A/N So I finally got this chapter finished :-) Sorry for the delay. I really meant to update sooner, but I needed to decide where I was going with this and it just took a while until I had it figured out. Usually I stick to short stories, which are a lot easier plotwise (and they're easier to fit in your daily schedule too!). The crime part of the plot actually had me thinking for a while. I hope this chapter doesn't stretch belief too far.

Thank you all for your continuing support. It's always great to hear from you :-)

Chapter 5

Talking to Brett Mahoney was easier said than done. Originally, Matt had hoped to get a hold of him after work and waited near the precinct, but when the opportunity didn't arise, he followed him home. He was disappointed when he found out that Mahoney didn't live alone – it would have made things a lot easier. As things were, a young woman was waiting for the officer with dinner, and Matt would have left, if it hadn't been for a promising snippet of conversation in which Brett assured her that he would take out the garbage later tonight.

So Matt found a sheltered place nearby, biding his time as he listened to the couple enjoying their meal, talking about the events of the day with the TV mumbling in the background. He wasn't interested in their private conversation and didn't want to intrude either, so he languidly shifted his attention to the other people in the building. An old lady talking on the phone in the apartment just below Mahoney's, a baby crying in the apartment above. A couple having a loud argument about whose turn it was to do the dishes.

At some point it started to snow again and Matt wistfully thought of his warm bed. Tailing Mahoney had been more than enough physical exercise considering the state he was in and he was shivering despite the extra layer of clothes he was wearing under his suit. He really shouldn't be out here, the cold wasn't doing him any good. Claire would have chided him if she knew, just like Foggy, who would probably have given him the lecture of his life. But it would be okay, he told himself. He would be okay. All it needed was a little chat with a cop he could trust, make sure that the police had all the information they needed, and he'd be back home, healing. He coughed wetly, wincing as the pain in his chest flared up despite the meds he had taken. He just hoped Brett would finish dinner quickly.

It was during a commercial break when Mahoney finally stepped outside, trash bag in hand, and trudged through the snow toward the dumpster. Matt slipped from his hideout as soon as he heard him leave his apartment and when the police officer swung the plastic bag into the container, Matt stepped from the shadows.

"Officer Mahoney."

Brett almost jumped, startled by Matt's sudden appearance.

"Holy shit. It's you again."

He didn't sound happy at all, and his first action was to look over his shoulder if anyone else was near. But there was nobody, Matt knew. The nearest person was a homeless man seeking shelter from the cold in a house entrance about one block away. He wouldn't hear them. Everybody else was inside, and at these temperatures, most of the windows were closed.

"You stalking me now?" Mahoney sized him up, his heartbeat revealing exactly how pissed off he was to run into the vigilante in front of his home. Matt couldn't hold it against him.

"I need to talk to you," he said hoarsely.

Brett folded his arms across his chest and narrowed his eyes. Matt could smell the lasagne and beer on him he'd had for dinner and the sweat that bespoke a long working day.

"What happened to your red suit?"

Matt was indeed wearing his old black costume after the other had failed to dry in time. It didn't do much for him in terms of protection, but he didn't need that to talk to Mahoney, and it was a lot more comfortable to move in.

"It's drying," he retorted, not inclined to elaborate on the subject.

"Really?" Mahoney huffed a small laugh that sent little clouds of breath into the frosty air. "I always thought you superheroes had a spare suit or something in your closet."

Matt chose to ignore the remark. He was cold, miserable and not in the mood for jokes.

"I need to talk to you about the shooting at the harbor last night."

Brett looked at him suspiciously, shoving his hands under his armpits for warmth. "You were there, weren't you." It was more of a statement than question. "Breathed in some of that stuff. That's why your voice sounds so bad."

Matt clenched his teeth and nodded.

"Shit, from what I've heard, you can call yourself lucky to be alive."

"Guess, I am," he admitted. "Can you tell me what happened after the cops arrived?"

Brett frowned in confusion. "Don't you watch the news?"

"I do. But some of the things they said don't add up. I was hoping you could help me out here."

Mahoney sighed, and from the way he looked up to his apartment Matt could guess what was on his mind.

"I wasn't there when it happened, okay?" His voice was low, as if he feared that somebody was listening. "Just arrived to pick up the pieces. Must have been a hell of a fight, we lost some good men there."

"What about the cargo?"

"It didn't leave the ship, if that's what you're worried about. We procured thirty barrels of chemicals in total. Some of them were damaged though, we had to move in with breathing masks."

So it was exactly as he had feared. It had been the right decision to come and talk to Brett tonight instead of waiting it out.

"Who filed the report?" Matt inquired.

"Why?"

"Because there were a lot more than thirty barrels of that stuff. The cargo area was full of it."

Mahoney looked at him like he was out of his mind. "You sure about that?"

"As you said yourself, I was there."

"Holy shit," Mahoney cursed at the information, alarm and disbelief sounding in his voice. Despite the cold, there was the sudden smell of sweat in the air. "So, how many barrels are we talking about?"

"I didn't stop to count. But it was a lot."

"More than a hundred?"

"Definitely, yeah."

"Shit." He cursed again. "That means we're dealing with a severe terror threat here."

Matt nodded. "And it means that whoever filed the reports is probably in on it."

"No, that's… I don't believe it." Mahoney shook his head. "Do you even hear yourself? No cop would willingly help smuggle chemical weapons into the city."

It didn't sound plausible, even considering the amount of corruption that Fisk had brought to the local precincts. However, there really was no other explanation Matt could think of. There were a lot of new guys replacing the dirty cops that had gone down with Fisk, maybe one or two of them had a hand in this.

"The barrels were still there when the first cops arrived, and now they're gone," Matt explained calmly. "And you think you procured the complete cargo. How do you accomplish that without help from the cops? While we're at it, how do you get a shipload like that past border control?"

"Okay, I see your point," Mahoney sighed. "But I still find it hard to believe."

"You know who filed the reports?"

"I think so, yeah."

Brett didn't elaborate and Matt gestured him to go on.

"I need a name."

Mahoney shook his head.

"No." The tone of his voice left no doubt that any argument about this was futile. "I want you to stay out of this. I'll look into it myself."

Somehow Matt had expected an answer like this, but found it nonetheless disappointing. With his heightened senses, it would have been a lot easier for him to get the answers they needed. But Mahoney was a cop, and this was about his colleagues. Matt could see why he didn't want Daredevil to be involved.

"Alright," he consented reluctantly. "But be careful."

Matt tilted his head, listening to a sound from Mahoney's apartment that caught his attention. A young woman stepping up to the window, drawing back the curtains to gaze outside. She might decide to come down any moment, find out what was keeping him so long. From where she was standing, she couldn't see him though. "Anything else you can tell me?"

"I probably shouldn't tell you, but…" Brett hesitated. "Lab's had the chemicals analyzed. The stuff is known as Alpha-Genoxime. Highly volatile, extremely dangerous. Fabrication is apparently quite complicated and there are few people who have the skill and the knowledge to make it. Happens one of them is serving a life sentence on Ryker's Island."

That was interesting. "Who?"

"Ivo Chamoun. You might have heard of him."

Matt remembered the name. Chamoun had been an arms dealer, a big name in the local underworld before his organization had been dismantled about ten years ago. The trial had been all over the news. It still might be a coincidence though.

"You think he has something to do with this?" Matt said doubtfully. "That would mean he's running this operation from prison."

Mahoney shrugged. "I don't know. But the military never had anything to do with this stuff. It's black market only. Right now Chamoun is our best bet."

So the cops did have a lead, it was reassuring to know that. However, Chamoun wasn't the name Matt had heard on the ship. Maybe he had nothing to do with this after all.

"Ever heard of a woman named Qa'id?" he asked.

Mahoney frowned in confusion, shaking his head. "No. How do you even spell that?"

"No idea. But one of the guards from the ship told me he was working for her."

"Well, that's something." Mahoney acknowledged the information with an appreciative nod. "I'll see if I can find anything about her."

There was movement in Mahoney's apartment, a flowerpot being moved on the windowsill, then the window opened and a woman stuck her head out to peer down into the alley. Matt instinctively retreated further into the shadows.

"Brett?" She called down to them. "Everything alright?"

Mahoney stepped into the light where she could see him more easily and waved up to her. "Yeah, don't worry. I'll be up in a sec."

"Who are you talking to?"

He hesitated for only the fraction of a second. "Mrs. Waterman from next door. Says her cat has run away again." The lie was obvious to Matt's ears, but his wife didn't seem to notice. "I'm sorry, honey, I'll be right up."

She arched her head but Matt knew she couldn't see him. "Well, the movie has started already," she informed him somewhat indignantly.

"I'm coming."

Her head disappeared and Matt heard the window close.

"Look," Mahoney turned toward him again, "I'm glad for the info, but this is all I got. Besides, the case is off our hands now anyway. Chemical weapons means this goes to the feds."

"Yeah, I expected that," Matt said quietly. "Thanks for talking to me."

Mahoney huffed, annoyed. "Just remember, you ain't got this from me. And please do me a favor and never seek me out at my home again. Leave my family out of this."

Matt gave him an apologetic smile. The man had every right to be pissed. "You shouldn't keep your wife waiting," he said softly, nodding towards the apartment.

"She's my fiance," Brett corrected.

Matt gave him a lop-sided smile. He had noticed the change in his tone, a soft timbre that revealed how much he cared for her.

"Well, enjoy the movie."

"Yeah, right."

Matt could feel Mahoney gaze after him as he made his exit into the shadowed alley and at some point heard him head back to his apartment, his footsteps crunching in the snow. Part of him actually envied the man. He didn't know Brett's fiance, but right now the prospect of returning to an empty apartment filled him with a sadness he hadn't felt in a while. Maybe it was the night he had spent at Claire's, the memory of sharing a bed with her. Maybe it was just the exhaustion. He could feel it in his bones now, pairing with a deep ache that bespoke a beginning fever. He coughed again, painfully, shaking his head at himself. Better to get home and rest. He would see about everything else tomorrow.

The knocking on the door was fierce enough to register even through the walls of sleep. It was persistent, annoying really, but he would have slept on anyway if it hadn't been for the voice that called his name. A female voice. Claire. Slowly he clawed his way back to awareness, back to the painful tightness in his chest and a feverish ache that burdened his whole body. He found his bed sheet to be soaked with sweat, his blanket lying somewhere on the floor. He must have kicked it off while sleeping.

He ran a shaky hand across his closed eyes, wiping the stickiness away that glued them shut. Judging by the traffic noise outside it had to be around seven in the morning.

The knocking sounded again, followed by a concerned call. "Matt, are you okay in there? Come on, open the door!"

He struggled into a sitting position, pushing himself up against the wall and took a careful, deep breath that hurt so badly it brought tears to his eyes. The coughing fit that followed was violent, felt like shreds of his lungs being ripped out, and it left him light-headed and shaking. The coppery taste in his mouth was familiar by now. God, he couldn't remember the last time he'd felt this sick.

Knock, knock. The sound had changed in quality, as it was no more knuckles against wood but the fleshy part of a fist banging against his door.

"Matt?" Worry made her voice quiver, a sound that was so far from her usual calm that he actually attempted an answer.

"I'm coming."

It was meant as a shout but really wasn't more than a croak and he didn't think she'd heard. Better to get moving. It took an unreasonable amount of effort to maneuver his legs over the edge of the bed and he closed his eyes while he gathered his strength to stand up. When he did, the earth rocked beneath his feet, his right hand instinctively reached for the wall, and it took a moment until he found his balance.

The door wasn't far, but today it felt like a mile away. He went slowly, running his fingers along the wall as much for support as to guide his way, as the fever clouded his senses. Usually he was able to tell the dimensions of a room effortlessly but right now the space seemed to be a living thing, extending and shrinking in unpredictable ways. He cursed as he bumped his knee on the small cabinet in the hall, too weary to focus on much beside staying upright and finding the fricking door. The knob felt cold under his fingers and he turned it, pulling the door open.

There was a brief moment of silence in which he felt a pair of eyes staring at him.

"Holy shit, Matt." She sounded aghast, her voice so low she almost breathed the words. "You look like hell."

He reached for the wall, leaning against it as he stepped aside to let her in.

"Feel it too," he admitted breathlessly.

"Did I wake you up?"

"Yeah." He ran his hand though his hair, uneasy as he felt her scrutinizing gaze weigh on him. "Sorry it took me so long to answer the door."

"Don't apologize. The way you look, you shouldn't be up at all."

He felt her arm wrap around him and he gratefully leaned against her as they made their way back to his living room. When he mechanically started to head for the couch though, her hand tightened around his elbow.

"U-uh," she admonished. "Back to bed."

Any other day he would have objected, but even the thought of an argument made his head hurt and his body was screaming to lie down again. He was too tired to fight both Claire and whatever shit he had come down with. So he allowed her to lead him over to his bed help him settle down again, a second pillow behind his back so he lay half-reclined against the wall, breathing more easily. His eyes closed of their own accord and he was dimly aware of her leaving the room again. Taking a glass from the kitchen shelves, filling it with tap water. Picking up the bottle of ibuprofen from the counter on her way back.

He felt the mattress shift under her weight as she sat down and placed the glass and the pain meds on the nightstand.

"Matt?"

Her hand came to rest on his forehead, blissfully cool against his heated skin, and his eyes cracked open again as he turned his blind gaze towards her. The thud of her heart transmitted her thoughts as clearly as if she'd spoken them aloud.

"You're worried." He didn't know why the insight bothered him the way it did. The coolness disappeared.

"I think I got every right to be. You're burning up." The reproach in her voice was softened by concern. "You should have stayed home like I told you."

"How do you know I didn't?"

"Actually, your condition speaks for itself. Besides, there's a wet puddle around your shoes." She nodded towards the heating where he had left them to dry. Point taken. He made a mental note to stow them away before Foggy showed up.

He felt her move as she reached for her bag, rummaging through its contents. His brows furrowed as he tried to make out what she was doing.

"What are you looking for?"

"A thermometer," she mumbled distractedly.

He sighed at that. "I know that I have a fever."

"Just want to know what we're dealing with, okay?" She turned toward him again holding it up as if he could actually see it. "It'll only take a sec."

Fine. He nodded his consent and held still as she leaned over him to slide the tip of the thermometer into his ear. Her breath ghosted against his heated skin and he closed his eyes, numbed by her scent. It was a relief to have something pleasant to focus on when everything else was pain and discomfort.

"You smell great," he mumbled drowsily, speaking before realizing what he said. He heard her heart skip a beat before thumping on, and the hint of a smile touched his lips at her reaction. For a moment he thought she'd say something but then a low beep indicated that the measuring process was done and she straightened herself to read the display.

"104." She sighed in dismay. "Matt, what are you doing to yourself? This is exactly what I was afraid of. Why didn't you just give this Mahoney a call like I suggested?"

"Wanted to," he rasped, then tried to clear his throat but only ended up coughing again. It took a moment until he was able to finish his sentence. "But I didn't want to call the cops from my smart phone."

"Why? They have an anonymous tip line. They don't trace your phone."

Matt slowly shook his head, exhausted. It was hard to focus on the conversation as his senses were all over the place, zooming in on random impressions, and Claire's proximity was distracting – albeit in a pleasant way. "I didn't want to risk it. Anyone who knows about the number of barrels on the ship is suspicious."

"Yeah, I get that. But couldn't you have asked Foggy to help you out? Get a new burner phone, let him call the cops?"

"I didn't want him to get involved."

"Well, I sure hope this was worth it."

He smiled ruefully. "Didn't think it would get this bad."

It was the truth. He had felt better when he'd set out last night, meditating had improved his condition a great deal. If he'd known that it would end like this, he might have reconsidered. On the other hand, it felt good to know that he'd done everything he could and that the cops had a lead. The FBI, he mentally corrected himself.

"Well, to be honest, your fever worries me quite a bit." She was biting her lip, considering him. "I think you might need antibiotics to fight the infection, but I won't be able to get any until after work. You take any ibuprofen today?"

When he shook his head no, she opened the bottle on the nightstand and tossed a pill into her palm, then retrieved another packet of pills from her bag.

"I brought you some meds," she went on. "Prednisone to keep your lungs from scarring, to avoid any long term impairment. I want you to take one now and another one this evening. Two times a day, at least for a week. I'll leave the blister on the nightstand, okay?"

"Okay."

The pills found the way into his palm and he sat up a little to accept the glass that was handed to him, then washed them down with some water.

"You know, this would be a lot easier if I could convince you to see a doctor," she suggested hopefully, but the question in her voice told him that she already knew his answer.

"I can handle this."

"You're planning to meditate this away?"

He gave her a lop-sided smile, raising an eyebrow at her remark.

"Stubborn as usual." She sighed, taking the empty glass from his hands. "How is your shoulder?"

"Healing," he mumbled.

"You'll let me have a look anyway?"

He nodded, reclining against the pillows. It was good to lie down again as his body was reminding him non-too-gently that he was indeed fighting an infection. The world was spinning like a carousel and he closed his eyes against the dizziness, riding on a sudden wave of heat that washed over his body.

"Matt?"

He frowned when he realized that he'd missed part of the conversation and couldn't answer the question she'd asked.

"Sorry," he mumbled, aware of her worried gaze resting on him. "You were saying?"

"I just wanted to know if you were still with me. You look kind of pale." She paused to study his face. "How's the pain?"

His lips twitched slightly, a resemblance of a sad smile. "It hurts," he said plainly. "And my senses are..." He made a weak gesture, trying to find the right words. "The fever is really messing them up. It doesn't help."

He felt her hand touch his arm in a gesture of sympathy. "It'll get better once the meds kick in. Shoulder looks good though," she reassured him.

"Told you." He smiled weakly, letting his eyes slip closed again.

He felt her fingers brush over his skin as she applied a fresh dressing, smoothing it flat, then come to rest against his cheek. It was tempting to lean into the touch and he barely resisted.

"You should try and get some sleep," she said softly. There was a short silence in which he felt her gaze rest on him. "You want me to stay?"

He did. But it felt wrong to ask it of her. She was tired, he could hear it in her voice, and Foggy would be here in a couple of hours anyway. Although he probably wouldn't stay long with their law practice and all.

"Matt?" She addressed him again, repeating the question from before.

"You're exhausted," he mumbled. "You should get some sleep yourself."

"That's not what I asked."

The hint of a smile touched his lips and he sighed softly. There was no way he could lawyer himself out of this one, not when his brain was sluggish like this. All he knew was that her offer was genuine and he didn't want to be alone.

"Of course I want you to stay."

"I'll stay then," she promised. "Get some rest."

He felt her hand move to rest on his arm, her pulse thumping steadily against his skin. It was the last thing he sensed before he lost track of everything else and exhaustion pulled him under.

TBC