toward your apartment. “All the Russian hideouts got the slip. They’re saying it’s the man in the mask.”

“Why?” You stop toying with the straps of your medical bag. Ben said Aaron found him at Duncan’s car and had him bring it. Sweet, but meant Aaron planned on stealing the car from the get-go.

Stuck behind traffic, Ben leans back in the seat. “Some footage of him beating up cops earlier.”

To avoid staring into the overly bright taillight up ahead, you turn right, cheek smushing into the seatbelt. “That’s…” Your mouth stays open, waiting for the word to come.

“A stretch.” He honks at a car to move, you flinch before it does. “Yeah. But the people want something to blame.” His coat shifts. When you look, he’s turning on the radio, it’s already on the news.

A woman’s voice, reporting about tonight throughout your time in traffic. The fires still ablaze, the shot officers, the footage Ben mentioned. All building off the other to make the masked man look worse.

“It’s ironic.” Ben pulls beside your building. “The man in the mask beating up cops, works with one.”

His silent question screams at you. Truth, he’s earned the truth. However dangerous. “Those cops worked for Fisk, Wilson Fisk, not the department.”

“Wil—”

The sound of you opening the door cuts him off. “Don’t say his name around anyone.” Your hand hovers over the seat buckle. “He’s the one behind all this.”

Ben’s silent questions are calmer now, yet somehow more intense. A fire in his eyes you’ve seen in Karen, no wonder they got along.

“We can talk tomorrow, if you want.” You step outside. “Thank you for the ride, Urich. Be safe.” He doesn’t say much aside from a quiet ‘you too’ before driving off, but you’re confident he’ll contact you again.

Or Karen. Her name wafts in the cool breeze, through your clothes and across your cheeks. It’s marred by the lingering smoke. You don’t even notice it anymore, just breathing it in until you enter the building.

          Being in your apartment felt hollow. What are you supposed to do? Shower? You wanted to. Eat? Not so much. Sleep? But how? Everything hurts.

The medical bag brushes against your leg. Unpacking didn’t sound bad. You hobble to the kitchen, bracing yourself on the counter below your mug cabinet.

‘You’ve been poisoned!’ You smile at the mug’s inscription as you place it beside a mushroom-shaped mug.

Elena’s VapoRub is the next thing out of the bag, it’s set on the counter. Your medications are the last, antibiotics and acetaminophen with codeine, you hold up the painkiller. Claire said it’ll ‘knock you out.’

Pain management and sleep, perfect, you dry-swallow the pills. Then immediately remember why you don’t do that with a hard wince. Wimp, Mia’s voice says.

The pain does give you a little energy. It fuels your trek to the bathroom. Shower. An activity that took longer than it should. Might be the pills.

All you know is that you’ve never been so acquainted with the shower tiles before.

Or your bedroom ceiling. Dressed in clothes you don’t recall putting on, you stare at the ceiling light of your room. From your window, an orange tint touches its glass.

Must be the fires.

If you had a touch more will, you’d look outside, see Hell’s Kitchen on fire. How ironic. But your body is trapped under the comforter’s warmth.

There’s a lot to worry about. Mia’s probably worried. Karen, Matt, Foggy. Aaron and Simba. Meghan—God, there were so many names.

And the only names on your mind are Ben and Duncan’s camera. You let Ben free you. Watched Aaron take the camera. Because you were scared. Of Fisk, losing your career, prison.

Your chin wobbles, but you don't let the breathy cry free. It presses into your skull, the sobs you were holding back.

The bed is too hot as your cheeks heat up, you try to curl into yourself, to hide, but it still hurts to lay on either side.

Stitches on one, sore shoulder on the other. You're stuck on your back, alive, no cuffs around your wrist. Saved people. Able to fight Fisk’s corruption another day, by lying.

Author's Note: and so it begins. I’ll say the that radio speech went through MANY drafts. There were so many adjectives I couldve used yk? but I also enjoyed how this chapter feels like the episode it's based on, it's the mid-season finale and I remember watching it and thinking 'wow this feels like the SEASON finale.' this felt that way too,

Song: Back to friends by sombr is a song I was listening to during this. Not bc the meaning but the ‘I'm screaming into the void to nobody’ feel.

Masterlist

“This why nobody fucking likes you, man! Where's my dog!?”

Aaron slams his fists to the squad car’s partition, it’s the third time he’s done it since Duncan put you two in here—Simba taken elsewhere. Although this is the hardest, and loudest, Aaron had demanded. It flinches the ringing out your ears, but nothing, nothing stops that acid building under your ribs.

It’s like you were dying. You couldn’t swallow, or breathe. The heater is too high. You can only look at one thing: The cuffs on your wrists. Numb vices around the bone.

“He’s in custody.” Duncan huffs from the driver’s seat, also for the third time.

“Don’t give me that! I want a real answer.”

More arguing, more things you don’t understand. Everything’s a jumble of noise your brain doesn't want to piece together anymore. Screw Duncan, whatever he’s doing this for, it didn’t matter. Your career is over.

Aiding and abetting.

That’s the charge Duncan tacked on you. The worst part is, he’s not wrong. You’ve aided the masked man, abetted his missions. If anything, you’d arrest yourself too.

The handcuffs shift the light when your fists clench, reflecting a dim white spot on the door. Maybe it’s that little light come to life.

I’m sorry, you tell the light. It says nothing. Wonder how many other people you’ve disappointed, is Jessie one of them?

“10-13! 10-13!” A strained voice whirls on the radio. 10-13. The heat ices over your vision, it matches the chill of Karen’s interrogation room. Where you got the same call, 10-13, an officer needs assistance. Jessie is dead.

Your senses rush to life. All the rings, buzzes, even your own body. It has weight again. “Abandoned building,” The officer gasps, “47th and 12th, second floor! Perp in mask! Wounded civilian—”

The radio cuts, and through each window, red and blue lights flash the interior. Someone found him.

From the rearview mirror, you watch Duncan. His blue eyes aren’t on the radio, rather, a small walkie-talkie on the dash. “That was quick,” He sets the walkie-talkie in a cup holder. “Change of plans, then."

“I swear to God, Duncan!” Aaron pushes himself to the partition.

“Officer, you mean.” He presses a button to raise the window, and just before it shuts, he adds. “Have fun back there.” The tires screech under Duncan’s speed, along with the other police cars rushing to the address. It reels you back, yet Aaron stays frozen, his body swaying in the harsh turns.

          The window doesn’t open till you’ve long arrived at the scene, an abandoned factory specifically. Tall smoke towers reach into the night sky, where a helicopter’s spotlight scans the factory roof.

There were more officers than you’ve ever seen for a case before. At the center entrance, Blake and Hoffman stand with a crowd of cops around them. Blake’s white collar shirt brings out the dark cast on his right arm. Your eyes squint, when did that happen?

“Don’t try anything.” Duncan orders, eyeing you both in the rearview before rolling down the front windows. Cold air pillows into your nostrils, it’s revitalizing. Then the voices from outside pour in, not revitalizing. Exposed.

“Why are you doing this?” Quieter than you meant it, Duncan locks the car door behind him. Two beeps. You expected that, the question is for Aaron, who’s slumped in his seat.

Duncan disappears in the chaos, to tell Blake about your arrest or who knows what, it’s so close but feels worlds away. And that’s your world right there. Police codes, badges, uniforms.

Now, vigilantes, he’s in that building with a shot Vladimir and a quarter of the NYPD after him. Solutions, find solutions. You’re scanning the scene for anything familiar, but the handcuffs bite harder. A reminder that tied hands mean tied choices.

“Just doing my job.”

Familiar, you lock on the voice, Ben Urich. He’s just ended a conversation Blake—Duncan’s nowhere near them. Your head anchors itself to fully see through the inside partition and the window. “Mr. Urich!”

Ben’s hand pauses from going in his tan coat pocket, turning toward your voice. “Urich!” His eyes narrow then and God do you know how bad this looks. He already doesn’t trust you.

All you have is hope. Ben’s a smart man, wrote about the Union Allied scandal. If he listened to Karen’s story, maybe he’d listen to yours when you need him most.

“What are you doing?” Aaron rumbles in your ear. The proximity is a scare, but you're too focused on Ben to acknowledge it. He walks forward, the line between his brows grows more prominent each step.

It’s just enough to cause a flutter in your spine. Wings and will. Only to be gunned down by more midnight black. “Sorry, sir,” Duncan glides in front of Ben. “Did you have business with these suspects?”

Their brief silence sucks the air from you, then it punches out when Ben chuckles. “No,” he says, over Duncan’s shoulder his finger points at the factory behind them. “Actually, I wanted to ask about the suspect in that building.”

Duncan tilts his head. “Follow me, then, if you please.”

Instead of watching them walk away, you fling yourself back into the seat, staring at the roof. “Fuck.” Your leg kicks the wall on its own, like it could break it down and get you free.

Get Aaron free. He sinks beside you, curls covering his eyes the same way they did in that taxi. Where he told you what he went through, for himself, for Simba.

“Aaron, I’m so sorry.” Beginnings of a lump form in your throat, you decide to just feel it. The failure, a dark shroud over your shoulders, the warmest thing since the heater turned off. “You didn’t have to get caught in this.”

“I know,” he said, almost unintelligible under all the voices. “But I did.” His clothes scrape on the seat, facing you, but you don’t move. Limbs unwilling.

“Why?”

“Because… I wanted sumthin’ to believe in.”

That gets your head to move, the idea someone could see you that way. Aaron’s staring at you, the police lights shadowing his eyebags.

“I’m sorry.” You repeat, softer.

Aaron scans the top half of your face, every bandage covering the deep purple. It’s a longer scan than you wanted. Eventually, he settles on your eyes. “How’d you get in this?”

The answer is raspy. “Long story.”

“You mean when that guy ‘broke into your apartment?’” He shifts to rest his shoulder against the seat, you’d do the same if it didn’t hurt so bad.

“I made it sound more violent than it was, he was actually really calm.” Your arm rests on your abdomen, fingers picking at the badgeless uniform. “I was the one freaking out… but I don’t think that’s where it started.”

A crowd of voices suddenly louder, you glance at the area. Couldn’t see anything, but heard police dogs barking. About four. Aaron sucks in a tight inhale. “Jessie?” He mumbles.

Jessie, he should be the one doing this, chasing names after midnight, analyzing those files, and piecing things together. It’s what he wanted. He would’ve been better at it too. Instead, Hell’s Kitchen got you.

“Maybe.”

          Once Duncan returned the amount of officers doubled. ESU Officers. They arrived in a large, black van wearing bulky uniforms. Different media outlets also showed up, but you don’t find Ben anywhere among them.

“Duncan, where’s my dog?”

Aaron’s voice is low as he watches Duncan situate himself in the driver's seat, dropping his keys in the cup holder for the walkie-talkie. “Yeah, yeah.” Radio static crackles with the channel changes. It takes five switches. “There,” Duncan mumbles to himself. His eyes hit yours in the rearview mirror, he stares till all the car windows raise.

Outside, Duncan seems taller as he stalks to the backseat doors, shoulders back, spine straight. When he opens them, his head doesn’t lower to see you or Aaron, he keeps his chin up and simply looks down. “You’re coming with me.” He reaches for Aaron.

“Hey—!” He’s cut off by Duncan tugging him out the car, for the two seconds Duncan hadn’t restrained him, Aaron fights his grip. A thrown shoulder, a twisting torso.

For those two seconds only, you manage to chase halfway along the seats before Duncan tosses the radio in your lap. “It’s already on the right channel. Don’t ignore it.”

“Wait!” The door slams, shaking throughout the car—it’s your shoulder driving into the parking garage’s damp floor.

The car’s walls close in on you, the lights from outside fading away to one color. Black. There’s no monitor to ping your heartbeats, but you felt its thumps terribly well.

“Officer 15857.”

Deep voice, not the one you would’ve liked to hear, it’s too polished. On the radio, a green light blinks. “May I speak with you?” The voice asks.

Not your imagination. You blink your surroundings back into existence, letting the green blink guide you back from the memory.

Gradually, your finger extends to press the PTT, a call-tone bleeps into the air but neither of you speak.

In the end, you break first. “Who are you?”

“I believe you’ve heard of me, through your partner. It’s about time we spoke.”

Stranger. A name you got from him, one he ordered to never say out loud. To anyone. Your finger almost lets go of the button. Wilson Fisk. The name sends you to a mental frenzy, is he daring you to say it? Should you?

His cough flashes you back to the radio. A flinch he won’t see. “I’ve had people keep track of your movements in Hell’s Kitchen, it’s been troublesome,” There’s a metal tapping within his pause, cuff links, he spoke like someone who wore cuff links. Smooth, eloquent sentences that never rose or fell. Like a king. “You’ve grown in scale since your friend stole those files.”

A different flash, one you swear causes Jessie to appear in front of you. Keys swinging around his finger as he asks what you’ve gotten yourself into, with a grin that’s a relic of a time where your days ended at night, not began.

“What happened to him.”

“He was an… unforeseen character that night,” Fisk said. “The Russians acted on their own accord, as they often do.”

Unforeseen. The words stunk up the breathable air, joining the leftover smoke on your clothes. Is that what’s going to be on Jessie’s obituary when his family buries him? His life snuffed to an unaccounted variable.

All this time you’ve been looking for a name to tie the threads together, to be told nothing by its ‘king.’ “He has a name.” You bite. “Use it.”

Straining your ear, the hum of a car transmits through the line. Of course, he’s driving away from this chaos while everyone else is stuck in the middle of it.

“You have strong emotions.” Your eyes roll at that. “It’s proven to be your downfall, including tonight.”

The cuffs clink between your wrists as you bend closer to the radio. Emotions are the last reason you’re here. “Duncan, you mean? You told him to do all this, arrest me in that alley, the bodycam, and set up this chat too, huh?”

“I do not guide every small hand.” Outside, the helicopter closes in, its engine whirring at the same pace as your heart. What you wouldn’t give to see Fisk’s face. “I only told him to gather evidence on you by any means. Someone of your nature should understand.”

By now the entire earth has collapsed to that now solid green light, everything else is muffled. “My nature?” You repeat, eyebrows narrowing at the light. There’s nothing you could pretend to understand about him, or Duncan.

A silence, filled with static and someone else's voice. Not loud enough to hear, but you make out a soft ‘sir’ before Fisk continues. “You’re an officer with her hands in the dirt, trying to be bigger than she is for a city she doesn't live in.”

“I’m not trying to be anything.” You’re quick to correct. His words are a dangerous flick to the spark wheel of your heart. “I’m just a cop, and I don’t care how many of them you have in your pocket, this is all going to catch up to you.”

“And yet, Officer.” His tone goes one octave lighter, yet it’s the same kingly polish that makes you small. “Only one of us is in chains.”

Flick. The blood in you catches fire. “So that’s your plan, put me in a cage?” The hand not holding down the button claws into the seat’s foam, cuffs straining against your wrists. “Do what you did to Farnum to me? That’s not going to work. I’ll–”

“I’m aware getting rid of you won’t be that easy.” He cuts. Calm, a sickening calm that’s the melting wax to your fevered rush. “But containing you, that, I can manage.”

It’s like feathers were stuffed in your mouth—you had nothing. No leverage, no way to fight the law you swore by. Yet you try to spit them out anyway.

“There’ll be others.” You launch the walkie-talkie to your mouth. It doesn’t matter what Fisk says after, or what happens to you.

A voice on a radio is not what’s going to do you out.

“The more people you hurt, the more that’ll come after you. Just like me.”

Fisk takes a deep inhale. It's irritated, and that pleases you for a split moment. “Your masked partner said the same thing earlier.” There, your grip on the seat releases. Reopening the world right before it starts to fall.

“I told him there will not. That the two of you are the last of a dying breed: Tragic idealists too relentless and bound to your principles to evolve.”

Your head snaps to the factory, the ESU officers were strapping on guns outside its main door. Above, the helicopter’s spotlight shines a piercing cylinder around them, giving a mute shine to the silver buckles on their suits.

“The world has changed. People are scavengers in need of resources and order. Not heroes.”

Part of you isn’t listening anymore, busy up against the window, trying to see more, but scan it too fast for even yourself to understand.

The other, feels the vibrato, how his words were as if something bigger is dying. “What did you do to him?” Your ragged breaths fog the glass, obscuring the scene behind a cloud. Your hand drags down it, only for it to smear instead of clean.

“What you two have forced me to do.” He pauses, “You will be sent to prison. Where I intend to keep you, and you will watch the city I am trying to build.”

Both parts rejoin on the radio's green light. “Goodbye for now, I look forward to reading your trial in the papers.”

“Fisk—” The radio clicks, leaving a dull buzz in its wake. “Fisk,” You’re shaking the radio, its light now a red that bounces off the handcuffs. Straight into your eyes.

“No, no, no. Don’t you goddamn hide.” A series of clicks sputter from you jamming the PTT button, blank sounds until you’re sick of it. “Damnit!” You hurl the walkie-talkie at the floorpan.

It crackles at the collision, but the throw hurts you more, pulling the stitches like taut rubber bands. Holding onto the pain, your fingers rake into the threads of your trousers. It’s the only thing you have.

Heroes, Fisk had said. A wanna-be hero too scared to rock the boat.

Coronado’s words. You entered Hell’s Kitchen with them. A time when you were scared of things you’d beg to worry about again. Your family, Long Island, your old station.

All that’s gone now, shadowed by prison bars that’ll be an add-on to Fisk’s morning tea. Prison bars you’ll have to face your mother through.

The car’s roof closes down on you, curling your body inwards. Knees to chest in a loose hug to yourself. Crushed beneath the weight of everything you tried to do. Save people, stop this corruption.

Just to end up here, in chains and a beaten body. Unable to save your partner who’s in the building right across the street, after everything he’s done for you.

Tap-tap-tap

A shadow slices in the remaining light, you barely want to look, but it keeps tapping. The culprit is a bigger shock than anything else tonight. “Urich?” He’s squinting through the passenger window, a hand over his brows.

While he definitely didn’t see you, given the window’s tint. He’s here, scrunching his entire face. Motivated by some force to come back, hopefully a good force.

You’re about to tap on the window when a wave of wind blasts from the passenger door to the backseat. “He left his keys?” His voice is raspier than before. Product of a lot of talking. He reaches in the cup holder, the keys dinging around his fingers.

“What are you doing here?” You question.

Propping himself up on the gear stick, Ben’s dark lips are strung tight. “Karen’s been trying to get me to like you.” Soon, you realize the tightness is to hold back that sigh he gives, the kind that adds weight instead of releasing. “Thought tonight would be a good time to give it a shot.”

“Oh god, Karen.” Your cold hand presses against your mouth. Almost like you forgot her, and she’s someone you really needed right now. Her belief, fire, and trust. Things that don’t belong where you are. That hand reaches to the partition’s sill, assisting your body closer to it. “She’s not here is she?”

Ben blinks, the line between his eyebrows returning. “No.” He watches you relax, mouth open to comment but it closes, reconsidering, then tries again. “I’m guessing you want to get out of here, try to clear your name.”

“You’ve heard?”

“I heard you know a lot more than you or Karen told me during that meeting.”

Your wrists tuck to your stomach, the uniform muffling the handcuff’s jingles. “I’m sorry I lied.” You murmur, “I didn’t know if…”

“If you could trust me?” He finishes, you nod, and his chest rises under his tan coat. A new sigh. “Yeah,” Ben’s voice sounds lighter then. “Yeah, I get that.” Your eyes perk, but he shuts the door, a small push.

In that moment he stands there, long enough to consider if he was going to leave, your head bows to see his face. He’s scanning what’s around him. For other cops, media, Duncan.

Witnesses. He opens the backseat door, it pours in an amount of light you aren’t used to. Police lights, helicopter light, and the one working streetlight. Giving the night a forced glow.

“They’re trying to silence you, right?” Ben flicks each key to find the one that’ll unlock your cuffs. ‘That one’ you had to tell him. He oh’s, then gestures you to give him your hands.

Despite wanting to be free, you questioned what you’d really do out there. Some of the things Fisk said weren’t wrong.

“Because you know too much.” Ben continues.

That’s not wrong either, you knew a lot. Enough to get the king to lock you away so it doesn't get out.

And now you have a reporter in front of you.

“Yeah,” your hands raise. “I do.”

The cold metal drops from your wrists one by one till they clatter on the black pavement. They looked smaller than they felt on your wrists, you stretch the muscles there, almost curiously. Keeping your eyes on Ben. “Maybe we can help each other?”

He pockets the keys, returning your stare. “Think we—” His mouth snaps shut at the thundering crack of a faraway gunshot. Lightning without the electricity.

Loud sounds, you’ve begun to notice, are not your favorite anymore. The shot sends you flying back into your backseat like it hit you. Another. Now people are screaming. There’s a pause between the next one, in it Ben gapes at you, eyes blown wide. Scared. He’s scared.

Author's Note: I lied this chapter gave me a hard time. More like, I had the scenes but not like what the were gonna SAY. And, reviewing this chapter helped me write things in season 2, so double whammy.

Masterlist

Yellow is supposed to be a happy color.

Yet the second you see Aaron’s parked taxi, you’re frozen for who knows how long until Aaron rolls down his window. “Are you good, (Y/n)?”

Not Pavel. Aaron. The cold wind’s constant howl drowns out the sounds you were making up.

“Yeah, I’m fine.” Your fingers hesitate on the handle, but you pull before Aaron can ask again. Last thing you needed tonight was doubt.

Jingles draws your focus to the backseat, where the German Shepherd from the other day pokes through the partition. “Sorry ‘bout him.” Aaron twists in his seat to place his hand on the dog's head. “I don’t got a place to leave him.”

The fading sun highlights the browns of the dog’s eyes to a warm ember. “He’s friendly though.” Aaron’s hand is left in the air when the dog shifts in the back. He presses to the rear window, his snout clouding two little ovals in the glass. “Way too friendly.” Aaron drops his hand on the gear stick.

“What’s his name?” Lowering into the passenger, you face the back to be greeted by the dog. Puffs from his nose bounce off your face as he checks you out. Wet and slightly warm. You scrunch your nose to match him. “Hi, buddy.”

“Simba,” Aaron turns on the car, its engine sputters more than it rumbles. “He’s a search and rescue dog.”

Once the cab starts Simba maneuvers into the middle seat, tail thumping on the leather. “You have a search and rescue dog?” A sharp twinge hits your shoulder sitting forward. Got too comfortable with the muscle. “I thought you worked with drug dogs.”

His grip slackens on the wheel, quiet long enough for you to question whether you knew. “I do, just,” He slows before a yellow light. “The Russians been using ‘em lately for their heroin deals.” It turns red, and Aaron glances back at Simba. “They didn’t need a S.A.R. dog, so…”

“You took him in?”

Tightening that hand, Aaron faced the streetlight.. “I did.” Down at his adam's apple, it works around a deep swallow.

There’s more to the story, that much is clear. The cutest dog in the backseat, imagining him receiving any treatment less than stellar... “You said heroin deals?”

Aaron’s quick to answer that one. “Yeah, they get it from the Chinese, someone named Gao. Sends their crew to drop it, and the Russians move it. The droppers are blind, to not look suspicious I guess.”

With the hand not on the wheel he picks at the threads on his ripped jeans. “I tried to go home, but Blake put me on their dogs. Make sure they got through checkpoints clean n’ stuff. He–he went after my grandma, man.”

Your heart sinks to the pit of your soul. “Blake made you do this?” Curls fall in Aaron’s face as he nods, they’re better maintained than the last you saw him. The streetlight turns green. He shakes his hair back.

“Aaron, I’m so sorry he did that.”

“Yeah…we’re still here.” Aaron sighs.

The amount of people ‘we’ could include silences the drive, aside from the Simba’s chimes. Still here—there’s a lot of people not here anymore. But you are, Aaron is, and he needs help.

“So where are we going?” You’re not facing Aaron while you ask, instead, you watch the buildings pass by. It’s only 8:32, there should be more pedestrians. A good thing, you hope. Everyone’s safe at home.

“I’m gonna check a Russian base. See where they all stationed, and what the hell Vladimir actually gonna do.” You turn then. Aaron’s curving the wheel to the right. He must feel your gaze, throwing a look at you. “The more we know, right?”

“Right.”

          Parked two blocks from an abandoned cannery, Aaron powers off the taxi. “I’ll be in and out.” He assures, keys muted inside his pocket. “You guys stay here,”

As if to confirm, you watch Simba’s head protrude through the partition grumbling whines. Can’t say you enjoyed staying behind also.

“We’ll be here.”

Nodding, Aaron slides on his hood and takes the sidewalk. The red splotch grows smaller till a wet tickle squirms your attention. “Can I help you, Simba?” Offering your hand, Simba sniffs the fingertips first. “Probably smell soap, huh? I was changing my bandages earlier.” You attempt to pet him but the reach is too much for your stitches.

You slump back toward the road with a huff. Dark. No streetlamps work outside a stray car’s headlights, two of which were speeding, not that you’re in position to say anything.

In your lap, the medication bag is heavier now. With the sling, mug, and a VapoRub stick Elena gave when you left to a friend’s car to ‘take you home.’

Another object, that’s practically a feather, yet it still weighs the most in your palm. The tourniquet. It looks different now, you’re noticing the jagged threads from when he tore it off his body. To save your life… the world presses into the bruises on your gut. He's so stubborn.

One last glance at the empty street, Simba shakes, his collar a bunch of reindeer bells. “I know,” Twisting behind, you smile at Simba’s splat frame across the seat. “You’re made for glory, aren’t you? Finding people and—”

BOOM

A white-orange sheet rips the dark—then pressure slams into you. Everything jolts. Your vision blurs. Simba yelps. And the taxi punches sideways. The sound comes last, a brutal crash that keeps popping. Fire.

“What the hell?!” You could barely hear yourself over all the ringing. Either the one in your ears or the car alarm. In front of you, a great blaze overtakes a building on the other side of the cannery. The Russian base.

Too long you stay wide-eyed at the fire, seeing the embers sprinkle in the air but never come down. Eventually, Simba’s barks grow deeper, confident. Blinking away the shock, you let Simba’s drive become your own.

Search and rescue dog, burning building. It’s his job, your job. Both of you are trained for this. Even if it's the Russians. “Yeah, c’mon boy. Aaron could be hurt.” Unbuckling the seat belt, you dial 911 in one hand, and another searches the taxi.

Cops joke about this: the irony of dialing 911. None of it’s funny now. Your voice shakes in time with your hands, both slower than they should be, but steady enough to get the address out.

Within the glovebox, you find a pistol, police-grade. Aaron’s maybe. “It’s down the street.” The phone is held up by your good shoulder; you drop the mag, count the rounds, slam it home. Control in your fingertips. You know this kind of gun. “Other side of Empson Cannery off 44th and 11th.”

“Alright, thank you, we’re sending the fire department right away, ma’am. Please stay safe. Do not go near the building.”

Somehow you smile, all teeth and weary wry. “I won’t. Thank you.” Once she hangs up a single look is brought to the roof, like God was sighing.

Before opening the door, you take in your last breath of clean-ish air. Hell’s Kitchen always smells like smoke, but being at a source is new. It's an angry, plume visible in the white moonlight. A cloud fitting for what’s being burned.

Simba’s waiting for you at the backdoors, no tiny ovals puffing against the glass. “Ready to go, bud?” He barks again, pulling at the vest attaching him to the seatbelt.

Flung on the floor there’s a neon green leash, but you can’t tell how well you’d handle him with your shoulder. You put it on anyway. It doesn’t hurt until he resists your steps.

Spasms burst along the arm. “Simba!” Voice a rasp, you swirl to him, and on the ground, Simba sniffs at something under the taxi. Tail wagging. You continue in a softer tone. “What’s wrong?”

Peering over his head, the orange glow from the fire allows you to see what he sniffs. A fallen strip of black cloth. “Is he here?” The pain in you subsides. Of course, he’d be here, just, why?

Eagerly, you hold the cloth to his nose, mind running through various search commands. Confusing him by using vocab different than he’s used to is the last thing either of you needed.

“Find it!”

Basic, general command. The right one. Simba pauses, flicks his tail twice, then lowers his head. Before he starts pulling, you switch the hand holding the leash. Save yourself from his strength.

Whenever he tugs down the sidewalk they sting, but he slows often enough for you to recuperate. Simba sniffs in a circle, the smoke is stronger here. It’s affecting your nose, snot building in the nostrils, what it’d do to his nose is beyond your expertise.

“Easy, easy. You got it, bud.” The praise is the best you got, even if it’s muffled by your palm covering your nose. Simba barks. “Found some—” His lunge forward shoots black clouds at the corners of your vision, you stumble, hand bracing on the steel of a streetlamp.

Claire is the first name you think of when the pain clears, murmuring pleas as you check the stitches. “Oh thank god.” None were opened. Her warning is still followed.

At your feet, Simba’s head is tilted at you. It reminds you of a more exaggerated version of Matt’s own habit. “Strong, aren’t you?” You show him the cloth. “Here, it’s okay. Find it, Simba.” His nose nudges your fingers for three seconds, then he’s on the move again, only this time he looks back at you more, letting you catch your breath.

Sounds of sirens grow closer, your ears strain to ascertain who it is. Too high-pitched for a fire truck. Police, maybe, and Simba’s leading you right to them.

          It gets easier to breathe the further he takes you in the cannery grounds. To Lot: 15, an outer yard drenched in dirty yellow, the kind from old sodium bulbs that makes blood look black.

Two police cruisers sit half-parked, doors open. Officers are face down nearby. Unmoving. Their uniforms the same as yours. Simba barks and noses to the masked man standing between them. Blood on his knuckles.

“(Y/n)?” His body freezes. “Damnit,” he storms among the puddles on the pavement, toward you. The rain had just missed the fire. “What the hell are you doing here? You—”

Heart in your throat, you rack the gun’s slide. The finality hums in your bones. “Stay there,” Your arm lifts, stitched bicep screaming, the muzzle points ahead. Breathe in two, try exhaling three.

Back straight, he stops mid-step. “Don’t shoot.”

“What did you do?”

The goal is to be authoritative, not choked up, a concept your voice hasn’t caught on to. It still sees him knelt in front of you, that the blood on his hands was yours instead—that his hands were the ones shaking.

His head turns like he just realized those officers were there. “They work for Fisk.” The man plows out a breath, approaching with a held-up palm till he freezes.

“Move!” His palm yanks you behind a tall stack of wood pallets, the man’s chest covering your back. The force spikes pain that’s muffled by only sound.

Four gunshots.

Not a clean crack. A thick, wet pop that swallows the echo. Liquid in the muzzle. Through the pallet slats, someone’s shooting from the floor, not an officer, they're in muddled blacks by a chain link fence behind them. Their grip on the gun is fraught, aiming vaguely where you and the man were. “Stay here,” The man’s hand squeezes your forearm and the fingers there flex around empty space.

Fear catches you then, it drags a spear where neon green should be. “Wait,” His warmth disappears from your back, footsteps in time with Simba’s barks.

“Simba!”

Propelling yourself off the corners of the pallets, you chase after Simba. It’s a darkened clash of color. Red. Black. Green. Topped by the yellow lights overhead.

What brings the scene together is a red streak slamming into a man on the floor. That’s Aaron, crouched over the shooter. The pistol in their hand goes limp, it’s caked in blood. Probably jammed the muzzle. It clatters on the concrete for two breathless seconds till Aaron scoops it up.

Above, the masked man towers over him. “Who are you.” Simba, ever friendly, stares at the shadow, his leash circling his paws. But Aaron puts hands on his spine, tucking him away from the man.

If tonight ever ends, one thing you’ll remember is Aaron’s eyes. They’re almost covered by his red hood, powdered with ash, yet wide enough to process. Aaron is scared, of him.

“He’s with me!” Your boots skid on a puddle beside the masked man, water kicking up to your shins. “Are you okay?”

“I’m fine.”

“Yeah, I’m alright.”

Distant sirens fill the beat of silence. Fire trucks this time, the horn is deeper.

A jinx. Here, multiple men are laying on the floor. It stuck out more than Simba’s neon green leash. “I meant Aaron, sorry—”

“Aaron?” The man’s arm knocks into yours when he fully turns to you. Tone sharp. “The one that kidnapped you?”

Shivers go up your spine to your shoulders, of course this would bother him. “He was forced.” Still looking at Aaron, or avoiding him, you graze where he touched your elbow. “Me and him talked it out.”

“And you trusted him.”

There’s a long drag between his remark and you meeting the cowl over his head. Lips in a firm line, as if you were the unbelievable one here. “I trusted you the same way.”

Petrichor, only hints of it, the rest shrouded under the neighboring smoke. It flashes pictures of the masked man at your window, drenched in rain. The first time you two met, you had pulled a gun on him then too. Funny, because you thought so many things have changed since then.

“That’s… different.” He says.

“You broke into my apartment, telling me things I still don’t understand how you know.” Your hand ticks off the charges, but the rest blur in your head. “And I still trusted you. Because I wanted something to believe in.”

That stops him. No remark, no further argument. Just the ash shifting on his shoulders as if the weight got heavier.

But you wanted him to say something. Badly. Your fingers twitch, one impulse away from just shaking him. To talk or at least trust Aaron. “And—and now barely a day after you cut me off I hear about you killing someone?”

He moves then, arms unfold. Fast, but speaks slow. You're thankful, because you could process each word.

“I didn’t kill anyone.”

Golden sparks glitter in your chest, almost pump-a-fist worthy. The world is clicked back into place. “Okay.”

Excellent, actually, but too many syllables to manage right now. Save your breath to survey the shooter. Face. Body. Bullet in his leg. “And…” Through the blood and soot, strands of dirty blonde peek out. “What happened to him?”

“An officer shot him.” He lowers himself to put the blonde man in a fireman's carry. At the ground, he’s face-to-face with Aaron who flinches. “This is your boss, right?” The question is a half-rasp. “Or is it that Fisk?”

Aaron’s head follows the masked man’s rise up, he stays squatted, mouth ajar. “I’m not tryna start anything, man.” He draws the leash closer to his chest. “Me and Vladimir barely talked. I ain’t got a clue.”

“He means it,” Stepping in between them, you nearly touch the masked man’s chest holding your hands up. “Our supervisor Blake put him up to this, not the Russians.”

The man let out a heavy sigh, his height is slouched under the blond man’s weight on him, which makes you two more level with each other. Although, all you see is grey-dusted black cloth where his eyes would be.

“Fine,” his posture straightens and a notch in you loosens. “You two need to get out, now.”

That notch pops, retightening everything to what it was before. Below, Simba whines, collar rattling after the man heading to the chain link fence. “Hey, you can’t just walk away with him bleeding on your back.” You follow him to the fence’s entrance. “We need to stabilize him.”

“I’m handling it.” He retorts but when your footsteps halt, his do too. About two yards ahead, you watch Vladimir’s body get adjusted over the man. “You're hurt, just… go somewhere safe.” His breathing clips. “Please.”

Please. The word floats in your ribs alongside those sparks. Flickers, now. “Don’t do this.” You mumble, not even sure what you’re telling him. Don’t leave. Don’t tell me to leave.

Neither of those things happen. If anything his steps get faster, just another shade of black in the night.

So much for finding him, your eyes tear back to Simba, his nose pointing further into the cannery grounds. He could get him, he had the scent, but your body is melting in on itself. Hot and cold at once, you couldn't keep up this time.

“(Y/n),” Aaron said slowly, “Maybe your friend gots a point, it’s pretty bad out there. We should go before the roads close.”

“You’re not, going anywhere.”

The voice yanks you around. “Duncan?” He’s not even on his feet when he speaks, still picking himself off the ground. Duncan, smooth and collected. There’s a bruise on his face, uniform rumpled, jaw twitching. Next to a Russian base.

‘They work for Fisk.’

His warning replays quicker each officer you scan, Sterna is one of them, face pushed in the concrete. Outside of him, Duncan is the only other one you recognize. They work for Fisk.

Raising his gun, Duncan’s panting shakes how straight his aim is. Up. Labored the way down. “You’re under arrest.” He points the muzzle at you and Aaron. “Both of you.”

“Arrest us? The hell are you—”

“Don’t.” Duncan doesn't move his lips, like they’ll rip, he stomps a foot toward Aaron. It causes Simba to growl, a low, feral warning. “I heard everything. It's all here.” His fist clamps over the body cam at his chest. “Every word.”

Caught. Not just you. Aaron. All of it. Everything you risked happening when agreeing to work with the masked man. “Duncan, we can talk about this.”

“No!” The gun whips to you. His boot splashes a puddle. Bitter. Cold. “I didn’t suffer through all this for you to walk away, especially you. Drop your weapons. Now.”

Air sucks your breath to the gun’s barrel. Zeroing in on a single tunnel. Control, familiar, it's the same gun you have. Yet a little light flutters in your chest. It whispers, ‘just maybe.’

“Whatever they’re forcing you to do—”

“I’m not being forced into anything.” He snaps. Stomping that light. “Drop your weapons. I won’t repeat myself again.”