The Average Spider-Man

(WORK IN PROGRESS)

Summary: “If you never bleed you're never going to grow.”

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-

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 in 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 ain't got 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.

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

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.”

Author's Note: ALL SPANISH IS DONE BY GOOGLE TRANSLATE IM SO SORRY GANG, I'm bad at being Hispanic. But in better news, me and this chapter were fighting but eventually sorted out differences. Lyric: “My brain's no good at fighting, my hands are tied and I'm out loose, and I'm no good at lying. I'm better at denying the consequence that stands. Damn, I need a helping hand. Day like no other, and just another bad day.” — beabadoobe

Masterlist

It was a blur after that. All you knew was that the nurses made you pull away from that hug too soon.

Once they confirm your panic attack didn’t mess with anything physically, you’re discharged under strict conditions: Come back the second your head feels nauseous or dizzy, if pus forms in your stitches, abdominal pain, plus the classic take-it-easy restrictions.

Claire is the nurse to see you off, a bag of medication in hand. “Okay, there’s antibiotics, painkillers." She holds up a bottle, eyes a firmer warning than any bright label. “This’s acetaminophen, it'll knock you out so be careful.” Putting the bottle back she lists the final item. “And there’s a sling you can put on if your shoulder starts crying wolf.”

“Sounds like a party.” You tuck your hands into the stiff, new police uniform, one Blake provided. Stripped of a badge and radio. Uniform in name only.

“That’s the spirit.”

She holds out the bag but Foggy intercepts. “I got it,” he says. The small bag hoisted over his shoulder. “Need her in tip-top shape for the next favor she owes me.”

The real tragedy is that your shoulder is too sore to elbow Foggy. This recovery is harder than anticipated. “Thanks, Foggy.” Your volume is low—body still getting used to being on its feet again. “You too, Claire. Thank you.”

Adjusting the woolly coat collar away from her neck, Claire inhales, holding that breath as she looks at you. “Thank me by getting some rest.”

Alarms from an approaching ambulance wail in the distance. Someone's hurt. In your pockets, you force your fingers to ease. “I will,” the phrase doesn't taste like a lie, yet you aren't confident you’ll keep it. “Be safe, Claire.”

“You too, be safe.” She opens her arms and a smile spins on your face, all too happy to accept the hug. Claire must’ve applied a new spritz of perfume before leaving, the antiseptic clinging to her clothes is overshadowed by a flowery scent. It’s pleasant, so you linger a touch longer. “See you later, alright?” Claire steps away, keys coming out her coat. “And, I swear, if you wind up here before getting your stitches out, I’m leaving them open.”

Her threat buzzes a happy yellow inside your chest. “Dully noted.” Waving goodbye, Claire gives one last smile, then disappears to her car somewhere in the parking lot.

Despite not being sure you’ll rest, you hope Claire gets some herself. She got kidnapped too. Still, she’s here taking care of you. Heart of a nurse, that’s for sure.

You turn around to face your friends, and they’re standing side by side. “Ready to go home?” Karen asks. The wind has picked up, or it was always that way, and the morning breeze flutters in her hair.

Almost wincing, you scratch an nonexistent itch on your nose. Part of you agrees with Karen. Go home, crawl into bed, forget all of it. The other half, won’t let Elena Cardenas’s name fly away.

“Actually, there’s something I wanted to talk to you guys about.”

“(Y/n)…” Matt says slowly.

“Nothing bad!” The protest is reflexive, defensive of a prospect you haven’t made yet. “I mean, it’s helpful.”

To the firm, the part you don’t say during your retelling of Elena. About her situation, her life. “I don’t know what’s up with her landlord, but it can’t be a coincidence I got kidnapped barely a minute after I texted him.”

“And you want us,” Foggy gestures between him and Matt. “To be her lawyers.” Not a question, he’s clarifying. The depth of what you're asking them hits you all at once.

A definitely pro-bono case that’s related to the same people who put you in the hospital.

For a breathless beat, your gaze lowers to the worn-in stone leading to Metro General’s entrance. “Only if you guys want to.” The confidence you’ve been talking with drips to the edge of your uniform sleeve. “I wouldn’t force you to take a case like this.”

“We’ll take it.” Matt’s cane taps on those stones, a single click that lifts your eyes.

At his right, Foggy drags a hand down his cheek. Mumbling till he swings it to his side. “This is up our alley, isn’t it?” He said to himself.

“But,” Karen steps forward. Cautious, yet fast, like she was trying to block the other two from what she’s about to say. “Are you sure you want to do this right now? You—” She stops, but her meaning is clear.

Police habit, you try putting your hands behind your back, it tugs a stitch. Not helping. “Mrs. Cardenas told me about all sorts of housing violations she can’t prove,” you swallow the grimace. “And now that Tully works with the Russians somehow, I’m worried it’ll get worse than just a cut wire. I can’t let that happen.”

          Outside Elena’s building, two blocks from the subway you four took, the first thing you notice is that your police vehicle is gone. 417. Could’ve been stolen or retrieved. The likelihood of either are closer than it should.

In your vision, the spot Aaron appeared that day blurs, but one thing stays sharp. He didn’t look like a man trying to kill you. He looked tired, maybe even cornered. And he gave Claire your phone. That has to mean something.

“(Y/n)?”

Karen’s fingers touch the sling on your shoulder. The pressure jolts your mind to the rest of you. You’ve been standing still. Get it together. “Sorry, I’m just a little on edge around here after… you know.”

They’re all quiet before Foggy squints up at the complex, hand shielding his eyes from the sun. “Yeah, I would be too.” His shoulders bounce. “Her place is rent-controlled, I’m guessing?”

“I think so?” Your brows furrow at your own uncertainty.

“Well, that explains half your problem.” Foggy flicks his thumb to the front door, a lone sparrow tweets at its steps. “This is technically a city issue. That’s why the police haven’t done anything—no offense.”

Lack of evidence, bad area. Both excuses Hoffman gave instead of the truth. “None taken.” You sigh, jutting your head to the door. “C’mon, her home is actually nicer on the inside.”

Instead of her door, Elena meets you at the elevator to it. Dressed in a long-sleeved blouse embroidered with butterflies, she gasps at the sight of you. “Officer! ¿Qué pasó?“

Instinctively, your cheek twitches to feel the bruises stretch under the bandages. Parts of the discolored skin must still show, it stings.

“Just an accident, Mrs. Cardenas. Where are you headed?”

One of her hands hesitates touching your sling, she means well, but you hate this handle-with-care treatment. “To visitarte tú!” Elena continues to inform you about a recent encounter with strange repairmen. She speaks a large portion of it in Spanish, most parts are said too hastily to translate.

Then brushing past Foggy, Matt strides to Elena. “Cuándo pasó esto?” To punctuate, your heart pings. He spoke smoothly as he does in English. It completely throws your guard when he introduces himself afterward.

Karen asks the question you’re too distracted to. “Matt knows Spanish?”

“Took it in college all four years.” Foggy leans in. His whisper an octave too loud for the name.

Turning your head toward him, you properly hush your volume. “What’re they saying?” Foggy doesn’t make it through his shrug before Karen answers, one finger on her bottom lip.

“Uh, something about her telling repairmen she’ll call you if they don’t leave—”

“(Y/n),” Your back straightens at Matt’s voice. “When did you first message Tully?”

It takes longer to respond than it should. The days were blurring together. From when you saved Gigi, to the present. “About three or two days ago, I think?” Your left arm raises but the sling prevents it from going further. “Around when Healy’s trail ended.”

Matt’s jaw locks, a tension runs along the muscle. He doesn’t elaborate till you prompt him with a small: “Why?”

“That’s when he sent those repairmen to her apartment.” Matt palms his jaw to relax it. However, the stress travels to his other hand around his cane. “They didn’t have permits, and nobody in the building was warned. So she set them away.”

The cool leather of Karen’s black purse grazes your elbow. “Do you think it’s related to what happened to…”

“It might.” He faces Elena once more, asking her if everyone could come into her apartment. Talk about the situation, Tully’s lawyers, and a pending case.

If he hadn’t spoken when he did, there would’ve been a scary moment where Karen, Foggy, and Elena were all staring at you with that worried look. Silently, you thank him for the save upon entering the orange-hued home. One Russian storm from breaking apart.

          Watching Foggy and Matt circle around Elena’s case, you’re struck by how well they fit together. Foggy fills the air, friendly and fast, while Matt hangs back, quiet—until he drops a question that slices straight through the noise. A rhythm you’ve seen before with Karen, back at the beginning, before the call that split your life in half.

Matt’s theory holds. After Elena told the fake repairmen she’d call you, Tully sent you that email, bait on a hook. You were so damn eager to take it that you didn’t stop to wonder why it dangled in the first place.

No smoking gun yet, but it’s enough to get Nelson & Murdock moving. Matt straightens, his hands wiping on his suit lapels. “I’ll hit the station. See if anyone’s filed complaints against Tully.” Accepting the cane from Foggy, it clicks open three times before hitting the floor. “You handle L & Z.”

Landman & Zac, their old internship before starting their firm. Karen had been the one to tell you this while they were deliberating with Elena.

Foggy freezes mid-nod. “What?” He sweeps down his tie like it’s the crime scene. “I can’t go there alone. They’re gonna shark attack me, Matt. Look at me, I’m delicious."

Despite his stoicism, Matt’s always an easy smile talking to Foggy. He points his cane at Karen seated next to you. “Well, take Karen.”

Your eyes study how the idea makes Foggy stammer, leaning back as if it punched him in the heart. “I-I mean, yeah, if she wants to.”

Immediately, you check Karen’s reaction for similar nerves. She meets your gaze. “Oh,” Karen switches between looking at you and Foggy, then stills on Elena. “Sure, I can go.”

“See? You got back up.” Foggy rolls his eyes at Matt’s irony. It’s supposed to be funny, everything they should be.

The thought flutters, whispers, one you could’ve easily brushed off to toss in a joke of your own, but admittedly you have a lesser grasp on yourself than usual.

You and Jessie were like that. He pulled your sleeve, murmured jokes unbecoming of a trained officer, and it was your job not to be amused or goof off with him. But he was too charming, too good of a hugger. Your slinged arm presses against your chest, trying to replicate the hug he gave you before he left that day. The last time you told him no.

“I can help.” You blurt. “I can go to the station with you, Matt. I know where they are, looked through them. There’s one where the building inspector isn’t named. We can ask about that.” Pushing forward on the couch cushion, it puts too much pressure on your abdomen. “…I’m sure they’ll let me in still.”

Regardless how well you stuff the hurt grunt in your chest, Matt hears it. His head cocks to the side. “I’ll be fine.” Bringing his cane to his chest, he turns your way. “You need to rest.”

“But—”

That came out more childish than your dignity allows, at least it causes him a small grin. “I’ll be fine.” Matt insists. “Mahoney’s there.”

Sunlight washes inside Elena’s apartment, and it hits the reds of Matt’s lenses in the exact way they did in squad car 308, like they’re on fire. Yet unlike that time, he’s smiling.

“Oh, so, Mahoney’s your guy now?”

His smile widens to a smirk. “Don’t be jealous.”

Any quips die in your scoff, unsure how to combat his lowered voice without digging a deeper hole. Jealous is a funny word. “Right, you’re all just going to abandon me.”

“For a case you provided.” Foggy reminds.

Smug doesn’t suit him, you deadpan when out of nowhere, Karen squeezes your hand, the contact unprompted, unnecessary.

Because she wanted to. You need time to process that. Half-waiting for someone’s grip to mean pain again, not comfort. But Karen is nothing like that. It undoes the tight coil in your spine in a way words can’t.

“We’ll come back.” She stood up, dashing invisible dust off her purse, eyes gentle. Too knowing. “If it’s okay with you, Mrs Cardenas?”

Sitting on the chair in front of you, Elena nods multiple times. “Of course, of course, estaría feliz de cuidarla.” She walks to where you're seated. “Le debo mucho.”

Three people are towering over you now, both Karen and Matt appear taller from your position. Especially with Matt’s head tilted at like that.

Even if none of them know what you’re thinking, your heart feels exposed. “Alright, you win.” Your arm folds under the sling to keep your heart in its ribcage. “Be safe.”

“We will,” Matt says, like he knows what you’re thinking. You want to believe him. Almost do.

Doted on.

The last time you’ve considered yourself doted on would be in Long Island. After saving that old woman stuck in the rain, you got sick. Sick in health. Sick of the idea more people like her wouldn’t receive the same kindness.

Your mother coaxed those grievances out of you similar to how Elena’s treating you now. A heavy blanket with a black and white tiger on it draped over your lap, multiple pieces of food, and disarming small talk about her day before striking in real questions. Hard to fool someone triple your age.

When explaining the bruises, you pray she wouldn’t feel guilty. You know you would.

Instead, she hugs you. “Rest, mija.”

And she leaves like she didn’t just shatter your ribcage. Mouth agape, the pieces tumble to your stomach, piercing the bruises there too, your free hand twists the fabric covering them. But your eyes stay on Elena’s frame washing dishes, her back facing you.

It’s a good thing. The scene gets blurry. Tears. In a flurry, you blink them away, taken aback by your own reaction.

Rest, probably worth your while.

Snuck beneath the heavy blanket, that medical bag is pressed on your knee. Reaching for it, you remove the sling, mindlessly stuffing it in till you hit the mug your friends gave you.

Half because you want to be trusted to hold an object heavier than bread, you bring out the mug.

Instantly, you recognize the black fabric inside it and press the mug on your lap in fear it’ll explode.

The masked man’s tourniquet. Why did Claire give you this? Your thumb rubs along the threads, he ran around in the cold, got punched, in this. It’s so thin.

He really dared to call you the reckless one. A huff follows you pocketing the fabric in the mug, to throw it away, yet when your reflection flashes on your phone screen seconds later, it doesn’t look mad.

Tabs among tabs of missed calls, texts, line on the lockscreen. Karen is the first name you see. Mia second. Your finger stops on Meghan’s, it continues with a harder swipe.

Stranger, 12:53 a.m.

There were two calls from him, minutes apart. The initial call is the one Claire made after Aaron gave her your phone, has to be—you open his contact. The most recent message is you asking if he made it to Long Island.

Whatever text you send now, there’s only one shot at it. Either he’d block you, or… you’re not sure what the worst-case scenario is here.

A pathway in your mind treats this like a hostage situation. Know your suspect, got that. Gain trust, probable. Identify motives, no clue.

Focus on what you have.

‘Aaron I’m not going to report you. I want to work with you so I can learn what the Russians are planning. I know they're forcing you into this. And we can take them down, no matter how deep this goes. Just say the word, I’ll help you.’

Utter word vomit, yet it’s all true. Clicking send, you’re not granted an answer till the sky turns orange. He calls.

Elena is downstairs watching a neighbor’s baby until his mom comes back from the store. You’re keen to avoid questions later. “Aaron?”

This better not be a trap, and it has every reason to be.

His voice is muffled. “You really mean all that?”

“I wouldn’t lie.” On the power button, your finger taps against it. “If we work together… We can be each other’s person on the inside, we can stop them from the inside. You just need to trust me.”

There’s a scrape, cloth-on-cloth, his volume clears. “Trust ain’t the problem.” He sighs, “I don’t want anyone else gettin’ hurt, (Y/n). I already saw you get beat last night.”

“I’m fine.” Your head shakes. “We don’t need to fight them, Aaron. I need information. The more we have, the more evidence we can collect. No one needs to get hurt, we’ll be smart.”

Out of all reactions, Aaron chuckles, you could count the breaths between each sound. “You don't know what you're getting into—”

Cold sweat flares in your neck. “I know exactly what I'm getting to. I have for a long time.” For trying to get Aaron on your side, that’s harsher than it should be. “Are you with me or not?”

For a scary beat you thought you've pushed too hard, a plan to backtrack revving in your mind. Obviously, that taped lid on your emotions needs reinforcing as of late.

“Yeah, I'm with you.” His exhale ruffles in the mic. “It’s why I called—Vladimir, our main guy, he chasin’ Fisk and your guy big time after what went down.”

Fisk, the name is a fable. At least with Wesley, you had a face.

“You mean the parking garage?” A shudder claws your neck, one you force back in the mental jar. “Fisk was related to that?”

“Huh?” Aaron stutters. “No, man. Vladimir's brother, the masked guy killed him.”

You don't even process that. It’s wrong, that's wrong. “No way,” The finger tapping drains to your legs. “He doesn't kill. It's the first thing he told me when we worked together.”

“His mask was in the body bag.”

“He…” the blanket felt too hot on your body. He wouldn't. He saves cats, children, women, you. “He doesn't kill.”

“Alright, alright.” More shifting, denim against leather this time. “I don't know him like that. But that's just what I heard.”

Did you even know him like that? You push off the blanket. “Anything else?”

“Uhh, this all kinda recent. Vladimir just sent out orders to bring out all their weapons and—shit, I shouldn’t be saying this here.”

“Then come to me,” You sit at the edge of the cushion, the thick thumps in your pulse numb any aches. “I’m at that apartment you saw me at.”

Aaron hisses at the memory. “Sorry about that, by the way.”

Clicks from the front door echo inside the home. “It's fine, meet me here soon.” Manners elude you—two inches from the end call button before you add. “And thank you.”

In time with your farewell, the front door creaks open. Elena enters, a pot of indoor flowers in her arm. Your chest stings when you stand; meeting her halfway to both talk and warm up your muscles from sitting all day.

Author's Note: I think the literary ghost of Christmas past possessed me during this. I was writing my ass off. And I was like (Y/n) is a no. 1 Super Trouper and I ain't even done with her yet. IT'S NOT MY FAULT IT'S ONLY EPISODE FIVE. which is called World on Fire so I had to give a bang, right? Next chapter I'm hype for, I'm hype for a lot tho sooooo.

Masterlist

Antiseptic and cooling gel sting in your nostrils, it offers something to focus on besides Claire mumbling on the phone. She hasn’t brought up the argument, likely out of respect for your condition. She'll ask sooner or later.

“They got a room for you,” Claire sets her phone on her lap. “It’s ready when you are.”

Metro General, the hospital Claire works at. After re-stitching she informed you she wants to take you there. Check your shoulder, stomach, head, for damage she can’t see.

“You think they’ll take my work insurance?” Left arm tucked around your stomach, you sit up wincing at your joke.

Claire comes to assist you the rest of the way. “I think the hospital will take your statement before billing you.” She keeps her hands on your shoulders until you nod you’re okay. “They might even deduct a few hundred depending on how much you play up the heroics.”

On your feet for the first time in Claire’s apartment, new details reveal themselves. Most are different bags tossed about the home, a beige diaper bag being one of them, but it’s filled with healthcare equipment. A stethoscope hung over the main pocket. Her work bag. Claire tucks the stethoscope back in then heaves its strap onto her shoulder.

“Took care of a lot of police officers before, huh?” You follow Claire to the door. Slowly, not because it hurts, rather because your body didn’t trust itself to move. “Or is that just experience?”

Keys jingling, Claire unlocks the door, holding it open for you. “I did for a bit,” The door clicks behind you both. “Nowadays, I’ve been taking care of your partner more than my own patients.”

Your heartbeat jumps while your muscles freeze. Each settles down quickly. “How do you know him?” Your volume hushes, like he could hear it.

“My neighbor found him half dead in my dumpster. He brought him up here and… the rest is history I guess.” She shrugs, hands inside her coat jacket. A strong wool one that scratches the open tear in your sleeve as you two walk.

“He told me about that, when we saved a kid from the Russians.” The memory is oddly fond, nostalgic even, for a time that wasn’t long ago. Warm rice, glinting police stickers, and brownstone streets. All the good parts. “I should’ve thought to ask where he got those stitches done.” You find it in yourself to smile. “All your handiwork, right?”

She smiles back, footsteps echoing throughout the stairwell chamber. “All my handiwork.” Every few steps Claire glances at you, a silent check-up. “He told me about you, you know.”

“He did?”

At the bottom of the stairs, you two stop at the doorway. Pale streetlights peek in from the one window, a single silver strip across Claire’s face.

“Two days ago, I think. I was patching him up from a fight with the Russians at their base. I asked him how he found it, and he told me a cop he’s been working with gave him the clues.”

It’s hardly a worthwhile fact, he was just being honest to her. Still, your hands flex, anticipating. What does he say about you when you’re not around?

“I was surprised someone like him was working with anyone, especially a cop. So I pressed some more, see what he’ll tell me. Not a lot.” She muses that last part to the stale air. “Eventually I asked why you weren’t beaten up right alongside him… he said it was because you were a hell of a lot smarter than him.”

There’s a dark prick in your heart, but you chuckle anyway. “Guess he was wrong.” You bounce your injured shoulder, regret it immediately.

Claire doesn’t move, her eyes scanning your frame in the style that makes you feel too seen. “Maybe. But thanks for what you did back there, seriously, I mean it." She frees her hands from her coat to wipe them on its hem. “That’s a lot of pain you took on for someone you don’t know.”

“I’m just glad you’re okay.”

Neither of you speak further, continuing toward her car. A black sedan. On the back window sits a faded sticker of some college emblem you couldn’t make out.

Buckled into the passenger seat, Claire hesitates putting her key in the exhaust. “Sorry, I have to ask you.” She stares at the wheel. “How did you two meet?”

The black tourniquet from the man’s shirt feels tighter, regardless of the fact it’s loosened. “It’s more complicated than fishing him out your dumpster.” A corner of your lip quirks up. “Lots of stuff that doesn't make sense. Stuff I wished I asked him before he… well, left.”

“He’ll come around. Trust me.” She turns on the car. Its engine a long rumble before the dials light up. “I was in a relationship like that, and he was a vigilante too.”

Frantic warmth spreads from your chest before reaching your cheeks. The implication hits you harder than the real information. “We’re not—”

“I know.” She almost sings the words. Smug? You study her tiny smile for an answer. “Look, I’m not trying to pry on you two’s business. Just, I know what it’s like to be on the other side of an overprotective shutdown. You’ll work it out.”

Part of you thinks she’s right, though it’s also the part that throws your life on the line. You force a different topic. “Wait, so, you dated a vigilante?”

That should’ve been the first question out your mouth, it’s a thousand times more important than whatever you’re fighting. Dating a vigilante. Claire of all people, a woman so grounded tangled in life you knew was everything but.

“Tell me about it.” She sighs. By then Claire had pulled out the parking lot onto the main roads. Red lights, white, green, all reflect into the car. Her voice spoke of silent experience, whoever she dated, it was clearly for a while and left a lasting impression.

It’s hard to imagine what that would be like, or so you would think, Claire parallels it to you and the masked man. Already, you sense that image forming, and you scrub it out but the idea is there.

         Scans of your left shoulder, stomach, and head took longer than you expected. Claire said their hospital is overrun with victims of gang violence, or the gang members themselves.

In the end, she told you to rest, an activity that was harder than it should’ve been. None of the body parts you got scanned hurt till now—the adrenaline long gone. What saves you is the dull throb in your skull, exhausting your psyche.

But once the sun starts humming gold streaks through the cracked blinds of the hospital room, your eyes hiss away from it. Akin to a hangover, with the addition of a boulder being strapped to your right arm. While liftable, you definitely didn’t want to.

“Morning, hero.” Over on a maroon chair, Claire held her coat to her chest. Bags under her eyes. The sleep she advised you to get was not a luxury she afforded herself. “Sleep well?”

“I think I passed out more than I slept.” You flex your good arm, the one the IV drip is attached to. “It feels like I got microwaved.”

That earns a laugh, you try to join but something in your abdomen burns. “Pain’ll do that.” Claire walks to your bedside. “The results came in while you were asleep. Good news there’s no internal bleeding, so we aren’t going to be breathing down your neck. Bad news, you have a minor concussion and there’s contusions all over you. Those bruises aren’t going away anytime soon.”

At your attempt to sit higher, Claire helps you from putting pressure anywhere unwanted. Situated upright, your fingers graze the bandages covering the bruises on your cheekbones. “That sounds about right.”

“You know the drill, no gang busting for a few weeks. Ice that shoulder often, watch your head, and a nurse is going to come by with prescriptions for the rest of you.”

“My mom says ‘you know the drill’ a lot.”

Unrelated, you have no clue why you said it. Could be because you wish you’re home right now. Claire smiles, a small tilt in the lips. “Your mom sounds like a smart woman.”

Your mind blurs in memories of Long Island. It’s in that moment where a new ache blooms in your body, a deeper one. For the beach. You want to see the ocean, the sand scratch your legs, and the color blue after seeing so much red.

The emotions must be scrawled over your face since Claire rests her hand on your wrist. Soft. “It’ll be okay.” She says. “I called some of your friends to let them know you're here.” When your brows furrow she sinks her free hand into her pocket to give your phone. “A woman named Karen has been calling you non-stop. She’s on her way with two others, I think. Hard to tell, they were all talking over each other.”

Karen. You pace your breathing with the name. That means Matt and Foggy are coming. That’s good, you need to see them.

“Okay,” your shoulders relax. “Thank you.”

Hand still on your wrist, Claire squeezes. “Still, are there any family members we should contact?”

The last thing you wanted to be asked right now. “I don’t have any family nearby. They’re all in Montauk.” Beeps from the monitor beside your bed seemingly grow louder. “I’m here on—on a transfer.”

It would’ve been an easy lie to tell yourself. You’re hurting. That stutter didn’t mean anything. But you’ll know, you’ve poured everything into this city. Being a transfer sounds like a cover-up.

“We can still contact them, if you want.”

“No,” A smile you never gave before shows itself, it's a scramble of wistfulness and genuine sadness. “I don’t want to worry them about some stitches and bruising.”

For a bit, Claire doesn't reply, giving time for you to change your mind. “(Y/n), this is a serious thing that’s happened to you. I—”

“It’s for the best, Claire.” You cut off gently. “I couldn’t even tell them everything anyway. I don’t want to lie to them.”

They don’t need to know what their daughter is wrapped up in.

Sighing, she lets go of your wrist. “So what are you going to tell the police? Your supervisor already knows, he’s coming to get your statement.”

The question speeds out your mouth, it’s hope, it’s fear, it’s your muscles coiling under the bruises. Supervisor better not mean the captain. “Detective Blake?”

Claire blinks. “Uh, yeah. I’m pretty sure that was his name.”

Everything slows, even the beeping of the monitor being fed a secret straight from the heart. You settle back in the bed, voice flatter than you mean it. “Don’t worry. I’ll tell him the truth.”

         Out of your two sets of visitors, you nearly pray Blake would be the first to show. Get him out of the way. Instead, Karen pushes open the door, Matt and Foggy behind her. The boys were in matching navy suits, intentional? While Karen’s in a pinstripe blouse, her hands wiping at her black pencil skirt.

“Hey, you guys.” You wave your IV-ed hand. “Looks like you really were worried about me.”

“What gave it away?“ Foggy enters the room first, nodding to the bag on his arm. It’s a bag from the bodega near their office. Red letters repeating the phrase ‘thank you’ on it.

Too tired to examine what could be inside, you let it be. “Probably the goody bag you got there.”

He sets the bag in your lap. Its weight is heavier than you predicted. “Handpicked and approved by each of us.” Foggy declares. “We thought we should get you something on the way here, and Karen said you had a thing for mugs.”

The word mug perks your eyebrows up. “You got me a mug?” Like a Christmas present, you unwrap the brown paper around the mug.

On its inside it says: You’ve been poisoned! In a childish black ink font.

A breath bounces off the shiny ceramic. It’s sweet, overly sweet. Your heart couldn’t take how much it wanted this mug, from them specifically, the tips of your fingers stutter along its purple rim. They were worried about you, took time to remember, to decide what you’d like.

And you did, you really did.

“Aw. Guys, I love it, thank you so much.”

That’s nowhere near enough to express the emotional investment you put into their gift. This is a reward to you.

Looking up from the mug, the three of them are staring at the grin you didn’t realize was there. “I thought you might like it,” Karen murmurs, her hand going to the railing of your bed.

“Who you really should be thanking is Matt.” Foggy points to Matt whose head dips down once mentioned. “He had to play the blind card to get us all in here.”

You’re eyeing Matt’s poorly hidden expression. The smile on his face only grew after the remark. There’s something bashful about it that quiets your own grin. “The blind card?”

Matt lets go of Foggy’s arm to bring his hand to the cane at his chest. “The hospital usually only allows two people at a time.” He explains, his smirk peaking through. “But I told the staff I needed Foggy to… lead me around the place.”

“So you turned Foggy into your seeing-eye dog to get him in? You know that’s illegal, right?” Everyone laughs, but when you do, it jostles your body, causing you to curl in yourself, hissing slightly.

Their smiles fall and you hate it. The flicker of normalcy with them is fused out. “Are you okay?” Karen leans forward, her blonde strands framing the blueness of her eyes, making them pop in color.

Over her shoulder, Foggy’s head peers in. “Yeah, that nurse told us what happened…” He frowns. “You look pretty bad.”

“I’m fine, or well, better.” You sling your left arm around your stomach, fingers gripping the hospital gown. “There’s actually something I wanted to tell you guys.”

Before any of them could encourage you to continue, a knocking at the door turns Foggy and Karen’s heads. Matt stays facing you, his hands firm on his cane.

A nurse comes in, Lelia, she guided you for those scans last night. Kind young woman. She’s holding the door open for somebody much less kind. Blake. Your body buzzes in a way the monitor makes too public.

“I’m sorry everyone but I’m going to have to ask you all to step out for a moment.” Lelia bows her head to your friends. “Officer (L/n)’s statement is going to be taken and we need everyone out the room.”

They agree, quietly, Karen eyes Blake the most between her and Foggy, who glances back at you instead. The door clicks, cutting off the rest of the available air.

“Nice mug you got there.”

Blake stands at the foot of your bed, the golden badge around his neck catching the sunlight coming through the window. Police badges aren’t on your side anymore, not right now, not with him.

“Didn’t realize you guys became buddies.” He slides his hands in his pockets. Inside it he’s holding something, your eyes squint at it but your mind is uncooperative in piecing together its shape. You can’t tell if it’s your injuries that’re holding you back, or Blake’s presence.

The mug in your lap is brought closer to your already protected stomach. If it didn’t make you appear so vulnerable, you would’ve stuck it under your hospital blanket. Keep this piece of pure goodness away from his eyes.

“Good morning to you too, Detective.”

Unreactive to your dry tone, Blake strides to your bedside, a red-tipped recorder out that pocket, he clicks it to life. “Good morning, Officer. Hope you’re feeling better.” The recorder’s activated ping drills into your ears, too loud. “Let’s start from the top.”

If relieving your kidnapping could be called easy, Blake leads with easy questions first. What happened? Where were you? Why? Aaron’s the only thing you hide. Not to lie. To save the accusation for later.

Now. Blake powers off the device after you answer how you escaped. “The man in the mask set you free?” He repeats, slow, and with a quirked brow. “Are you sure that happened?”

“Are you asking if I’m lying to the station or to you?” This is it. Wincing through the pressure leaning forward puts on your abdomen, you lift your gaze to Blake’s.

The neutral white walls surrounding him close in, imagining the gossip they could tell afterward. Blake knows what you’re saying. “Is there a difference?

“There shouldn’t be.” You flex your hands around the blanket pooling on your lap. “But I think I speak for everyone at the 15th that they know you and Hoffman are connected to what’s going on in Hell’s Kitchen.”

He shoves the recorder in his pocket. Everything’s off the record now. “Listen here—”

“Everyone sees it!” Your volume rises. Quicker than it should’ve, you aren’t supposed to be this worked up. “They just don’t say anything, but I’m going to. I know it’s all connected.” In a rush, you swing your legs over the edge of the bed to properly face him. “So listen to me, what does the name James Wesley mean to you?”

Your breathing is labored while you wait for Blake to answer. His shoulders are bunched taut to his head, those dark set brows you always noted about him strung in a tight line. “The hell did you get that name?”

“I got an ID from you in his car a couple days ago, it’s a car that I’ve also seen nearby Veles Taxis. Want to know where?” You press your hands into your thighs, eyes blinking owlishly on purpose before narrowing them. “Those files you kept hidden in your desk.”

Blake draws away from you—the window’s light doesn’t touch him now. For a scarce second, you think you had him. “You mean the ones Jessie McNair took?” Crossing his arms across his chest, the muscles in his cheeks twitch upward.

Inside your mouth, it feels numb, or the worst case of cotton tongue the world’s ever seen. It’s not even that he knew Jessie took them, it’s the fact he said his name.

Jessie McNair. He shouldn’t say that name, not then, and especially not after what he told you.

“Want to know how I know that?” Blake dusts his hands on his suit, stalking nearer. “An officer told me, said she saw him digging through my things and run off with those files. I think you know her. Meghan, right?”

All the blood inside you stops flowing, enough to drown out the heart monitor that has been getting faster and faster. Swallowing, you croak. “Meghan?”

He closes in, and he’s wearing pine cologne. Pine. Your mind goes black, the black of Pavel’s shoes, the black of the wet concrete. The monitor blares, which only worsens how ragged your breaths have gotten.

“Don’t test me, Officer.” His voice hits your cheek, it feels like a punch. Pavel’s punching you—you scoot further back in the hospital bed. Gasping for air. “Or I’ll have you shot in the same goddamn alley.”

“Stop!” You don’t know who you’re yelling to, Blake, Pavel’s punches, or you’re begging Jessie to stop. Stop and stay for dinner with you that night.

A team of nurses, maybe, burst through the door. It’s another punch. You duck your head down trying to dodge it. There’s too many sounds. One voice, Lelia’s, tells Blake he needs to leave. He didn’t argue. Just his shoes retreating across the tile, the first breath you could take without tasting pine.

Next, a weight settles on your knee. Warm, really warm. “It’s me.” Your vision clears. “You’re okay.”

Red frames. Calm voice. “Matt?” His touch is heat against the cold in your veins, a point on the map you could cling to.

You blink, in case it was fake. It’s not, he’s real. Matt nods, wetting his lips, they open to speak further. Then his hand was gone. Replaced by cooler fingers that shook as they found yours.

“(Y/n), it’s okay. I know you’re scared.” Karen. She presses your palm to her chest. Her heart was racing, but steady in a way yours wasn’t. “But you’re safe. Trust me.”

The monitor still beeped fast, but it wasn’t screaming anymore. “(Y/n)?” Focusing on Karen again, your fingers twitch on the top button of her blouse. Blue pinstripes. Blue like the ocean.

“Yeah,” You exhale, breath catching. “I’m okay.”

Karen instantly folds you into her, and you slump into her powdery-clean scent, letting your non-stitched arm go around her. She’s a good hiding place. A second pair of arms wraps into the hug. Foggy, muttering about how much he hated Blake.

Matt didn’t join them. You couldn’t see him, but you knew he’s there, a shadow just beyond the circle. In that space between you two, one thought lodged hard in your chest: Meghan knew what Jessie did.

Author's Note: high key guys, you get your shit rocked in this one. And yk that Wildflower x The Cut That Always Bleeds mashup on Tiktok? You can pretty much play that throughout this entire thing. I'm sorry, this had to happen at some point.

Masterlist

You had woken up in the back of a taxi cab a long time ago—a goddamn taxi. Gagged, hands and legs duct taped together, and a thrumming ache down the nape of your neck.

The taxi partition blocked you from seeing who was driving until they reached a parking garage. When they open the door, the crisp outdoor air is near revitalizing after the stale cab.

It’s not Aaron who opens it, but you hear the jingling of a dog collar somewhere before the other man pulls you to your feet. He’s a buzz-cut blonde, clean shaven. Strong arms, you’ve begun to notice, trying to wrench yourself free. He yanks you forward, your boots scraping across the gravel.

At the center of the garage, there’s a crowd of men, above them is a yellow sign. Veles Taxi. Heart wailing, you put more power into your resistance, grunting words that’ll never be heard. This is it. The company you’ve been obsessing over, what Jessie died uncovering.

He'd want this, for you to fight, to never stop fighting.

In Russian, your captor scoffs, shoving you to the ground. It’s cold, wet. A douse to the fire in your chest and a throb in your shoulder. You turn onto your back, instantly blinded by the fluorescent light overhead.

“Where’s nurse?” The blond man asks.

“They’re bringing her now.”

“Good.”

Away from the roof, your neck twists to their hushed conversation. One man snaps his fingers at another, giving an order you’re helpless to translate. He nods then returns with a metal fold-up chair, they force you on it. Swear, the rust digs into your back.

The ghost of that fluorescent light still burns your eyes. It hides the man’s face but not his sweaty grip yanking off the tape. The tear rips a spot on your lip.

Breathless, you gape at the man, vision returning. This man has a full brown beard. “What… do you want?” The bearded man smiles, standing to his true height. Other men join him, one by one to make nine. “Answer me!” Your attempt at yelling cracks, literally.

Out of the men, the one who brought you here slides through them. “At least we know I got the right officer.” His hands are slow out his pockets, no weapon, just fists. He strikes, once, steadying your thrown head by clutching the top of it. “Ask dumb question, I punch you. Don't answer, I cut you. When I want to, I hurt you. Deal?”

Forced to meet his green eyes, you couldn’t abide rule two. The force from his fist buzzes into your gums. He hits again. This time it really hurts. “Fuck,” You spit blood. Red splatters on grey concrete.

“Deal?”

Unable to reply, you're nodding in place of it, dazed off to the side. The blond man says an agreement you only start hearing once a cold metal lifts your chin. Knife. “The man in the mask, you know him, yes?”

That’s what this is about.

A different man tosses his hand, tattooed in various symbols. “The files, Pavel. She has the files.”

“We don’t give a shit about the files.” Pavel hisses. “The damage is ready done. That man found us.”

“He did?” You’re ignored in favor of their argument. It ends soon, at the rumble of a car engine.

From the taxi’s driver and passenger, a bald man exits with another balding one. They rear to the trunk. Pulling it open, the muted screams of a woman soar, her bound feet jabbing away the men. Must be the nurse they mentioned.

The two men restrain her legs then fling her onto the floor. The grunt she makes sickens your gut. Clearly, you got the nicer captors. That sickens you more.

She’s bloody. It’s on her floral print shirt, mouth, matted into her hair—the black strands flung across her face.

“Hey, hey, stop.” Your body pushes toward her. “Stop it. Let her go, she—“ A kick is given to the legs of your chair. That same shoulder takes the brunt of your fall. Wheezing, the world spins long after you land. “She’s not part of this. Please. She’s not part of this.”

A shadow looms. Pavel’s polished loafers catch the light before one drives into your gut. The intestines there threaten to burst free, your body curls as much as it can to keep the vomit in.

“Nothing to do with it, eh? Cute.” Pavel yanks the chair up. “Guess the man likes keeping the women in his life separate.”

Although you weren’t able to lift your head, you could still shake it. Over to the left, duct tape is removed from the woman's mouth. She shouts at the two men, demanding answers that are silenced. A punch. A liquidy squish. Her cries.

Your head muscles up at the last noise. “No…” The woman’s punched square in the nose, blood gushing. Slick and shiny.

Imagining how warm it must feel coils ice around your limbs instead of tape. “Stop!” The phrase is too much of a plea to be taken seriously.

Damn it. Think, think, think. Nurse. Injuries. Help. Why did they bring you here? The masked man. “She doesn’t have what you want!” They all pause. Good, keep going. “I know him. I work with him, you’ve seen me do it at the restaurant. Because he called me, he wanted my help. I can tell you more about him than she can. You just got to let her go.”

More silence. Pavel squats to your level, his pine cologne is pungent. “And we supposed to believe you ‘sell out’ your partner because?”

“Because I‘d expect him to do the same thing in my position.” With all the remaining conviction your body has, you make eye contact. The green in his irises dark as poison. “And if you let her go, I’ll show you why.”

Pavel rises, muttering things in Russian to the other men. Whatever it was, it incites a second argument.

Propped on a taxi, the woman stares at you, chest heaving. No thoughts or observations run through your head. Just a frightened, hurt woman who shouldn't be here.

Then a prick, a knife. Your head snaps to Pavel. The prick becomes a thousand burning needles slicing the raw flesh of your upper arm. You bite down a sound you don’t have the strength to make.

“Lie. The next goes to your throat. Deal?”

Gasps follow the removal of his serrated knife. It tingles where the heat of your cut is, each red drop soaks into your uniform. “Deal, or do I kill you both?” He’s breathing heavily now.

“You can’t kill them!” The bald man snarls. “Valdimir—”

“I know what he said!” Flashing the knife at the man, Pavel glares before returning to you, immediately you squeak the word ‘Deal.’ for the chance he wouldn’t hit you. “Alright,” Pavel pockets the blade. “Let her go.”

The woman shrieks again, and you shudder harder than when Pavel’s shoe hit your stomach. You want to sag in your chair—she’s walking free. But your body trembles too hard. The wound won’t clot. And they’re not finished.

Someone grabs your chin, you assume Pavel. Yet couldn’t recall if he wore gloves. That hand tightens, it forces your face to theirs. Most you see is a pair of lips moving, the voice in it plain static under your skull. The hand lets go.

“Is the,” It’s hard to hear yourself talk over the growing ring in your ears, or say something other than a slurred noun. Worse, your eyes couldn’t track a thing, transfixed on one darkening spot: The tip of your boot, dusted in gravel.

Time folds in on itself. Voices fade. Inside the gap where fear should be, Jessie’s laugh spills in. That lazy, sunny one that always came beside a bad idea. You weren’t laughing now. It would hurt too much.

Is this how Jessie felt during his death? Hopefully, he heard a sound like his laugh when he was about to go. Or a sound he wished he heard, maybe the bridal march playing at his sister’s wedding. She’d look beautiful…

Pine. 

Overwhelming pine. Sharp enough to clear the fog for half a second. To remind you exactly where you are, and who’s got their hand on you. Pressure vices around your cut. You cry out not from pain, the humiliation of being made to. In front of them.

Fresh welts pour down your elbow, making it impossible to tell where blood ends and skin begins. Sensations roared to life in the worst way.

“Hear me now, Officer?” Pavel releases your arm. “The man. What do you know?”

Christ, you don’t know anything. Nothing they’d believe. Nothing that would save you now.

At your silence, Pavel swings his fist into your cheekbone. Everything flashes white. It's the hardest he's punched. Iron blood coats your tongue but the strength to spit isn't there, causing the fluid to dribble down your chin.

“Answer!” He raises his fist again, you brace for the blow that never comes.

Metal crashes in the dark. Later: a voice yelling.

A familiar one. Something dreadful lights your lungs. An emotion you were scared to name. It's too bright, too strong.

Guns you didn't realize the Russians had start firing in scattered succession. Reacting to none of it, you wait. To die, for a miracle, you're not picky on the order.

“Come closer and I blow her brains out!” One Russian shouts, a gun’s barrel pressing into your head.

To die, then.

“Put the gun down or you won't have hands to shoot it.”

Low, lethal. The air changes. Stranger. Him.

The choked ring of hit metal echoes behind you, it almost covers the Russian’s thud when he falls. “Is she dead?” A woman’s voice. Distant. Or underwater.

Footsteps pound the ground, then they drop. A human. All black, but not empty. “(Y/n)?” The masked man's voice is a mess. Taken someplace deep. “Shit. Hey, it's me. I'm gonna get you out.” He reaches for your face, his gloved fingers tracing a bruise. You flinch. He flinches harder. “—Sorry, I'm sorry. You're okay. I promise.”

“It hurts.” You croak. No tricks left. No fight.

The masked man swallows, throat working around the audible lump in it. “I know it does.” Those words shake, barely there. He tilts his head to an imperceptible degree. You recognize him listening. To the lag in your heartbeat.

“I should've gotten here faster.”

His hands tremble so bad it’s a miracle they can hold you at all. Still, he cups your arm, thumbs stroking fabric in a rhythm too frantic to soothe. Trying anyway. “Just breathe—just stay with me.”

To prepare either you or himself, the man counts under his breath after cutting you free.

One. Two. Three.

Agony blazes as he lifts your arms around his neck. Next, you’re weightless, carried beneath your thighs. Cradled glass. “Shh… It’s over.” The world fades, replaced by the continuous thud of his heartbeat against your cheek. “It’s over,"

You press your face into his shoulder. He smells like the city. Sweat, steel, and something warm. Everything you didn’t know you could miss. “I got you.” His murmur stays there, close to your ear, as if he’s holding you both together with the sound of it.

          The woman’s name is Claire, she instructs you to repeat it every time you fade into consciousness. When you awake the final time, you're on a couch, warm light all around you. Nobody’s nearby, although you hear mumbling from behind the couch. Something about safety and being gone.

After listening for a while, you attempt to sit. Each dulled pain in your body crashes into you with a new tightness. Glancing at your arm a line of stitches replaces the blood, a black fabric wound below the injury. Last ditch tourniquet, probably.

That muttering screeches silent at the tiny grunt you make. Footsteps, two. Calmer. Softened by a rug. The man appears at the couch’s backrest, adjusting the cowl over his head. Claire rounds the corner to your side. “Hey there, Officer.” She kneels. “How are you feeling?”

“Uhm,” you glance at different areas of the apartment. Soon, your gaze steadies on Claire, the blood on her face is cleaned but there’s still red hints on the bronze skin. “Better, I guess. Where am I?”

“My place.” Claire sighs, “After those jackasses let me go, one of them snuck me your phone to call this guy. You’re unfathomably lucky.”

Luck didn’t encapsulate half of what’s pumping in your veins. Even if it’s just leftover adrenaline. “Wait, who gave you my phone?” A rasp scratches your voice, you cough. The jostle racks a throb in your shoulder.

“Some dude in red. Curly hair. Looked pretty young.” She prods at your abdomen. There’s pauses between the presses for you to react. Nothing. Her hands pull away. “Why, you know him?”

Nodding, you settle into the couch. A plush pillow at your neck. The sudden softness takes too long to process.

“Yeah.” You blink through your memories. “His name’s Aaron. I worked with him before he said he went back to Long Island, or that's what he told me… he was there when that other guy knocked me out.”

The masked man tch’s, a sharp, bitter noise that constricts how much space actually is in the apartment. There's a clench in his jaw, you can’t make much of his expression. The most important part of it covered, his eyes. But his body language has always been more talkative.

Out of the scoff-induced trance, Claire clears her throat. “Right, well. I’m gonna get you some water. You lost a decent amount of blood back there.” She stands once you nod, disappearing to the kitchen.

Arms folded, the man remains where he is. Leaking tension. Any other instance, a joke about that stance would be tempting to say. Now, you debate if a swallow is okay.

“Do you have any idea what I walked into back there?” He speaks tightly. Not yelling yet, he’s holding it in by the teeth. “You were bleeding out. I thought—” He cuts himself off, jaw clamping shut.

“I was trying to save her life.” Your legs push to sit up. Despite avoiding any pressure on your hurt arm, the stitches sting. “If anyone would understand that, I thought it’d be you.”

Quick to move, the man circles the couch, closer to you, exposing a ripped portion of his black compression shirt at the hip. The tourniquet.

“Understand?” He laughs once, not bothering to hide its sharpness. “Your heart stopped beating right under my hands and you expected me to understand that?” At his sides, his hands curl to fists. “You threw your goddamn life away.”

Your fingers claw the couch cushion. “I didn’t throw—”

“That’s exactly what you did!” Him shouting isn’t new, at you is. The volume rattles in your chest, something he’d usually notice. But keeps talking, his hands break out their fists in a series of different gestures. “No plan, no backup, no idea what’s going on. Just offered yourself up to the Russians and then what? Wait for them to get bored?”

“If they let Claire go, she could call for help.” It's a quarter truth. Your breath hitches halfway. “And she did.”

“Bullshit,” he snaps, the room’s heat spikes. “You weren’t thinking that far ahead and I know it.”

“Fine, you're right. I didn’t. I saw her bleeding and I couldn’t…” Things go dizzy. Blood loss or bad memories, undecided. You had to push through whatever this is. “I couldn’t let another person die because of this. But how is it different—”

“Don't compare this to what we've done before.”

“Then answer! How is it different!?”

“Because you were dying in my arms!” His voice breaks like someone else tore it out of him. Knocks the air right out of you.

A hand scrubs over his mouth, but the frustrated growl slips. “Do you know what that would've felt like? I won’t-” He stops to take a shuddering breath. “I won't risk that. You weren't supposed to be this close to all of this in the first place.”

Beneath you, the couch creaks. “What?”

He paces to a window on the right of the apartment. It's open yet he doesn't exit. The wind brushes white curtains to the man’s black clothed sides. “This,” he motions between you two. “Is over.”

In seconds your heart is racing, the pulse tries to chase after him before he leaves. “Are you serious right now?”

“Yeah, I am.”

Whether it was two syllables or ten, you wanted to say his name. People listen to their names. “Is it really that simple for you?” Your mouth goes dry. “We’re done. After everything?”

“I was clear about what this was the day we met.” He fully turns to you, mouth set in a hard line. Back to steel. “We’re not anything. I wasn’t supposed to matter, and you weren’t supposed to care.”

Not anything. The rooftops, car rides, the stupid little ways you got him to smile. That wasn’t anything. You force onto your knees. Fingertips grip the threads on the couch’s backrest to numb any aches.

“No, the things we did mattered. You don’t get to twist what happened between us just because you got scared.”

It's his silence that unnerves you. Not his shout or how simply arguing with him puts Pavel's knife back in. That statement is meant to get a reaction—he doesn't even move.

Instead, he looks at you for a long, unreadable second, then turns away.

“Hey,” Ignored. His leg goes over the windowsill. Your tongue stammers on a knowless name, in that precious second his boots hit the fire escape with a hollow clang. “Wait!” You reach forward before discovering you’ve used the wrong arm. White-hot pain flares down where the stitches are, doubling you over the backrest.

When you look up, the window’s empty. No man in a mask, his trembling hands touching your face and carrying you. It’s Claire, cup of water in hand.

She sighs. “You reopened your stitches.” A clink follows the cup being placed on the coffee table. Claire whispers about lying down, her hand on your right shoulder to lower you. The window is hidden by the couch inch by dreaded inch, till the last thing ripped open is something Claire can't stitch

Author's Note: I like to think during the vet scene Matt is just banging his head on a wall somewhere. No shade, I lwk teared up writing this. SONG: the chorus of Reflections by the Neighborhood at the cityscape part. (Also abt time a Hozier song makes the title.)

Masterlist

The masked man hasn't called in three days.

Considering the progress made after the trial you thought you two would be chasing these leads while they were hot, that he felt the momentum you did.

And you at least expected to make some headway on Elena’s case or with Ben Urich. Both were brick walls.

Elena’s landlord had completely stonewalled you from setting up a meeting. Your first roadblock, so you took it well. If Mr. Tully was fighting you this hard then you must be on the right track.

Ben was worse, no reactions to build off of. He scribbled a lot, didn't look up. Karen had done most of the talking. You added pieces here and there, but the badge on your chest might as well have been a muzzle—you could feel his apprehension the second you walked in. Maybe he didn't trust cops, most journalists don't. Or maybe he was smart not to.

“Don’t stress over it,” Karen had told you afterward. “He’ll contact us when he’s made his decision.”

All true, for the most part. It doesn’t change how your hands grip Ben’s Union Allied newspaper. You have to be close to something, anything. What are you missing?

Tossing the newspaper, it lands on the countertop next to Jessie’s files, the impact knocks them over, earning a groan. As you recollect them, different taxis are illuminated by the outside light coming in from your window.

To get your mind working, you lean on the counter flipping through each photo. Yellow. Yellow. Yellow. Black Cadillac. Your heartbeat slams that photo onto the granite. Broad daylight, mall robbery, a taxi and Cadillac parked together at its front doors.

After turning on the kitchen lights you read the last three numbers of the Cadillac’s plate. 449.

Up till tonight, you were only focused on the taxis, never even considering the various cars in these pictures. Now, you’re kicking yourself for thinking any other way.

          Checked back into the station you picked a police car to attend your night ‘shift.’ Not 403, even though you wanted to use it, the masked man was right, too risky. 523. An older model. It smells like petrol, loose threads in the seats, and the MDT system ran slow. Still, it’ll get the job done.

Once James Wesley’s records show up on the screen you plug in his address and start driving. His car by those taxis is an easy coincidence, however, you've learned there are none when the Russians are involved. Your foot is heavier on the pedal than it usually is, but you couldn’t stop. Not when this could be the final piece.

Then—

A flash of orange against the darkness, small, unmoving. As the car’s headlights got closer it reveals what that flash truly is, a cat. Your shoulders sink.

This isn’t the time. There’s leads. A timeline. But you couldn’t leave. Not when an animal is lying on the side of the road, hurt at the very least—dead at the very, very worst.

God, what if the cat is dead? You’d be thinking about it for days, sleepless nights if you go.

Pulling over, you jog down the sidewalk to the cat. “Hey, little guy, please tell me you’re alive.” At his side, the orange cat didn’t react to your plea, nor once you prod at his paw. “Hey,” You repeat, shakier this time. “C’mon, don’t be dead.”

No response.

“No, no, no.” Your hands tremble, hovering over the animal in a disarray you didn’t think you’d have in this situation. Heartbeat, is there a heartbeat?

Hand lifting the cat’s hind leg, turns out he’s a girl, you press two fingers on the inside of her thigh. The femoral artery. “Give me a pulse, please.” Nothing. Though it’s hard to hear anything over the banging of your own pulse. “Shit,” That hand flies to your face, covering your mouth.

Already, tears obscure your vision, clouding the cat to a fuzzy orange splotch. Come on, do something. Stop crying. Pick her up—

Clink!

Glass bottles from the alley. You lurch over the cat’s body to somehow protect it. “Who’s there!?” Shouting, but your voice is hoarse, congested, obvious that you’ve been crying.

“It’s me.” The alley speaks. From its shadows, the masked man materializes into view. Clad in black. He takes three cautious steps forward. “What’s wrong?”

Your body both tenses and eases its stance, no longer bent over the cat. “Uhm,” a sniffle you didn’t want to let out escapes. “The cat, I-I think she’s dead, I don’t know. I found her here, she’s not moving, and I can’t feel a pulse in her…” You trail off when the man kneels in front of you.

“She’s not dead,” He murmurs. Head tilted. “I hear a heartbeat. Faint. But she’s alive.”

“How did—”

“Is there a vet nearby?”

Momentarily stunned, you swallow down the dryness in your throat. “I’m not sure,” Never have you wanted to know Hell’s Kitchen like the back of your hand till now. “I can check in the car.”

The man nods, then scoops up the cat. One hand at her head, the other on her hip. “Her ribs are broken.” He explains, “A car must’ve hit her. Recently.”

Again, you want to ask how he knew that but the word ‘recently’ flares your insides. Recently means you had limited time. That can work. “Okay, let’s go.” Wiping a stray tear, the two of you head to your car, you open the door for the man before getting in.

Walker Veterinary Hospital, closest one nearby. “Godamnit, it’s twenty-three minutes away.”

“It’s okay, just start driving.” The man says, his tone gentle. It both disorients you then brings you back together.

“Right.” Deep breath. The gear stick is pulled to drive, not any later you turn the police lights on.

          Haphazardly parked along the street, the man places the cat in your arms. “I’ll come back.” You exhale, “Let you know what happens.” He doesn't respond and you're too occupied with the cat to see if he nodded.

Time waning down, you book it to the vet as fast you could without jostling the cat. Inside, the bright lights ache your eyelids after being in the dark for so long. “Excuse me, ma’am.” At the front desk, an old woman’s eyebrows perk up. Samantha, her tag read. “I found her on the side of the road earlier, I think her ribs are broken.”

Samantha stands to examine the cat. “Dear,” she mumbles, turning to call for a team of veterinary nurses who provide a stretcher for you to put her on. Under the lights, you finally notice the green collar around her neck, made of glossy leather.

“Thank you, Officer. We’ll take care of her the best we can.” Samantha nods, hands clasped over her chest.

Sounds like she thought you’re leaving. The expectation makes you realize how invested you are. Awkwardly, your hands slide behind your back. “Would it be okay if I stayed? I just want to know she’ll be alright”

“Oh,” The woman’s hands unclasp. “Of course. Feel free to have a seat, dear.”

On a chair by the door, you wait for your nerves to settle before calling to the man. He picks up at the second ring. “She just went in right now, I’m, uh, waiting inside.” Your leg begins bouncing. “Are you at the car?”

“I’m… around.” He answers, “Call me when you get out.”

The man promptly hangs up. Providing you no alternative to sitting with your thoughts while you wait.

Fifteen minutes later a family, father and daughter, burst into the vet. It almost jolts you out of your seat. The young girl runs up to the counter, sniffling, on her tiptoes to peer over it. Her father steadies his hand on her head. “Sorry, we were called about our cat Gigi?”

“Ah. Yes, Gigi was brought in by an officer a few minutes ago.” Samatha glances at you and your leg stops bouncing. “She’s actually right behind you all.”

Out of the two, the girl is the first to turn to you. Her face is puffy red. It twists your heart. “Hi.” You give a quick wave.

“Officer!” The father’s hands go to smooth his tussled brown hair. “Wow–” He clears his throat. “Thank you so much for bringing her in.”

“It’s—”

A nurse comes through the door, he steps away when the family swiftly faces him. “You’re Gigi’s family?” They nod. Already you assume the worst, hoping for the best. “I have good news.” The nurse steps forward, a small one. “She’s still weak, but she should recover.”

“Oh thank god.” The father digs his knuckles into his forehead, but his daughter keeps looking at you, new tears falling down her eyes to her wobbling chin. You stand, an action that’s much easier now. “Again, thank you, Officer.” The father continues, “You don’t know how much this means to us.”

“It’s nothing, sir.” Smiling, you shake his hand, grip firm compared to his shakes. “I’m just glad she’s okay.”

Below, his daughter hiccups her cries.“Hey,” you kneel to her level. “It’s okay now, yeah? The hard part’s over. Just gotta stay brave a little longer.”

Although you offer your hand, the girl hugs you with a force surprising for her small size. She mumbles thank-yous into your shoulder, her tears soaking your uniform. You don’t leave the vet until she pulls away first. Not just because she needed it, but because this felt like the first clear-cut win you’ve had.

          Back in the cold night air, the masked man isn’t at your car or shrouded in the adjacent alleys. ‘Around,’ he said.

Funnily enough, it took one glance upward to spot him on the edge of the building in front of you. One tall shadow beside the crescent moon above.

“You’re ridiculous, you know that?” Pocketing your phone, you cross the street to the fire escape on the building, the steps to the top are only made bearable due to the glowing sparks in your chest. “Ah geez, I’m really glad you waited.” You suck in a long breath to bolster over the roof’s border. “That—would be a waste of energy.”

The man doesn’t turn around. “I still could.”

Two of your boots thud on the floor. “True, but that would be ungentlemanly of you.”

This time, his head moves in that same tilt you’re beginning to watch more closely. “You’re in a good mood.” He notes, “Guess everything went well.”

“Went great, actually.” Beside the masked man, your elbow brushes his, once, then he steps away. “Her name’s Gigi, and she’s expected to recover.”

He hums. “Good work today.”

A little light flutters in your chest like wings. “It was an A-minus.” You shrug. “I lost my composure for a second.”

For a few seconds. However the masked man doesn’t mention that. Gradually, the silence grates on your nerves. Fingers tap on your thigh, teeth scrape your lip.

The man sighs, it’s full of relentless weight. “Is there something you wanna say?”

So much. There’s so much you wanted to say.

“Yeah, uh… where have you been?” He doesn’t answer right away. Your tapping gets worse. “I mean, I know we’re not actual partners and stuff but, I just thought we’d be working together more after what we found out.”

All those words might’ve dug you in a deeper hole but it’s impossible to take back. The man unfolds his arms. “I haven't made any progress since that day.”

Your head turns to him. “Oh.” The faint glow from the orange streetlights showcases his frown. “I haven't made much progress either, to be honest.”

“Really?” His tone matched yours, surprised, and a bit relieved. If you weren’t projecting that is.

“Yeah, nothing has really worked out. That's why I was driving out here. I needed to do something to help all this.” Vaguely, your hand gestures around the city. It falls back to your side with a soft thump. “I guess things haven't changed.”

The man goes quiet again, he speaks up sooner but the stillness never leaves. Not fully. “You helped that family.”

There it is.

“How do you do that?” The question comes out quick, in case you're cut off like the other five times this happened. “The broken ribs, heartbeat, that GPS. How do you hear that?”

“It's complicated.”

No way, you’re not going to let him dodge this. Your whole body turns. “Hey, you said you’d answer my questions the ‘next time’ we were together.” Arms folded, you force a cop-like sternness. “This counts as ‘next time.’”

Didn't work. A huff blows out his mouth, the frown on it twitches up. “You also said I was lying.”

For a second your tongue tries saying a name, his name. One you didn't have. The masked man notices your little stammer, facing you.

Though silent, the sight of his smirk garners a scoff. “Are you really going to make me beg?”

He flashes that cheshire cat smile, a brief flicker of white in the night. “No, I’ll let you have this one.” The man pauses. Debating the best way to answer, ideally. “I can… It was an accident, when I was a kid.” His lips purse. “I got the ability to see by hearing things, or smelling them.”

Accident. The image of what kind fills your head. Lab accident? Chemical accident? Of course, you doubted you'd get more than that.

“Wow. So, you really are a superhero.” You settle for instead, expecting him to deny it. He does. Now it's your turn to get quiet.

Back toward the street, your hands hide from the chill inside your pockets. The cityline this high up is simple. No grandstanding Empire State Building, or a view your mother spends an exorbitant amount to see. All those sparkly buildings were behind you somewhere.

Nothing stops you from spinning around and trying to find them, but you were content with this. Each building is a couple hundred feet, though their height is the last thing on your mind. It’s the windows, tiny golden or white squares. That's what you love about New York City.

“Can I ask a question now?” The man mumbles.

“Sure.”

“What are you thinking about?”

You blink out the trance. “I—” Exhaling, vapor from your breath clouds into the air. “Just looking at the city. It’s really pretty.”

The chugs of a metro train blare in the distance, the man seemingly waits for it to pass before talking. “What’s it look like?” When you glance at him, he gestures to the black cowl over his eyes moments later, wordless, and with the barest traces of humor.

Ironically, you’ve thought about that question many times during family trips to the city. Despite never being asked it. “I always thought it looked like stars, the buildings at least.” Your eyes squint to blur the lights. “Their windows are just tiny square lights all clustered together, very organized squares, kinda like dominoes, but stars sound better.”

“It does.” The man’s head lowers an inch. “Poetic.” His tease is so subtle you miss it, even said thank you, daring to feel proud of your metaphor until he chuckles to himself. Then you elbow his side, fighting laughter as well.

          Things start looking up after that night, in the most cosmically karmic way. The next morning an email from Armand Tully sits in your inbox. Agreeing to meet but only in the presence of his lawyers. You accept these terms and he says you’re welcome to come by after work.

The rest of the day you’re near ecstatic, people notice, Mia definitely notices. It reminds you still need to get information out of the guy, plus him having his lawyers there is a good countermove.

Sunset begins. The afterglow of Tully’s e-mail is long gone, in its place a sobering wariness that’s cut through when Foggy calls you. “Hey! You wanna come by the office?” Foggy’s voice chirps from your phone just as you lean back in the driver’s seat. “We have quite literally nothing to do around here. I’m thinking we all get drinks, nothing crazy, since I know you got that whole buttoned-up cop thing to keep up.”

Gripping the keys in your palm, an impulse asks you to reschedule with Tully, it’s easily squashed but you don’t regret the idea. “I can’t, Foggy. I’m sorry.” To keep it light, and Foggy not sad, you add. “I’m actually cheating on you guys right now for work.”

“What?!” Foggy exclaims, perfectly outraged. “Who’s the lucky law firm?”

Both of you laugh. “Hm, not sure yet. I’m heading over to meet them.” You rev up the squad car. Another different one, number 417. Runs smoother than the last. “I’ll call you guys tomorrow.”

“Alright, alright. I’ll be counting on it, see you later.” Prepared to say bye, the gear is pulled to reverse— “And remember, I’m getting the four of us in a bar one day. I’ll drag you and Matt by the ear if I have to.”

Your eyebrow raises on the way out the parking lot. “Why me and Matt specifically?”

Side grumbling, likely toward Matt, Foggy groans by the time he answers you. “Because,” He drawls, “Me and Karen went drinking last week and we couldn’t find you guys anywhere. I swear, neither of you answer the phone.”

On the road, memories of that time pass by. It was Ethan’s rescue. Later that night, you scrolled through the multitude of missed calls from the two. If it wasn’t for their drunken texts asking where you were or blurry photos of a fish market, you would’ve been worried rather than falling asleep.

“Probably because you were calling at 2 a.m.”

“Fine, point taken. But still, remember. Drinks. Us. It’s happening.” Assuring him that you’ll all go out sometime, Foggy relents, hanging up the phone.

          A couple minutes later you pull into an open spot at Elena’s building. Mr. Tully gave you his phone number in his last e-mail, telling you to message him when you’re outside. You text. Leaning against your car door while you wait for a response.

The bark of a dog, a big one considering the depth of the sound, cranes your neck backward. First, you see red, then who’s wearing it. “Aaron?” Both eyebrows furrow. You push yourself off the car to approach him.

He’s in the same red jacket he wore the last time you saw him, no Jordans, curls unkempt, and a German Shepherd leashed at his side. “What are you doing here? I thought you went back to Long Island?”

“Yeah,” he drags his free hand down his cheek. “I did.”

Aaron doesn’t elaborate, you wait for him to, but eventually elects to ask. “Then what are you in Hell’s Kitchen for?” Still no verbal answer, he just shakes his head, adjusting his handle on the neon green leash. “Aaron, what’s wrong?”

“I came here to warn you.”

“About what?”

“You gotta stop diggin’, (Y/n).” A needle presses into your spine, straightening your back. He’s pleading. “The Russians, they’re not playing around.” The German Shepherd whimpers, he pulls the leash like he is trying to get away. “Trust me.”

You’re too late to question what that meant. The blow came sideways, behind you, a thudding crack just behind your ear. Knees buckling as the world tilted. The last thing you see? Red. The last thing you feel? Aaron’s arms catch your fall into his shoulder.

Author's Note: Yk I was originally planning for the court scene to be in the last chapter but it would've been way too long, even for my standards. Looking back on it I was crazy for thinking it would fit in the first place.

Masterlist

No one tells you it’s the paperwork that’s scary. Not just the blood. Or the screams. It’s the silence of a courtroom when your name’s on the docket, and it hasn’t even been called yet.

It’s the calm before the storm. Sitting in that overpolished hallway picking at your fingers, heartbeat in your ears.

Remember what you were told last night, don’t let them get in your head. But above all—know that they’re only grilling you this hard because they’re scared. Use it.

Foggy had given you that tidbit. Alongside one thumbs up and two back pats.

“Officer (L/n), you’re being called to the stand. A rebuttal witness.”

The court officer is younger than most you’ve seen in their late thirties or early forties. She’s new, though isn’t rattled about the job, she instructs you calmly.

“Okay,” you exhale. Thank you.”

Inside, frigid air ghosts over your skin as you cross the door’s threshold, like another dimension.

In the gallery Karen sits at the farthest bench near the door, she offers a swift smile you try to return. Instead, it’s interrupted by a strong voice. The DA, Madison Weaver. He’s wearing a blue suit, on his feet, towering over the table.

“With the utmost respect, Your Honor, we believe the court overlooked the fact Officer (L/n) was previously subpoenaed by the state. The defense is cherry picking our bench to insert sympathetic character evidence through the back door.”

From the opposite side, Matt speaks up. Still seated with Foggy and John Healy. All in grey. “Your Honor, we’ve established that Officer (L/n) is being called solely to rebut Officer Sterna’s description of my client’s demeanor. That door was opened by the prosecution.”

Madison’s fist comes up to his chest, fingertips peak over his shoulder as he talks. “But the impact is prejudicial.” The DA’s co-counsel, sitting, nods along. “We opted not to use her precisely because her observations were irrelevant to our theory of the case—”

“Then perhaps you should’ve reconsidered your theory, counselor.” The judge, Vargas, shuts down Madison with more than words, but the sharp crook of his brow. “The objection has already been overruled, and unless you have new grounds, we’re moving on. Officer (L/n),” His address shoots across the room into your chest. The impact is icy. He signals a dark finger to bring you closer. “Please, come forward.”

Beside you, the court officer resumes her lead to get you sworn in. It’s a battle between your instincts and mind to not peek for your friends or others you recognize like Sterna.

Don’t fidget.

This is the part you really hated about testifying. Down at the stand, the weight of everyone’s gaze on you. They seemed taller from this distance.

“Good morning, Officer.”

Your vision locks on the calm voice. Matt stands, lifting his cane to his chest in that familiar way.

One light breath slides some stress off your shoulders. “Good morning, Mr. Murdock.”

Referring to Matt so professionally released the rest of that stress, it’s like you were messing with him.

Maybe Matt felt that way too, his head tilts. Quiet, for just a second. “Please, state your name and occupation for the record.” Once you give it Matt is quick to begin real questioning.

“You responded to the incident at Westlanes Bowling with Officer Sterna, correct?” He steps forward after your agreement. “And you made the initial arrest of John Healy?”

“I did.”

Another step. “Describe his behavior at the scene.”

Now your eyes wander. “He was on his knees with his hands behind his head when we found him. Just waiting.” They land on Healy, sat beside Foggy, the ginger hair on his beard newly shaved. “He was blinking a lot but looked me in the eyes and asked for a lawyer.”

There’s no follow-up question so you continue the recount. “I told him he’ll get one, that he just needed to come with us. He agreed. That’s when I arrested him.” Healy returns your stare then, face betraying zero emotion, doing exactly what you were. Watching. “He didn’t resist at any point and was very cooperative. It was odd, sure, but never did I think I would have to use force.”

“Did he say anything to you?”

Attention back on Matt, the space he crossed during your distraction makes you sit straight. He’s four feet from the stand.

“He mentioned me calling him sir. Said I was the first person to call him that in a long time and that he wasn’t respected much.”

There’s a sneeze from the gallery though neither of you reacts to it. “He said…” Matt takes a final step closer. The proximity hits a nerve. Just like that handshake in the office. “He said he wished he was like me.”

Voice low, Matt holds his cane with just his right hand. The other rested at his side. “How did he say it?”

“I—I thought it was flattery at first but he didn’t even look at me.” The polished cadence of your own voice starts to waver more than you’d want. “He actually put himself in the backseat when he said it. I didn’t know what to make of it so I just reminded him that anything he says can be used against him in court.”

“Thank you,” He pauses, “No further questions.”

Every time you’re brought on the stand it’s mind-boggling how quick it actually is. The legal equivalent of pulling out a tooth. Twist. Pull. Done.

However, cross-examining is a new beast. If direct is pulling out a tooth, cross is a root canal dressed in a blue suit.

“Officer (Y/n),” Rising, Mr. Madison Weaver redoes the button on his jacket. “You said you’ve been transferred to the 15th precinct… What? Almost a month?”

Feels like less, feels like more. “Yes.”

“So you’re relatively unfamiliar with the neighborhood, suspect records, and even the officers, would you say?” Throughout the question Weaver stalks along the jury, listing each item on a finger.

It wouldn’t be lying to say he’s right. More so now with what you know. Seen. Heard. You knew too much, yet not enough. “Every station runs a little differently, but the job’s the same.”

“Naturally. And you were partnered with Officer Sterna at the scene. An officer with over a decade of experience?”

Despite the jab, an image of Sterna first’s day as a cop flashes in your mind. Prior to the corruption. Was he like you? Wanting to help people, protect the innocent.

“I was.”

He stops walking the instant your lips close. That prior question didn’t matter to him, you could feel it in his stare, this is what he wanted to say. “And why should the jury believe your report to an officer with over ten years in Hell’s Kitchen?”

That, that was one question you weren’t prepared for. There’s no why, you’re not here to claim you’re the better cop. “I think…” Row three, seat two of the jury. A woman hasn’t stopped looking at you. You’re not sure if that’s good or bad.

At the very least, you have the jury’s attention.

“I think the jury shouldn’t disregard any testimony given today, or yesterday, it was given for a reason. Sterna did the same as I am, saying what we reported.”

Before you could be proud of your answer Weaver resumes strolling like you never spoke. Unafraid. “You also ‘reported’ calling a murder suspect sir.” His hands motion air quotes, then exaggeratedly fall to his pockets in a soft thump. “Is that normal police protocol?”

It’s the first question not directly about yourself. Somehow it offends you more than all the others. “It’s normal human decency.”

The bite in your tone is so potent you recoil from it, back against the wooden chair. Bad move, bad move.

“Human decency. Of course.” Weaver smiles. Not a fake one, he’s pleased with your answer. Knows he got you. “But are you trained to give suspects comfort during arrest?”

Heat flares in the back of your neck. Comfort was the last thing Healy needed at that point. He knew he killed a man, you knew he is a man. It’s insulting to both ends. “I’m trained to de-escalate situations without force.” Your voice lowers, and he halts. Great. “And I did.”

“Or maybe you were just too green to recognize a killer for what he was.”

“Objection, Your Honor.” Matt counters from the table. One leg under it, and the other pointed out. “Improper and without foundation.”

Weaver’s hand goes into a fist. Now that he’s not gesturing his arms around, you could spot the triangle-shaped cufflinks glint. Still, he remains level, almost overtly casual. “I’m questioning the witness’s credibility. A matter that’s relevant to this case.”

That makes him stand up. Cane pressed hard to the floor. His voice stays even, his jaw does not. “The prosecution chose not to call her.” He reminds, “You can’t question her now simply because her testimony doesn’t fit your narrative.”

Feeling the edge in Matt’s voice, Weaver shoots his head at him. Demeanor snapped in an instant, all glares and blunt brows. “I can question the reliability of someone testifying against a veteran officer, Mr. Murdock.” He turns his body toward the defense bench. “Especially one less experienced.”

Matt clenches his cane. “Officer (L/n) isn’t a rookie, she has served seven years on the force.” The fire in that fact, one you didn’t tell him.

“You’re not questioning reliability. You’re undermining her credibility as an officer with a change of location, not real evidence.”

He’s defending you. Saying what you couldn’t. Yet the stubborn part of you wishes he hadn’t—that you hadn’t talked yourself into this corner in the first place.

“Enough!” Sooner than Judge Vargas bangs his gavel, you flinch at his volume. Vargas waits for both attorneys to sit. While he waits, the pulse of everyone in the court fills that silence. “Both of you, reel it in. The witness isn’t the one on trial. Mr. Weaver, either move on, or wrap it up.”

Tight-lipped, Weaver puts his hands in his pockets. “No further questions, Your Honor.”

Vargas nods, asks Nelson & Murdock if they want to redirect. Foggy declines. And you’re released on unsteady legs disproportionate to how long you were seated. Twist. Pull. Done.

For the three steps down the witness stand, your head is bowed. Trying to comfort yourself by thinking: Your testimony could’ve gone worse. It wasn’t working.

At the final step, you had to lift your head. The first face you register is Foggy’s, he waits for you to look at him. When you do he mouths the word ‘Nice,’ scrunching his nose. You smile. Not just from his funny expression, because he’s there.

Toward the back of the courtroom, Karen is in the same seat. Most witnesses sit behind the attorney tables after testifying, or plain leave, as most of your fellow witnesses have. Sterna specifically. But you wanted to be with Karen.

Best part is that she did too. Beside her chair a black purse holds the open seat, she moves it once you’re close enough. “You did amazing.” She whispers. Even if you might not believe it, it’s nice to know others thought it.

Hung Jury.

The four of you stood outside the courthouse, aftershocks of the morning chilling on already cold limbs.

“That could’ve gone worse.” A dry huff slips out of you at Foggy’s wording.

“You guys did the best you could with what you had.” Karen tries to assure. Matt needs it most. Ever since the verdict his shoulders haven’t moved.

This wasn’t a loss. Didn’t feel like a win either. The exact grey area you wanted to avoid when agreeing to testify. The truth didn’t help anyone. John Healy’s free on a hung jury.

Foggy scratches the hairs on the back of his neck. “And with who we were up against.” He complains, “He somehow got worse than I thought he’d be.”

Eyes on you, memories of your cross-examination sit between you all. “Yeah. Definitely one of the more high-stress questionings I’ve been through.”

“Hey, you did good though.” Foggy taps your shoulder. He brings that hand to point at Matt beside him with his thumb. “Even if Matthew here got a little intense.”

It’s a tease. Always. Just not the time. Matt grips his cane, a repressed jump in his forearms to prevent himself from jabbing it on the concrete. Clearly, he wasn’t proud.

“Still, thanks for bailing me out back there.” As you talk, a sheepish smile spreads on your cheeks. Thankfully Matt wouldn’t see it.

“I didn’t bail you out.” Matt straightens his posture. The first words he spoke since the verdict. “Weaver pushed too hard on your police records.” He made it seem simpler than his face showed during court. And it’d be a lie saying you didn’t want to play along.

After this one question. “How did you know my police records actually? I don’t remember telling you I worked for seven years.”

Matt’s lip purse. “I… had Foggy look it up for me.” The weightiness in that detail could’ve been fit for a church confession, something he didn’t want to admit in public. Or at all. “After you left last night.” He adds much later.

“Oh.”

For the case, you told yourself. No need to be embarrassed. Police records are public, anyway.

“Speaking of last night,” Foggy cuts in before the quiet gets too long. “I haven’t had a cup of coffee since then.”

Subject change, and a damn good one. Bless him. Knowing the perfect way to capitalize on it, you point in the direction of your apartment. “I know a good place. It’s called the Sparrow’s Nest. The service is kind of blunt, but the coffee and bagels were amazing.”

Were to die for, if you’d let yourself be ironic.

“Oh, a bagel sounds nice.” Karen hums. Earlier, she had admitted to skipping breakfast since she was nervous for how today would go.

“Great!” Foggy swings his arms to power his stride down where you pointed. Like gravitated ants, the rest of you follow. “I’m starving too.”

Hell’s Kitchen had been kind enough to let you spend the remaining day in peace. Foggy heckling you for coffee preferences aside. It was when you left Nelson & Murdock did the city remind you why you’re here.

‘I got an ID from that plate. BKM4449. It's under James Wesley.’

The text came with a screenshot from Mahoney’s home laptop. Bright, slightly blurry but you could see the man’s picture front and center.

‘This is the guy you saw at court?’

‘Yeah that’s him. I’ll talk it over with some friends. promise I won’t say you were involved at all. Thank you so much’

‘You’re welcome.

Be careful with whatever you’re doing’

‘I will

You be safe too’

Mahoney sends a thumbs-up emoji. The color changed to match his darker skin.

Car engines zoom past your stagnant body on the sidewalk, each one whipping a breeze stronger than the last. James Wesley. That’s a name, that’s something you can use. A lead. After all these loose threads.

There’s no understanding the heavy thumps in your heart, the way your breath caught. Some adrenaline-twisted version of happiness. Relief? What mattered is that nobody familiar was around. Society let the hysterical grin dance on your face the entire walk home.

It’s nighttime now, the equilibrium between when Hell’s Kitchen is the loudest and quietest. Meghan sat beside you on the couch, her starry grey socks propped onto your coffee table. Also beside yours.

Clicks from the remote give your mind something to focus on, preventing you from falling asleep. “I can’t remember the last time I sat down to watch TV.” Meghan notes during her search.

“Hence why we’re doing this.” The blanket cuddled up to your mouth muffles the reply. Dark green, you glance at the hue. Faint hints of Karen’s scent still stuck to the blanket. Powdery, warm.

Over in the kitchen, Mia cracks open the last bag of microwave popcorn you didn’t even know you had. This sleepover was your idea. Needing to reconnect with Long Island natives to remind yourself you’re one too.

That, and the fact you’re guilty of neglecting them lately.

“But what do we watch?” Meghan asks. The clicking stops, and you glance over, smiling at her drumming two fingers on her lips. Completely rhetorical.

A vibration on your stomach distracts further comments. Letting the blanket go, you flip over your phone. Call: Stranger. Ever since Ethan’s rescue, you changed his contact to his ‘name.’

Ice prickles its way out your ribs. You glance at Meghan and Mia as if they saw the caller ID and knew exactly who he was. “I’m gonna go take this—be right back.”

Meghan’s eyes trail your rise to your feet, the TV glow catches on her glasses. She opens her mouth but Mia’s voice speaks instead.

“You better not bail out on us.”

You laugh it off like it isn’t a real possibility, rushing to shut the bedroom door behind you. “Hello?” The greeting comes out shaky. Though the stranger didn’t sound any better, he’s winded.

“Wilson Fisk. Have you heard that name on any police reports?”

The only Fisk you recall is Amador Fisk, a parking ticket. One you gave out yourself. “No, but I can check in the morning.”

He pulls away from the phone, however, you still hear the soft ‘Okay.’ With a cough, he continues closer. “Thanks. Let me know if you find anything.”

“I will.” Chewing your lip, you hesitate to reveal your own news despite being so happy about it a few hours ago. “I got a name too, actually.”

Both of you are quiet for too many beats, eventually the man shifts over the phone line. A foot, maybe, scraping against brick. “Yeah?”

“Yeah. James Wesley. I’m not sure if, uh, it’s related to your guy but he’s involved in this somehow. A friend of mine saw him with my boss, Detective Blake.” Your tone grows more confident as you go on. It’s a weird sensation, your mind switching gears in real time. “And he’s definitely involved.”

Again, he’s quiet. “Alright, I’ll keep it in mind.” When you hum the man takes a deep breath. “Don’t say the name I gave you around anyone. It’s dangerous.”

“Okay.”

“I mean it,” he insists, “Don’t say it.”

This time you promise, and that seems to satisfy him. He lays off, thanks you for the name, then hangs up. Your hand presses against the cold wood of the door, almost thrown by how fast that was.

Another name. Another whisper dropped after sunset. First Wesley, now Fisk. How many more shadows can you uncover before they give chase?

Nevertheless, you return to the living room. You’re hit by the warm smell of freshly made popcorn, it wakes a hunger you didn’t know existed.

“Smells good.” You muse.

Two heads pop up behind the couch. “Oh, (Y/n), everything okay?” Meghan lowers her glasses back on her nose.

“Yeah, everything’s fine.” Footsteps cracking on the wooden floor, you join them on the couch, adjusting the dark green blanket over your lap. “What are we watching?”

“NCIS: Los Angeles.” Mia answers, her smirk written all over her voice. “Ironic, I know.” She passes you the bowl of popcorn since you’re sitting in the middle.

Already digging into the popcorn Meghan mentions it was between this or Dr. House. “Thought it’d be funny to poke out those fake Hollywood inconsistencies like they do on the internet.”

“Make proper critics out of us, huh?” You pick a handful of popcorn, smiling.

“It’ll be fun!”

It was. The chance to not feel like the city of New York was growing devil horns that got bigger by the day. To pretend Jessie was just loudly snoring in his apartment, and fall asleep on Mia’s shoulder halfway through episode four.

Author's Note: the amount of Google searches I did for the court scenes is unreal, like I did mock trials in high school and I needed to search all kinds of things for this.

ALSO SONG! That intro beat of Bags by Clairo, that thrum, I hear it at the handshake scene. Something steady and potent, but felt throughout the entire song.

Masterlist

When Karen said she needed to talk, the last thing you expected was an offer. She stood under the scaffold where the pair of blue jays were. The birds disappeared with their blue sky, only shades of orange are left.

“They were trying to buy my silence, (Y/n), even though their ‘client’ tried to kill me.” As Karen spoke, she picked at the buttons of her white blouse near her chest like her heart wanted to get out.

A breeze ruffles through your uniform. “Did you sign it? The NDA?”

Her hands fall to her sides. “I didn’t. They told me to think on it.” She looks away from you for the first time in this conversation, a humorless huff blowing past her lips. “To talk about it with my lawyers.”

Car honks and metal cranes nurse your silence, but Karen’s expression makes you hesitate. She doesn’t look defeated. There’s a sharpness in her eye, a fire

“Why didn’t you?”

“I couldn’t tell Matt or Foggy, they’d say I should sign it. Put it behind me but—I can’t.” Her voice cracks there. She takes a moment to pull herself together. Pushing back her hair, touching her red face. “I just can’t, I won’t. People died, (Y/n). You know what they’re capable of. Every time Union Allied tried to kill me, you were there. You know—”

The tangent was hitting too close to not cut-off. “Karen, you don’t need to justify this. I’ve been feeling the exact same way since I got dispatched to your apartment.” You squeeze her arm. “So, what do you want to do?”

That makes her smile, it’s fond yet disbelieving. Eases you all the same. “I… I want to go talk to Ben Urich, he’s from the New York Bulletin and wrote that paper about the Union Allied Scandal.” From her black bag, she reveals the newspaper.

While aware of its existence, you never read it, having lived a darker version. Taking the newspaper you skim through the pages.

“I think he can help us, or we can help him.” Your eyes perk at the use of ‘we.’ Karen hears the silent question. “And, uhm, I was hoping you could visit him with me sometime. I know things are a little busy for you right now, Foggy told me about the case.”

It’s not just the case, it’s everything surrounding it. Your mind is tangled in all the loose threads, a mess you get more questions from each time a thread is pulled—Ben is just another thread.

“Yeah.” You let go of her arm. “Once this is over, I can go with you after work.”

“Thank you so much, (Y/n).” Karen hugs you, gripping the back of your uniform. Her next words are muffled by your shoulder. “I really didn’t want to do this alone.”

And that made it worth it, even if Ben Urich only provides more questions to keep you awake at night. At least you made someone feel less alone, plus getting hugged is more than enough reason to follow her anywhere.

On the walk back to Nelson & Murdock, you insisted to buy takeout. Not just for yourself but everyone else. Especially after Karen admits she hasn’t eaten anything.

“Hey guys, we got you something!” Karen lets you enter first. The main room is dark save for the white light bleeding from the office.

Through its window, Matt and Foggy were sitting at a table, manila folders and stray papers that are kept in place under mugs. Foggy makes eye contact with you, a grin flourishes on his face, it only grows stronger when you raise up the bag of takeout.

“Sustenance!” He rounds the corner with impressive speed, Foggy meets you in the hallway, hands wrapped together. “You are the most amazing, most talented—”

Shaking your head, you swing out the bag to Foggy, letting it hit him once. “Just take it.”

“Will do, Officer.” He flashes one last smile then goes to Karen back at the door.

Your laugh fades as you step into the office—Matt’s face is quieter. His sleeves are rolled up to his elbows, revealing a gold watch on his wrist faintly shining in the light. You tilt your head. Braille. Subtle on the gold dials, but there.

“Thank you,” Matt starts. “Since Foggy seems to have lost his manners.”

Still at the door, you shrug a shoulder. “I’m more worried he was trying to quote The Lego Movie to me.”

“You’d be right to, he’s watched it recently.” He adjusts his glasses, the position of his wrist conceals his expression.

“With who?”

The immediate question earns a short laugh. “He was babysitting some of his nieces last month.” Matt shifts in his chair to face the sound of your footsteps. “It‘s as scary as it sounds.”

In the chair across from him, you set your bag beside it. “What, did he drag you down with him?”

“Maybe.” He dips his head to the right, that little smile turns into a little smirk.

The visual of Matt trying to keep any number of children, let alone girls, in line alongside Foggy is so heartwarmingly hilarious that your giggles are almost involuntary.

“Aww,” you tease. “Did he tell them to call you Uncle Matt too?”

“I’m not answering that.” He answers with a full smile pulling on his lips.

Before you could prod at him more Foggy and Karen come into the office. “Look at you two, already having fun—too much fun.” Foggy sits beside you. He unties the bag and begins setting out boxes.

“Too much fun?” Karen lifts a brow, placing a collection of sodas at the cluttered center of the table. They’re the same Sprites from last time.

“This is a serious time in our firm’s history, Karen.” He points a plastic fork at her. The utensil lowers as she sits. “Tonight’s going to be full of penal codes, reading statements, and finding nonexistent witnesses.”

Taking a Sprite from Karen, Matt is the first to crack open a can. “I’ve been thinking about a witness we could use.”

Eyebrow raised, Foggy sheds his grey suit jacket onto the chair. “Really? Who?”

“(Y/n)—”

“Whoa, whoa, whoa, Matt.” Foggy waves his hands as if to halt the idea. “She’s the prosecution's, we can’t touch her.”

“Not if we use her as rebuttal.”

Foggy’s brief silence at that point is unsettling, either he sees what Matt is saying or completely baffled. “You’re telling me you want to hijack the state’s witness list and throw her on the stand?” When Matt nods, Foggy gapes. “Are you crazy!? They’re not going to allow that.”

Matt’s silence is much longer, and he takes a deep breath. “(Y/n), has the DA set a time for you to meet them?”

Despite Matt asking you the question, the person you look at is Karen, who is somehow more confused than you are. You hold your plastic fork closer. “Uhm, no, not yet.”

“That’s because she just got subpoenaed this morning!” Foggy reasons.

“They’re streamlining this trial, Foggy.” Matt presses a finger against the table. “They aren’t going to waste a second prepping their witnesses. Especially if they were planning to use her in their case.”

“What the heck are you saying?”

“I’m saying that they’re not going to use her report. It contradicts her partner’s completely. We can use that because they’ll call him instead and keep her hidden. That’s why they subpoenaed her in the first place.”

He leans back to sit straight. The air around him ensnares your attention, created by the set line in his jaw. It reminds you of when you first met him—always thinking something worth hearing, and now you’re hearing it about you.

Slowly that air shifts from half lectures to a quiet understanding, less heavy. Foggy glances at you then returns to Matt, sighing, he wipes a hand down the buttons of his dress shirt. “You really think this’ll work?”

“If she’ll let us.” Matt’s head anchors to your voice. Two red frames staring through your heart.

Part of you delights in the idea of helping out Matt and Foggy, while the other considers what you’re helping them with. Who you’re helping them defend. This wasn’t Karen. Healy didn’t stare into your eyes with a terror you couldn’t look away from, he looked at you like someone who knew what they did.

“I was there that night, Matt. I saw the blood, that bowling ball, the smell…” Your breath shakes. It’s a sensation your hands follow, they drop the fork to retreat to your lap. “I know self-defense is your plead and everything but who’s really to say he didn’t kill that man? I don’t know how I feel about helping defend a potential murderer.”

His lack of reply makes your eyes flick back to him, you had half a mind to think Matt did that just to keep your attention. “(Y/n), you have a strong sense of right and wrong,” He doesn't wait, he moves. “But I’m not asking you to say anything other than the facts of what happened that night.”

Beneath your badge, your heart couldn’t decide if it wanted to slow down or speed up. Eventually, you lean forward on the table. Matt’s shoulders shift, but you're too focused on his face to see why.

“To prove if John Healy is a good man or a bad one isn’t why I want to call you for rebuttal.” Matt lowers his voice disarmingly soft. Your eyes drop to his mouth, as if seeing the words will help you hear them, then Matt dips his head and you already return to those brown eyes. “It’s because the jury needs to hear both sides. And if it benefits us it’s because of the facts, not morals.”

Longer than you should, you’re taking in his face, the way he merely exists in front of you. He made perfect sense, yet there’s something you can't understand: His motivations. What drives him to be who he is?

“I’ll do it. But only if the DA leaves me out of it, like you said.”

That line in his jaw releases its tension. “Deal.” He extends his hand out. Once your hands brush, you realize how close you two got when your hand didn’t have to reach far for his at all.

His hand is warm. Yours is not. The contact jars your senses like you've been underwater. AC hum, the takeout, the slight callouses of his fingertips. It’s so much warmer than the crook of his arm back at the station, this is his skin.

Afterward, the two of you pull back, your hand rubs your thigh to shake off the new tingling wrapping around it. “Your hand’s warm.”

“Yeah?” His hand disappears under the table. “Yours is freezing.”

“Sorry.” You grin. Matt hides his smile, staring at nothing in his lap.

An almost awkward silence follows before Foggy comes to save it. “Well!” He claps his hands. “I think that’s a good spot to take a break. We have a witness and Matt’s got half of his closing argument done already.”

“You think so?” Matt comments.

“I thought it sounded like one,” Karen offers. Though her cheeks are a touch red. You tug the collar of your uniform, it has been starting to feel hot in here.

Foggy nods, his eyes squint lightly. “Yes. Very thought-provoking, Matthew.”

Joining Foggy your shoulders relax under his levity. “Very thought-provoking,” you echo. “And I’m notoriously unreasonable.”

“Notoriously.” Foggy’s elbow presses against yours as he snaps his fingers.

“Alright,” Matt chuckles. “Come on, let’s eat.”

Karen sits up in her chair ready to accept one of the boxes Foggy passes out. The office hums to life with overlapping chatter. Everyone tries to figure out which box holds what and whose sharing their favorites.

On the morning of the trial Mia lounges over your couch while you’re fussing with your appearance. Even though you’re only expected to be in uniform, the pressure to look nice is still there.

She’s been mostly quiet during your routine, outside of offering advice and weighing options. Her silence is different compared to her usual demeanor, it’s pensive. Eyes lowered and a biting lip.

Spilling coffee from your Van Gogh Starry Night mug, you observe those behaviors to spot an approach. “What did Meghan want to talk to you about?” You set the mug down. A faint clink against the granite. “Is she okay?”

Immediately, you clock Mia tightening her arms, then unfolding them. “She’s fine, just wanted to check-in on me, see if I was okay.”

Check-in. The phrase stirs a grey feeling in you, it’s almost guilt, it’s almost shame. Checking in on a friend, your friend, the only person in Hell’s Kitchen that could understand how you felt losing Jessie. ‘I lost him too.’ She had said. One fact you’ve done nothing about.

“Are you okay?”

Mia replies quicker than she usually does in these situations, she stands from the couch. A tiny smile that clawed and scratched its way to her eyes. “I’m alright.” In slow steps, Mia walka to the counter. “Stop fussing, you got court.”

“I’m not fussing.” Your hands come to adjust your uniform’s buttoned-up collar. On regular days you leave one unbuttoned for comfort. “Just worried.”

“I meant over yourself, but thanks.” At your dry look, Mia’s smile grows to a smirk, she swats your shoulder. “C’mon, let’s go. You’re going to be late.”

The courtroom is made up of dark wood that panels to the high-rising ceiling like a cathedral, and the gallery benches, the pews. It’s unlike any court you’ve been in and around Long Island; Oakwood with fluorescent lights to brighten every inch.

“It’s so dark in there,” you murmur to Karen in the hallway outside.

She rubs her arms, a pattern of goosebumps rises along her sleeveless shoulder. “And cold.” Karen peeks behind herself to assure she isn’t in anyone’s way, even then she shuffles closer. “See you after?”

Nudging your head toward the hallway chairs, where you’ll sit alongside your fellow witnesses, an exaggeratedly tired smile forms. “I’ll be here.” Karen chuckles at your act, wishing you luck before disappearing through the courtroom doors.

One by one the other witnesses flow into the hallway. Most are doctors or specialists, all sporting a blank face, this wasn’t their first court appearance.

Then there was the young woman from the bowling alley. Hands close to her body as she sat down pulling the hem of her dress, eyes skirting to every person nearby. Once it was your turn, you nod. She doesn’t react, only lets go of her dress.

Sterna is the last witness to show, he makes eye contact when he sits across the hall, avoiding the empty seat next to you. Childish. It sends a prick to your gut, you cross your legs to somehow hide that internal response.

Within the time opening statements were to start being delivered, a well-dressed man quickly strides down the hallway, his loafers clicking on the floor. The noise drowns out at the sight of his watch. Silver, shiny, and expensive.

Seated in the chair right beside the courtroom door, you’re able to get a good look at his face when he approaches it. His tall shadow covers you as a fox would a bird.

Each box his face checks your pulse grows in speed, he matches Mahoney’s description to the letter. When he smiles at you, crooked and toothy, a dread screams in your soul. This is the man.

It took all your police training and personal restraint not to chase him into the court. The chilled air from inside brushes the back of your neck like a taunt.

‘Is the man who just entered the courtroom the same man from your office?’ You text Karen at the sound of the doors shutting. Two minutes later she replies:

‘Yes, that’s the guy

Do you recognize him?’

‘No but I might be able to find out

An officer I know told me he was with Detective Blake if you remember him’

‘I do

You think they’re connected?’

‘Yeah but I’m not sure how or why

I’ll let you know if I find out anything’

‘Okay’

On Brett Mahoney’s contact, a number you gained recently, you ask if he has been able to look at the security footage yet. After a while, he messages that he is going to try tonight.

Nothing else interesting happens for the remainder of the trial. Only every time a witness is called inside do you try to see anybody familiar inside. In your mind that was Karen, Foggy, or Matt, not the prosecution bench.

Doctors and specialists are the first to be called, Sterna is the second last behind the young woman. You never follow. A buzzing sensation billows in you, nervousness with edge. Rebellion. Knowing you agreed to counter Sterna’s testimony, another cop, in a trial you should’ve been silent in, is new.

Court adjourned for the day, you wait by the door for your group among the various others pouring out. Matt comes in, guided by Foggy, Karen beside them. Their faces are taut.

“How’d it go?” You ask.

The four of you stand off on the left of the door, waiting for the crowd to dissipate. Foggy releases Matt's arm. “Their witnesses were pretty much slam dunks. The only ones we could pick at were that lady and your partner,” He points a finger at you. “Real piece of work by the way.”

“Tell me about it,” you remark. “Any good news?”

“We have you as our star witness now.” The weight in Matt’s voice makes your shoulder twitch. Not quite a flinch, just something involuntary, and a little too honest.

“Right.” Clearing your throat doesn’t kill that earlier buzzing, but it’s something to do. “So, what’s the plan?”

Matt speaks softer this time, and he starts walking down the hall, cane flicked out. “We’re going to need to prepare you for cross-examination before anything else.”

Footsteps echo along the tile when yours fall into step beside Matt’s. “Really?”

He hums, the deep vibration turns your head to watch him think, seeing the slow blinks under those red glasses. “The prosecution is going to come after you hard, and it’s going to be easy for them to do so.”

“Because I’m a transfer?”

“Exactly.” His head tilts. “Their goal is to question your credibility. It’s important for everyone that you stay calm on the stand.”

Brief pause, you do a once-over of his side profile now that it's closer. The low lighting hid the ornate features of your surroundings. “This is the part where you say ‘no pressure.’”

A humored huff comes from his nose. However, Foggy cuts in behind you both. “And me and Karen will do somersaults in the back to cheer you on.”

“Oh hey, Foggy.” You look over your shoulder grinning. “Didn’t see you there.”

Rolling his eyes Foggy and Karen step into the space you make in between Matt. “I started to think you actually didn’t.” He sighs. “See, Karen this is what I meant by them having too much fun.”

She glances at you before responding, the blues of her irises catch the daylight from the approaching glass doors. “I see it.”

The corners of Matt’s lips lift, it reveals a set of smile lines at the edges. “Just doing our due diligence.” He shrugs, voice light.

Foggy waves his hand, tossing out one last quip before adding his own suggestions. “They’re going to lose their minds when we call her, Matt.”

“Then that means we’re doing something right.”

I will market this to you the only way I know how:

Reader-Insert PJO Godly Parent is definitely Hestia if it were possible. Hints of Nemesis tho, strong hints at times.

Her elemental power is yellow. (Please aet the reference) Yellow can be bright but it can easily get muddy.

Soldier since she's a cop but lwk a poet

She's an ISFJ, the 'defender' ironically

Soul song is, and bear with me here. This Wish by Ariana DeBose. THE MOVIE WAS BAD, YES. BUT IT FITS SO WELL. EVERY SINGLE LYRIC.

She actually does stuff, yk, I wanted you to be like a character in the show!