Even doing brisk business, it was two months before you needed a lawyer.
"This just requests the basics, of course. You're free to discuss it with whatever council you have." The lawyer sitting on the other side of your desk smiled at you, his teeth gleaming unnaturally white against his boating tan as he slid the stack of papers across the surface in front of you. His Armani suit fit him perfectly, his human skin less so: an ill fit for the hungry, calculating predator that lurked beneath the grin and the scent of fine cologne.
"I'm not sure why you need any information about me at all." You leaned back in your leather chair, crossing your legs as you studiously kept your face blank. Years of experience had taught you not to show fear around lawyers if you could help it. You were convinced they could sense weakness, as easily as a prowling lion on the savannah could scent a bleeding gazelle. "I'm not involved in the divorce proceedings. I have nothing you want."
"Maybe not, but your actions might help us construct a better picture of the family before you found Mr. Sanders." Found him balls-deep inside an escort, you mean. "As I'm sure you're aware, the Sanders estate is substantial. If it's to be divided fairly, we have to be thorough. You understand."
"Uh-huh," you muttered. "Thorough." You plucked up the first sheet of paper and gave it a cursory once-over. Too much lawyer-speak for me. You flipped to the next page. You only managed to parse out a few of the requests. If you were reading it right, they were seeking information about your business, your partner, your contact with Mrs. Sanders, and… yourself.
Your false identity was of excellent quality thanks to years you spent sussing out decent forgers, but you doubted it was good enough to stand up to a pack of sharks with seven-figure price tags. Not without a shark of your own, anyway.
"Naturally these questions might not be needed, should certain information come to light."
Ah, and there's the catch. In New York, if a spouse found themselves saddled with an unfaithful partner, they could seek an at-fault divorce. That type of divorce would only be granted under certain conditions: adultery being one of those conditions. Adultery was difficult to prove, however; they couldn't exactly rely on the spouse's testimony. A third party like you, on the other hand… you were the ace in the hole for Mrs. Sanders, her key to forcing a settlement in her favor, or even winning a case if it went that far. If you denied seeing Sanders going to town with another woman, you'd be off the hook with the lawyers, but Mrs. Sanders could be played up as yet one more paranoid, jealous spouse in search of a payday. And if you refused to bow out? Then it was in Mr. Sanders' best interest to dig up as much dirt on you as possible. They were no doubt hoping to find enough to bury you and taint any testimony you might give.
"I'll discuss it with my lawyers and get back to you." You spoke confidently, and with as much self-assurance as you could muster. The problem was you didn't actually have lawyers. You eyed the gleaming silver clip holding the business cards on your neatly-arranged-in-case-clients-see-me desk. You may not have had lawyers just yet, but you had a feeling you knew where you could get some. Ones of supposed quality at that.
He nodded to you, rising from his seat. You had to resist the urge to crumple a piece of paper and chuck it at his face. You were an adult, goddamn it. "We'll be waiting for your response. Have a good day, Ms. Hind."
You waited until the door clicked quietly behind him before you sagged back in your chair and rubbed at your temples in frustration. There were a great many things you enjoyed about your job here: you got to use your abilities in a way that helped people for one, and even when you provided assistance to less… savory individuals, the pay more than made up for it. You liked not starving to death, and rent in NYC was too high for you to feel justified in snubbing every mildly suspicious person that came along. That willingness to at least listen to the people who walked in your door had allowed you to meet some interesting people, and ultimately most of your work wasn't too difficult. Plus all the walking meant you got more exercise in a day than most people managed in a week. Suck it, ten-thousand steps.
On the other hand, the times you ended up scrapping, physically or legally, with assholes who took issue with you were very much in the 'cons' of your 'pros-and-cons' list. Which brought you back to your need for representation. You glanced at the ticking clock on the wall. It was just past lunch and you had an uncharacteristically free schedule today. If nothing came up…
You leaned forward and began to flip through the business cards in your clip until you found the card shoved in at the back. Fortunately for you, you'd found the card in your mailbox not long after your first meeting with the Man in Black. This one was unlike some of the other cards you'd been given, with their gold engraved script and paper heavy with the weight of exotic finishes and pretentiousness. No, this card had been simple: plain and white with a deep red font. The only part of the design that stood out was the braille underneath the first two lines:
Nelson and Murdock
Attorneys At Law
On the back, there was a phone number, in English and in braille. You'd also recently scribbled an address and their new office number underneath the old. You traced your thumb over the tiny dots pebbled along the card's surface. You'd filed the card away in case you needed it, absently shuffling it to the back of the pile. While you liked to have lawyers on hand for any issues which might arise, you hadn't needed one for some time and had naïvely been hoping that luck would continue. Guess not.
You'd looked up the firm out of curiosity once or twice. The Man in Black had warned you back when you'd first gotten the card that Nelson and Murdock didn't have an address yet, and your first online search had confirmed it. It was only with a subsequent search in the past few weeks that you found a new local address right in Hell's Kitchen. You'd passed the building before—not unusual with all the walking you did—but you'd never given it much notice. More research revealed that while the lawyers themselves appeared to lack experience, they'd graduated with top marks and had turned down a high-paying position so they could instead work in Hell's Kitchen. The tentative feelers you'd put out with your contacts had brought back nothing but praise and you'd found yourself touched with grudging admiration. They certainly didn't seem like the skeezy ambulance chasers you were used to hiring, and they were more affordable to boot. This you'd been promised sincerely by the Man in Black when you'd 'bumped into' him again shortly after finding the card.
You drummed your fingers on the wood of your desk, glancing out the window and taking a sip of your coffee. Your encounters above the streets of Hell's Kitchen had become almost regular.
"You following me, John? Because this is turning into a weekly thing, you and me..."
"Most people don't spend as much time on rooftops as we do, apparently. We're bound to run into each other."
While he'd only returned to your apartment once for stitches, he'd rapidly become a routine sight for you when you headed up to the rooftops to get a look at where a thread was leading you. Sometimes it was a simple wave as he passed by on neighboring roofs, too busy to stop. You always took the time to pause and watch, the fluid way he progressed and leapt over obstacles an entrancing sight you unabashedly enjoyed partaking in. Other nights he approached you to talk, or even offer his help for the evening. Those approaches were always soundless, and it was only after repeated admonishments and two near heart attacks on your part that he'd taken to making a rhythmic series of taps along a hard surface to alert you to his presence so you didn't jump out of your skin. Your blood pressure was eternally grateful.
A different rhythm of knocking pulled you from your thoughts, and you grunted in response. Taking the sound for what it was, the door swung open just far enough for Maya to pop her head in. "Just checking to make sure you're not throwing your mug in here again."
"Ha ha," you snorted, throwing her a look. "You're safe until my coffee runs out."
"Good reason to keep the pot full I guess," she said in reply, nudging the door open the rest of the way. "Well, you better straighten up and slap your best smile on. We got a rich one comin' in soon for you if the way he talks is anything to go by."
"Ah shit," you grumbled, standing up to straighten out your trousers and shirt. There were no stains, so that was something at least, but you'd been in a rush this morning. Your outfit wasn't of the quality you'd normally have chosen to wear when meeting a new, wealthy client. "You sure you can't take him? You're way more put together today."
"Don't I know it," she teased, flashing you a smug smile. As always, her pantsuit was immaculate and you'd yet to see a time her riot of dark curls looked anything less than regal. "Unfortunately for you, he didn't ask for me. He's looking for the psychic." She flicked her fingers at you.
"I'm starting to think we should put that on our card," you mumbled as you hastily shifted the stack of legal files into a drawer and tucked away the Nelson and Murdock business card into your pocket. You and Maya had only described yourselves vaguely as 'finders', but the two of you made no effort to squash the rumours that you had some sort of gift. It had a tendency to bring in clients. Psychic sounded a lot better than 'mutant' after all, and people who made similar claims were a dime a dozen in NYC, so you fit right in.
"Nah, let 'em wonder," Maya said, waving you off. "It adds to the mystique if they think we're trying to keep it under wraps. Out on the card is too flashy. We want news of the psychic to spread by word of mouth."
"Don't tell me you still believe I'm psychic," you scoffed, wrinkling your nose at her. It had become a continuing gag between you two. Deny, deny, deny.
"I'm not sure what I believe about you. All I know is, your success rate is just as good as mine and you do half the work," she mock complained, jabbing a finger in your direction. "I go out there, no rubber duckies or dog toys, and find shit the old-fashioned way. I want whatever you're in on."
"Maybe I'm just that good." You flashed an innocent smile, holding up your hands in a helpless gesture.
"Always bullshitting me. Keep your secrets!"
There was another knock down the hall, and you shooed Maya back to her own office as you stood and strode over to poke your head out into the hall. She retreated with a wink as the door between the waiting room and the hallway leading to your offices opened and your assistant ushered an unfamiliar man through the open door.
Though not garish or excessive in flaunting his wealth, there radiated from him a subtle aura of sophistication and elegance, helped in part by his high-end suit, as he moved confidently down the hall. He nodded at Maya where she stood in the doorway to her own office across the hall from yours. "Ms. Thompson, I presume." His hair was dark and lightly styled, perfectly groomed, and the black-rimmed glasses he wore lent him a seriousness you knew you'd do well to heed. The calm gaze slid to you and, with a polite smile, he offered you the hand not currently holding his briefcase. "And you must be Ms. Hind. A pleasure to meet you."
You took the offered hand and shook, relieved he didn't feel the desire to overcompensate by crushing your hand like some of the other men you'd met. Clearly not someone who needs to piss all over every room he enters. "A pleasure as well." He hadn't offered you a name, but that wasn't always unusual in your line of work. Sometimes your clients preferred to keep their names out of your paperwork. "You're my appointment, I presume?"
"So I'm told," he replied agreeably. You gestured towards your office before leading him into it. He shut the door behind him and took a seat before your desk. Unsurprisingly, he stuck out like a sore thumb. Your office was decorated in warm tones, soft fabrics, and dark woods: all designed to put your clients at ease in what was usually a stressful time. In contrast, there was nothing soft about this man, though his manners and seemingly pleasant nature went a long way to make up for it. His navy suit was also likely the most expensive thing currently in residence. If that fact bothered him, he didn't show it. All this you absorbed in but a few seconds as you rounded your desk to settle into your chair. You were used to analyzing clients. "I must apologize for the short notice, but you've only recently come to the attention of my employer and I'm afraid I've a matter of some urgency."
"It's no trouble," you said, resisting the urge to wave him off like you would in a more casual setting. It was always best to follow the tone your client set, which meant professionalism was the name of the game today. You settled for folding your hands. "Most of my clients come to me desiring a certain amount of speed. I'm pleased to say I find my targets in less than twenty-four hours on average, once all the requirements are met. That last part is usually what takes the longest." You watched as he lifted his briefcase and unsnapped the clasps. At his gesture towards your—thank god clean—desk, you nodded. He placed the briefcase on the desk and began to withdraw a short stack of paperwork. Your eyebrows shot up when you recognized the forms. "Although it appears you've decided to be proactive on that front. I'm impressed."
He chuckled. "As I said, efficiency is important to my employer. I've done my research, and all the forms should be here, signed and witnessed. Under these," he tapped the top of the stack, "are the files containing the information you'd need to find your target, should you accept the job. You could say I'm familiar with cutting through red tape."
You drew the forms in and began to scan over them. The man crossed a leg and steepled his fingers, apparently content to wait. Out of the corner of your eye, you could see him glancing curiously around your office as you read. These were indeed your forms, but you were still thorough in checking the signatures—though they were really just initials and corporation names; your contracts purposefully allowed the determined to slide on personal information—and the text itself.
"Let me guess," said the man with a smile. "You've had people slip in an extra clause here and there?"
You huffed a laugh, flipping a page. "That obvious, hm?"
"There is a certain predictability to people, I've found. It stands to reason it would be the same here. I can assure you, however, that the forms have not been changed." You glanced up and he held up a placating hand. "I'm sure others have said the same thing. I don't take offense, and I can even appreciate your caution. It's something I try to practice in my own work."
You nodded and went back to reading for the next few minutes. Your assistant knocked, and at your murmur to enter, he quietly opened the door and poked his head in. "Anything to drink for you, sir? Coffee, tea, wine, water?"
"No, thank you," said the man.
"Ms. Hind?"
"I'm fine. Thank you, Daniel."
The door shut, and you were both alone again.
Well, that's a relief at least. He hadn't been lying. There were no changes, no devious red lines crossing clauses out. Just signatures and signed statements. You sighed happily. "This will cut down a great deal of extra time. Based on how prepared you've been up to this point, I assume you know what I'm going to say next, but it's just for safety's sake. You understand?"
"Of course." He settled back, completely at ease.
"My job is to find who or what you're looking for. However, if while on the job I should at any time witness an attempted crime or actual crime in progress, or hear plausible talk of a crime being committed due to my involvement, our deal will be terminated." It was a subtle distinction, your wording and emphasis carefully chosen, but you were certain this man would understand the underlying message: be discrete in any criminal activity, and I can keep doing my job for you. That plausible deniability was what allowed you to avoid any potential charges of involvement while ensuring you still got your paycheck. "If this occurs, I will be absolved of any legal damages. I will also retain my fee. Beyond that, anything else is your business and not my concern, outside of what I need to know to do my job. You've already agreed by signing the contract, so you know all this, but we like to have verbal confirmation. Do you accept these terms?" You weren't sure if this man fell into the same criminal category that a few of your previous clients had been in, but it was best to be certain he knew where the line was.
"I do."
"This does not involve stalking? Neither you nor your employer?"
"It does not." His tone suggested amusement at that particular question.
"Is the target hostile?"
"No. Should you accept the job, all that's required is that you find him, and ask him to return to work." He flashed a smile. "Should be easy enough."
You nodded again. "The papers said you're looking for a person. You can provide me with an object the target cares about?"
"The item will be delivered to you tomorrow morning at 8:00 a.m. by courier at an address of your choosing."
He really is prepared. You chewed on the inside of your cheek, watching him curiously. How far did his preparation go? "My fee?"
He reached into his jacket and drew out a check. A second later, a pen followed, and he signed the check before sliding it across the table. His signature was, as with most people, illegible, so there was no way of divining his real name. "The second half will come at the conclusion. This is standard, I was told. As you can see, my employer is willing to provide a substantial bonus to you should you find the target as quickly as possible. Potentially more for any future assistance. I hope that's acceptable?"
You glanced at the check and your heart thudded inside your chest, your mouth going dry. Holy shit! That was a lot of extra money. With your standard fee, you managed to make a decent amount of money considering the cost of living in NYC. Over your years on the move—years in which you'd lived and worked in a location only until you drew too much attention—you'd managed to squirrel away a sizeable nest egg. You'd hoped that money would one day buy you a safe and cozy hut on an island somewhere off the radar. With these extra zeroes, however, your dream beach house suddenly looked a lot closer. If I do this regularly... hell, even just once a month for a year…
You resisted the urge to gape at him. You cleared your throat with a heavy swallow. "That's… yeah, that'll do."
"Excellent." He stood smoothly, straightening his jacket. "Am I to understand this means you'll be accepting us?"
On the one hand, all that money, along with clues like the absence of his name, meant you were dealing with someone who was potentially shifty. CIA agent? Mob boss? On the other hand, he was pleasant and polite, and with this one job, you could easily pay for rent, groceries, utilities, business costs, and the potential legal fees at Nelson and Murdock, while still leaving plenty left over to put towards your savings. And maybe splurge a little.
Eh, I've probably had worse clients.
You stood and held out your hand to shake. "Sounds like we have a deal."
He grinned, shaking your hand. "Wonderful. My employer will be pleased." His free hand slipped into his suit pocket and drew out a card to hand to you. Unlike the other card in your pocket, this one was plain black, with nothing but a phone number in white on it. "If you have any other questions, feel free to contact me."
"Of course," you said graciously, slipping the card into your pocket alongside the Nelson and Murdock card and following him to the door. In truth, if they brought you the right item, you most likely wouldn't need to call him, but the courtesy was appreciated. "I'll get on it as soon as I receive the item. You can just have the courier bring it here."
He nodded in agreement, stepping out into the hall. "Have a good afternoon, Ms. Hind."
"You, too." A thought popped into your head and you couldn't help but blurt out, "Sir?" He paused, turning to glance back, his glasses flashing in the soft light of the hall. "You never asked about…" You drew a hand in, gesturing towards yourself.
"About how you find people?" he asked. At your murmur of affirmation, he shrugged. "To put it quite simply, Ms. Hind: my employer isn't interested in 'how'. Perhaps the rumours are true, and you're a psychic. Or maybe you're simply a businesswoman who understands that people will pay extra for the reassurance that their superstitions will remain intact. As long as you fulfill your end of the contract, we aren't concerned with the particulars."
It was a refreshingly indifferent opinion when you'd grown accustomed to people pestering, pressing, questioning you about whether you had 'the gift'. You relaxed, giving him a wave as he left and you turned back to your office.
Well, that took less time than expected, you thought as you made your way back to your desk. Technically you had another four hours on the clock, but with no appointments left today…
You drew the Nelson and Murdock card from your pocket and settled into your chair, picking up the phone to dial. As you waited for someone to pick up, you glanced over the stack of files your latest client had given you, absently scanning for information. Hmm, not a whole lot about the target's habits. In fact, not a whole lot at all. You frowned. Whatever they were bringing you tomorrow better work, or you were going to have nothing else to go on.
Just as you were preparing to leave a message, you heard the telltale click. The woman who picked up huffed a few breaths, as if she'd been in another room and run for the phone, before speaking with the slow cadence of someone who was still unused to their new script. New, maybe?
"Nelson and Murdock, this is Karen speaking. How can I help you?"
"Hi, my name is Jane Hind. I'm looking for legal help and was wondering if I could make an appointment?"
"Really?! I-yes of course." In the background, you just barely caught the sounds of hushed whispering. "At Nelson and Murdock, while we're quite busy, we can always make time for those in need of assistance. When would you like to be scheduled in?"
"I mean, sooner is usually better, right?" It was easy enough to take time off work for this since it would help the business. Maya would be understanding. "Tomorrow won't work though." You didn't want anything scheduled that could potentially interfere with the case you'd just received; not when you'd been paid extra for haste.
"Give me a moment, let me check-ah! I can, um, fit you in today if you'd like? We don't have any other-" There was more frantic whispering, and Karen almost laughed before continuing, "I mean, we just had a, uh, cancellation? So we can work around your schedule. Only the best here."
You snorted, glancing at the clock again. The office wasn't that far away and the streets weren't busy. "I can be there in a half-hour, if that's alright?"
"Of course. We'll see you then!"
You hung up and stood to stretch. "This is going to be interesting," you murmured to yourself. You were just going to have to trust the Man in Black when he'd said it would be worth it.
-x-
Up close, the aging white-painted steel entrance wasn't any more impressive than it had been from across the street. With the office up above a hardware store, and the doorway tucked between said hardware store and a residence, you weren't surprised you'd missed it before; it didn't exactly attract notice. You hesitantly brushed your fingers over the worn stonework surrounding the door and the outside of the building. It was stained with age, and smooth under your fingertips. The paper sign on the door told you this was the right place. Should you open up your third eye, glance up and see how many connections radiated from the office above you? People with plenty of red threads tended to be more friendly and open. If there was a great blaze of scarlet streaming away from the building, it would be a good sign. You shook your head and grasped the door handle. Serious invasion of privacy, remember? The Man in Black hadn't steered you wrong once so far, and presumably wouldn't now.
Before you get out of the way, the door suddenly swung open, knocking you back against the stone wall as a dark-haired man in a grey suit stepped out hurriedly, his face and most of his body turned away from you.
"Hey," you snapped in annoyance, surging away from the stone and taking a step towards him. "Watch where you're going! What are you, bl—"
He glanced back over his shoulder, revealing a startlingly dark pair of shades. The glass, tinted so heavily red that it was almost completely opaque, threw back your startled reflection as the man pointedly tapped the ground once with his white cane.
Oh shit, he is literally blind.
Your cheeks burned in embarassment. "Right, uh, sorry."
He mumbled something under his breath and set off at a brisk pace down the street, the quiet tap-tap tap-tap of his cane quickly fading as he drew away.
You stared blankly after him. He'd seemed vaguely familiar, but that was probably because you'd spent a little too much time staring at the picture of his graduation you'd found online. There was no mistaking those glasses and that jaw, after all. "I do believe," you grumbled to yourself sarcastically, "that you've made a great first impression on one half of your legal team. Fantastic."
As you climbed the stairs inside the building, you resolved to make a better impression with Mr. Nelson. You would not stick your foot in your mouth like that again. And maybe, if things went well, Mr. Murdock wouldn't put two-and-two together and realize you were both his client and the woman he'd bumped into. He was blind, after all. How would he know?
I'm going to hell for that.
On the second floor, you wandered down the hall until you found another helpful Nelson and Murdock sign on a door, though this sign was made out of cardboard. You tilted your head up and sighed, trying to soothe your apprehension. So they don't even have a real sign, and they're above an old hardware store. John, you better not be fucking lying about this. You listened for a moment, keying in on the murmur of voices, the clacking of fingers across a keyboard, and a strange, repetitive 'uck… uck…' sound you couldn't quite place. You shrugged and knocked on the door. The clack of heels approaching on the other side filtered out into the hallway before the door swung open, thankfully inwards this time and not into your face.
A blonde woman, willowy and pale as fresh milk, smiled warmly at you and stepped back from the door so you could enter. "Welcome to Nelson and Murdock. My name is Karen. You're Ms. Hind, right?"
"That's me," you confirmed, glancing around. For all that you'd had your reservations based on the outside of the building, the inside wasn't as bad as you'd expected. Though the dull wooden floors may have been ancient and the green-grey walls in desperate need of a new coat of paint, the space was free of dust and clutter save for boxes of files piled up in the corners. There was an office to your left and right, and an old folding table and a few chairs directly ahead. All in all, it presumably looked like any other scrappy little start-up, save for one thing.
"Why is there a chicken in the corner?" you asked in confusion. Said chicken clucked and flapped its wings inside its metal cage, the apparent source of the strange sounds you'd heard earlier.
"Right, that," Karen said slowly, shifting on her feet. "There is a very good reason for her. She's—"
The door to the office on your right opened and a grinning, round-faced man strode out. "Camilla's our mascot, of course!" he said quickly. "Just probationary, to see how she does. But she's already laid an egg, so things are looking up. Who can beat a mascot who lays eggs for you?" He reached out and took your hand for a warm shake. "Foggy Nelson, one half of Nelson and Murdock. And you are Ms. Jane Hind?"
"That's what it says on my business cards."
"I bet you get a lot of comments about that one, right?"
You shook your head. "Fewer people than you'd think, actually."
His jaw dropped. "What? No!" He glanced at Karen and then back at you, throwing up his hands. "Such an untapped fountain of humour! That's a name that deserves to be appreciated!"
"What can I say?" you returned with a grin. "The genius of my parents will most likely continue to go unrecognized."
They aren't that unhappy about it, though, since they're not actually real…
Not that you could tell him that.
"Well, even if society has abandoned you, I assure you Nelson and Murdock will not," he declared proudly. In her cage, Camilla squawked and Foggy's eye twitched. "Why don't we step into my office where it's a little quieter?"
You began to follow him. "May want to rethink the chicken mascot thing, by the way," you couldn't help but tease. "Cowardly animals wouldn't be my first choice for encouraging, you know, bravery on the stand and all that."
"You know what? You're absolutely right," he agreed, turning to point at Camilla as you stepped into his office. "She's right. You're gonna have to go."
Cluck!
"I know! And the egg was great, I truly appreciate it. But we're running a business here. We have to do what's right for us."
Cluck cluck!
"Thank you for being so understanding. Karen will show you out."
Cluck!
As you settled into the creaky chair in front of the desk covered in various stacks of folders and paperwork, you caught his whisper to Karen:
"Did you call that rescue, Karen?"
Were those dinosaurs on top of his computer?
"They were supposed to be here twenty minutes ago. I called again and they swore they'll be here as soon as they can."
You blinked. They were dinosaurs: a whole tiny line of them, predators mingling with prey. You clucked your tongue and reached forward to rearrange them: carnivores at the back, herbivores in front, before settling back into your seat. That's better.
"Good. And please remind Mr. Anastas that we don't need any more chickens!"
With that, Foggy shut the door and came to sit behind his desk. "I take it this has happened before?" you asked in good humour.
He laughed. "You know, we try to help people even if they can't pay, but sometimes they still want to with whatever they have. Usually, it's pie, and that's great, I love pie! Not as much as money, but still. And yet sometimes you don't get pies... You get chickens."
"Well, I can promise you I will in fact be paying with money and not chickens," you assured him with a grin before glancing towards the door and changing the subject. "Is Mr. Murdock going to be joining us, or—"
"He said he had an urgent meeting to get to, I'm afraid. But he'll be here next time."
"I think I bumped into him downstairs," you admitted. "He was the—"
"The blind guy?" There was an edge to Foggy's voice, just barely detectable under the friendly smile and the shaggy hair.
Defensive about working with a blind man?
"I was going to say, 'the guy with the cool glasses in a hurry', actually."
"Oh," he said, relaxing a little before flashing you a genuine smile. "Kudos on not just calling him 'the blind lawyer'. Yeah, that was him." Not defensive, you realized. Protective. "Well, like I said, he'll be back. If things work out, we'll both be working on your case. Speaking of which, let's get to it." He leaned forward in his chair, and the sudden gleam in his eye surprised you.
Well, I did want some sharks of my own. At least this one's friendlier.
-x-
Mr. Murdock did not, in fact, show up before it was time for you to leave, but Foggy assured you they'd look over your case together and call you by next week. You left feeling lighter than you had when you'd walked in, a weight off your shoulders now that you had your own dog in the legal fight.
The Man in Black also did not make an appearance that evening, which was probably for the best, since he would've asked about any of your latest cases. Then you'd have had to lie, and he always knew when you were lying. Then he might think something was wrong and follow you. You couldn't have that; you needed to keep the vigilante with anger issues away from your biggest paycheck in months, thank you.
Surprisingly, by the time you arrived at work the next morning at ten-till-eight, the skittish courier was already pacing in the reception area. After hasty confirmation via your license, you signed his electronic pad and took the small case wrapped in black paper down to your office. The box wasn't overly large, perhaps four by four inches, and there wasn't much weight to it. You held it up to your ear as you sat in your chair, ears picking up a faint ticking. You doubted your client would have gone to all this trouble only to deliver you a bomb, so you were placing your money on it being a watch. You typed up a few quick notes about the package before emailing them to Maya. It was part of the system the two of you had come up with in case something happened to either of you and you'd already sent her copies of the contract. Only after you'd sent your email did you unwrap the package.
As you'd guessed, it was a watch, and a fine one at that, laying perfectly positioned against black fabric. You let out a low whistle, lifting it from the box and holding it up to the light. A Santos, if you weren't mistaken, which meant you were holding a watch worth at least several thousand dollars in your hands, if not more. Better not drop this. Out of curiosity, you flipped it over to the back and found an engraving: 'To my most loyal friend. Vincit qui patitur. -W'
With the clock ticking, no pun intended, you couldn't afford to waste more time examining the watch, so you swiveled to your window and opened up your mind. White light blazed, and then your vision cleared. You glanced down at the watch and smiled at the blue thread that shot out from its face, piercing the glass of your windowpane and disappearing in the buildings to your northeast.
You tugged on your coat, and carefully placed the watch back in its box—you didn't need it now that your third eye was open and you had singled out your thread. The box you slipped into the large inner coat pocket, on the opposite side from your knife sheath. With that done, you left your office, stopping only to fill a paper cup with some coffee from the kitchenette down the hall. Hopefully, this wouldn't take long.
The city was abuzz with activity as you stepped out of your building, a consequence of the time. People and their brilliant threads streamed by on their way to work: a living, breathing sea of flesh and cloth and flashing colors that threatened you with a migraine. This was why you liked working at night. There were always people around in New York City, but it was far easier to move and follow an individual thread when it wasn't rush hour. You slipped on your sunglasses to hide your gaze, reminded yourself of the big, fat reward on the other side, and waded determinedly into the crowd that ebbed and flowed with the cars and streetlights in a beating pulse all its own.
You could really only keep track of the thread for a few feet in front of you before it disappeared into the seething mass of bodies, but you stuck to it as best you could, ignoring the grunts and cursing whenever you occasionally bumped into someone and the angry screech of car horns as you dodged between vehicles. You'd gotten good at tracking, and this was a dance you knew well. You'd even mastered the art of following a trail without catching sight of your own threads. That was an act of vital importance.
The crowds finally began to die down around nine. You stopped at a bakery for a doughnut and kept your eyes downcast to avoid seeing the threads of the baker before continuing on your way, munching on sticky-sweet glazing and warm bread touched with cinnamon as you walked. No time to stop and eat on this job. Your legs carried you easily along at a steady, ground-eating pace you'd perfected. If you needed to, you could walk for miles this way without stopping. You already knew your target wasn't outside the city, where he would have been beyond your purview. The thread was slowly rising, as if you were winding in slack on a fishing line. That meant you were getting closer. You licked your fingers and squinted at your surroundings. Heading towards another industrial area. Why do these people always hide in warehouses? You would have felt better with the so-called Devil of Hell's Kitchen watching your back.
You snorted to yourself in disgust. He'd made you lazy. You'd handled this kind of thing long before him, and you would do so after. Yes, after, because you were still going to leave this city, and you would not feel one iota of sadness about doing so. You would not miss the Man in Black at all, no sir.
Fucking liar. You need to make your money and get out of New York before you get attached.
It only took another hour before you found the building your target was hidden in. It looked to be a small storage depot, tucked away and concealed amongst its loftier, hulking neighbors. It was here your movements gained an extra layer of caution. If something were to go wrong, it would be on your entry. So instead of stopping, you walked right past, using your sunglasses to hide the way you examined the building and the threads that escaped its walls. There was only one occupant, based on the threads and their angles. And of those threads, there were few: two blazing scarlets, one thick and strong, the other thin and delicate; a few blues, one of which connected to the watch in your pocket; and three oranges that sparkled with a golden-peach sheen, closer to yellow than red. Interesting. Most people had dozens of threads, and it was only with focus that you could separate them into individual strands. The fact that you could so easily divine these specific threads meant you were dealing with someone who allowed himself very few connections. On that, you could relate, though you had a feeling he was a bit more successful at it.
You made a loop of the block, noting the cameras set up on some of the warehouse exteriors. These you avoided, making use of blind spots and the delivery trucks parked along the busy street. Once or twice you got the feeling you were being watched and it raised the hairs on the back of your neck. You toyed with your phone in your pocket as you circled back around, playing with the idea of calling the cops. You curled a lip. And what were you supposed to say? 'Hey officer, I'm just here in a place I have no business in, and I feel like someone's spying on me. Help a girl out?'
It was probably just someone wondering what the fuck you were doing here. You needed to get off the street. And the obvious answer was…
You glanced back over your shoulder and upon confirming no one was behind you, you sauntered casually up to the front door of the storage depot as if you owned the place. In your experience, when it was daylight it was best to act as if you belonged and scowl at anyone who wondered otherwise. There was always a refuge in audacity.
You used your body to hide your actions as you withdrew your black gloves and pulled them on. This place was not some abandoned building in the middle of nowhere, and you'd hate to get slapped with a charge due to some fingerprints if it all went sideways. That done, you carefully tested the front doorknob and to your surprise found it unlocked. You frowned, your growing suspicion leaving a knot in your stomach. Who just left their warehouse door unlocked in New York City? The threads inside hadn't moved as best you could tell, and the odds of your target simply sitting there while you set off a booby trap were quite low, so you hesitantly cracked the door and listened. When nothing exploded, you nudged the door open farther, just enough to slip into the darkness inside. You shut the door quietly behind you, waiting for your eyes to adjust and show you something other than black ink and a blue thread.
Gradually, the room took shape amidst shafts of sunlight leaking in from the high windows. You were surrounded by large boxes and wooden crates in various states. Straw poked out of the open crates, padding ancient vases and time-worn statues faded by wind and sand. You caught the tantalizing gleam of gold inside one box, its top just barely cracked wide enough to offer a hint of what lay within. Against one wall, the corner of a painting framed in silver lay visible behind a white cloth draped over it.
You scratched the back of your neck. "And this door was unlocked?" you muttered. Either someone was going to be fired, or someone was planning to come into a lot of insurance money down the line. And yet none of this had anything to do with you. Rule number one was do not ask questions, no matter what weird shit you witnessed. An unlocked storage depot full of priceless artifacts certainly qualified as strange, but you hadn't grown your business by being nosy or touching things that didn't belong to you. Your plausible deniability was one of the things they paid you for. Also, you'd seen Aladdin. You were well aware of what happened to people who got greedy, and while there may not be a giant sand tiger about to eat you, a bullet would leave you just as dead. So instead of snooping, instead of so much as glancing into the crates, you bypassed the riches and crept towards the nexus of the threads.
There was a wooden door at the other end of the room, set into the cement wall. Something told you this one would be unlocked, too, and you steeled yourself before pressing it open.
You weren't sure what you were expecting to see on the other side, but what you weren't expecting was your client sitting in a room otherwise empty save for a wooden table and the cozy red armchair in which he sat. He finished the process of setting down his book on the table and held up a stopwatch. "I have to say, I'm impressed. Two hours and seventeen minutes during rush hour, and all with nothing but my watch."
As you hastily shut down your third eye, somewhere in the back of your mind a lightbulb went off. "You were testing me," you realized out loud, tilting your head. It made sense in a way. Most of the rich didn't get that way by being stupid or gullible. He, or perhaps his boss, wanted to see your talent for themselves first. You couldn't work up the energy to be angry about it. That would happen only if you didn't get paid. "Seeing how fast I could find you?"
"Among other things. My watch?" You drew the box from your pocket and moved closer, handing it off to him. He removed his watch from the box and gave it a brief once-over before reattaching it to his wrist. "My employer will be pleased with the results. Your check, as promised." It was his turn to hand you an item as he stood, and you glanced at the check before slipping it into your pocket. That was, indeed, more than enough to pay off your bills and leave extra.
"So that's it, then?" You gestured towards him before folding your arms.
"For now. We'll most likely have more jobs for you in the future, should you wish to continue working with us."
"All this," you waved a hand about the room, managing to encompass all the effort that had been put into your test, "just to let me walk if I want?"
"Of course. It would hardly be a beneficial business relationship should you be unwilling. We would continue to follow the rules outlined in your contracts, provide you with bonuses for quick work. And as long as you met your end of the bargain, as you do for any other client, I see no reason why any of that should change."
You sucked on your tongue as you considered him, the check burning a warm weight against your chest. It sounded too good to be true and yet, as long as they followed the contract, what risk was there really to you?
Finally, slowly, you nodded. "You'll have to go through the paperwork same as any other regular client for each contract, but I'm not averse to it."
"I had a feeling you'd agree," he said with a pleasant smile, offering you a hand to shake. "There's a car waiting out front. The driver can take you back to your office, or your home if you'd like. We'll be in touch when we have another job for you."
You nodded, stuck your hands in your pockets, and headed for the door. You paused at the threshold and called out, without looking over your shoulder, "you mind if I call you Mr. Winter?"
"Any particular reason?" By the sound of his voice, he hadn't moved away yet. It wouldn't have surprised you if he'd sat back down to finish his chapter.
You shook your head. "I don't expect to get your real name, so this is mostly so I have something to call you in my client list. And it fits well enough."
You waited as he considered it. He'd been polite enough to wait for you to read through the forms, after all. "It's acceptable," he said at last with a chuckle.
"Well then, have a good day, Mr. Winter."
"And you, Ms. Hind."
-x-
Weeks went by. You handled only two jobs for Mr. Winter in between your other clients, but you weren't complaining. Those checks paid your bills, including your legal fees, for which Foggy was incredibly grateful. You got the feeling receiving pies instead of money was more of a regular occurrence than he'd ever admit to. And Mr. Murdock… continued to be absent. It was the strangest thing, and it got stranger with each visit. There was always something that had pulled him away: a family emergency, a meeting with another client, something in his apartment caught fire. He wouldn't even speak to you on the phone.
"Hello?" you said awkwardly into the silence. The phone had given its tell-tale click, so you knew someone had picked up. "Anyone there?"
Click!
You blinked at the phone. Had they just… hung up on you? You dialed back, brow furrowed in annoyance. You and Karen got along just fine, so you had a hard time believing she'd drop you like that.
This time when the phone picked up, you could hear scuffling and whispers as two people hissed back and forth and seemingly fought over the phone.
"—ucking hang up on clients, Matt!"
"Hello?" you tried again.
"Ms. Hind!" That was definitely Foggy. "Hi, sorry about that. That was—"
"Did someone hang up on me?" you said slowly.
"NO! No no no, of course not! Just a joke, one of our other clients playing a prank. Ha! Why would anyone hang up on our best client?! That would be crazy, wouldn't it?" The last two words were close to a shout and muffled by what must have been a hand over the mouthpiece. "Now, how can we help you?"
And then, just when you'd think you caught him…
"Excellent! You're early!" Foggy crowed, ushering you in.
"Yeah, better than late, right? I figured you guys wouldn't mind."
"Of course not, and as a matter of fact," Foggy grinned, leading you not to his office on the right, but the one on your left that belonged to the mysterious Matthew Murdock, "you've arrived at a most fortunate time. My partner is actually in his office, so you can finally meet him and know that I'm not a crazy person using two names to operate a law office. He's right in—what the FUCK?!"
You glanced around the office. It was neat and tidy, stacks of paperwork neatly organized around a laptop. It was also very much empty. Against the far wall, the breeze rustled against blinds drawn up above the open windows. "Did Mr. Murdock leap out the window rather than speak to me?"
"He's BLIND! He can't—he wouldn't… Karen!"
That had all been weird enough, but even the Man in Black seemed completely unruffled by Matt Murdock's behavior.
"One of those lawyers you sent me to. He's avoiding me." You stroked the silver tabby cat on your lap as you leaned back against the brick wall bordering the rooftop. She was one of the few targets who seemed to enjoy your presence. "Pretty sure he hates me, actually, which is strange since I only ever saw him once. And that was for three seconds as he was leaving."
"What makes you say he hates you?" he asked distantly, kneeling and waggling his fingers to lure the cat over. She obliged, stepping primly off your legs and sauntering with a curled tail over to the masked man, arching her back so he could scratch along her spine. "You don't think he's just busy?"
"He leapt out a fucking window to avoid me, John," you said flatly. "Pretty sure we're past 'just busy'. You're both catholic. Could you maybe, I don't know… talk to him? Tell him I'm not Satan-incarnate there to devour his soul?"
"I'll see what I can do, but the Catholicism can only carry me so far."
"True. The good lawyer may have a problem with the implications of the vigilante thing. Maybe leave the Catholicism out, now that I think about it."
And yet still you carried on, meeting after meeting, just you and Foggy. You deftly dodged his questions about your past, and he gamely worked to trip up every legal effort to pry information from you. You were starting to suspect that you would never meet the elusive Mr. Murdock. Maybe that was alright; you and Foggy were doing pretty well on your own. And then your coffeemaker broke.
It was sheer chance really, an unfortunate stroke of luck. With the appliance in your apartment having given up the ghost and a meeting at Nelson and Murdock leaving you without time to run out for a new one, you decided to make a quick stop at the coffee shop just down the street from their office. Foggy had raved about it once or twice, so it made sense to just grab a coffee there.
You were near comatose without coffee in the morning, but just the scent of it wafting past you as you approached had your senses perking up in anticipation. You picked up your pace. Coffee coffee coffee coffee! A steady flow of people streamed in and out of the shop, clutching their fresh nirvana in paper cups and to-go mugs. The shop looked busy, and it was probably noisy too, but if this many people were there, it had to be worth it. That didn't mean you didn't grumble internally about the line as you paused at the door, letting out a sudden burst of people, before dragging your sorry, uncaffeinated hide inside.
Two suited men were in line in front of you, one of whom slowly hunched his shoulders up as you came to stand behind them. Dude must need coffee even more than me. You blew out a sigh and poked your head around the pair in front of you to blearily count how many people stood between you and the machines that made your ambrosia.
"Jane?"
You swung your head, glancing up. "Foggy?"
How did I not notice this was Foggy? Fucking coffee, need it now!
He grinned a wide, beaming smile that edged on mischievous as he clapped you on the shoulder. "I had no idea I'd find you here." The man with the hunched shoulders had turned away, and Foggy's hand clamped down on his jacket sleeve with a vice-like grip. "Matthew," Foggy said through grit teeth, his cheerful tone in no way diminishing the steel in his voice. "This is that lovely client that I've told you so much about! The one who pays us in money and not chickens. Turn around and say hello!"
Clearly realizing he now had no escape, Matthew Murdock blew out a breath and slowly spun to face you, looking for all the world like a coyote contemplating chewing its own leg off to escape a trap. Why does he act like this is going to be so awful? Your heart skipped a beat, your nerves shot. What the hell had you done to this guy to make dealing with you such a horrible proposition? It couldn't have been bumping into him, could it? The treatment stung you, in the way all rejection did.
Finally, you got your first good look at him. Those dark red shades of his obscured his eyes easily, but they did nothing to hide the attractiveness of the rest of his face: the stubble on his strong jaw, the pretty mouth. He wore his modest grey suit well, surprisingly lean and fit beneath it. Not bad for a dick.
His hands tightened momentarily on his white cane and you belatedly realized you'd been standing there saying nothing. Foggy shot glances hopefully back and forth between you, clearly eager for you two to get along.
May as well give it a shot.
"Jane Hind. I heard you've been working on my case, but we haven't met yet. I'm," you cleared your throat, "I'm going to stick out my hand now to shake if that's alright?" You tentatively offered your hand. There was a thought scratching at your brain the longer you stared at him, but you couldn't quite pin it down.
"Her right hand is about six inches in front of you," Foggy said helpfully. Matt shifted on his feet, licked his lips as if unsure. You were starting to feel awkward holding out your hand, and behind that, angry. Fuck him. I've done shit all and he's treating me this way? Foggy laughed nervously. "Ha, he's just nervous sometimes when meeting new people outside the practice. He will of course shake your hand any second now."
At the sharp comment, Matt seemed to make a decision, clearing his throat and reaching out for your hand to shake. He found it unerringly, callused palm sliding against yours as he smiled. "Matt Murdock. It's a pleasure to finally meet you."
At the sound of his voice, the scratching in your mind became a clawing, before the thought finally burst from the earth of your subconscious and began the process of redecorating your brain using a sledgehammer.
I know that voice.
You knew that low timbre, the softness with which he spoke, and the way each consonant slipped past his lips; the same lips you'd stared at maybe a touch too often since you couldn't see his eyes.
Your brain frantically began to assemble the clues you'd missed until now.
Matt Murdock avoiding you, because you'd recognize his voice after the time spent with him. Recognize injuries he sometimes gained while with you.
The business cards given to you by the Man in the Mask. Directing James and yourself towards the firm. 'You can trust them.' He would know, wouldn't he?
John, the Man in Black, was one of your own fucking lawyers.
Foggy's smile faltered, and his gaze turned nervous as you stood frozen in front of Matt. "I just forgot," you said suddenly, "I have a thing at work. I need to reschedule my appointment." You backed away, fumbling your way out of the shop. This was too much, you needed… you needed space to think, to process. "Sorry, Foggy, have a good day!"
Back in the shop, Foggy slowly turned to face Matt. Matt nodded. "That went well.
"Fix this, Murdock!" Foggy thundered, ignoring the startled stares from the other patrons. "By god, Matthew Murdock, you need to fix this!"
"How do you know I'm the one who broke it?"
"I don't know." He threw up his hands. "I don't care! She pays us with money, Matt! Actual money! She doesn't pay us in pie!" He poked Matt in the chest determinedly. "And I don't know if you know this, but New York City does not accept pies or chickens as payment on our office!"
Matt chuckled nervously, nudging Foggy's hand away. "Alright. Consider me swayed, Counselor. I'll do my best."
"Good," Foggy sniffed, patting Matt on the shoulder. "I'm glad you've accepted my wisdom. Now, you want mocha today? I'm feeling mocha. Which is great, cause I may be homeless now without her, and that means I'll never be able to afford mocha again."
-x-
You'd gone back to work, but you hadn't gotten much done. Fortunately, all you'd had to do was paperwork. You were, in a word, distracted.
Was he really blind? Had he lied to you about his senses? Did his business partner know? Did Karen? Was this all just an incredibly convoluted scheme to drive business to his new firm?
The thoughts dogged you like hungry strays all day long as you examined every angle, every interaction with him you could remember. Those thoughts followed you on your walk home, up the stairs, and into your apartment. They curled up inside your mind as you grabbed a beer from your fridge and settled in to drink and ponder. They quieted when you heard the Man in Black's—no, Matt's—knock at your door. It was the same pattern you'd become so familiar with.
Tap-tap-tap. Tap. Tap-tap.
You warily eyed the front door from your spot on the couch, and slowly took another sip of your beer. Part of you wondered why he didn't use the window. Did it mean something that he was coming to you as Matt and not the Man in Black?
"I know you're there, Jane."
Of course you do, you bastard, you thought dryly. At least you weren't lying about that.
"Can I come in? Please? We need to talk."
You sighed and took another swig before answering. "Door's open." An unlocked door wasn't the safest idea in New York City but you'd been expecting him to show and hadn't seen the point in locking the door when you were there to watch it.
The door nudged open and Matt entered slowly, turning to lock the door behind him before stepping further into your apartment, not even faltering as he stepped over the shoes you'd kicked off and left just inside.
The pillow you chucked at him plopped against his head and fell to the ground. He stared at you with an arched brow. "Did you just throw a pillow at blind man?"
"Yes, I did," you said without a touch of shame, raising your beer at him. "Are you telling me you couldn't dodge it with your ninja skills? And how do I even know you're really blind? You're lucky I didn't throw something heavier as a test."
"I could have caught it but I let you have that one for free since it was a pillow," he chuckled, making his way over towards where you sat. You'd claimed the sofa for yourself and he gave you your space, stopping in front of the armchair that sat catty-corner to the couch. "I think you've earned it. As for whether I'm really blind… it's complicated. The real mystery is why you're not angry. May I sit?"
"Yeah, go ahead." You narrowed your eyes as he nodded and settled into your armchair. Instead of relaxing, he leaned forward to rest his elbows on his knees. "And how do you know I'm not angry?"
"Your heart rate," he said quietly. ¨It's calm, not racing like it would if you were furious with me. Your skin didn't get warm when you heard my voice, either. You're not angry at all. Suspicious maybe, but not angry."
"Hmph," you grunted. He was right. You weren't angry. Hell, you hadn't told him who you really were. You couldn't blame the guy for keeping that secret when you'd only known each other for a few months. Still, it didn't mean you were without questions. "Are you really blind?"
"Yes. The… chemicals I told you about, the ones the spilled on me? It was my eyes they hit. And I've never once claimed I wasn't blind." It was true; you'd reviewed your interactions, your conversations, and had realized already that he'd never once mentioned something's color, had never mentioned anything to do with vision when discussing his abilities.
"But you can move like you can see," you said, toying with the bottle in your hands.
"In a manner of speaking." The explanation he launched into, about what he could 'see' and vague mentions of being trained, made things a little more clear, knowing what you did about his enhanced senses. It reminded you of a documentary on whales diving deep into the lightless depths of the ocean, how their sonar could help form a mental map of their surroundings. Matt's senses apparently worked the same way, affording him a comprehensive picture of the environment and making up for what his eyes could no longer tell him. And it was, it seemed, a far better map than what a working pair of eyes would have given him.
"Does your partner know?" you asked curiously. You'd been drawn into the story despite your best efforts, and had long since given up your efforts to appear angry. You'd also unknowingly scooted across the couch so you were closer, leaning forward in your interest.
"No, he doesn't. Very few people do."
You reached out to pat his hand, making him smile. "Well, I'm honored to be a member of such an exclusive club."
"I'm sorry I didn't tell you earlier, when I directed you to the firm," he said, hand flipping up to grasp your fingers. He unconsciously brushed his thumb over your knuckles in a soothing gesture. "But at first I didn't know if I could trust you, and after that, it just wasn't—"
"Safe?" you finished. At his nod, you waved him off. "No, don't feel sorry. I mean, I get it. We've only known each other, what, a couple of months? I don't blame you for being cautious. Can't say I'd have told you, either. At least I know I can trust both my lawyers now."
He chuckled, letting go of your hand and settling back into his seat. Your skin felt strangely cold without that contact. How warm is he for me to feel that cold? "I promise, we'll do the best we can. Most of it's just legal scare tactics right now. They're testing the waters. We'll take care of it, though. You don't have anything to worry about."
You shook your head, taking another sip of your beer. It was a strange feeling, to be sitting here with Matt. He both felt like someone you already knew, thanks to your time with the Man in Black, and like someone completely different. Someone new. It threw you off balance, left you on unstable ground.
"What are you thinking?" he asked kindly, picking up on your straying thoughts.
"Just reconciling these two people I thought were separate," you admitted, biting your lip. "You're different than when you're in the black suit, but also not different, if that makes sense."
"I promise," he assured you, "I'm still me. Still the man you talk to on rooftops. Just in my work clothes, is all. You had to know that wasn't my full-time job."
You snorted out a laugh into your beer bottle, making him grin. The tension broken, you fully relaxed. "I mean, I knew that, but I didn't think you occupied both sides of the system. How was I supposed to know? Alright, you know what?" You set down your bottle. "We're going to try this again."
"What? Drinking? I haven't noticed you having any problems so far, but then again, I am blind."
"I am in fact doing an excellent job so far," you pointed out, turning so you were facing him straight on. "But that's not what I meant. We're going to do this introduction thing again now that we've got all our cards on the table. You know my powers, I know yours, we know each other's day jobs. Etcetera. Let's do this right."
He nodded in agreement and, to your surprise, reached up and removed his glasses and set them on your coffee table. Warm, soft brown eyes shifted their focus to your mouth as you sucked in a short breath, fascinated by the play of color. You'd never seen his eyes until now, never been able to examine the tiny laugh lines at the corners as he smiled at you or the threads of storm grey shot through the iris. Something told you it wasn't a common occurrence for him to allow someone to see his eyes. There was an intimacy to the act, a show of trust that warmed you, left your breath shaky as it escaped your lungs.
You held out your hand to him for the second time that day. Like before, his hand slid into yours, skin rasping against skin. There was no shake this time, your hands simply clasping as you watched him.
"Matthew Murdock," he said quietly.
He's trusted me, so… You licked your lips, and murmured your real name.
His surprised smile lit up the room, and you grinned back. "It's a pleasure to meet you," he said. "Truly."
With that, you released his hands and picked up your beer bottle. "So… jumping out a window? Really?"
"I couldn't help but panic. Psychics are just so intimidating to a guy with secrets."
"Shut up."