Last post S3 update! After this, it will be our regularly scheduled programming.

This is what I get for trying to jump ahead of the writers. Oh well, the adventures of fanfic writing!

Enjoy!


The Fury of Hell

"Can I help you?"

"Father Lantom," Iris turned her head at the sound of the priest's voice, her breathy whisper not even enough to catch the reverberation of the cathedral ceiling. She tried to take a centering breath as the priest walked towards her, to ignore the tears welling in her throat, to find some comfort. The rock of faith was her constant, as it was Matt's. Exactly why she figured here was where she'd find Matt.

Maybe. Hopefully.

She'd called as soon as Fisk's broadcast ended, and got silence from both his regular phone and the burner. She didn't think Matty was reckless enough to bring out The Devil of Hell's Kitchen in the daylight hours, but desperation did things to people. She knew that much. She'd come here hoping to find that she was wrong, that Matty was thinking before he acted.

"Iris," Father Lantom finally closed the bridge between them. He had this gaze, one that seemed to read every part of her. "The only soul afraid of servant of the Lord is a guilty soul," Grandma Murdock used to say. Lord knows she had enough sins.

"Is there something I can help with you with?" Lantom asked, snapping Iris back into focus.

"My brother," she blurted, voice breaking just a little. "I'm looking for…"

"He came by this morning. We had coffee, spoke for awhile," Father Lantom frowned, still searching her face. She stiffened at the scrutiny. "I'm tempted to make you the same offer."

"He was here?" the relief hit her hard, turning her knees to putty. She steadied herself in the knick of time. "Where did he..?"

"I believe he went to his office."

"Thank you, Father," Iris voice was paper thin, barely a whisper as she choked on her own relief. She turned on a heel, ready to get the first cab to Nelson and Murdock.

"You know," Lantom's voice stopped her in her tracks. "We had a very long conversation this morning, Matthew and I." A beat, Iris slowly pivoting around to face him again. "About the devil."

"The devil," Iris repeated.

He nodded, again staring her right in the eyes. "I remember you as a child, Iris. You and your brother. And I remember your father." Those words knock her down, the final blow. She lowered herself slowly into a pew, and Father Lantom sunk into the one right in front of her, sitting backwards, draping his arms over the back. Casual and open, honest.

"A lot of people around here, they still remember your family. What happened to your brother, your father…you."

Iris said nothing, just stared straight ahead. "When you were a child, Iris, you took your responsibilities as a sister very seriously. Matthew was your world, anyone could see that. And you and your brother, you were your father's world."

Iris had known that, always had, but she always knew that was the very thing that had killed him…

"I kept up with you, after you were adopted. Your letters—the ones you sent for Matthew—I could always sense…something. You were lost then." The truth of those words weighed on her, but again she kept silent.

"Sister Maggie would share those letters with Matthew," Lantom continued. "And he always found great comfort in them. Until they stopped, of course."

"I didn't want to stop writing them," she admitted. "I wanted to do way more than just write letters he couldn't even read himself."

There was a long pause, "Do you pray often, Iris?"

The question floored her a little. "Father?"

"Praying, Iris."

"Of course I…" she let her voice falter under the weight of that knowing look. "Truth be told, when I was child, when I was that lonely little girl you kept hearing about, I stopped believing God heard my prayers. But, maybe it was because I was praying for something that was impossible."

"With God all things are possible, are they not?"

Iris sucked in air through her nose, holding her breath. Blinking to stave off tears. She didn't know how this man could find her fears, her insecurities, and turn them inside out. Make her feel so open and vulnerable and yet so safe.

"What did you pray for?"

"For my old life back," she let out a small, bitter laugh. "Now that I'm here again, with Matty back in my life, I'm starting to see that's never going to happen. I don't know why I ever expect things to be the way they were. Life doesn't just go back to the way it was."

"No, it doesn't," Lantom agreed. "It changes, sometimes for the better, sometimes…not. But never outside God's sovereignty. Never doubt He can carry you through whatever it is you're going through." A beat, Lantom staring directly into her eyes. "Never doubt that He can carry Matthew through his struggles as well."

Iris shivered, hands balling into fists. "You know…"

"I don't know what you're implying," Lantom shrugged in a way that he actually did know what she was implying. Of course Matty would go to confessional about this.

"Forgive me, Father, for I crushed yet another druggie's windpipe last night…."

"Iris," Lantom said. "When you were little, there was no doubt in my mind you would go to the ends of the earth for your family. If you were there the day of your brother's accident, it wouldn't have surprised me if you were there to push him out of the way. Please, keep loving him that way. He needs someone right now, someone who knows every part of him, to keep him grounded."


"Yeah, I could say I'm Captain America, but it doesn't put wings in my head."

Iris snorted at the tail end of Foggy's comment, snorting to announce her presence in her brother's office. She leaned against the door, offering a smirk at the other half of the outfit. "Gentlemen, Karen," she inclined her head, then zeroed her gaze in on the fourth occupant of the small space. "Complete stranger."

The newcomer wasn't old, not by any stretch of the imagination, but he wasn't exactly young either. A handful of wrinkles pitted his dark skin, his stubbly beard and short hair peppered with grey. Sharp eyes narrowed on Iris, appraising her with a sharp, inquisitive stare.

"Iris," Matty was the first to come to life. "This is Ben Urich."

"Pleasure," Iris inclined her head a fraction. "Now, what's this about Foggy being Captain American?"

"It's uh…" Foggy stammered. "I…"

"Let me guess, Ben has been helping you investigate Fisk?" she cut him off, remembering the conversation in the diner. Ben flinched visibly, sending a confused glare Matty's way. A sentiment lost on the lawyer. "I loved your article on Union Allied, by the way."

"Wow, Matt," Karen scoffed. "You talk about not bringing too many people into the investigation and…"

"Objection," Iris raised her hands. "In Matty's defense, he didn't want to tell me, but…I was employed by Wilson Fisk a few weeks ago. He…came clean, asked what I knew."

Ben raised a brow at her. "And..?"

"Well, there were some weird behavioral patterns, and the whole thing was crashed by a panicky Russian, so there's that."

"That's perfect," Karen said, taking a step towards Iris. Matty shifted, obviously more than a little pissed Iris was trying to worm her way in on this, but the bastard needed to go down somehow. If Matty was going to play this from both ends, so was she. "Your testimony just may prove he was collaborating with the Russians…"

"Not exactly," Iris shook her head. "It was a public restaurant. In case you've been checking out the Internet, Fisk has wiped his slate clean. He was ghost, until that little show on TV. Now, the sources make him out like Tony Stark with more daddy issues and less of a drinking problem. Rich philanthropist, trying to do some good. There's probably already a neat little story to explain it."

"Not to mention how people who oppose Fisk tend to end up," Matty agreed, his voice tight. Almost verging on a growl. "Dead."

"And the man in the mask," Karen moved off the subject before anyone had time to digest that thought, "when he came to see you.."

"The Devil of Hell's Kitchen came to you?" Iris asked, trying not to look Matty's way.

"He did," Ben agreed, reaching into his bag. "And he wants the same thing we do: to expose Fisk." He handed Karen a stack of papers. "Printed this from the thumb drive her gave me."

Karen looked wide at the stack, rushing to her desk to peruse through it.

"He claims that Fisk is behind the bombings," Urich continued, "shooting those cops. Said he owns half the police, that they helped him take down the Russians."

"But I don't understand," Karen shook her head. "If you have all this, then.."

"Hearsay," Matty cut her off. "Can't print any of it without corroboration, can you?"

Foggy shook his head. "Mask could be blowing smoke, trying to cover his own ass. I mean he just killed Detective Blake."

Ben shrugged. "Said Blake's partner Hoffman did it, probably on Fisk's orders. But, yeah, it occurred to me."

"You could...talk to Hoffman," Matty's voice was scarcely audible, throat tight with the weight of the secrets he was keeping.

"Tried," Ben said. "But he's in the wind. Or bottom of the river. Either way…" Ben cut himself off with a vague shrug.

"He just shrugged," Iris and Foggy said at the same time. The two locked eyes for a minute, a mutual moment of solidarity.

"Sorry," Ben said.

"Okay," Karen was still shuffling around in the stack. "What about the Union Allied money. Any way we can tie it directly to Fisk?"

"Maybe," Ben said. "According to the Mask, a man named Leland Owsely runs the books. But ever since the Mask roughed him up, Owsley's surrounded by Fisk's security twenty-four seven. Can't get anywhere near him. Same goes with, uh, James Wesley, the guy who you said hired you to defend Healy."

Iris shivered at the name.

"Look, the Mask came to Ben for help," Karen said. "I don't care how rich Fisk is, no one can erase their past. Somewhere out there, there has to be a piece of paper…."

"A witness," Iris cut her off.

"Yes. Exactly."

"You have something?" Ben turned to the elder Murdock.

"Iris," Matty warned.

"No," she cut him off. "I said I worked for Fisk. Well, the reason I got the job was because my old college friend…is sort of on Fisk's security force."

All the heads in the room swiveled to her.

"He's been expressing…uneasiness lately. I think…I think maybe we can convince him to come forward. To speak out. We'd have to be careful, because truth be told, Owen is scared shitless, but…"

"Yeah, I think a member of Fisks own security force is a good way to start," Foggy snorted. "Not to mention the Confed Global angle."

"Confed Global?"

"Suit that hired us to defend Healy. Standing right next to Fisk," Foggy said.

"Confed Global is where Fisk gets most of his income, according to FCC filings," Ben agreed.

"So we play this out. If Confed Global is connected to Fisk, that means he's connected to Westmeyer-Holt Contracting…."

"Strong arming tenants out of their building," Karen clarified. "They were hired by Armund Tully."

"The slumlord?" Ben asked.

"Who, according to his lawyers he's on vacation," Foggy said, "on an island whose name no one can pronounce where they use coconuts as phones."

"So another connection in the wind," Ben said.

"Westmeyer-Holt, to Confed, to Fisk," Matty said. "Pull that thread, see what it unravels. And with Iris's witness…"

"We may actually be able to build something," Karen declared, her confidence admittedly a bit inspiring.

"Still not sure about this Mask guy," Foggy shook his head.

"Well, he didn't hurt Ben and he didn't hurt me," Karen insisted. "And he rescued Patrick's son. I'd take the Devil of Hell's Kitchen over Fisk any day. Plus, he kicks ass. You should see the way he was flipping around in the rain."

Out of the corner of her eye, Iris saw a tiny smile work its way onto Matty's face. She rolled her eyes a little, turning back to the other members of the Nelson and Murdock team.

"Well is he's such a badass why did he come to Ben? Why doesn't he just take Fisk down himself?" Foggy asked.

"Maybe he knows there are some roads you can't come back from," Ben whispered.


Iris shivered at the entrance to Owen's apartment building, knowing what she was going to have to ask of her friend. She knew how those who displeased Fisk ended up, but if Owen coming forward could prove the game changer in Nelson and Murdock's investigation, if it could truly bring down Fisk…

"Yeah," the voice in the callbox crackled over the old speakers.

"Here to visit a resident. Owen Danvers."

A slight pause and then, "Danvers cleared out two nights ago."

"…..what?"Iris asked.

"He cleared out. Left enough rent to cover the rest of his lease and then...left. Had movers come in and get his stuff out, but never showed up for that part."

Her heart rate was picking up, slowly climbing to her throat. "O…okay," Iris stuttered, slowly taking a step back. She lost track of how long she stood there on the street, staring at the building, before she finally got up the courage to pick up her phone. Her fingers, shaky and unsteady, tripped over the keypad several times before she finally got to his contact.

"I'm sorry," an automated voice on the other line droned, "the number you are trying to reach has been disconnected."

Iris choked, almost dropping her phone straight onto the concrete.

Because she knew how those who stood up to Fisk ended up….


She stumbled back into her apartment, her heart roaring in her ears. Matty, she had to call Matty, had to clear her head. She didn't know Owen was dead, not for sure. There was some other explanation, there had to be…

Any minute, Owen would call her, tell her his reasoning behind going into the wind. He'd make a joke, bring up her only pleasant memories of college like he always did….

And yet, the whole cab right back, nothing. As she rode the elevator up to her floor…nothing.

"Iris," Jo trotted up to her as soon as she got in, clearly unaware of how her roommate was feeling. And, honestly, what was there that Iris could say? My brother—a vigilante—is investigating Wilson Fisk, and his only lead—my college best friend—is in the wind, maybe dead? This was a burden that she couldn't unleash on Jo. She had to bury everything, push it far away.

She tacked on a smile, setting her purse down on the kitchen island. "Hey."

"Who's the greatest roommate ever?" Jo slid into one of their barstools. "I'll give you a hint: the answer is me."

"Oh really?" Iris went to the fridge, trying to find something—anything—to keep her brain from focusing on Owen.

"Yes," Jo nodded. "So, you know I work for Vanessa, and that she was impressed with our collaboration."

"I was there," Iris agreed, the humor really not making its way into her tone. Only bitter sarcasm came through.

Jo kept going. "Anyway, Wilson Fisk is holding a fundraising gala soon and….guess what?"

"What?" Iris closed the fridge, doing a terrible job of not slamming it.

"They want us to play," Jo grinned. "We just have to play a few pieces and then we get to enjoy the party. And the best part: we get to bring at plus one."

Iris pasted on her best version of a smile, struggling through the sludge of her own emotions, and collected herself. "That's fantastic, Jo. Really. I'm really looking forward to it."

"Iris," Jo finally realized her roommate's state. "Is everything…"

Iris phone cut her off, and when Iris saw Patrick's contact, she was thankful for the out. She held up her phone, shuffling into her room.

"Hey, I…"

"Iris," the tone of made Iris's stomach tie into knots. Tears spilled right through the other line, breaking down the floodgates Iris had been holding back all day.

"Iris, your brother and his friends got a call. It's….it's Elena Cardenas…."


It was cold—shit it was cold—but Iris couldn't bring herself to focus on the temperature. She could only focus on the way her knees were slowly turning to liquid. Or the way her stomach was contorting itself. Her own quick, shallow breathing. It was all so sickeningly familiar.

She saw her child self, standing in front of the casket at her father's funeral. It was closed, because what his face looked like after….

Then Manson's funeral, the old man just as cold and stark as he had been in life. Iris unable to take her gaze away from the body, thinking it would move at any minute. Trying to wade through a swamp of emotion. Because, truly, surely, she couldn't actually be free. Surely it wasn't very Christian of her to find relief in someone's death. And so she cried, because she was sad, in some way. Confused. Guilty. Sick.

And all she could really think about that day was her father's death.

Everything brought back that sobbing eleven-year-old cleaving to her brother in a dark alley. The smell of blood, the distant flash of sirens, and her brother's quaking form in her arms.

The medical examiner removed the sheet from the body, and Iris faintly heard Karen squeak, burrowing into Foggy. A sob tearing from Andy's throat. Elena Cardenas was on that table, cold and lifeless. Once again, death had shoved its way into Iris life, had made a mess of everything.

"It's her," Foggy whispered faintly, half for the examiner, half for Matt.

Iris felt Patrick's hands on her shoulders, offering a reassuring squeeze. Or maybe he was seeking reassurance. She wanted to help, but her own demons were plaguing her at the moment. The room was spinning.

Iris saw Matty out of the corner of her eye, stone-faced. She remember the little nine-year-old she'd cradled in the alley that night. She remember that once they got to the police station, once he'd cried out every last tear in his body, little Matty was wearing the same expression. Dazed, set like a blank slate.

Her head buzzing, Iris shouldered her way past the group, letting herself out into the hall. She slid down the wall, melting into the linoleum floor. Shoes shuffled over to her, and she looked up into Patrick's misty eyes. "I'm sorry. I…"

"It's okay," he whispered, holding out his hand. She took it, letting him draw her back to her feet. She leaned into him, amazed by his solidity. Amazed by how easy it was to let him hold her.

"How did…" Iris asked, voice wan and thin.

"Multiple stab wounds. Some junkie was found running off with her purse."

She shivered.

"Foggy agreed to help Andy with the arrangements."

Iris swore, trying to skirt around him. "Andy's in there, I've got to…"

"No," Patrick drew her back to his side. "You've seen enough. You don't need to go back in there. Andy's strong, she's fine."

But Iris wasn't strong. She didn't feel that way, at least.

Just then, the rest of the group filed out of the morgue, bringing with them a chorus of low voices. The officer that had accompanied them in the room offered his condolence before strolling off, leaving the miniature crowd. She vaguely recognized him, recalling him as a friend of Matt and Foggy's.

Iris was at a loss. She hadn't known Elena all that well, not really. Not like Karen, Foggy, and Matt, but damn if she wasn't reeling from it anyway. The chokehold death had on her life was profound. It followed her, an unwanted shadow.

"I think we need a drink," Patrick whispered.

"We know a good place," Foggy's eyes were puffy and swollen at this point, nose red and stuffed. Iris's heart squeezed at the way this man just cared so much it rolled off him in waves.

Plans for cabs were tossed around, efficiency in the wake of their world crumbling. And all Iris could do was stand there stunned, the seconds inching by unnoticed. Matty caught her arm when the group was filing out, pulling her back to him. "Iris."

She was forced to look into that stony face again, to once again relive the statue-still nine-year-old sitting wordlessly on the bench in the police station. The crippling fear he'd never talk to her again, that she'd lost him forever too.

Now here he was, locking himself in his own head, carefully concealing the darker parts of himself. The parts that hated, the parts that were probably screaming for revenge. But revenge was for the Lord, not the devil….

Except Iris couldn't feel anything right then except the need to scream, to fight back against the broken world that took and took from her.

And as she held her brother, felt him shaking with pent-up range, she knew that's exactly how he felt. Knew that all he wanted to do was let the devil out, let it take over and make whoever was responsible pay.

And, for once, Iris couldn't bring herself to condemn him for it.

Because she wanted the same thing.

"I understand," she whispered. "I do."


Andy, after a lot of begging from the group, agreed to stay at her son's place for the night. Once they were satisfied Iris's boss was safe, the quintet headed to Josie's, an old dive the Nelson and Murdock crew frequented, their grim faces immediately tipping off the place's namesake to the nature of their visit. Josie, a stout woman with a wicked sharp stare, gave them their first round free, saying little else. She refilled their glasses without digression, leaving two bottles at the table for the little ragtag group to share.

Josie kept them coming, and Iris kept knocking them back. The alcohol did nothing at first, nothing to shake the images of Elena's corpse and, grimmer still, lingering right beneath the surfaces, the poorly-repressed memories of Dr. Manson grey-skinned on that metal table. She tried to chase it away, each sip burning on the way down, but the only thing that the drinking did was submerge the world in a warm haze. She could probably work with a warm haze. If she could keep it going.

"When we first took the case," Foggy said, long after the lights had gone slightly blurring through the haze of alcohol, "Marci talked about a 'criminal element' in Elena's building. Said that's why the workmen left without finishing the repairs."

"Cause they feared for their safety," Karen added.

"I thought it was bullshit," Foggy whispered, chasing the statement a long swig.

Iris let out a low snort, slamming her newly-empty glass down on the table.

"Maybe it was," Matty said, voice low. Iris looked at him out of the corner of his eye, knowing him well enough to read the rage bubbling beneath the calm expression plastered onto his face.

"Yeah," Foggy slammed down his empty glass, "tell that to Elena."

"What are you saying?" Karen asked.

"I don't know," Matt shrugged, though Iris, way past drunk territory as she was, could tell that he did know. He knew exactly who was responsible for this. And he was deciding just how to make the bastard pay. "It just doesn't feel right, does it?"

For once, Iris understood the devil in her brother.

"I'll drink to that," Foggy whispered.

"What do you mean, Matt?" Patrick, who had barely touched the bottle, leaned on the table. He kept passing Iris side-long looks every time she poured another glass, but when she realized it was concern and not judgment, she'd relaxed.

"Do you think it was a coincidence? Elena agrees to stay and fight, to rally what's left of her neighbors, and this happens?" Matty spoke carefully, every word measured. He had to devil under tight rein, but that untamed creature was fighting the bit. Matt had to work to keep it at pay, to hold onto the façade of a grieving, even-tempered, lawyer-by-day. Upstanding, ducky Matty Murdock. His control over the wildfire inside him, the way he held it all into a tight little ball for later, was truly the most terrifying thing she'd seen from him.

Karen shook her head. "You mean…Fisk had something to do with this?"

The name sent white-hot surges of rage through Iris's bloodstream. She grabbed for the bottle, nearly missing her glass before Patrick helped her. "Some 'better tomorrow'," she snorted.

"Speak of the Devil," Foggy snorted, nodding to the TV on mute just above the bar. Matt shifted around in his seat at his friend's wording.

"Fisk in on the TV again," Iris clarified.

"Josie, can you turn that up?" Matty requested, his squirming finally stopping.

"No, I never had the pleasure of meeting Ms. Cardenas," Fisk's familiar voice filled the hazy air. "I only recently took possession of her building."

"How do you respond to reports that you knew the tenement was unsafe?" a reporter asked. Iris's grip on her glass tightened.

"That is accurate," Fisk agreed. "That is why we offered a substantial sum to Ms. Cardenas and her neighbors to help them relocate. We should never let good people get swallowed up by this city. I mourn this woman's death. Didn't have to happen. It should have—" he shook her head. "Her passing is a symptom of a larger disease, infecting all of us."

Foggy's cell chirped from his jacket, tearing attention away from the TV. Iris became aware of her fist balled tightly on the table, nails digging into her palm.

"Funeral home," Foggy said, checking the ID. He got up from the table, making his way through the throng of patrons, taking with him the temporary distraction.

"….fear of bombing, of cop killings," Fisk continued his tirade, face contorted with chillingly genuine grief, "fear of a masked psychopath. We shouldn't let people like that take our city from us. We need to stand together. Let them know that they will fail, because we believe we can make a difference. 'Cause they are cowards. Afraid of stepping out of the shadows. Afraid of standing up for people like Mrs. Cardenas. I'm sorry." Fisk shook her head, overcome. He began to walk away from the throng of reports, ignoring their remaining questions. "I'm sorry."

"The Mask isn't a psychopath," Patrick shook his head. "That is what I believe. That performance Fisk just gave, however…"

"Almost sounds like his means it," Karen hissed.

"I think he does," Matty whispered. Iris snapped her gaze in his direction.

"Yeah, in the same way I meant it when I said I liked Grandma Murdock's meatloaf," she spat, knocking back the rest of her glass. She went for another one, hoping this would be the round that made that calmed storm in her head. At this point, she wasn't sure if it was the alcohol or the tears making the room blurry.

"And he's calling the man in the mask a psycho?" Karen snapped. "I hope they trace what happened to Elena right to his doorstep."

"He'd never expose himself like that," Iris whispered. "Owen being in the wind makes that fact clear. Not to mention half the force is probably in his pocket."

"Well, then let's pray The Mask get his hands on him," Karen said. "Knocks his goddamn head off."

Iris choked on her next swig, spewing cheap whiskey all over the table. She coughed and gagged, the stimulation sending her stomach into somersaults. "Shit," she whispered, stumbling out of her table. "I'm gonna be.." she waved off Patrick's attempts to help her, stumbling towards the bathroom.

The smell was enough to bring it all up, bar peanuts and whiskey coming up sour. Snot and tears littered her face and when she finally devolved into dry heaving, she rested shivering against the wall. "Iris," Patrick's soft voice came from behind the door, knocking politely.

"Are you okay?"

"Hell no, I'm not 'okay.' We had identify a body tonight, Patrick."

There was a long pause, and he whispered, "I know."

Feeling like an ass, Iris struggled to her feet, opening the door and falling into Patrick's waiting arms. She sobbed into his coat, for the first time realizing he'd put it on, and the feeling of her arms around him out above the roaring in her head and the sour taste in her mouth and the cigarette smoke from the other patrons. The cracking of billiards from the neck room split her skull.

"We should go," Patrick cradled her face. "Get you home."

"Matty," she instated, a tiny voice in the back of her mind nagging her about how whiny that sounded.

"Yeah, of course. Matt and I will take you to his place," he said, gently. Bless him. Bless his whole damn family, he was such a sweet guy.

"You're sweet too," Patrick laughed, "in a….charmingly blunt sort of way."

"I said that out loud?" she whispered. He nodded. "I may be a touch drunk."

"Just a touch," he said, taking her arm. "Come on, let's get out of here."


She'd heard Foggy and Matt jokingly call the steps up to Matt's place "murder stairs" many times, but she'd never believed that statement until she faced them the drunkest she'd ever been in her life. She stumbled on the first step, Patrick catching her as she peddled back, teetering noisily on her heels in an attempt to stay upright.

"Take it easy," Patrick soothed, letting her lean her weight against him. Matty hissed out a breath through his nose, irritation clear.

"Everything won't stop moving," Iris moaned, the world pitching and roiling, and she buried her face in Patrick's chest.

The tears that hadn't stopped flowing since the morgue were soaking through Patrick's shirt as she raggedly whimpered into his coat. Everything pitched upward, her feet no longer on the floor, and she thought it was some sort of terrifying illusion until she realized she was settled into Patrick's arms. She blinked lazily at him. Matty shifted a little, the sharp intake of air suggesting he was going to find some sort of protest, but he ended up saying nothing as Patrick began the upward climb.

Matty's apartment greeted her like an old friend, just the perfect temperature. It smelled familiar, like nothing, and the warm glow of the billboard enveloped her like a hug. "Take her to the bed," Matty said, undoing his tie. His voice was a growl, more devil than she'd ever heard it. She couldn't tell if he was pissed at her. Probably not. Fisk, that was the real source of his rage. "Let her sleep if off. She'll be safe here."

Iris kept silent as Patrick carried her back, gently lowering her into the downy softness of Matty's bed. "Thank you," she whispered, practically melting into the mattress. Patrick reached out, stroking her hair. His hand was warm, his touch centering. She leaned into it.

"Rest," he told her. "You want me to stay until you fall asleep?"

"M'almost there," she admitted. "Get home. Ian needs you."

"I've got it," Matty appeared in the doorway, stiff like a sentinel.

They both knew where he was planning to head, what he was planning on doing with his night. And, honestly, for once Iris couldn't bring herself to worry. To feel anything but the pit of emptiness gnawing at her core.

"Karen said to me, that if there was a God, if He cared, Fisk would get what he deserves," Matty whispered.

Silence followed, Patrick sitting still on the foot of the bed. Iris sat up, a chill running down her spine. She wanted this to end, so badly, to get her head above water for more than two seconds. She was so sick of this sideways emotional rollercoaster of a life.

"Matty," she said quietly. He squirmed, expecting her to talk him out of going out. To try and talk him out of going out, of going after Fisk. But, she wasn't going to do that. So, she surprised herself, anger and alcohol the primary cause of her next words, "Get the son of a bitch."

He didn't move, drawing a centering breath. "Sleep. I'll be back, I promise."


After falling asleep to Patrick's fingers running through her hair, she dreamt she was standing in the rain.

Her coat was useless against the downpour, sopping as we watched a funeral from the distance. She trekked through the storm, the mourners passing her by as she moved towards the open grave. A little girl was lingering at the edge of the chasm, looking into its depths. When Iris approached, she shivered as she recognized her eleven-year-old self. "It's always ends in death for you," the child mournfully whispered.

Iris followed her younger self's gaze, slapping her hand over her mouth when she saw Fisk lying in the open casket. A jagged sob of relief wrenched itself from her throat, giving way to a shriek of terror when she felt two hands slam down on her shoulders. The iron grip whirled her around, brining her face to face with Dr. Manson.

"I told you this life was over," he growled. "You thought you could get it back?"

"Let me go," Iris hissed, yanking free only to run into a solid wall of muscle.

"Miss Murdock," Wilson Fisk was standing before her, casually brushing dirt from his suit. "You should have stayed away. You can never find home here. This city swallows everything whole, and now it'll swallow you."

She screamed when he pushed her into the grave, the casket slamming down on her, its loud echo piercing her eardrums as darkness closed in.


The crash startled her awake, her heart kicking into overdrive. Matty's top sheet was wrapped around her legs, and she did a little wriggle to kick it off, slithering off the bed. She half stumbled, the sheet still stuck to her left leg, but she kicked it off before getting to the doorway of the bedroom. The apartment was dark, still. Silent.

"Matty?" she whispered, her own voice echoing. Bouncing off the angles and corners of an eerily dark apartment. The billboard's hazy light bathed everything.

"Matt, are you okay in there?" Pounding from the door, Foggy's voice ringing into the apartment. "Matt? Matt?" she could only faintly hear him, but it was obvious he was full-on frantic. A jostling with the lock, pounding on the door. And then silence, again. Iris breathed heavily into the dark, her senses still doused in an alcoholic haze she hadn't fully shaken.

Moments later, and the rooftop door ripped open, Foggy's form appearing at the top of the stairwell. "Matt," her brother's business partner called into the darkness, "it's me. I heard a crash. Not the fun sexy-time kind, but more of the 'I've fallen and can't get up' variety."

His breathing was fast, labored, as he began to descend. Whenever he stepped into the patchwork of light the billboard cast, she saw sweat sheening on his face. Iris scurried forward into view. "Foggy," she said.

He swore, partially tripping on the last step. "Iris," he caught himself on the rail, blinking slowly at her. "Are you okay? Where's Matt?"

She blinked, still a little drunk and her brain not fully up to the task of coming up with a believable lie. "Food," she slurred, having to drag her tongue through the mud get anything out. "He went out to get…" She hoped he got the gist, because she didn't want to keep talking. She wasn't drunk enough to ignore the beginnings of a killer hangover.

"I heard something," Foggy said. "I think…did someone break in?"

There was a shuffling from the corner, more crashing as something—someone—knocking over an end table. Foggy swore, moving Iris out of the way and rushing for the first "weapon" he could find: Matty's cane, propped neatly up against the wall.

"Foggy," Iris hissed, moving to intercept him. He ignored her, continuing to brandish the cane around.

"If anyone is in here who's not supposed to be, I will mess you up. I'm not kidding," Foggy warned, though the wavering in his voice undermined him a bit.

Shuffling, heavy footfalls onto the floor. Iris squeaked when she saw a tall silhouette stagger into view. Wet, shallow breaths hit her ears, a bloodied husk of Matty struggling to keep himself standing.

"Shit," she swore, trying to rush to him. Foggy was there, dragging her back. He stepped between her and the vigilante.

"Where's Matt?" Foggy demanded. "What did you do to him?"

"Foggy," Iris tried to plead, but he wasn't listening.

The Devil of Hell's Kitchen only groaned, collapsing into a sack of deadweight. His weight vibrated through the floorboards. "No," Iris screamed, trying to past her brother's business partner. But, dammit, Foggy was strong when he was determined.

"Iris, don't touch him."

Foggy poked him with the far edge of the cane, but Matty didn't stir.

"Let me go," she whispered, tears welling up in her eyes. "You don't understand. He needs help. Look at all the blood." This was it, her worst nightmare, coming true. A puddle of crimson, rapidly forming beneath her brother's limp body. She struggled more against the iron grip. "Foggy, let me go." He held her tighter.

"I'm calling the police," he warned, already fishing with for his cell.

"Foggy, don't," she pleaded.

But he wasn't listening, was already dialing 911.

"Please," Iris whispered. He finally seemed to understand, except now he seemed to be understanding a little too much.

"No," he said, sliding his phone back in his pocket. "No, it can't…"

"Foggy?" she cocked her head to the side. Her eyes darted between Foggy and Matt, and she read the intent in the former's eyes just in the nick of time. Iris scrambled to the vigilante's side, trying to plant a barrier between them.

"Foggy, please. Don't…just…."

But Foggy had already closed the distance, staring at the exposed contours of Matty's face, taking in the familiarity. Foggy knelt down, hesitating before finally peeling back the mask. The Nelson half of the outfit recoiled, like he'd been stung, face running the gambit of emotions so quickly Iris couldn't read any of them before they came and went.

"Matt?" Foggy whispered.


Not much to say as a far as closing, so I'll just leave it there.

Blessings,

Moonlit.