The red thread

by Lazydaily

matt and Read red strings. For TTS

3. Chapter 3

"You're sure the food will work?" Matt asked you skeptically. He leaned against the wall beside the door, his arms crossed. His casual stance and the distracted cock of his head may have deceived those unfamiliar with him, but you knew the truth: he was listening carefully for potential witnesses to your attempted break-in, or for any other crime being committed nearby. This wasn't exactly the nicest neighborhood after all. "His heart is racing. Doesn't seem like he'd be interested."

"The stomach method is tried and true, my friend," you said cheerfully as you gingerly picked the lock, keeping yourself concealed in the shadows provided by the ramshackle porch roof. Your target had clearly used the broken bottom segment of the window beside the door, but you weren't sure you could squeeze through without slicing yourself to ribbons. At least someone had been polite and swept the glass away. "Even if it takes a little while, they always give in eventually. Ah! There we go." You shouldered the wooden door open with a grunt, sending small flakes of weathered blue paint floating towards the ground like snowfall. You couldn't help but wince at the screech of rusted hinges, a bell over the door chiming in a puff of dust.

The opened door revealed a darkened, debris-filled space stretching out in front of you. The only other door lay at the far end of the room, ajar and exposing nothing but yet more pitch-black murk. The legacy of the last occupant was all around: moldering cardboard boxes packed full of pipes and faucets, sheet-covered spinning chairs lined up before grimy, cracked mirrors too stained to throw out even a semblance of a reflection. There was a smattering of shoe and paw-prints tracked into the layers of dust, revealing the long-defunct salon wasn't entirely empty of activity, though it was vacant enough for now. You put away your lockpicks and withdrew your flashlight, clicking it on and swinging it around. "Still clear?"

"You're good," he said. You stepped through the doorway, Matt following closely and shutting the door behind you with another deceptively cheerful jingle. "Back storeroom, no other exit. He knows we're here. He's scared."

You took a few steps across the floor, turned to face Matt, and lowered yourself down to sit cross-legged. You set your flashlight down, positioning it upright as a makeshift lamp. The amount of light it afforded you was minuscule but effective enough.

"What are you doing?"

"Block the window, would you?" You drew a crinkled paper bag from your pocket as Matt moved to comply, positioning a stack of boxes in front of the window to block the gaping hole in the shattered glass. You drew your knife and sliced open the strings tying the bag shut before returning the blade to your jacket sheath. Brown paper rustled under your fingers as you opened the bag, and soon the rich smell of fresh roast chicken reached your nostrils, covering the copper tang of rust and stale air. You tore off a shred of meat and without looking back tossed it over your shoulder in the direction of the storeroom door. You whistled a few notes, keeping your posture relaxed and non-threatening. "Got some fresh chicken here, Sherwood."

You received no response, but you hadn't expected one, not immediately. You tossed another piece.

"He smells it, even if he's not moving," Matt informed you, settling back against the wall. Against the faded yellow paint, he was a lean, dangerous line of black that your eye couldn't help but be drawn to. Here amidst the time-ravaged ruins of an abandoned building, he seemed completely at ease, not one mark of apprehension visible in his body language as he tipped his head back.

"I told you. He's probably hungry."

"You have a lot of experience with dogs?" He rolled his shoulders as you shrugged.

"Usually it's cats. Dogs are much more likely to wander up to someone and show off their license tags and get brought home before I'm called. Cats, not so much." You tended to have far greater luck luring a dog to your side than a cat. Dogs seemed to naturally seek friendly humans out when frightened, while cats usually sought escape from anyone on two legs. It always made for an interesting experience. You gave a dismissive wave of your hand. "The whole pet thing, though, yeah. Cats, dogs, birds. God, fucking birds! Those are a nightmare. Pets are a good fifty-five percent of my business."

"And they all have… red lines?"

You shook your head. "Dogs are likely to have red. Cats are usually more selective. Birds, reptiles, that's a toss-up depending on species."

"How do you not get their threads mixed up with your own when tracking?" he asked. At your hesitation, he added kindly, "You don't have to tell me if you don't want to."

Ah, now that's where it gets complicated, you thought as you leaned your head back to stare at the warped, grungy ceiling tiles. How to explain? It was no use lying. If you were going to lie, you may as well tell him you wouldn't talk about it for all the good it would do you. He'd probably let it go; he'd never once shown any inclination to press where you were uncomfortable. And yet… he was the Man in the Mask, and your life—along with your safety as you wandered the city at night—had improved greatly with his presence. He deserved your trust.

He waited patiently, giving you time and quiet to ponder over which direction you wanted to steer the conversation. He straightened when you finally answered, "The trick is, I don't actually look at my own threads. When I'm following one, I sort of draw it up," you made a gesture as if hooking and lifting a string up from the floor, "above the others. Most rest on the ground if there's any distance between the two ends. Makes it easier to narrow in on what I'm looking at. So my threads… I keep those down, under everything else."

"It seems like it'd be nice to know about your own relationships," he mused thoughtfully. "I'm assuming there's a reason you don't look."

You hummed an affirmative. "I told you before about the colors, right?" At his nod, you continued speaking as you tossed another piece of warm chicken over your shoulder. "Yellow, orange, red. Levels of… attachment, affection, love, whatever you want to call it." You'd always been at a loss as to how to define it. In this way, the English language seemed woefully inefficient in conveying the exact emotion you felt when touching your finger to a scarlet thread. It required a word that represented both many feelings, and just one that encompassed all the shades of warmth possible between two individuals. "It's a connection between friends, family, lovers, beloved pets. Both parties need to care strongly for a red thread to form, this is true. For pets like Sherwood, that's all you need. But humans need one other thing, too."

"And what's that?"

You clucked your tongue at the click-click-click of Sherwood's nails coming from the open doorway behind you. Your noise prompted a half-hearted growl. "Awareness," you said. At Matt's puzzled silence, you elaborated. "Each person needs to know they care about the other. No recognition, no red thread." That emotional insight, as best you could tell, was not just important but a necessity. Anything short of full understanding left one solidly in orange.

"So as long as you don't look—"

"And remain firmly in denial of any strong emotional connection with someone," you interrupted. "Denial is super important."

"—You won't develop any red threads," he finished. Something about his tone was odd, almost unhappy as he shook his head, his jaw clenching. "Why would you want to deny yourself that connection to someone else?"

You cringed at what you assumed was his disbelief. You fiddled with a corner of the paper bag. "If I have a red thread connected to someone, that person can be used to find me. Someone finds me, they… use me. There's a lot of money to be made hunting down people who don't want to be found, as you can imagine." The memories left a sour, acrid taste on your tongue. You'd left before it had gotten too bad, but you'd seen what was in your future if you'd stayed. You'd have been chained, muzzled, leashed: a dog on a chain, set loose only to run down game before you were locked back in your cage. "So I don't really make many friends. Not serious ones, anyway. No parties, no dates. Not looking at my threads, that's just my last line of defense."

"There has to be someone you can safely connect with," he objected, gesturing sharply. "Old friends, family."

You glanced down at the floor and picked at a loose thread from your jeans that you'd missed earlier. "I burned as many bridges as I could," you said, keeping your voice level. Something about Matt's easy, sympathetic nature made this subject easier to talk about. Or maybe it was the time and distance that softened the edges of memory and soothed the sting of old hurt. "People you're close to, you know how to hurt them. You know their weak spots. You do it right, you can drive that thread from red to green in just a few hours." You snapped your fingers. Green, the lonely color of unrequited affection, was a color most would have wanted to remove from themselves if they could. But for you, it had been what you'd desired. You glanced back up, knowing he would sense your eyes on him. You let a hard edge creep into your voice. "It took me a bit longer than a few days but they're safer now. No one can use them to find me, so there's no reason to hurt them."

You were met with silence. His hands tightened into fists, but the downward turn of his mouth spoke of another emotion you couldn't quite read. So hard when I can't see his eyes. At best guess, he was furious —teeth grinding, posture stiff and hard—that someone had forced you into this pattern, or perhaps he was angry that you'd given in to fear and denied yourself. You'd felt similarly over the years, though you tried to maintain a sort of pragmatic acceptance about it. Most of the time that worked, allowing you to remain distant and disconnected despite repeated overtures of friendship and romance from others. Sometimes, however, people like Matt stirred the waters and left you longing for connection and enraged that you couldn't take the offered hand. You tugged again at the thread in your jeans and tossed more chicken over your shoulder. The whisper of paw pads and quiet snuffling told you Sherwood's hunger had finally won out. "That seems like a lonely way to live," he said finally. You shouldn't have been surprised he understood.

"I guess," you admitted, slowly swiveling on the ground so that you were half-turned away from him. You wanted to keep Sherwood in your view now that he'd finally stepped out from the back room. In the dim light of your flashlight, you could make the dog out. Around forty pounds, his thick, shaggy grey-and-black coat and a plumed tail that curved up over his back made him a startling sight in the dimness. "But I don't have another option. The scientists who studied me as a kid, or some of the guys I did jobs for, if they find a red thread to track me, they won't let it go. And besides," it was time to redirect the conversation away from yourself, "it can't be much different for you, right? You've got ways of protecting yourself. Don't think I haven't noticed."

Sherwood inched his way closer, lured by the bag of chicken in your hands and the scent wafting towards him. You tossed a few more pieces, gradually winding in the distance. You had a leash in your pocket but you weren't going to loop him until you had gained some of his trust. He was supposedly a friendly animal when in his own home, but he was understandably skittish. It did to remember that even the most well-mannered dog had fangs when backed into a corner.

"I've got a few people at least. It's… human to want connection," he said, shifting and resettling against the wall. His mouth gained a pensive tilt, before quirking in a sardonic little grin as he turned his face in your direction. "I'm not sure I could avoid it entirely even if I wanted to. I have a hard time not getting attached."

"So you control how those relationships happen." You held out a hand filled with chicken to Sherwood. His tail wagging, he hesitantly took a few licks. When nothing further happened, he came a little closer and began to eat. "I get that. But I can't fight as well as you. What's my option for keeping people safe? Honestly, the closest I've come to a real friend in years is you," you admitted reluctantly, reciprocating his confession with one of your own, "and that's only because I know you can defend yourself."

And even with how much you genuinely liked Matt, you still couldn't risk opening yourself to a red thread with him. It was a slippery slope, one that started with the deceptively innocent, 'it's just Matt, just the one friend. ' But slowly you knew your hunger for connection, for friendship would grow, and it wouldn't be long before those red threads multiplied beyond your control. You could envision yourself falling in, with Foggy and Matt and Maya and Daniel. You'd grow complacent, consider calling old friends or trying to track down family like you'd been tempted to do in the past. Inevitably somebody would find you, try to force you into their service. You would have nowhere to hide with so much red wrapped around you. And Matt, humanly-vulnerable Matt, he would be right there beside you, shedding blood in an attempt to protect you as he would for anyone else in the city. Not for wealth or to use you for his own purposes, but simply because you needed help. He was a martyr, offering up his own body in exchange for the safety of others.

No. You refused to steal the Devil away from Hell's Kitchen.

"I won't risk you or anyone else," you said softly, scratching at Sherwood's ears. "It's safer this way, trust me."

His lips parted on a frustrated sigh as he went to kneel in front of you. "Please, you have to let me—" He froze. Like a bat, his head tilted, rotating and shifting back and forth as he narrowed in on a sound.

"What do you hear?"

"A woman, two blocks away. She's screaming for…" He frowned before rising and about-facing to the door. He yanked it open. "Stay here. Don't leave without me." He didn't wait for an answer before disappearing out into the night with no small sense of urgency, leaving you alone in the abandoned salon.

You turned back to Sherwood, who wagged his tail again. "He does that a lot," you confided. "More chicken? Maybe if you sit?" As soon as his butt plopped down, you gave him another piece. "Good boy. Wanna get the leash on and we can take you back home? Good idea?" You got a woof in reply and shifted to dig around in your pocket for the leash. Sherwood snuffled at the bag in your other hand.

From his throat rumbled a low growl, bone-white fangs revealed by curling lips as his focus redirected towards the door. You quickly shifted up onto your heels, clicking off your flashlight and leaving you in the dark.

"—aw the light in here, I swear," came a drunken slur from out front.

"Well, let's have a look, then."

You rose to your feet, scanning the salon. There wasn't anywhere suitable to hide except the back room. Sherwood had already begun backing away, retreating towards the safety of the office, and you made to follow. You hadn't taken more than two strides backwards, however, before footsteps made their way up to the door, and a heavy hand shoved it open.

"What do we got here?" The first man through the door was the largest, wide and tall, dressed in worn jeans and a stained white t-shirt. A half-finished cigarette dangled from his grinning mouth, smoke trailing lazily upwards and collecting against the ceiling. The second, third, and fourth man who entered ranged in size from scrawny to bulky, though none as large as the first. Man Two and Three wore the same lewd grins the first man had graced you with. Only Four was nervous. His arms were wrapped around himself tightly and he jumped at every little sound as he hung towards the back of the group. Even from where you stood you could smell the reek of cheap alcohol, the sour ripeness of a dive bar floor heavy in the air.

Well, shit. You didn't need Matt's super senses to read the energy in the room. Your heart rate shot up as adrenaline flooded your system in preparation for a fight. "I'm just here to grab my dog, boys, and then you can have the room," you said firmly, your stance wide as you folded your arms across your chest. You could not, in any way, show fear to the wolves in front of you. You needed to be confident and controlled, more trouble than you were worth to the predators circling you in the dark.

"But what if we don't want the room?" said the man with the cigarette, baring his stained teeth as he met your eye.

"She thinks we want the room, Robbie," Two giggled, his cheeks flushed.

The first man, Robbie apparently, snorted in amusement. "What if we're just looking for a little spare change?" he purred. "You don't got that, I'm sure there's something else we can come up with." Your hands tightened into fists and his grin grew wider. They had no idea about the blade in your jacket, and you weren't about to tell him. You were hoping to get out of here without needing to so much as take a swing. The easiest way to do that would have been to toss your wallet and run, normally, but they were blocking your only exit, and they didn't seem inclined to move.

"I'm taking my dog and leaving before my friend comes looking for me," you said, your tone brooking no argument as you uncrossed your arms. Sherwood had begun to bark in the back room, frantic and high. You could only hope the sound would carry, but you weren't going to count on it. "We're all walking away, pretending like none of this ever happened."

"Why would we walk away?" the third man slurred, taking a few drunk steps towards you as his friends jeered. You held your ground, watching him carefully. "We aren't finished talkin' yet."

You curled a lip in disgust before forcing the expression down. Instead, you stared at him coldly. "Back the fuck off," you warned, bracing yourself. "I won't say it again."

"Stubborn bitch," he grumbled, reaching out to snatch your wrist. Unfortunately for him, thumbs were easy to dislocate. He yowled as you wrenched his thumb further, not an ounce of sympathy in your grip. He yanked his hand away as you lifted a boot and kicked him in the gut, knocking him back.

"I already told you: leave me the fuck alone," you snarled as Three nursed his thumb. There was no point in keeping the fury out of your voice now. Robbie and Two laughed at Three, shoving him before turning to you.

"Girl's got spunk, I'll give you that," Robbie guffawed as he tossed his cigarette and crept forward with far more caution than Three had shown. Two took a side route, working his way around to your left as Robbie began to direct them. "Kal, stay on that side. Tim, quit whining over your fucking hand and take the other side. Sam, guard the door."

Their hands remained in view, which was a good sign. If they'd been intending to use weapons, they'd have had their hands in their pockets already. You rocked back and forth, loosening yourself up as you shuffled a few steps back, your eyes shifting around the room. It would be helpful to have a weapon to use in addition to your knife. Your goal wasn't to win against four opponents. One may have been possible with the tricks you'd learned over the years, or even two—thank you, self-defense classes—but not four. As drunk as they may have been, they were still larger than you, and you were outnumbered. You weren't seeking victory so much as clearing yourself an escape route to the door. That, maybe, you could do. Then all you needed to do was find Matt and lead him back before they could do anything to Sherwood. "Four of you? Just to grab little old me?" you mocked, lifting your arms up to a guard position, prepared to protect your face and upper torso. "Can't say I'm impressed."

Kal ended up being the first to engage, Tim wary with his hand being injured and Robbie content to wait and watch. Kal made a guarded pass at your arm, an attempt to draw you in so he could use his size to his advantage. You dodged the drunken swipe, knocking it away. In response, you lashed out with a kick at his kneecap, trying to disable him. Your blow landed, and he snarled in pain as you sidestepped in the direction of the door, his leg buckling momentarily before he caught himself. With his balance still off, you were able to catch his next punch on your arms, protecting your face before you struck back with a jab, clipping his chin before withdrawing your arm back to protect your jaw just in time to block another swing. You managed another two steps closer to your escape, ducking under his clumsy right hook. You swung for his gut but he shoved you away, your back slamming against one of the stacks of water-damaged cardboard boxes. The corroded pipes inside rattled at your impact. "Now that's enough out of you," he spat. He approached with a limp, dropping his guard as he reached for your shoulders. You flattened your palm and struck up at his nose like a coiled snake as soon as he was within range. Bone crunched and he howled, blood immediately gushing from his nostrils as he staggered back. "Mudderfucker!"

You'd gained yourself a precious few seconds: seconds you used to snag one of the pipes behind you. You rolled your wrist, spinning the pipe as Tim approached before you stepped forward and swung hard at his face. Tim squawked, instinct driving his hands up to protect his face. He yelped and fell back as the steel smacked against his injured hand. You kept the pipe raised and ready as you began to back away towards the door once more, but a pair of beefy arms wrapped around you from behind, pulling you up off the ground.

In the struggle, you lost hold of the pipe, and it rolled away into the darkness as you kicked backwards at Robbie's legs. You needed an arm free if you were going to go for your knife. Robbie growled and shook you. "Just shut up and hold—" You threw your head back, your skull colliding with his nose. A hot stream spilled down your back as Robbie roared, dropping you to throw his hands up to his face. "What is it with you and fucking noses?!" You finally had the space to draw your knife as Tim closed in again, his eyes wild in determination.

Most people were initially drawn to something huge and flashy when choosing a knife for self-defense, but you'd learned the value of the opposite. Multi-purpose knives like yours—small, sharp, and well kept—were easier to hide in the hand and harder for your enemy to spot in the moment before you struck, as well as easier to explain to cops if you were searched. The point wasn't to stick around and put on a good show if you were in a fight. Your goal was to slice and run while your foe was distracted. You kept that in mind as you sliced at Tim's face. He clearly wasn't expecting you to have a blade and he threw his hands up too late. Your knife rolled across his face in a line of scarlet, starting from the corner of his forehead and racing down and over towards his nose before entering the meaty section between his thumb and forefinger and lodging against bone. He jerked away as he screamed, your knife ripped from your grip. Dark red streamed down his face, blinding him in one eye and leaving him out of the game.

Your path had been cleared. Hallelujah for playing dirty! You sprinted for the door, fully intending to make your escape.

Stars burst across your vision at a sharp impact to your temple. Your ears rang, the room around you spinning as you crashed to the ground and skidded across the floor, coming to a stop just feet from the door. You frantically struggled to gather up your thoughts but they slipped through your grasp, insubstantial and weightless. A wave of nausea washed over you and you struggled not to retch.

Sam tossed the pipe away as he skittered back out of reach. The dripping of blood marked Robbie's progression as he circled around to your front. You glanced up blearily from the floor. "Nice, good job Sam." You clearly hadn't broken his nose as badly as Kal's if he was still speaking. "Tim?"

Tim groaned off to your right, one hand clutching at his face as he cradled the other hand, knife and all, to his chest. "Fuck, man, she cut me good. I gotta go to the hospital!"

"You're gonna pay for that one," Robbie growled, grasping your hair and yanking you up to stare into his blood-covered face. The world spun on its axis again at the abrupt motion.

"'S what you think," you slurred. Your tongue felt thick inside your mouth, each syllable fuzzy and slow to form on your lips, but you did your best. Blood trickled down from your temple. You'd probably been cut when you got hit. "Four of yer' drunken asses and I still made you all bleed. Even bashed in that ugly nose of yours." He snarled and swung at you with a closed fist, striking you first against your eye, and then, as your head snapped back, across your mouth. The second blow dropped you back fully onto the ground.

"Go find some rope," Robbie snapped to Sam.

"Can't we just leave?" Tim muttered. "Seriously, man, I gotta get this knife out of me!"

"Not before we tie her up and take her cash," Robbie said.

"Man, fuck you, you want to play with her like your last one!"

Your eyes drifted around woozily as you spat blood, wincing at your split lip as you tried to figure out your next move while they argued over what to do with you. The pipe you'd used was out of reach, as was your knife. The assholes were also standing in your way, their backs to the door. The good news was, you were close, closer than you'd been the entire fight. With one small distraction, you could make a run for it, you just knew it, because that door...

That door was slowly opening.

You started to giggle from your place on the ground.

"What's so funny?" Tim snapped. "What, you waiting for the cops or something?"

"No," you chortled manically, pointing a wobbly hand behind Robbie. "I was waiting for him."

Almost comically they turned to follow your finger, coming face to face with the Man in the Mask, the Devil who prowled the streets of Hell's Kitchen hunting far bigger prey than they.

And he was not amused.

"It's the D—" Sam whispered.

"Hey now," Robbie said slowly, holding his hands up. The temperature of the room had risen rapidly, the air thick and heavy as smoke with the weight of the Devil's rage. Even idiots like these could sense that they were standing before someone well above their weight class. "We were just havin' some fun. Let's not fight. We can all just walk away."

The Devil bared his teeth, and only the very foolish would have dared call it a smile. "You had your chance to walk away. Now it's my turn," he said softly, and surged into action.

Despite your injuries, you had the good sense to drag yourself across the floor to the wall where you were out of the way. You were content to let the Devil take care of them while you looked on. It may have been four against one, but the assholes would prove no challenge.

He was making far quicker work of it than you had and with far more style. Kal flew over your head, crashing into an old mirror just to your left and shattering it into hundreds of pieces. You calmly tore a piece of fabric from the sheet covering the chair to your right, used it to pick up a shard of mirror, and vindictively stabbed it into his calf. There was no reaction. You were pretty sure he was unconscious, but it still made you feel better. Meanwhile, the Devil took a clear visceral satisfaction in the meaty sound of impact as one of his blows fractured Tim's jaw, the punch dropping Tim like a rock. With a feral grin, the Devil finally turned his attention towards Robbie where he was backed up against the far wall.

You reached up and pressed a hand to your temple, probing the substantial goose egg that had been left behind. That was definitely going to hurt in the morning. Blood clung sticky and cool to your fingers and you didn't press too much for fear of disturbing the clotting. Damn it, you were covered in blood. "I liked this jacket," you grumbled to yourself.

Robbie, now on the ground with two shattered knees, howled as the Devil wrenched his arm up until it gave way and the joint dislocated with a loud pop. "You're lucky I don't rip it off and beat you with it," the Devil hissed as he released him, leaving Robbie a sniveling mess on the ground. Sam had long since taken off, and Tim and Kal were out of commission, groaning on the ground in their opposite corners. "You're all going to turn yourselves in to the police. If you don't, I'll know, and I'll find you. Understand?"

At the whimpers of affirmation, the Devil approached you and dropped smoothly into a crouch, brushing his fingers carefully at your temple. This close, the lingering heat radiated off him like hellfire, heavy and almost soothing. You were surprised you didn't catch fire under his touch as his gloved hand slid down to cradle your cheek. The sensation of it seemed strangely tender, though that was likely just because he was feeling out your injuries and didn't want to hurt you any worse.

"Are you alright?" he asked softly.

"Fine. Most of the blood is theirs," you reassured him groggily, dropping your head carefully back against the wall. Things would certainly have been a lot worse if he hadn't come along when he did, so you were counting your blessings as Tim staggered to the door, and Robbie did his best to crawl along after him. "Hey, asshole! Leave my knife!"

Tim winced. "But—"

The Devil beside you growled.

Clink.

"Thank you," you sighed. "Anyway, I'm bruised, a little cut up but otherwise fine. You got here before they could get too friendly, I think."

Matt stilled, all expression leaving the lower half of his face made visible by the mask. "They were planning to touch you?" he said slowly, tilting his head as he turned to fixate on the two remaining men. Across the room, Robbie whimpered.

"Not sure," you said absently, brushing a finger against your lip and probing the split. "The big guy was talking about tying me up and... Wait, what are you—"

The Devil surged back to his feet, stalking like a ravenous black wolf through the shadows. Kal scrambled out the door, setting the bell to ringing as Robbie's sniveling got louder. He attempted to crawl faster, fingers clawing at the tile, but he managed only inches before the Devil reached him. The Devil's foot came down on his back, pinning him to the floor as he grabbed the drunk's hair, savagely yanking the man's head back so that Robbie was forced to look up at him. The Devil whispered something too quiet for you to hear.

"I swear I didn't—"

The Devil slammed Robbie's head down into the floor, smashing his already battered nose further and grinding it down against the tile, making the injured man howl in pain.

The Devil lifted Robbie's weeping, bloodied face again a moment later. His voice dropped down into a hiss, low and furious. "I can tell when you're lying. Try it again. I'm begging you."

"Alright!" Robbie gasped. "Alright, just a little, I swear!"

The Devil hushed him, asking him another question you couldn't quite make out. The words you may not have been able to hear, but what you could hear was the Devil's tone, and it remained perfectly even, cold and absent of any shade of mercy. When Robbie didn't answer immediately, the Devil's hand tightened in warning before the man broke, sobbing.

"Only once before, I swear to god, I swear, oh god, please."

Even at this distance in the dark one could see the Devil's composure crack, a tremble borne of pure fury breaking through the cold facade before he was in control once more.

"Please, god please," Robbie whispered.

God's not here, only the Devil.

The Devil's head turned, allowing you to see his profile over his shoulder. "I'll be right back," he told you levelly. With that, he lifted Robbie up, dragging him to the front door as the man began to wail. He thrashed as best he could, but being injured and unable to walk, his struggles were pointless.

Out the door they went into the night, disappearing out of sight.

Sherwood finally poked his head out of the back room with a whine. You clumsily waggled your fingers at him, and he hesitantly approached you to lick at your face as an agonized scream echoed through the city. You couldn't bring yourself to feel too torn up about it.

"Hey, pup." You rubbed at his ears. He was already dirty, a little blood wouldn't make him look any worse. "Good thing I still have the leash, huh? Boy, would my face be red if I couldn't walk out of here with you."

-x-

By the time Matt—and it was Matt this time, not the Devil—came back around twenty minutes later, long after the screams had stopped, you'd retrieved your knife, leashed Sherwood, and made your way over to the door where you leaned tiredly against the frame. As the adrenaline faded from your system, you were left jittery and spent.

Matt set a hand on your shoulder and drew you in for a gentle hug, letting out an unsettled sigh as he did so. "You ok?" he asked gently, one hand sweeping soothingly down your back, heedless of the blood and dirt coating your jacket. "You did really well."

"Fine," you mumbled against his warm chest, winding your arms around his waist and blowing out a shaky breath as he cradled you against him, rumbling a low, soothing noise. Hell if you weren't going to soak in the unfamiliar comfort and affection while you could, just for a minute or two. When was... the last time you'd gotten a real hug? Years, surely. "Believe it or not, I've had a few guys try to grab me before, for my wallet or… other stuff. It happens sometimes, but I always manage to find a way out. That way out just happened to be you this time."

He exhaled slowly, his chin brushing your hair as his arms tightened around you. Apparently that wasn't an answer he found all that soothing.

"I'm returning the dog before I do anything else," you said, trying to direct the conversation towards something a little more positive.

"You have blood all over you," he pointed out in good humour. "As well as a minor skull fracture and probably a concussion. You should be resting, preferably with someone to keep an eye on you. Not walking across the city."

"It's not that far. I can rest after I return the dog," you insisted, releasing him with only the barest hint of reluctance and starting to push the door open. Matt huffed in frustration, reaching out to take your arm over his shoulder. Sherwood followed along politely without you needing to give the slightest tug on the leash. "It's my job, D. Then I can worry about… everything else."

"Do you at least have someone who can stay with you tonight?" he asked. "A roommate, or a neighbor?"

You tried to shake your head and winced at the pain that radiated down from your neck. "Nah, but I'll be fine. I've taken hits like this before. If I start vomiting repeatedly, I'll call 911. I know the signs."

His frown deepened but he was otherwise silent in thought as he helped you down the steps towards the sidewalk. You wished you knew what he was thinking, but he didn't seem inclined to speak, and you were equally uninclined to push. Instead, you let him help you down the porch's rickety steps, rotted wood creaking before you both made it to the street. "Alright," you told him. "Go on and get out of here. Can't have anyone seeing you and I have to start walking." Because God knew there was no way a cabbie would take you and Sherwood when you were both filthy. While the dark leather of your jacket hid the blood on your back, there wasn't much you could do about your mouth or the front of your shirt. That meant another walk, which in your condition was not going to be pleasant.

"I'll be on the rooftops following you," he said, reluctantly releasing you as if he didn't believe you could stand without his assistance. You huffed and straightened your back with a hiss. "Anything happens, and I'm calling—"

"Yeah, yeah, I know," you muttered. Despite the ache it caused, you tried to walk steadily as you started down the street. You really wanted to get this over with. "Make me feel like I can't get shit done, why don't you."

You didn't bother to look behind you to see where he'd gone. You trusted him to follow.

You kept your coat collar up and your head down as you walked. This being New York City, you weren't exactly drowning in people trying to help an angry woman stalking down the street, bloodied mouth though she may have. Even with only a few concerned citizens slowing you down, it took you longer than usual to reach your clients' apartment. It took longer still to convince them, after buzzing them down from their apartment, that you did not require assistance, that your injuries were only minor, and that you didn't need someone called to pick you up. Eventually, you managed to wave goodbye after their profuse thanks for returning Sherwood, and started down the sidewalk again.

It wasn't long before you spotted Matt waiting in a darkened alley for you. You made the detour, leaning against the brick wall beside him. You may even have sagged a little onto his shoulder, though you'd never admit to it. After a moment of quiet, he began, "I'd like to make an offer."

"I charge five dollars a minute," you mumbled.

He ignored you. Probably for the best. "I have some… experience with head injuries." Understatement of the year. "It's probably best if you have someone close by for the next day or so, just in case. To wake you up every few hours."

He was taking this blow to the head thing awful seriously. Maybe you'd been hit a little harder than you'd thought.

He licked his lips, hesitating before he barrelled onwards, finally coming around to his offer. "My apartment is closer than yours. You can stay with me for the night if you'd like."

"And by this, I assume you mean my options are going to your apartment or having you lurk on my roof like a gargoyle and listen to make sure I'm not dying in my own home?" you said dryly.

His lips quirked. "Something like that."

You pondered the offer over. You hadn't been to his apartment yet. Up until now, it had been a boundary neither of you had crossed. For all that Matt was friendly with you and had seemingly developed a protective sort of fondness for you, he was still cautious of exposing too much vulnerability. That was a caution you well understood. This was a big step for him.

Your head throbbed, a painful reminder of your injuries. You weren't exactly looking forward to the walk home. And after all, he'd already seen your apartment. This was just balancing the scales.

"Alright, D," you said, the nickname slipping out so easily you barely noticed. You gave him a sleepy nudge before rocking up and away from the wall with a groan, and he set a steadying hand against your back, making sure you were stable before dropping it. "You win. Just tell me which way to go."

-x-

The first thing he did was offer you the use of his shower, for which you were profoundly grateful. You'd both agreed his inspection of your injuries could wait until you'd cleaned yourself off. Blood, both yours and not, ran in thick red rivulets down your skin. You gritted your teeth and scrubbed the blood from your hair and the back of your neck, making sure to wash out your cuts. You did this until the water ran clear. Everything ached, and you were continually gripped by nausea and the heavy weight of fatigue. You grumbled as you pressed your hand to the cool tile, keeping yourself upright in the dim light. One of the light bulbs needed replacing, but you found the low level of illumination a comfort. Equally comforting was the subtle scent of clean soap that lingered around you. That it didn't smell like anything more exotic wasn't a surprise considering Matt's heightened senses: the shampoo you'd found was unscented, the soap likewise.

By the time you got out of the shower, you were well and truly exhausted, fumbling with the towel to dry off. Matt had lent you a pair of well-worn sweats and an old t-shirt, faded and soft as sin, the fabric an absolute delight to slide into. Still, it took you longer to get all your limbs into the correct holes than you were comfortable admitting.

Confusion. Balance issues. Headache. Maybe it's good I'm here…

Next, you had to deal with your clothes. Your jeans had somehow come out unscathed, so you folded them and set them aside, along with stuffing your socks inside your boots. Your shirt and jacket, however, were a lost cause. You removed your knife sheath and blade, setting them with your jeans. Then you emptied the jacket's pockets before shoving both the shirt and jacket inside the garbage bag Matt had provided. You'd just have to buy a new jacket when you could.

That done, you shuffled out into his living room, narrowing your eyes as garish red light flashed against the massive windows, the glaring light coming courtesy of the neon sign across the street. No wonder he could afford rent here; that sign was truly obnoxious to anyone with a working set of eyes. Matt rose from his place at the small, battered dining table, moving to your side to take the garbage bag from your hands. You thanked him, making your way to where he'd been seated as he went to drop the bag by the door before returning. He'd removed his mask, letting you get a good look at the tired lines of his face as he helped you settle down into one of the two beat-up dining chairs that accompanied the table, the wood creaking under your weight. He'd already pulled out the first aid kit—which included a few butterfly bandages—and set it on the table. "Not stitches?" you mumbled, dropping your head to rest it against the smooth wood.

He chuckled, going to wash his hands in the kitchen sink. "It sounds like we can get away without them this time, fortunately for you."

"What does a cut that needs stitches sound like, out of curiosity?"

"It's hard to explain," he said, returning and dragging the other chair close to yours, your knees brushing against his. You quickly spread your legs wide, giving him room to work. He lifted his hand, lightly cupping your jaw and tilting your head away to expose the cut at the end of your brow. "If it's an open wound, you can't hear the skin rubbing together there. Just… exposed muscle, which sounds different than skin when it moves." You barely felt the sting as he used gauze to wipe away at the blood that had welled up since the shower before he reached for a butterfly bandage. "Sometimes the cuts are jagged, though, and that sounds more like... I don't know. Shredded aluminum foil rubbing together. There's not really anything else that torn skin sounds like."

"Well, at least you have good, steady hands," you murmured as he pressed the cut together and applied the bandage. His touch was sure and experienced as he smoothed the sticky edges down, his fingers lingering to ensure the ends remained firmly set. "Setting a pretty high standard for first aid. You'll spoil me."

"Did you expect me to just start fumbling my way around?" His lips pulled up into a smile, and you helpfully turned your head so he could slide his fingers into your hair. You caught a playful glint in his dark eyes as he tapped his fingers around near your ear, as if he didn't know exactly where the lump on your head was. "I can't seem to find anything. Are you sure you got hit?"

"Ha. Very funny."

"I do my best."

You leaned farther over, your gaze flickering distractedly over the shelving across from you as he finally brought his fingers up to the lump on your temple, probing around it carefully as you added absently, "And don't knock fumbling. Can be fun in the right scenario."

Why the fuck did I just say that? Now is not the time for flirting.

Matt laughed, his cheeks flushing the most adorable shade of pink you'd seen in your life. "I'm not sure first aid is one of those scenarios."

"Well damn, there goes that erotica novel I was working on."

Just… shut up. I need to shut up.

"I'm sure you'll come up with some good ideas to replace it," he said warmly, eyes crinkling at the corners as he withdrew his hand. "That one doesn't need a bandage. It's a small cut, and the fracture underneath is minor. They should both heal alright as long as you're careful."

You were beginning to realize, as you watched him, how vital it was he wore a mask as the Devil. Sure, that black cloth was mostly to conceal his blindness and his identity, but he was also incredibly expressive without the mask or his glasses. Every emotion he felt was on display right in front of whoever might find their eyes drawn to him. At the moment, that happened to be you. You admired him sleepily as his blank stare drifted towards the general area of your mouth. You blinked as he gestured. "The split… did you already—"

"I washed it out," you said, lifting a hand before dropping it. You resisted the urge to lick your lip or to probe at it with your tongue. "Haven't put anything on it yet." In truth, though you could have dug around in Matt's bathroom to find some antibiotic ointment, the thought of him listening to you awkwardly fumbling around in his medicine cabinet had been too much to bear. "Do you have something I could—"

"Yeah, of course. Should have thought of it earlier," he said, digging through the kit until he'd retrieved a small silver tin that he placed in your hands. You ran your fingers over the smooth metal, the silver finish worn down by use. "This'll help keep it from getting infected. It should help you heal a little faster, too. Old Murdock family recipe."

You clucked your tongue. "Matthew, revealing your secrets so easily? How scandalous." It took you a moment to unscrew the tin, your fingers slow to follow your brain's commands. You finally removed the lid, gathering up some of the smooth, waxy material inside. You caught a faint, almost honey-like scent that reached your nose as you smeared a bit over your fingers. Quite pleasant compared to some of the other stuff you'd used in the past. You ran it gently over the cut at your brow, careful not to disturb the butterfly bandage, and applied some to the lump on your temple as well, biting back a groan at the instant relief that seemed to seep into your skin. It was only as you eagerly lifted your thumb to your lip that Matt's hand darted out, grasping your wrist and halting your motion. "What?"

"You were… you were going to open the cut again." He ducked his head. "You were going to press too hard and the angle was off. Here, just..."

His hand slid up over yours, cradling it easily within his own. Your fingers had grown shaky at some point, maybe too shaky to do this on your own—is it because he's so close?—without opening your split lip again, but with his assistance, you managed the barest pressure as he guided your thumb gently over your lip, leaving a faint honey scent and a soothing coolness behind.

You sighed as the dull pain around your mouth finally abated, and his legs nudged yours as a shiver slid down his spine. "There." His voice was so quiet, you had to strain to make out the word. He still hadn't released your fingers even as your paired hands dropped slightly. "Not as good as new but it's on its way."

"Thank you." You turned your hand so you could grasp his and squeeze, running your thumb over the scars roadmapped along his skin. "For all of this. I mean it."

He tightened his grip in response before rising to gather up the kit, returning everything to the box, and disappearing behind you into the kitchen.

Water ran in the sink as he washed his hands again. Right, I need to do that too. You wobbled upright, and shambled your way after him, taking your turn at the sink once he was done. Without the pain to distract you, your fatigue took center stage. Even as you rinsed your hands, your eyelids drooped and your head started to drop. You lifted your head back up at the sound of your name and the arm around your back, focusing on Matt where he stood beside you keeping you upright. "Hey. The last place you want to fall asleep is at the sink. The bed's more comfortable. I can sleep out here."

"I am not stealing your bed," you insisted roughly, shaking him off and making a beeline for the couch. "That's just… it's rude."

"It's really not. I won't be sleeping much anyway," he insisted, his jaw clenching in what you suspected was stubbornness. "I need to wake you up every few hours. And I have some legal paperwork I need to work on."

You shot him a narrow-eyed gaze as you stopped in front of the couch. "Are you lying to me?"

"Possibly," he murmured. "It depends on whether or not it'll get you into bed."

Were you not concussed and dog-tired, you definitely would've commented on that one. "What are my odds of you pestering me all night if I continue to resist, Counselor?"

He pursed his lips thoughtfully, as if he were running the numbers. "I'd say close to one-hundred percent." His solemn face quickly fell to a smile as you snorted in response, and he huffed a soft laugh. "I wouldn't bet against it if I were you."

"Fine," you groused, turning towards the bedroom. "Who am I to deny such an insistent offer? You're lucky you're so handsome."

"I'm told it's saved me a few times," he chuckled, shadowing you with an arm poised to grab you if you fell. You didn't think you were that far gone, but it clearly made Matt feel better to know he'd catch you if you lost your footing.

The Devil is a mother hen. Will wonders ever cease?

He left the light off in his bedroom, for which your sensitive eyes were grateful. He set his hand against your arm and led you through the darkness without faltering once, his steps sure and confident. He finally brought you to a halt as the front of your legs bumped into the bed. Despite all your grumbling, as he helped you into bed you knew the decision to move from the couch was the right one. "Shit," you sighed appreciatively into the thick pillow. The fabric beneath you was soft as sin, and you wanted to roll around on the bed like a dog after a bath. Face pressed into the pillow, you were enveloped in the subtle scent of salt and copper, faint cinnamon, detergent, and something distinctly Matt. This is the best bed I've ever slept in. How does he ever leave his apartment? "Is this made of angel wings or something?"

"Close, but not quite. Angel wings are a little hard to come by these days," he said, pulling the blankets up over you. "It's silk. Feels better on my skin."

You sighed, letting your eyes drop closed as he murmured something.

Smoke drifts up from the table, swirling lines leading back to half a dozen overflowing ashtrays that surrounded a wrinkled map. You clutch the lock of hair tighter in your hand. You always hated it here.

"Try again," says the Man in the White Coat. "Which direction?"

Matt touched your shoulder, startling you back to wakefulness before you could fully drift off, your body locked up and tense. "Hey, hey, you're ok," he whispered. He was kneeling beside the bed, just in front of your face. "It's just me. You're ok."

You groaned, swallowing around a dry throat and rolling over onto your stomach with a wince as your body shrieked in protest. You hated when your mind did this, dumping old memories into your dreams like a child with a handful of coins at a well. "Come on, I was so close to really sleeping."

"You already were, actually." He was letting your reaction go, for which you were incredibly grateful. His voice radiated amusement as he yawned and added, "It's already been two hours."

You buried your face back in the pillow with a yawn of your own. You'd forgotten how drained he must have been as well. He'd had his own battles tonight, and you hadn't even bothered to see if he'd been injured. At the very least, he'd be tired. Guilt gnawed at you, sour and bitter in equal parts on the back of your tongue. "Have you slept at all?"

"You don't need to worry about me. I'm not the one who's hurt."

So that's a no.

"Are you as comfortable as you'd be in bed?" you asked. The silence that met you was answer enough, and you wanted to shake him—and yourself—for so easily allowing you to take over the space he was most comfortable sleeping in. You let out a harsh breath. Well, he wasn't going to let you sleep on the couch. You turned your head, your eyes adjusted enough to the dark to make him out. "Do you have a better objection to sharing the bed than 'I have work'? Talk to me, Matt."

He blew out a sigh, scrubbing at the back of his neck and refusing to look at you. "I just don't want to risk making you uncomfortable," he admitted softly, though he didn't seem willing to elaborate. And maybe that reason was enough on its own, you supposed. "That's the last thing I want."

"I'm telling you that you won't," you said firmly. "The bed's big enough for both of us, and it will make having to wake me up every few hours really easy."

More silence. He was considering your offer, you could tell, his brow furrowed in thought. Sensing your gaze on him, he turned his face towards you, his own eyes shifting around without any real pattern as he bit his lower lip and released it.

You changed tactics. "I have nightmares," you told him, lowering your voice as if revealing a terrible secret. "Horrible ones. Awful. With alligators and snakes and all sorts of evil things."

That got you a smile. "I see. Well, hear, anyway."

You lifted one finger solemnly. "And I can already tell they'll be awful tonight. Unless I have someone over there." You hooked a thumb towards the open space in the bed. "Having another soul around keeps the nightmares away, believe it or not. And you won't be sleep-deprived tomorrow."

"Can't have that," he said in amusement.

Yeah, you had him now. "Well, you are a vigilante. I get the feeling you want to be at your best when you're leaping from rooftops and dodging gunfire." You slithered back down under the covers like an animal returning to its burrow. He rose behind you, moving towards the door, and you lifted your head. "Hey, I thought—"

"I just need to put a few things away," he said softly. "I'll be back. I promise."

What could you do but trust him as you dozed off again?

-x-

The two of you repeated the ritual a few more times that night and into the morning.

"Are you awake?"

"Fuuuuck you, fuck. No."

"That works."

At one point you stirred as he rose from the bed, Maya's ringtone on your phone a soft trill that made its way easily to the bedroom. "I've got it," Matt told you quietly, resting a hand briefly on your shoulder. The pale pre-dawn light creeping in the windows cast him and the room into soft relief, coloring the space grey and easy on your eyes. "Go back to sleep."

You weren't sure what time it was when next you awoke. The light had brightened from the muted grey of daybreak to full morning. Cars rumbled by outside, horns blaring as frantic drivers hurried on their way and people shouted on the street. You let your eyes adjust, taking in the sight of Matt's room in full light for the first time.

The wall you were facing was made of faded, mismatched brick, most of the paint long since worn away. Set a bit farther down the wall towards your feet was a large, segmented window, the glass foggy and heavily opaque. The red, yellow, and grey panes were just as mismatched as the brick. You shifted your head to glance further down, spying a dark wooden dresser looming against the wall. The wood floors were clean of any clutter one might usually expect to find in a bachelor's bedroom. Matt had clearly utilized the limited space well. Even the bed didn't take up too much room, which may have explained your current coziness.

Matt had an arm thrown around your waist, his legs slotted up behind yours, and his body pressed to you at every possible point. Against the nape of your neck, his warm breath flowed with the slow and steady rhythm of sleep, his face nuzzled in close. Is this what he was worried about? That he's… a cuddler? Sure it may have bothered some people, but you weren't one of them. And it was far from a mortal weakness, something he should be ashamed of. Or maybe...

'I have a hard time not getting attached.' Wasn't that what he'd joked about earlier? The self-deprecating tone had suggested there was no small amount of truth to it. It was a dangerous trait for someone like him to care so easily and so intensely. Matt, you were quickly discovering, felt, and felt deeply. This may have been an advantage when it came to a fight, every cruelty a splash of accelerant that stoked the fire that lay banked inside him. It was also a terrible risk, leaving him vulnerable, open to harm whenever he tore his chest open and gave another piece of himself away: to Karen and Foggy, the sweet old lady one floor down, the gap-toothed child that played on the stoop next to his office, his clients...

This was a man who, even more than you, longed for connection: who couldn't help but care about the people around him, no matter how much he tried to guard himself against forming such attachments. Not for the first time, you wondered how many threads Matt would have if you opened yourself to see.

He made a soft, sleepy sound behind you, the noise shaking you out of your thoughts. You were fairly certain he'd be embarrassed if he realized how close he'd moved in his sleep, though you didn't mind. The physical contact from Matt, instead of being unnerving, was incredibly comforting. You hoped it was the same for him, even subconsciously; you were starting to suspect he was more than a little touch-starved, a thought that made you ache.

After last night… well, you could be forgiven for allowing yourself a moment of weakness, here where it was safe and warm and soft.

Humans weren't meant to be alone, to be isolated. Matt had been right on that front. The mind and body improved in function when one was afforded loving physical contact. They similarly deteriorated when such touch was absent. From the first breath a human drew upon their bloody, violent entrance into the world, they sought touch. They regulated themselves based on others—on a heartbeat, on a breath, on emotion. Isolation was torture for a reason. You weren't that alone, thank god, but this kind of embrace was rare enough that you were practically floating on the cloud of happy chemicals your brain was producing.

Or maybe that was the head injury.

Matt's breathing changed, quickening as he drifted towards waking. You yawned and slowly rolled upright to a sitting position, his arm sliding from your waist. You figured it would be easier for the both of you if he didn't know about the spooning. He stirred as you groaned and stretched, achiness still heavy in your limbs and making your movements stiff. You felt like shit, but you'd have felt like shit on fire if you hadn't gotten what ended up being a fairly decent night's rest. "What time is it?" you mumbled. The window near you wasn't transparent enough to expose the city and allow you to make an estimate. Sheets rustled behind you and something clicked before a robotic voice cooly informed you of the time. You groaned again, leaning forward to rub your hands over your face, careful to avoid the cut by your eyebrow. "After ten? Really?" You hadn't even thought to phone Maya to update her. She was probably worried, even with your habit of coming in late after long nights tracking someone down.

"Your partner called earlier." Matt's voice was raspy and rough with sleep, pleasant to your ears as he moved to sit up as well on the other side of the bed. "I told her you'd had a rough night, and I was keeping an eye on you. She said she'd take care of anything important today and to give her a call when you could."

On the one hand, you thought, Maya holding down the fort would be a blessing until you were back on your feet. Despite sleeping most of the night, you still felt like you could drift off at any moment, your thoughts muzzy and slow to form. On the other hand, she was naturally suspicious, and your handsome, charming lawyer answering your phone would be more than enough to get her salivating over potential gossip. Not much to be done about that either way.

"Thank you," you said, finally getting to your feet with a wince and turning to face him. You touched a finger to your lip curiously, your eyebrows rising when you found the skin far less pained, the split healing more quickly than it would have normally.

"Didn't believe it would work?"

"I was skeptical, I'll admit." You laughed, dropping your hand. "Consider me a convert." Only then did a thought occur to you. "Wait, don't you have to be at work?"

"You could say I go way back with Mr. Nelson and Mr. Murdock," he said, grinning at your chuckle. "It's fine. I talked to Foggy, I'll go in a little later if I have to. I wanted to make sure you were alright."

Still keeping an eye on me. There was that guilt again. You may have stitched him up a few times, but he'd gone above and beyond with this. You needed to repay him somehow. "You really, really have to let me do something to pay you back. I'm falling behind here."

He frowned, and you had to distract yourself from the adorable way his brow furrowed. "It's not like that. It's not a… a game where we each score points. I was happy to help."

"Well," you said slowly, walking past him and making a beeline for his kitchen. "I can at least make you breakfast, right? I may not be a master chef, but I'm damn good at making breakfast. Waffles are my shit, man." Despite the phrasing, it wasn't actually a question. You were going to make him breakfast before you headed back to your apartment, so help you god.

"Should I really be letting the woman with the concussion handle sharp knives?" he mused, trailing after you.

"Is it any worse than letting the blind man play with fire at the stove?"

"At least we're on equal footing, I suppose."

-x-

You were loath to admit that Matt may have been right, but after tossing the ruined eggs in the trash—and steadfastly ignoring Matt's muffled laughter behind you—you made the call to order delivery from a bakery nearby. You were also determined to pay before Matt could. You knew the sneaky little bastard would take care of the bill if you weren't watching.

Of course, this wouldn't have been a problem if you'd been able to make the motherfucking eggs.

You popped a few painkillers and dozed in one of the armchairs as you waited, Matt disappearing to shower. When the knock came, you rocked up to your feet with a grunt and made your way to the door. "Not bad for time." He was definitely getting a good tip for those croissants. Upon swinging the door open, however, you were greeted with someone who was very much not the breakfast delivery you'd been expecting.

Foggy stared wide-eyed at you, a carrier of coffee clutched in his hands. His eyes darted over you, analyzing—bedhead hair, Matt's clothes—and you could only imagine the story he was concocting. You lifted your hand and pointed emphatically in the direction of your eye, your gesture encompassing both the butterfly bandage at your brow and the black eye that had developed overnight.

"Right!" he exclaimed, giving you a sheepish grin. "Sorry."

"Eh, don't worry about it." You held the door open for him as he entered, locking the door behind you before following him down the hall. There were three cups in Foggy's carrier, you noticed now. "One of those for me?"

"Of course," he said with a sniff. "The Nelsons don't raise cavepeople, Jane. Well, there was my cousin Ned, he was pretty prehistoric. Don't know if I've ever heard him offer someone a drink, and he still owes me twenty bucks from when we were kids." He clucked his tongue as he made his way to the table. In the bathroom, the shower turned off. "But he changed his name and moved to Chile, I think, so we don't have to deal with him anymore and everyone's happy! Except for Chile, but I've already sent their consulate an apology letter."

"How did you know I was here?" you asked curiously, slowly inhaling the scent of fresh coffee.

"Well, I didn't know it was you-you," he admitted, flopping into one of the chairs by the table and pulling his messenger bag off his shoulder. "Matt just said he was looking after someone and he'd work from his apartment today. I figured I'd just bring over anything he might need, and maybe snoop a little. I have to watch out for my best friend, you know."

"Do you now?" You huffed a laugh.

"What was I supposed to do?" He held up his hands helplessly. "You could have been a thief or con artist, here to steal Matthew's good silver or his innocence! Although I gotta tell you," he lowered his voice, "you're probably out of luck on the latter."

"Well, he'll be glad you came and foiled my plot for today. I was just about to make off with his sweats here." You plucked at the worn grey fabric in question as you took your seat, stealing the coffee not marked M or F. "After all, 'control Matthew Murdock' is just step one in my master plan."

"What's step two?"

You blew gently into your coffee. "Take over the world, like any good supervillain. That Loki guy failed, but my plan is foolproof."

"I'm sure this dastardly scheme absolutely would have succeeded if not for me." Foggy nodded politely, flicking his fingers in your direction. "He loves those pants. Ooh, were you going to hold them for ransom? Although I'm not sure what for." He glanced pointedly around. "Despite our extravagant lifestyles, we are, in fact, quite poor, much to my younger self's disappointment."

You snorted. "Then I'd trade for his soul, obviously. Or whatever virtue he has left. Wise to keep my options open." You sipped your coffee—cautious not to put pressure on your split lip—and sighed at the hot, bitter rush across your tongue.

"Always smart, but you're going to need more than just the sweats for that last one if you want him to take the deal," he mused, rubbing at his chin in thought.

"You know him. Enlighten me." You leaned forward, resting your chin in your hand. "How would you proceed?"

"Are you attempting to convince me to betray my dear friend?" He feigned disbelief, huffing in offense as he crossed his arms. "I'll have you know I am a man of principle."

"What's your asking price for counsel?"

He uncrossed his arms. "Couple million bucks and the state of Wisconsin when you take over."

"Done."

Foggy leaned in conspiratorially. "Then I'd go for his silk sheets if I were you. Hold those over his head and he'll fold like a house of cards." He leaned back and casually sipped his coffee. "He gives you his remaining virtue, your machination can continue, and I get money and the greatest cheese-making state in the country. It's win-win-win."

"Please stop plotting to give away my virtue again," Matt told Foggy dryly, shaking his head as he passed. His hair still damp, he pulled his glasses from his pocket and slipped them on as he disappeared down the short hallway leading to the front door. "I'm pretty sure that's an ethics violation, anyway. As is being complicit in a world domination scheme. I shouldn't even be hearing this."

Knock knock.

"A good lawyer must know when to look the other way!" Foggy shouted before turning to you with a shrug. "And in this case, I'm totally willing. To look away, that is."

"Is it because I pay you money?" You arched a brow and lifted your cup.

Foggy grinned and tapped his cup cheerfully to yours. "Because you pay us money."