The red thread

by Lazydaily

matt and Read red strings. For TTS

4. Chapter 4

"This particular case will require a different approach, but you should be more than capable."

You accepted the folder Mr. Winter handed you, flipping it open to skim through the pages. You'd been given the usual amount of information for a Winter contract. While there were no clues as to the target's family, his occupation, or a method of approach, you were provided several descriptors, a code name, and anything that might help you hone in on his current location: Mr. Raven. Five-foot-seven, hispanic male. 190 pounds. Brown hair. Brown eyes. Last known location: the Jolly Goat Coffee Bar. He'd last been seen a few days ago, buying his traditional flat white as he did every morning at exactly 8:30 A.M.. Then he'd gotten into a cab and disappeared into the city. There had since been no contact with family or friends, no calls into work.

Where as anyone else would have struggled with so little, you needed no additional details to do your job. Your ability to solve cases with little to no information provided was a strong draw for some of your shadier clients, and most of your contracts were designed with those particular clients in mind. They were few and far between, but they paid you well for your ability to get the job done with a minimum of questions.

A possible abduction, or did he just want to disappear?

Then again, the why wasn't your problem. The box was checked for 'No contact required', so you wouldn't even be contracted for an approach. You'd simply have to send out an alert once you found the target.

You skimmed through a few more pages, hunting for what had changed. Nothing had been slipped in that you could tell, no fiendish additions, no signing on to give birth to the antichrist. Nothing except...

"You want me to use your driver?" You marked it with a small scratch of your pen. You'd need to add that to your records when you sent them to Maya. You hated being driven. You much preferred the freedom of being on your own feet, able to move wherever a thread led you. On occasion, however, a quicker mode of transport was requested by your clients.

"It may not come to that. We're making our own efforts to locate Mr. Raven but if we should prove unsuccessful over the next two weeks, we'd send a driver to pick you up at the location of your choosing. The driver would carry the item you'd use to track your target."

"You're aware I don't operate outside the city?" you asked. It was one of the requirements you were never willing to give on with clients. The great roiling sea of bodies that was New York City provided safety and anonymity, and you weren't willing to sacrifice that for cash you could easily find within the five boroughs. Not that Mr. Winter needed to know that.

"We have no reason to believe he's left New York, but yes. Should he for any reason be outside your working area," he shrugged casually, "you'll fulfill your end simply by informing us he's no longer within city limits."

"Sounds good." You flipped to another page and tapped it with your pen. "And to reiterate: you're equally aware my rate doubles if you're keeping me on call, around the clock, for two weeks? I'll have to turn some clients away, because I'll be prioritizing your call should it come in."

"Yes. And we're happy to compensate you accordingly for that prioritization and any lost business." As always, in addition to the proper forms and signatures, he'd come prepared for your questions. Having you on call was new for him, though something you'd occasionally done for other clients. Something must have changed. You made a mental note but said nothing. You were paid handsomely in part for your discretion and you were happy to relax—and earn some easy money—while waiting for a call that might not come.

He folded his hands in his lap and leaned back. "Other than being on call and the driver, there shouldn't be much you'd do differently. When you found the building the target is in, the driver would make a phone call. Then he'd turn the car around and drive you to wherever you wish. Fairly straightforward and easier for you than walking."

The corner of your mouth tugged up in a wry smile. "Is that all the driver is? An effort to make this easier?"

"I will admit, we had your security in mind." He flicked a bit of dust off his pants leg before smiling at you. You were unsure whether the smile was a tell or him trying to put you at ease. "This simply adds an extra layer of safety, and also protects you from the heat as you track your target. It wouldn't do to have you collapsing from heat exhaustion."

Yeah, I'm sure it's my welfare he cares about.

You drummed your fingers on the table, considering. Being on call you could handle, especially for what he was willing to pay, but being driven… you didn't like it. You never had when you'd allowed it in the past. It saved time, sure, and kept you cooler in the heat of summer, but it also left you trapped in a confined space with someone who might be dangerous. In contrast, on foot, you had a half-dozen escape routes at any one time. In a car driven by someone other than you, your options were limited. You'd also be watched, which meant you wouldn't be free to communicate your situation to others—no calling the cops, Matt, or your partner without giving it away. Up until now, Mr. Winter had played above board with you and his contracts had all been squarely within your comfort zone. By all rights, you should trust him, and yet with him you'd always felt like you were in the room with a lion: one who'd just eaten, but could be convinced to make room for seconds if you pressed the issue. Caution was required, no matter how sated he appeared.

This was another test. You were fairly certain of that. Whether you passed or not would be up to him.

"We're aware that this falls outside your normal operating procedures," Mr. Winter said innocently. "So obviously we're willing to pay your higher fee. Even if we successfully find the target before you're needed, you'd be paid just for keeping your schedule free."

The lure of those dollar signs was a strong temptation, one that might be enough to sway you. You weren't sure what that said about you, but then, you'd long since realized you worked in the murky grey zone between black and white. Your hunger for money was a pattern, a habit borne of the need to survive. The best way to do that was with money… and Mr. Winter had the deepest pockets you'd found yet.

You'd been doing this long enough to know Mr. Winter's type, to know the danger of a coiled serpent, be it dressed in rippling scales or a fine suit. He was a criminal of some flavor, of this you'd become certain. His previous contracts had all the trappings of something illegal—no names, no faces, and all of your payments provided by shell companies—but he'd played by your rules, paid you well, and kept you from overhearing or seeing anything questionable. Someone like Matt may have turned Mr. Winter down on sheer principle, but you? Could you really afford not to take the case?

You glanced up at him thoughtfully. "Nothing else changes?"

He flashed you a perfect crocodile grin. He knew he had you. "Nothing else changes," he confirmed. "Feel free to check in with a friend before and afterwards if you like, and just let the car do the moving. Relax! The luxury is a small price to pay, hm?"

Ultimately, as Mr. Winter had no doubt foreseen, you signed the contract. Still, it bothered you, and you continued to think things over as you saw Mr. Winter out. In your email to Maya detailing the meeting, you went so far as to underline the words 'I don't like it.' Too much could go wrong for you to feel comfortable. You could be attacked by the driver or driven away from the city. You needed someone to have your back until the case was over.

The obvious solution to the problem—or the second solution directly after the first, the first being don't take the fucking job—was to tell your favorite vigilante. You had a feeling, though, that Matt's answer would be the same as what should have been yours.

There was another problem: getting him involved was bound to be messy. This was far more than finding someone's lost cat. He'd want to know what the job was, why you were tracking Mr. Raven, and who was involved. It was a logical path from there, and Matt was no idiot. He'd follow that thread right to more troubling questions and begin to dig: how long had you been working with Mr. Winter, who was no saint? How many other likely criminals had you been contracted with in the past? How far away from Matt's black-and-white world were you? Not only was too much snooping on his part a serious risk to your most profitable business relationship, but you weren't entirely sure how well you'd be able to handle the hurt and betrayal you'd see on his face when he found out what the shadier side of your business entailed. Your past, your business was a Pandora's box you had no desire to open, and the thought of Matt's reaction to it all left a sour taste in your mouth, one you were unused to after being disconnected for so long. Your determination to avoid any connections to others meant you could not allow yourself to be swayed solely by what Matt's opinion may be… but you were still human, and you were hoping to avoid any unnecessary hurt, on both ends.

Your desire to spare yourself Matt's reaction wasn't worth a cut throat though, especially if you could convince him to at least be discrete. You growled in annoyance, buzzing Daniel to send in your last client of the day. The skies outside were flushed a heady orange, the humidity condensing on your windows like glittering raindrops. You hadn't seen Matt in a few days, in either of his occupations, and the odds of him still being at his office by the time you were done with your last client were slim unless he was on a case. If you didn't catch him on the roofs tonight, you'd have to make time to pop over to his apartment and ask for his help.

I'm not relying on him because I like him. I'm relying on him for survival. Nothing more.

Even you didn't believe yourself.

-x-

Another cat. Always with the cats.

That night found you trailing after a red thread tracked directly from the owner themselves. These cases—red thread point to red thread point—were always trickier. Without an item in your hand, you couldn't risk closing your sight and losing the thread, which meant keeping yourself open for the entire trek. It was risky and invasive, exposing you to threads you had no right seeing, or worse: weren't safe seeing.

Your target, Anya, gave no fucks when it came to your feelings on the matter.

You'd started at the client's apartment in Hell's Kitchen, greeted by a young couple in a near panic over the loss of their prized Russian Blue. Despite their assurances that Anya loved her mousies and catnip sockies, you'd found yourself with no thread to follow save the one attached to the owners themselves. You'd been trailing along gamely, tracking Anya for several blocks, twice having to clamber up a fire escape to get a good look at her one roof over as she meandered along. This was made especially irritating due to the cat carrier strapped to your back. Fortunately, it was New York, and so a random woman clambering around fire escapes with a cat carrier was entirely unremarkable.

Finally, you cornered Anya on a rooftop—dimly lit by a few old lamp posts—where she'd stopped to lounge across a humming AC unit. No surprise, there: the late-spring heat wave you'd first met Matt in had been a herald of the truly brutal summer to come and even after dusk when the sun turned away and the air cooled, you were sticky thanks to your climbing. At least they've painted this roof white instead of black or it would be damn near unbearable. You wiped your brow, thankful for the breeze, and carefully set down the carrier. Then you pulled the bag of cat treats from your back pocket, crinkling the plastic until Anya's ears perked up.

Up here, the light of the threads at street level glittered like endless streams of Christmas lights, a woven tapestry of connections that bound the city of millions together. The threads pulsed and rippled, changing color as their endpoints moved and came together and fell apart, a living kaleidoscope that could make you dizzy if you focused too much on one area. It was beautiful, a sight you never failed to enjoy. And with no one around you, no threads you had to fear seeing, you could take a moment to do so.

A man shouted one alley over, the sounds of a distant scuffle reaching your ears and drawing your attention back to the rooftop. You ignored it with a sigh, refocusing on Anya as you lured her closer. Probably just drunks having a fight. "Here kitty, sweet kitty." You settled down against the waist-high brick barrier that wrapped the perimeter of the roof. Then you shucked your jacket and sprawled your legs out as you tossed treats in Anya's direction, pausing only to tug on the front of your tank top in an attempt to circulate some air across your skin.

Movement on the next roof over caught your eye, a blaze of threads and light that nearly blinded your sight as someone ascended. You swiftly closed your second sight, getting a better look with your physical eyes. It was a familiar black line, moving more sluggish than usual tonight. Grateful you'd closed your third eye before you could see too much, you reached up, making a fist and rapping it against the brick as Anya came to sit between your legs and beg for more treats.

Tap-tap-tap. Tap. Tap-tap.

Anyone else wouldn't have heard the muffled impact your fingers made. Matt's head snapped to face your direction and you started to wave before remembering that it was probably pointless to do so at this distance. You weren't sure how far his senses for movement extended. It didn't seem to matter. He made his way towards you, his form steadily growing larger against the backdrop of the skyline. Something concerned you about his walk as you watched. His gait was slow, stiff, his body not moving with the grace you were accustomed to seeing. You swallowed down a gasp as he leapt across the gap between rooftops, his landing clumsy. The jarring impact had him wrapping one arm around his ribs with a grimace as he regained his footing.

You started to rise but he waved you back down as he approached. His chest heaved as he panted, breath coming in harsh, stuttered gulps of air. You furrowed your brow as he dropped down beside you with a pained groan, the scent of blood, sweat, and leather washing over you. Anya gave him the stink eye but otherwise didn't move, content once she realized he wasn't there to steal her treats.

In your worry, his name almost slipped off your tongue, your lips forming the first consonant before you stopped yourself. "D," you corrected yourself. "You're not looking so hot tonight."

"I've had a rough couple of nights," he mumbled. He stretched his legs out in front of him with a sigh, one of his boots brushing your own before it slid past as the long line of him unwound. He was burning hot, the heat of his body radiating through his own sweat-soaked clothing and warming you where you'd begun to cool down. It didn't help that he was sitting closer than he usually did to you, a scant few inches separating your bodies. He didn't seem to notice with how exhausted he was. "How's your head?"

"Got a checkup like you wanted." You tapped your skull. "Doc says my head's fine." You held out another treat for Anya as you considered what approach with Matt you wanted to take. He'd close up like a bear trap if you simply asked, 'are you ok?' right at the start. You'd have to come at it from a different angle, and work your way up to the question. Matt removed a battered glove and reached out to the cat, letting her sniff his fingers before giving her a soft scratch on the neck. She accepted the worship she was due with great regality. "Everything else is pretty much healed up. And I meant to ask..."

"Yeah?"

You turned your head to put him squarely in view, frowning at what you saw. The exposed skin across his jaw was pale, his breathing rough despite being at rest, and just under the edge of his mask you caught a line of ugly purple bruising. His arm was wrapped around his middle again, his fingers flexing in time with his breathing as if each inhalation brought pain.

"You're worried about me." The soft words carried a breathless tone as he tipped his head in your direction.

"What gave it away?"

He lifted his ungloved hand and gently brushed the back of one finger over the lines between your brow before dropping his hand. "The skin tightens here when you're worried."

"Yeah, well, I am worried." You leaned forward in an attempt to get a better look at him. After a moment's thought, you turned and dumped out the cat treats, leaving Anya to eat as you dusted your hands off and turned to face Matt fully. "How bad is it?"

"I'm fine." His wince as he lurched away from you revealed the lie and you narrowed your eyes. "Just a torn stitch. I'm alright."

Knowing Matt it was far more than one torn stitch. He never did things by halves, and that included bloody, gaping wounds.

"Just let me see." You clucked your tongue, edging closer. He quickly braced a shaky hand against your shoulder, holding you back. You leaned into his grip to make a point as his strength wavered, a fine tremor running up his arm. "Look. You can let me look and make sure it's nothing serious, or you can lie to me and I can follow you back to your apartment to make sure you don't die this time." The words—a deliberate mimicking of his the night you were attacked—brought a scowl to his face. "I know where you live now, you realize this?"

"Stubborn," he muttered, drawing his arm back and letting you pull up his shirt.

You rolled your eyes. "Pot: meet kettle. Not so nice when you're on the other s—" You were unable to finish your sentence, cutting yourself off as you finally got a good look at his injuries. You had to stop yourself from swearing a blue streak, pressing your hand over your mouth.

A massive swath of bruising marred his skin from hip to sternum on his right side, blooming upward and outward across his rib cage in a sea of sullen black and vivid indigo. The color was only broken up by a bloodied patch of gauze, taped down tight against his side. You could only imagine what it was covering considering the damage you could see and the fresh, brilliant splash of blood slowly seeping through. The opposite side of him was less severe but no less painful looking for it, with more bruising and angry red lacerations in the midst of the healing process.

"I didn't want you to see," he murmured apologetically. "It… looks worse than it is, probably."

"You idiot," you whispered, your fingers just barely grazing around the edges of the bruising. His muscles jerked under your touch, tightening enough to force a hiss from his throat as his head thumped back against the wall behind him. The hem of his shirt dropped from your fingers and you reached up to cradle his jaw, drawing his attention back to you. He rolled his head clumsily into your touch, stubble rasping against your palm before he caught himself and straightened. You didn't let him escape entirely, your fingers following his movement. "How bad?" Despite the gentleness with which you touched him, you couldn't hide the frustration that colored your words.

He went to drop his head but you caught his chin with your thumb and forced his head back up. He couldn't see you but it was the meaning behind it that mattered. He sighed before speaking. "Broken ribs, concussion, and a… a few… stab wounds."

You closed your eyes and breathed in slowly through your nose. That was why you hadn't seen him for a few days. He'd been injured, badly, and you hadn't even known.

There was no way in hell you were going to ask about him helping you with Mr. Winter. Not in his current condition.

"I met a nurse," he said unhelpfully, as if that somehow excused the fact that he was running around with broken bones and a hole in his side. "Accidentally." There was a small part of you that questioned if he met people in any other fashion these days. "She was able to help patch me up."

"Not the point, D," you groaned, dropping your hand from his chin to scrub your hands over your face. "Jesus, that's not…"

"I had to do it," he insisted, trying to straighten against the wall behind him. "They took a boy, the Russian Mob did. I had to—"

"You're fucking with those guys again?" You forced your tone down into a hiss. Of course, of course it was the Russian Mob again. Matt never seemed to have a problem taking a swing at those others couldn't—or wouldn't—touch. That recklessness in and of itself was not a surprise to you, and fit with what you'd learned about him. No, your problem was that not only had he picked another impossible fight with a group of mobsters, but he'd also decided to come out and do a little extra clean-up around town afterwards despite being seriously wounded. "No! No." You slashed a hand sharply, cutting him off as his mouth opened. There was no way he'd let any injustice go—especially when it came to vulnerable people like kids. And you couldn't ask him to. But this? "Just… I'm not mad about that. For fuck's sake, I get that you had to do it, I support you doing that. That is not what's got me frustrated."

His lips parted and he tilted his head at you quizzically, reaching out to take one of your hands. "Then what?"

"You need to take time off to heal, Ma—D." God, he needed to rest. What kind of damage was he doing to his already battered body running around like this? You wanted to club him over the head and chain him to a bed until he was better, until his bones had finally mended and his flesh had knit back together.

"I can handle the pain," he said stubbornly. No, you didn't want to chain him down, you decided in exasperation. You wanted to grab him by the collar and shake him until all of his masochism fell out like shitty candy from a Matt-shaped piñata. You wouldn't even need a bat since someone had already given him a beating.

He simply had no concern for himself. His own body wasn't what mattered to him. If you wanted him to take this seriously, you needed to try another tactic.

"If you get hurt worse because you didn't take care of yourself now, you'll have to spend longer recuperating." You squeezed his hand, lacing your fingers with his. "If that happens, it'll be easier to slip up, and you won't be able to help anyone. Not me, not more kids, not more victims. No one."

"That's not fair." He shook his head sharply, the movement making him twitch. "That's not…"

"And yet it's true," you said softly, hovering a free hand over his bruised ribs. You knew he could feel the heat of your hand, and you used that for emphasis. His breath hitched and his body curled, as if he wasn't sure whether he wanted to press towards or away from the pain you were offering. "You can barely walk. The wrong person gets hold of you now and you're done."

"I know, but I just..." His head turned back in your direction, his hand sliding down to grip your wrist. His fingers brushed over your pulse point. He didn't need to touch you to sense your heartbeat; maybe he found it reassuring, being able to feel as well as listen. "I can't ignore what I hear. Not anymore. Not when I can stop it."

"If you're gone, you won't be around to hear it anyway."

And I'll be alone again.

You viciously smashed that fear back down into the darkness of your subconscious. You were already alone, you told yourself sharply. There was nothing terrifying about that; you'd done just fine so far. In fact, it was a good thing you couldn't ask Matt to help you. That had been a mistake to even attempt, your yearning for connection getting the best of you again. Allowing him to come along was one thing, but asking? No. You went your own way for a reason. You couldn't afford to become complacent.

"Hey, I'm not going anywhere." He rubbed his thumb reassuringly over your pulse point. "You don't have to worry about me."

"Hey, someone has to, right?" You nudged him, rising up abruptly. "Go home, Matt. Take some pain pills, go to sleep. You'll be back to kicking ass in no time if you take it easy for a bit, I swear."

"You're probably right." He grimaced, and you slipped a hand under his arm to help him get to his feet more smoothly. The fact that he accepted your help told you how bad off he was. "I can't have anyone noticing at the office."

"They will definitely notice if you collapse from a punctured lung after someone knocks those broken ribs of yours sideways," you agreed, Anya grumbling as you caught her by the scruff and carefully loaded her into the cat carrier. "I'm going to check in with you and make sure you're not fucking yourself up, don't doubt me. Now, if you'll excuse me." You closed the carrier latch and lifted the container. Inside Anya meowed pitifully, bumping her head against the carrier door and reaching out to swat spitefully at Matt's hand when he attempted to rub her chin through the bars. I guess nice-kitty time is over. "This girl has some owners who are looking for her."

"Stay safe on the walk home," he said, rolling his shoulders with a groan.

As you shoved your arms back into the sleeves of your jacket, you were struck by the desire to hug him before heading off. He looked like he needed it, but you weren't interested in jostling what was obviously a painful set of injuries, so you simply saluted before pivoting on your heel and striding towards the fire escape.

What was I thinking? I don't give hugs. Hugs are bad. Idiot. He'll be fine.

Your name stopped you, and you turned to glance back at Matt. "What were you going to ask me?" he said.

The question hung in the still air as you examined him: his arm still wrapped around his rib cage, and the pale flash of skin left bare by his mask. You blinked and the mental snapshot of his battered body appeared in your mind's eye, stark and cold and crystal clear. Yeah, not going to happen. "It's not important." You gave a half shrug. Your words weren't a lie. It was more of a selective truth—your question wasn't important because his health was more so. If you mentioned needing his help, he would come no matter his condition. He'd risk himself, his body, his life without a thought. And that was unacceptable. "Just a… question. That was all. Have a good night, D."

-x-

With Anya returned to her ecstatic owners, you were officially off work for the night and headed home. Relief beyond words washed over you as you climbed into your own bed after you'd washed the sweat and grime from your skin, drawing your blankets up with a heavy sigh. Work sped by quickly over the next few days, and with no calls from Mr. Winter, you took easy cases as they came—directing the more labor-intensive ones to Maya. You also checked in on Matt, who claimed he'd been following your orders and absolutely positively had not been doing anything reckless, other than letting Foggy bring in leftovers to share.

"He said the noodles were fine, but I'm lucky I didn't pass out if I'm honest."

The comment—and your memories of his bachelor-bare fridge—did remind you of an idea you'd had, though… a way you could repay Matt for all the help he'd given you and balance the scales a little. It would also benefit you, allowing you to retain a certain amount of distance. That night you began your project, and thanks to Mr. Winter's contract, you had an unusually large amount of spare time to work on it over the next week and a half. As you progressed, you slowly filled your freezer, endless stacks of Tupperware and Ziploc bags piling up. Finally, when it was ready, you packed half of it away into a giant cooler and brought it to the office, squirreling it away in the communal freezer until the end of the day.

At lunch-time, you called Matt.

"Hey." You took a sip of your coffee, doing your best to keep your voice casual. "I might be busy for the next couple days, but I wanted to know if I could drop off your clothes after work?" Unlike the project in the freezer, his clothes were neatly folded in a small bag under your desk. You hadn't had anything to wear back to your own place after staying the night at his apartment, and you hadn't gotten around to returning them yet. That worked in your favor now.

"We've got a case from an important client and we'll be working late tonight, so I won't be there," he hummed. Excellent. You resisted the urge to rub your hands together, knowing he may well hear it over the phone. "I have to run home to change clothes though. I'll leave a key to the roof door under a mat. Just lock up behind you and take the key with you. You can return it next time you see me."

With that, it was just a waiting game. You were down to the final two days of Mr. Winter's contract, so you hadn't taken any clients that might interfere. That left you free to head over to Matt's apartment as soon as you clocked out at five. Of course there was a snag. At 4:47, as you were packing everything up and preparing to leave, you got the call.

"Hello?" you answered, holding your cell to your ear as you continued to pack your papers away.

"Ms. Hind, good afternoon."

"Afternoon, Mr. Winter." Your delivery to Matt's may have to wait if you were finally being summoned to locate the elusive Mr. Raven.

"I'm afraid there's been a minor shift in priorities, and thus our request. Nothing substantial—simply a change in target."

You stopped packing away your papers, focusing solely on the call. This was a first, and your tone went from friendly to completely professional in the span of a heartbeat. "In my contract, it's stated that any last minute changes may be cause for termination of the contract, at my discretion."

"We're aware. Very little would change. The driver would still come for you. You will not be asked to approach. Simply find the building for us, just as before. You can of course refuse, as is your right. I'm to inform you that my employer is amenable to providing a bonus for any willingness to adapt, however."

You hesitated, glancing down at the papers, calculating risks and running the numbers in your head. This could be yet another test, probing the limits of your abilities. Nothing changes. It's the exact same job. Doesn't hurt earning a little good will, either.

"I'll accept the change."

"Excellent. We'll need time to procure the item. The driver will pick you up at 9:30PM. Your office, I assume?"

If you left now and traffic was with you, you should have time to hit Matt's, run home and change, maybe grab dinner, and make it back to your office with time to spare. "My office works."

"Good luck, Ms. Hind."

-x-

There was no doorman at Matt's apartment, so you had no trouble getting inside the building and taking the aging elevator to the top floor, from there making your way up to the roof.

You hadn't been up here before. The space was flat and open, obviously not meant to be used by residents but still free of clutter. There clearly wasn't a lot of foot traffic, which made sense with only two doors leading to it—one of which led straight into Matt's apartment. As you hurried to the door, you glanced down, shaking your head at the smattering of dried blood-drops scattered merrily across the warm concrete. A good rain would wash it away but knowing Matt, that wouldn't keep it clean for long.

You kicked the old mat up, snatching up the key from the ground and letting yourself in.

It was strange being inside his home without him there. You'd only been there the once, for about two days after he'd convinced you to stay the recommended forty-eight hours of monitoring for a concussion victim. Matt was too persuasive when he put his mind to it, making a case that dripped with legal jargon and emotional pleas until you were so tangled up you'd agreed simply to get that puppy-dog look off his face. Foggy had rolled his eyes so hard you thought they were going to pop free from his skull.

"You folded like a house of cards, woman! You're never going to conquer the world at this rate! And then who will give me the state of Wisconsin?"

Now it was quiet, no hushed breathing or the muffled sound of Matt padding around in socks and sweats like some stupidly handsome domestic god, all casual smiles and soft eyes. Not one dripping pipe, nor a jangling A.C. unit. That was a good thing, you supposed. With his senses, such sounds would have been beyond irritable.

You crept down the stairs, feeling as if you were intruding despite the ok from the king of the castle himself. You just wanted to leave the clothes and the gift, and make your way out as quickly as possible before you got the desire to snoop around. You spared a wistful glance at the bedroom door. The supreme softness of that bed would not soon be forgotten.

It felt too invasive to go into his bedroom to leave the clothes, so instead you left them neatly folded on the table, a braille thank you label stuck neatly to the middle. Next you made your way to the fridge. When you'd gone to make the eggs that morning after your attack, you'd found very little to work with other than takeout food and beer. Matt had apologized, but you'd understood. Neither you nor he had much of a reason, or time, to cook, and making recipes for one wasn't always practical. But it had left you with an idea for repayment, especially now that he'd been injured the worst you'd ever seen him. With a bit of information on the sly from Foggy, you'd put your plan into action.

You'd spent the past week and a half cooking. Half of the results were back home in your freezer, destined for your own stomach. The half here with you went straight into Matt's freezer: homemade waffles, baked ziti, stuffed peppers, and a few other recipes that froze easy, were reasonably healthy, and tasted, to your tongue at least and hopefully Matt's as well, delicious. With the knowledge gleaned from Foggy and a little from Matt himself, you'd pared down some of the seasoning in an effort to spare Matt's sensitive tongue. You'd also made sure to stick a braille label identifying the food to each tightly-sealed Tupperware container. As the pièce de résistance, you shoved some Canadian maple syrup for the waffles into his cupboard and set down the sheet of paper containing heating instructions for each meal—also in braille. In a fit of whimsy, you'd slapped a red bow on it.

You locked the door behind you, pocketing the key, and not once did it occur to you what the Devil had done by granting you temporary access to his home. Later, you would wish that you'd understood the meaning behind it, and just how vulnerable he'd made himself. You might have done things differently if you'd known.

Instead, you took your cooler home, changed, and prepared to head back out and meet up with Mr. Winter's driver.

-x-

The driver was early, your ride idling outside your office as you arrived with ten minutes to spare. With the money already wired into your accounts and no phone call alerting you to an additional change in plans, you fired off one last text to Maya—one that would hopefully ensure news reached Matt if things went sideways:

Text sent at 9:26pm: if I miss check-in, let Matt know I can't meet. then come find me

Text received at 9:27pm: good luck girl, be careful

The driver remained seated inside the car when you approached. He was completely unassuming-looking: brown eyes, average build, dark hair hidden under a cap. He had no particular features that stood out as memorable. Mr. Winter had always placed a high value on avoiding unnecessary attention, and that apparently extended to his drivers. The only unsettling aspect of the driver was his flat stare, a cold mask of indifference as he met your eyes. He only provided a short reply when you questioned if he was there for you. "Mr. Winter sent me. I'm to drive you wherever you need."

A sense of unease roiled inside you as you slid into the backseat of the sleek black Mercedes. The interior was as polished as the exterior: all smooth black leather, new car smell, and dark tinted windows that left you feeling trapped rather than protected. The sounds of the city disappeared as you shut the door—even the rumbling purr of the engine died away to a mere whisper, felt more than heard in the soft vibrations under your fingers as your hand clenched on the door handle. Soundproof. Great. I don't like this. You'd thought there would be a barrier between you and the driver, providing at least the illusion of privacy. Instead there was nothing but open space. Should you attempt to make a call, he would hear anything you tried to say, and if Mr. Winter was as dangerous as you thought, it was possible the driver would be under instructions to stop any such phone calls from occurring.

You needed to tread very carefully here.

On the empty seat beside you sat a dark wooden box of polished walnut, along with a thin file. Ignoring the driver, who likewise ignored you, you reached over and took the file. Inside, there was only an index card with a code name and a physical description.

Mr. Donnola. Five-foot-eleven white male. 174 pounds. Blonde hair, blue eyes.

You turned the card over, but there was nothing on the other side. Next, you opened the wooden box. Inside, arranged on black velvet fabric, laid a small copper crucifix on a thin chain. This was presumably what you would be using to track Mr. Donnola.

You drew it up, letting the chain slide through your fingers as you examined it. Though it held a shine on the front, it was dull across the back of the crucifix itself and around the chain. Worn regularly then, you thought. Your thumb passed over faint initials engraved on the reverse side. You quickly moved your fingers away. Learning this man's real name would only cause problems.

You twisted the chain up, wrapping it around your fingers until it hung comfortably in your grip with the crucifix exposed. Glancing up, you caught the driver's eyes in the rear view mirror. He was watching you closely. He didn't ask you which way to go, but the question hung in the air regardless.

Lights flickered, colors visible only to you as you opened your second sight and immediately zeroed in on the blue thread connected to the dangling crucifix in your hand. You inclined your head to keep the driver's threads out of your sight line. "Turn left as soon as you can. Then just keep going. I'll let you know when we need to turn again." Still eerily silent, the driver shifted into drive and pulled away from the curb, following your quiet guidance.

It went like that for most of the drive, with very few words spoken: all of them by you. You would indicate a direction, and he would obey, weaving his way through traffic with the skill and patience of one used to driving in the city. Steadily the little blue thread grew taut, indicating your target was close, or at least within city limits. You focused on that, blocking out your nerves and your unease, pushing down all other thoughts but the job in front of you. That focus led you to a tiny, abandoned two-story house in Queens.

The house rose up from the parched dust, a faded Condemned sign pitched out front. There was no light to be seen from the darkened, dirt-smeared windows, and the waist-high brown grass out front rippled in the breeze as you peered out the car window. It was fenced off and the gate padlocked shut, rusted chain link topped with spikes edging the property line and separating the building from its similarly-condemned neighbors. A closer look however revealed holes in the fencing through which an animal or particularly determined human might squeeze.

Everything about the house said abandoned, empty, no one home. The little blue thread trailing up to the second floor and disappearing through a window told you otherwise.

"You sure?" It was only the second time the driver had spoken to you that night. His voice was toneless, uninterested. He had no dog in this fight; his only job was to drive. At your confirmation, he nodded and pulled out his cell to make his own call. You waited, resisting the urge to fidget as he recited the address and hung up. He glanced at you again once he'd finished. "Your office?"

You blinked. "Is that it?"

"Yup. Your office?"

You shrugged. "Sure. That works."

The driver nodded, slipping the car into drive once more and beginning the trip back to your office.

You leaned back and stared out the window, fiddling with the crucifix as the car rolled down the quiet street, the tension in your shoulders finally beginning to ease. This had gone better than expected. True to Mr. Winter's word, you'd never even had to leave the comfort of the car, and just like that you were done. It was always nice when things turned out. Maybe you hadn't needed the Devil after all.

The driver's cell rang. You didn't react, keeping your eyes glued to the window as you strained to listen. Before you could parse out what was said, the call was over.

"Everything ok?" You did your best to keep your tone casual.

The driver didn't reply. Instead, he made a u-turn.

You'd developed a good sense for danger over the years, and your lizard brain was sounding the alarm. The hair rose on the back of your neck. "Why are we turning around?" you asked, your voice a touch sharper. You still received no answer, the driver's attention remaining firmly ahead.

You briefly considered leaping from the car, going so far as to run your hand over the door handle—but no, resistance met your grip when you gave it a tug. You pulled harder, and found no give. Locked. Of course it's locked. That limited your options greatly. You could always attack the driver with your knife and try to get free that way, but it was a risky proposition without a great chance of success. No way Mr. Winter would leave his drivers defenseless. You ruled that option out. "Hey! Where are we going?"

Sweat broke out across your temples and down your spine as the driver continued to ignore you. Through the window, familiar scenery flowed by. He was taking you back to the abandoned house you'd pointed out. Something must have happened.

Or they're going to kill me now that I've found him.

You eyed the corner of the tinted window. You'd only just begun to lean back and lift one leg when the driver sighed. "Those windows are designed to withstand sniper rounds and explosions. Your foot won't leave a scratch."

You scowled and lowered your leg, rising to a sitting position again. "In that case I'll ask again: where are we going?"

"Everything will be explained."

So helpful, thank you for that.

He refused to answer any more questions, leaving you in silence no matter how insistent you became. You stared out the window, flexing your hands. You could slip your phone out and try to call Matt, but any call you made would be overheard. Keeping your cell out of the driver's sight line would mean shit if he heard the crackle of Matt's voice when Matt answered your call.

Your best bet would be to text Maya, try to give her a rough location of where you were. You edged your hand down towards your pocket.

Stupid stupid fucking stupid, you chided yourself. You should have told Matt… but what could he have done, beat to shit as he was? All he'd have done was gotten himself hurt worse, or maybe even killed. It also could have blown the cover off your friendship with the man in the mask. If Mr. Winter wasn't going to kill you before, that may well have done it.

You'd only just gotten your hand on your phone when the driver drew up to the abandoned house, now bustling with activity.

Out of time.

Mr. Winter had been reasonable up until now, and had proven open to negotiation more than once. You'd just have to talk your way out of this. Or maybe things would go perfectly and you weren't in any danger at all. Maybe he just wanted to thank you for all your hard work. Maybe he wanted to give you a puppy.

Yeah, like I've ever been that lucky.

The driver parked the car in the driveway, turning off the ignition. As you worked up the courage to leave the car, you observed the situation outside.

The front gate previously chained shut had been unlocked. Two men with flashlights combed the overgrown, fenced perimeter of the house while another man stood beside the open front door. The previously dark windows flickered as more people moved about inside with flashlights. The light emanating from the second story windows was noticeably dimmer. It took someone on the second floor ripping it away for you to realize the glass on that level had been covered over with newspaper.

Supervising the activity was Mr. Winter, facing away from you. He stood upon the crumbling driveway, as immaculately dressed as always, hands behind his back as he regarded the upper windows. Standing close by in the darkened shadows of the garage were two men dressed in black. You pegged them as bodyguards immediately, based on the way they stood and the cut of their clothes that did little to hide the holsters under their jackets.

Sadly there was no puppy that you could see.

Don't keep him waiting, you reminded yourself, shoving the crucifix in your pocket. He appreciates professionalism.

As you stepped out of the car and into the heat, Mr. Winter turned to face you. His expression remained unreadable as you approached him. The two guards stepped out from the garage and took flanking positions behind him. "Good evening, Ms. Hind."

"Good evening, Mr. Winter."

"I'm afraid we have a problem." His voice remained smooth, a casual lilt that did little to settle you. The small smile on his face struck you as merely for show. "This was the house you directed us to, correct?"

You tightened your mental grip on the panicking part of your brain and strangled it into silence. You needed to remain calm.

"Yes sir," you said politely. "He was here when I called."

"I'm hopeful, then, that you have a suitable explanation as to why my men failed to locate him inside." Though it was dressed as a question, you recognized an order when you heard one: explain. The smile had vanished from his face and your heart skipped a beat.

"If you give me a second, I can just—" You reached for your pocket, intending to withdraw the crucifix you'd placed there. With it, you'd be able to confirm Mr. Donnola's presence and smooth things over with Mr. Winter. In the span of a breath before your hand had even brushed the fabric of your jeans, the two men flanking Mr. Winter drew their guns and leveled them at you: one aimed at your head, another at your heart. You froze, jaw locking as adrenaline raced through your blood. You'd had guns pointed at you before. Not all that was lost wanted to be found after all, so it came with the territory. There was still something about having a gun pointed at you that never got any easier.

"Now now," Mr. Winter sighed, waving a hand towards the guards. "Ms. Hind has proven nothing but helpful until now. I highly doubt she'd go for a weapon with all of us standing here, hm?" Reluctantly the men dropped their aim, though they didn't reholster their weapons. Your arm trembled as you stifled the urge the wipe the sweat from your brow. "I must apologize for them. They're paid to be protective as my personal security. You understand."

Fuck fuck fuck. Why do I take these people again? "It's fine," you rasped, swallowing around a dry throat. Crisis momentarily averted, you let out a shaky breath. "I was just reaching for the crucifix in my right pocket so I could confirm he's here."

"Please do."

Slowly, so slowly and mindful of the guards the entire time, you hooked your fingers into the chain in your pocket and withdrew the crucifix. There was no gleam from the burnished metal now, as if even the necklace itself was afraid of drawing too much attention. With a small effort of will, your third eye opened and the world blazed momentarily in an explosion of color that counteracted the dark. When the lights settled, the blue thread was back, anchored firmly to the symbol in your hand where it swayed back and forth. Like before, it led directly to the house.

"He should be inside," you said. Mr. Winter raised his brows, and you were similarly puzzled. There were easily a dozen men searching for Mr. Donnola. It made no sense for them not to have found him. "Can I?" You gestured towards the front door.

"You may. I'll follow along, for your safety of course."

Of course.

You strode over the cracked stone pathway, grass brushing against your legs as you headed for the door, Mr. Winter two steps behind. The usual discomfort of having someone—or someone other than Matt, anyway—watch you while you did this was overwhelmed by your desire to escape your current situation.

You passed multiple people as you entered the house, the old wooden floorboards creaking under your feet. Once inside it became clear that despite the crumbling exterior, someone had been living here up until very recently. Though empty of furniture, the interior was swept clean and free from all but the lightest layer of dust—dust now smudged by a score of fresh footprints. There were few cobwebs as you followed the tracks towards the staircase, and the house didn't contain that musty, rotted smell that true abandonment brings. Even the windows were clean on the inside, the grime on the outside apparently part of a carefully cultivated facade of neglect.

The thread wound tighter as you ascended the stairs, the strand humming with tension as you came closer to your target. If you touched your fingers to the thread now and focused, instead of simply holding the chain of the crucifix, you might be able to get a feel for Mr. Donnola's current mood and emotional state. While that aspect of your ability was useful occasionally, you didn't need it now. The fact that Mr. Donnola was still hiding told you enough.

You hit the top step, encountering a hallway that stretched out in front of you. Here you paused, frowning down at the thread. To your surprise, it continued to trail up, leading forwards and upwards until it disappeared into the ceiling.

"Is there a problem?" Mr. Winter's voice was quiet, pitched low so that his words traveled to you alone.

You were fairly certain Mr. Donnola was far enough away that he couldn't hear you, but you kept your voice low as a precaution. "Did your men find another staircase? Or an attic maybe?" At Mr. Winter's soft no, you nodded, moving forward.

The people searching were being more thorough up here and you could see why. Newspaper covered the windows in each room you passed by. You passed the bathroom, noting the clean razor resting on the edge of the sink as a woman dug through the cabinet. Next you passed a bedroom, one that contained an unmade bed and a desk. On the desk sat a half-filled ashtray, embers still glowing. Beside the bed was a bag and a pile of clothing. Two men picked through the pile while another rifled through the bag. This was definitely the right place, but the thread led you further.

You moved past the first bedroom and went through the last door on your left, finding yourself in a empty back bedroom. As soon as you entered the room, the thread jerked, shifting until it led straight up. He was right above you. Without speaking or turning to look, you pointed straight up, glancing around the room. There was no bed or any other furniture, and when you turned your attention upwards you couldn't spot any obvious lines in the stucco indicating a hatch or opening. Then your eyes drifted to the small closet doors on one side of the room.

Your eyes met Mr. Winter's and he must have had the same idea. He waved a hand towards the far wall and his two guards silently approached the closet, drawing their guns and pulling the closet doors open with care. They examined the ceiling inside without a sound before nodding at Mr. Winter.

He gestured to you and you followed him out of the bedroom. As you headed down the hall, people hurried past and disappeared into the bedroom you'd found. When you hit the first floor, you thought you heard a crash from upstairs—"Oscar! We been lookin' for you! Guess whose light turned on, pal…"—but you ignored it as you left the house behind. It had nothing to do with you, and allowing yourself to think too hard on it would threaten your deniability.

Mr. Winter got a call as he led you to the waiting car. You paused on the front walk as he answered. Mr. Winter didn't speak, only listened as the caller spoke a few words before hanging up. Mr. Winter slipped his cell back into his pocket and offered you a smile. "Top marks today, Ms. Hind," he said pleasantly. "Despite the… momentary wrinkle, you proved able to adapt and I'm happy to say your part in our contract has been fulfilled. You'll be receiving an extra twenty-five percent of your bonus as a thank you for any unpleasantness the incident with my security may have caused."

"Thank you, Mr. Winter." You would have been happy just getting out with your skin, but a little extra cash always helped to smooth things over. There was also something comforting about being able to cling once more to the shield of professionalism, as if the whole thing was nothing but a minor hiccup in your night. "Feel free to call me again if you need my services."

"Of course. Have a wonderful evening, Ms. Hind."

-x-

"Got those contracts, Ms. Hind."

"Thanks Daniel," you said absently, eyes glued to the screen as you gave the entry on your last case a final once-over. "You can just put them on the desk." You managed to spare him a smile as he set the short stack down near your elbow. You arched a brow at the rolled up sleeves of his button down and the ink staining on his wrists. "Printer problems again?"

"Fuckin' thing," he huffed, dropping the formal tone he used in the presence of clients, much to your amusement. "We put that braille printer in and now ol mama's jealous, doesn't wanna spit out anything anymore. And I don't think we're all lookin' to learn braille, so I been workin' on it. Managed to get these out, at least. Gonna head back to it if ya' don't have anything else for me."

"Nah, go for it. Show that piece of shit who runs this place."

Your cell rang, the jangling ringtone interrupting your conversation as you answered and lifted it to your ear.

"You left food in my freezer," Matt said without preamble.

"In fairness, that was just half of what I cooked," you replied, cradling your cell to your shoulder as you pointed at Daniel and mouthed you can do it at him. He rolled his eyes, closing the door quietly behind him as he left. "The other half is in mine. You just got the overflow. Every goddamn recipe is for at least two people and I was tired of eating takeout. So this was purely logistics. I may even still come eat some of it out of your fridge."

"I'm not close enough to hear your heartbeat but I'm fairly certain you're lying." He may not have been able to hear your heart, but you'd be dead not to pick up the smile in his voice. "Thank you, is what I'm trying to say. Even if I'm wrong and this was simply you hoarding food in my fridge like a squirrel."

"How you feeling?" You changed the subject, the warmth in your chest at his gratitude not something you were comfortable with. It had been a week or so since you'd loaded up Matt's freezer, and you hadn't had the chance to catch up until now.

"...better. Tired, but better."

"I'm not going to say I told you so—"

"I sense a 'but' coming."

"But I told you so-ooo," you sang, lifting your coffee mug to your lips. "It's almost like you're the psychic, wow. So tell me this, Mr. Psychic: what's tall, white, and a pain in my ass?"

"Well I don't know if I'd call myself a pain in your ass..." You choked on your mouthful of coffee, half of it winding up back in your cup as Matt continued over the sound of your wheezing laughter, "I mean, I know I've been difficult, but I'd like to think that ultimately when you tally the pros and cons—"

You snagged a napkin and wiped at your mouth with a final cough. "Goddamn, Murdock, I was talking about a stack of legal paperwork."

"I guess I don't have this kind of sight, either. That's unfortunate."

"Your fingers however, more than make up for it." Whoops. Your playful tone was just a little more flirtatious than you'd planned, but you plowed on. "Think you could use them, that magnificent lawyer brain of yours, and Foggy to parse through some new shit?"

"We are a law firm, so this finally feels like it's within the realm of my capabilities. As much as I'd like to show off though, I don't know how much good my fingers will be until we get the contracts translated."

"No worries," you said. You nudged aside the top half of the paper stack Daniel had set down, examining the bottom half which was covered in an array of small bumps. Well, it certainly looked like braille. "There's always a few bugs when these things are first installed but I am fairly certain one copy is printed in braille. I think. Maybe."

"You think?" His tone was amused until the surprise crept in. "Wait, did you get a braille printer? Is that how you printed my note?"

You hm'd in confirmation. "We used to send out to a service for it when we had clients who needed it but this made more sense now that we're working with you two so regularly. Congrats, Murdock. You're going to be our braille-reading guinea pig."

He chuckled on the other end. "Well, I'm honored. I'll try to make you proud. I can come by your office today to pick the paperwork up if you'd like."

"Now you're just trying to snoop around my place of business."

"I'm just curious to find out what kind of office a psychic works out of. Is two o'clock alright?"

You pulled up your calendar on your computer, glancing over it quickly. 2:00 was scheduled as your late lunch since it was your only open slot today, but you could work him into that space. "Sure, I've got an open block there. Want to get some coffee? Only time I have to grab something. I can give you a quick rundown of the case, too."

"I'm looking forward to it."

-x-

It was sheer unfortunate coincidence that the block before Matt's belonged to who it did. You didn't know it then, of course. In fact, you were in a remarkably good mood. Matt was feeling better, your cases had been going well, and Mr. Winter's last paycheck had gone a long way to wiping away that little incident with his security. A rich guy with uptight bodyguards was nothing unusual, you had convinced yourself. Certainly nothing to make you apprehensive about your meeting today in broad daylight. He'd even assured you it wouldn't take long. Fortunate, since you'd now have a mere ten minutes between the end of your meeting with Mr. Winter and Matt's arrival at two. It would leave you just enough time to skim over the paperwork for errors one last time.

"I know this is sudden, but," Mr. Winter held his hands out in a show of good will, "my employer has been satisfied enough with your service that I've been advised to make an offer. One I think you and your partner might be interested in."

You swung your foot back and forth under your desk and flashed him a suspicious smile. "I'm listening, although I have to say, I'm fairly happy with the current arrangement." You'd learned long ago to never, ever turned down a rich client's offer out-of-hand. Even if it was just to soothe their pride and there was no chance of you accepting, you would listen and make a show of considering it before finally agreeing or disagreeing. Just as important was expressing a certain reluctance that might make them more likely to up their offer.

"Glad to hear it. But what if I could offer you something more?" You quirked a brow as he continued, "right now, we've been hiring you on an as-needed basis. We'd like to offer you and your friend something more permanent."

You'd had offers like this before. In the past, before your work in New York, you'd taken them on occasion if the money and the client were good. You even had a standing offer with an old friend in Los Angeles should you ever wind up back in the area again. As it stood, you liked your freedom here. What Mr. Winter was offering wasn't something to dismiss out of hand, though. "And what would this involve exactly? We do have other clients who would raise objections if my partner or I were suddenly unavailable," you said thoughtfully.

He held up a hand. "We wouldn't require you to abandon your other clients. Nothing so rash. We'd simply like to keep your business—you, specifically—on retainer. You'd receive a regular paycheck, and in return you'd provide future services. Occasionally we'd request you be on call, and we might ask you to… prioritize in certain cases. Other than that, you'd be free to operate as you normally do."

"I'm guessing you have the contract with you," you said dryly. Sure enough, from his briefcase there came a stack of paper, notably thicker than the previous contracts that had formalized your business with him. "Now this I'll have to think over, as well as have my lawyers take a look." Or maybe just Foggy, come to think of it.

"I expected no less. Take your time."

The two of you exchanged the normal pleasantries, and all the while you kept a close eye on the clock as it ticked away. There wasn't much time left as you saw Mr. Winter down the hall to the door, breathing a sigh of relief when it closed behind him.

You started back down the hall, almost leaping out of your skin at the sound of a sharp bang, followed shortly by a long string of swears from Daniel and the sputtering of a printer in revolt. You shot him a look as you clutched at your chest, your heart rate dropping from where it had hit the ceiling. "Jesus, Dan, did you shoot that thing?"

"I fuckin' should! Sorry. Shit, I swear," he growled, one arm buried deep within the printer's cavernous belly, "I will fix this piece of worthless, junk-shit, malicious—"

You left Daniel to his grumbling as you headed back to your office. You'd only barely sat down before the peace of your office was again interrupted, this time by the sound of Daniel's protests.

"Sir! Sir, let me help—hey, you can't just—"

Rapid footsteps approached down the hall. You slid open the bottom right drawer of your desk and reached inside, moving carefully as the door opened—

"Matt! God, you scared me," you chuckled, closing the drawer. He didn't react, holding himself stiffly as he stood in the doorway to your office. His head slowly swung left and then right, his cane held in a white-knuckled grip.

"Ms. Hind, I'm sorry, he just—" Daniel's head appeared over Matt's shoulder and the larger man lifted one hand as if to take Matt by the shoulder.

"It's fine, Daniel!" you said quickly, waving him off. You didn't know what had Matt so on edge but you did know you didn't need Daniel getting rough with someone like Matt, who could probably break every bone in a person's hand in seconds. "It's Mr. Murdock, our lawyer. I told him our layout, and he was, uh, scheduled in. I forgot to let you know, sorry."

Daniel gave you a look before shrugging, clearly picking up on the tense energy in the room. "Well, alright. I'll be up front if you need me."

Matt finally stepped fully into your office, turning to shut the door quietly behind him. He set his cane aside and for a long moment he remained there, taking deep breaths and still saying absolutely nothing.

"Matt?" you called softly. You stayed where you were, unsure of what was going on and unwilling to make a move until you had something to work with.

When he finally spoke, he still hadn't turned to face you.

"How long have you been working for him?"

The question came out of left field. You were glad you were sitting or else it and the coldness it was delivered with would have knocked you flat. A palpable dread crept over you and you hoped you'd simply misheard. "I'm sorry, I don't… what?"

"I said: how long have you been working for him?" He finally turned to face you, and it was so strange to see that look directed at you: flat, emotionless. His normally expressive face was completely closed off to you, revealing nothing but the stark reflection of your office in the hard, pitiless red of his glasses.

No no no, this was dangerous, the thing you'd feared. He'd always respected this line until now—what had changed? What did he know? You sucked in a breath. It didn't matter what he knew. You were contractually, legally bound to say absolutely nothing. You couldn't talk to him about whatever the fuck this was even if you wanted to, because he was here as Matt the Lawyer, not the man in the mask. You needed a moment to think, to find a loophole, but first you needed to figure out what the hell was going on. If he wanted your help, you'd give it if you could just find a way to do it without risking losing your skin. And you preferably needed to discuss this away from your place of business where other ears might listen in. "You know I can't answer that." It was stalling at best, but you just needed time.

He gave you none.

"Don't," he snapped, cutting a hand sharply as he approached your desk. "You don't get to play that game with me. Not now, and not after all this."

A game. Was that all this was to him? Your job, your contracts, everything you'd worked so hard at, just brushed aside? Your eyes narrowed, your hackles rising. He knew how seriously you took your work. You refused to be disrespected like this. "This isn't a game," you said coolly. "It's my job, so no, I won't be answering that question. So you can either tell me what this is about or you can fucking leave."

He slammed his hands down on your desk and leaned in towards you. You didn't flinch, gritting your teeth and meeting your own reflection in the lenses of his glasses. The heat from him that was normally so comforting was now foreboding, tinged with his anger and the warm scent of him. You weren't afraid—you knew he wouldn't hurt you—but there was a sickening worry that gnawed at you because something had gone very very wrong here and you weren't sure what.

This close, you could see the dark circles under his eyes, the remnant of bruising around the socket. The silence dragged out for an eternity before he spoke, his breathing harsh. "I caught his scent, all the way from the first floor." His voice was quiet, measured, and dangerously low. "But I couldn't find your heartbeat immediately with all the other noise between us. Coming up the elevator, I finally found your heart only to hear that bang, feel your heart race from floors away, taste the spike of fear." You hadn't known he'd been close enough to hear that. And if he'd thought you were in the building with someone who might hurt you… god, what must Matt have thought when he heard...?

"Matt..." In your mind's eye you can picture it, picture him, startling inside the elevator at the loud sound, the momentary horror on his face, helpless to do anything but listen and wait for the doors to open.

He didn't allow you to continue. "Imagine my surprise when I finally make it to your office and not only are you fine, but he's been visiting here often." Ah, so this was about Mr. Winter, who'd been in your office just minutes ago. Their elevators had probably passed each other, one going down and the other up. Jesus. That had been close. "You have his contracts in your desk. I can smell the ink from his checks. And then I realize… you've been working for that monster for months."

Your heart skipped a beat. His nostrils flared and he tilted his head slowly, the smooth rotation of a predator as he honed in on your reaction. There was no missing it, not when he was this close, his face inches away from yours.

This was why you'd tried so hard to keep Matt and your clients separate. You knew you'd done business with some sketchy people. For as long as you'd been on your own you'd accepted a wide range of clients, hiding yourself first behind a shield of plausible deniability and, eventually, legal contracts. You'd told yourself it was a matter of survival. Even after you'd been able to afford to turn certain clients away, you weren't particularly comfortable turning your nose up after so long on the run. Beggars can't be choosers. And now? Those clients had been a necessity early on and after that it had become habit, this was true, but you were doing far better than you used to. You no longer took cases that were obviously criminal even if your clients were—it hurt no one to find a mobster's lost puppy. You avoided stalkers, and hunting known felons… and goddammit, what were you supposed to do when people who could kill you walked into your office and asked you to do your job? You were doing the best you fucking could.

If he approached this from a different angle, you could work with him. You wanted to. Was Mr. Winter a piece of shit? Maybe. And you were willing to spend time with Matt and tell him what you knew. With his legal know-how, you were certain he could find a loophole in your contract. "I'm not at liberty to discuss my clients," you repeated the refrain slowly, your eyes desperately hunting for his behind his glasses, hoping beyond hope he would get the message you were trying to send him.

Think as a lawyer, Matt, not a vigilante. Please...

"I let you in my home." He backed away from you, raking his hands through his hair. "You slept in my bed." Your eyes flicked towards the door, worry creeping in that someone might be listening. He'd have heard them surely—Daniel at the door, an electronic bug in your office—but he'd seemed so flustered… had he even bothered to check? "I told you about… And all this time, you were working for them. Did they tell you to hire me?"

"Matt," you made on last attempt. "Just sit down, let's talk about this, please."

He barked out a laugh. "Your heart's been racing this whole time. Even if I sat down, what would you tell me?" His question was met with more silence, because in truth at the moment there was nothing you could tell him about Mr. Winter, which was exactly why you needed him to sit down so you could show him the fucking contract.

"I can't—I can show you the contract and why I can't talk." You rubbed at your temples, feeling utterly lost as to how to work through this.

He shook his head. "I didn't think so. I can't believe this. After everything." He turned, striding towards the door, snatching up his cane as he went.

"Matt!" you called, rising from your chair. "Matt, goddammit, wait—"

The door slammed behind him, and you were left alone in your office. You grabbed your mug and hurled it against the far wall where it shattered, splashing lukewarm coffee across the wall and carpet.

"Fuck!"

Now what were you supposed to do?