The red thread

by Lazydaily

matt and Read red strings. For TTS

6. Chapter 6

Matt didn't call. Matt didn't call even as days came and went. While you were far from rich in New York City terms, you were earning enough to have started funneling a little money into your various savings accounts scattered around the world. And there was potentially more—a lot more—coming, should you accept Mr. Winter's offer of retainer. You should have been satisfied. How long had you waited for a job like this? Money meant safety. It meant walls between you and your past.

Yet the victory felt hollow. Instead of the win helping to eclipse the loss, you couldn't help but think it was just… a calculation, a cold number. Cold numbers couldn't squeeze your hand, or tell you softly that everything was going to be ok.

That kind of thinking wasn't a good sign for you. It was an indicator, a blinking warning light, that you were getting lonely, and that you were looking for more in life than just managing to stay alive. Normally you'd have said fuck it and left town. You had the contacts to hit a new city, somewhere fresh with no hang-ups and no people tempting you to form a real connection. Sierra, master forger and artist that they were, was always happy to help create a new identity for you. A new identity equaled a new job and a new apartment, new favorite foods and new people. You could settle in and forget about your life in New York just like you had the rest of your past lives. You could forget about Matt.

But there was more for you here than just the solid cash flow. This overcrowded, pulsing, noisy city of millions was one of the best places in the world to blend in with a crowd. That was especially for someone like you who could tap into the thriving subculture of psychics and mediums that made their living here. Adding it all up, it was no surprise you couldn't quite bring yourself to pull up your stakes. That itch to escape was there, sure, but for now, you allowed the practicalities to override your restlessness. You just had to focus on your job like you had before you'd met Matt. Go it alone. Accept that Matt and you were done, and he wouldn't be around to watch your back anymore.

Foggy, on the other hand, refused to do something so ridiculous as allow Matt to ignore you.

"Foggy," you greeted amicably as you answered the phone. You paused at the stove where you were boiling some pasta. He almost always put you in a good mood and helped to steady you, so you were happy to hear from him. "How're things in the lawyer world?

"Oh you know, reeling 'em in, saving the world one ambulance chase at a time. How's the psychic biz?"

"Profitable," you replied honestly. There wasn't a reason to hide it. "What's up?"

"So it's been muy no-go on Matt, pretty much. Guy's got his heels dug in like a mule, and I don't know if you've ever tried to move a mule who didn't want to move, but I'd bet dollars to bagels it'd be easier than making Matt go literally anywhere he doesn't want to."

You deflated just a bit, though you'd already lost most of your hope after that night with Eva. Still, a part of you had held out until now. "I figured. Maybe it's time to just give up, Foggy. I hate to say it."

"Ah, but we still have the original plan. The dastardly one."

"The 'tying him up' plan?" You scratched at your head, puzzled and perhaps mildly intrigued by the momentary image of Matt roped up and tied down in your kitchen. Maybe he'd listen to you, sure. Or, far more likely: he'd growl at you, voice like gravel and broken glass as he strained his powerful body against the ropes, all while you attempted unsuccessfully to talk him down to a mood approaching reasonable.

Time to redirect that thought.

"Foggy, the 'tying him up' thing was a joke."

"I mean, sure, literally it probably wouldn't work but metaphorically? I've got ropes and everything."

"You have… you have metaphorical rope."

"Yup."

"Do I get to know what this metaphorical rope is?"

"Nope. Trade secret! Just trust me, it's a good rope. High quality. Guaranteed by a lawyer not to break! You free tonight?"

"I mean…" You reluctantly nudged at the boiling pasta with your spoon. "I'll have to postpone my date with Mr. And Mrs. Spaghetti Noodle but I think they'll understand."

"Excellent. Give them my condolences and meet me at Josie's no sooner than 8:12 p.m. but no later than 8:20. We'll be at a back booth. And bring your contract! Prepare to be wowed."

You were not wowed.

"Jesus, this is a horrible plan," you muttered, stepping through the door and into the dark and crowded bar. Tonight it was packed, filled with people eager to escape the oppressive summer heat that continued to simmer outside even as the sky darkened. The place smelled like rotgut whiskey and stale beer, and looked like it had needed a coat of paint back in the 70s but no one had quite gotten around to it yet. There was a guy in the corner who may have been dead, you were pretty sure. But at least the booze was cheap, the lighting poor, and the spluttering A.C. vents were keeping things marginally cool. You liked it already. You maneuvered your way through the crowd—elbowing past glowering bikers and cheerful drunks in cheap suits—and zigzagged towards the back past the pool tables.

You'd managed to arrive at 8:14. Any earlier would have run the chance that Matt would pick up on your presence. Now that you were inside the bar, that was still a risk, but with all the noise and the crowd, Matt hopefully wouldn't sense you until it was too late.

Foggy leaned out of the faded, tattered leather booth at the back and waved you over.

Just breathe. One foot after the other. You can do this.

You sucked in a breath and approached their booth.

They were still in their lawyer clothes, clearly having come straight from the office. Both of them had loosened their ties, and Matt had rolled up his sleeves. Their jackets had been tossed on the back of the booth, one a little more carelessly than the other, and their beers sat chilled and half-finished in front of them. As you hesitated, Foggy winked at you and said, openly smug, "And here's the client now."

Matt's expression was mostly blank, but here and there emotion leaked through the stony mask. One corner of his mouth tightened and pitched downwards, while his hand tightened on his beer bottle until the knuckles went white. He looked good, as always—sleeves rolled up, hair mussed, stubble after a long day. Tonight he had no visible bruises, which was a surprise considering you knew he was still regularly beating the shit out of any Russian mobsters he could find. He also looked like he'd rather be anywhere but here in this bar with you.

You swallowed and glanced away. God, you'd fucked this up, and now he wanted nothing to do with you. Not that he could escape, since Foggy had taken the open end of their booth seat, gleefully trapping Matt between him and the wall.

It was too late to back out now no matter how much you suddenly wished you could, so at Foggy's prompting, you reluctantly slid into the seat opposite them both. Then you reached into your bag and pulled out two copies of the contract—one in braille and one not. You set both stacks on the table within reach of the men across from you.

"It's me, Jane," you clarified with a weak smile. Matt was well aware of just who was sitting opposite him, but appearances still mattered. Regardless of how he may have felt about you, you owed him that much at least. You'd die before you gave away his secret.

"Ah," Matt grit out, face unreadable but for the brief clench of his jaw while you fiddled with the stacks of paper. "As I've already explained to both of you, I'm afraid I'm unable to take Ms. Hind as one of my clients. Which I thought I'd made clear." The last sentence was directed mostly towards Foggy.

"And you were wrong!" Foggy said cheerfully, completely unperturbed by Matt's mood as he clapped Matt on the shoulder. "Which is why I've gathered you both. We're going to work this out like grownups."

"I'm not sure there's anything left for me to say about this to either of you," Matt said. You dropped your eyes when you felt the weight of his attention on you. Needing something to do with your hands—god, you wished you'd grabbed a drink before coming over here so you had something to hold—you scratched at the misspelled swear word someone had carved into the table.

"Then you can take a turn listening to my cross-examination." Foggy nudged him before reaching out to snatch up your contract. "Cause unless you're willing to climb over the table or scream for help, I've got you pinned, buddy. If at the end of this you feel the same, you can walk. You owe me."

Matt grunted, but he knew Foggy had won this round. He crossed his arms and settled in.

"Ms. Hind?" When you nodded, Foggy continued. He was all professionalism now: back straight, face neutral and impassive, though his eyes remained kind and encouraging. "Why wouldn't you tell Matt about your client?"

Here with Matt, you needed to be absolutely sure you were telling the truth. He'd be listening not just to your voice but your heartbeat and your breathing too; to all the little signals your body would give indicating your honesty… or lack thereof. You wiped your sweating palms on your pants.

No pressure or anything.

You licked your lips. "Because I'm contractually obligated not to speak about them outside certain situations."

"And why didn't you just tell him a little? No one was around I'm assuming, and it had to have been tempting."

"Because," you admitted slowly, "if I did and it got out, say during a lie detector test or something, I could get into trouble."

"Legal trouble?"

You shook your head and cleared your throat. There were of course elements of some of your contracts that were most likely not legally binding; those contracts were more about reputation and a certain code of honor practiced in the circles you'd once run in. "No, or well, yes, maybe, but also more, um, physical trouble. In the past I've worked with… people with very big secrets to keep. I'd be in danger if it got out I broke a contract."

"Are you worried about that with the client Matt disapproves of?"

"Is that covered?" you asked him, feeling a little shiver down your spine. It was like you were standing on the edge of a cliff, peering down towards the ground, and god if it wasn't a long way down. One wrong step and you'd be getting an up-close look at the jagged rocks waiting like fangs at the bottom. "Am I safe contractually to say?"

"Don't name names or get specific," Foggy said. "Don't talk about their actions, just how you feel emotionally." Matt had perked up, his head tilted at the quickening of your heart in your chest. He was listening so, so very intently to the rhythms of your body. And that was no surprise. You felt like you were going to crawl out of your skin. Who knew what blindingly bright signals you were giving off right now? Your words were careful but your body was an open book to him, his fingers resting lightly on the pages as they turned.

You breathed, once, twice, in through your nose and out through your mouth. When you were a bit more settled, when your heart rate had slowed, you spoke. "Yes, I'd be worried about that. With the client."

"Then why would you work with him?" Matt asked.

You glanced at him. It was the first time he'd spoken directly to you for weeks. His voice was thoughtful, but heavy and rough in a way you normally didn't hear from him when he wasn't wearing all black. It brought to mind warm nights on hot rooftops, the quiet lull in your kitchen, and soft skin under your fingertips as you carefully stitched. And yet just as much, it drew forth memories of bloodied fists, the sharp crack of breaking bone, and the flash of white teeth bared in a feral grin. But where he'd been open to you before, now he was closed off, and you couldn't get a read on which of those two sides of him you'd just glimpsed. You wished you could see his eyes to get a better read on him as he cleared his throat, reaching down to take a sip of his beer.

The action was for show. You could feel it. He may have looked distracted or casual but the weight of his attention on you never wavered as he lifted the bottle to his lips, and the lines of tension in his body remained coiled and tight.

You pondered over his question, stalling Foggy with a raised hand as you pondered how to say what you were thinking. "I'd be lying if I said the money wasn't part of it. It's more than that, though."

But Matt's focus had caught on that first half and he curled a lip, no doubt sensing the truth in your words. "So, that's it? This is all about the money?" The disbelief in what he said, the inherent rejection of you, stung enough that you flinched.

That hurt quickly morphed into anger and a shudder passed through you as you fought to control yourself, just resisting the urge to shout at him. Instead, you narrowed your eyes.

"No," you growled. "No, you let me finish before you judge me, Matt. Yes, the money is part of it, but it's more than that. You wanna know why? Because I've got all sorts of shit following me. People that would love to get to me. Money keeps me safe." The realization of why his jab stung so much hit you then: he knew this. He should have understood. You'd… thought he did, anyway. "So is what I really want money? Or is it just some fucking safety?" The last word cracked in your throat, fractures shivering their way between the syllables and letters until the whole word shook.

Something about that must have broken through to Matt because the hard line of his mouth softened, his resolve visibly wavering.

"Matt," Foggy said softly, glancing around before touching Matt's arm lightly. "She's one of them. Enhanced."

Matt stilled, shock blooming across his face. It was almost enough to make you laugh. It was the perfect expression, all raised eyebrows and parted lips. It didn't matter that his shock was most likely over the fact that Foggy knew about you. Foggy would no doubt read it as surprise over your status, which worked just fine for you.

"I know, man! It seems crazy!" Foggy shook him in emphasis. "But I looked into it, and she's real. If you think about it, it's not that weird right? We knew they were out there, and a lot of them probably live in a city this big. Plus, there are psychics all over; one was bound to be legit eventually. And we also… know what people want to do to someone like her. You read the news."

"And when someone powerful who could out you publicly, or make life difficult for you, or even protect you… when someone like that asks you to do a job for them, you say yes," you said quietly, fidgeting in your seat. "Not all of us can protect ourselves like the Avengers."

Or like you, Matt.

You all sat for a moment, waiting and thinking.

Matt took a swig of his beer, and then said carefully, "Can I have a few minutes with her?"

Foggy gave him the stink eye. "That depends. You gonna leap out a window as soon as I leave?"

"And leave this beer half full? Never." He patted Foggy's arm. "I won't run. I promise. I just want to talk to her."

Foggy met your eyes and raised his brows, unwilling to leave if you didn't want him to. You nodded and so he shrugged, rising to his feet. "Alright then. Give me a wave when you're done plotting."

Once he was out of earshot, Matt turned back to you. He was still closed off, the distance across the table feeling cavernously wide, but he wasn't… angry. Not… not anymore, you didn't think. And that in and of itself was puzzling. If you'd read him wrong this whole time, you weren't sure where you stood.

You spoke first, voice soft. "Is your friend ok?"

He wasn't expecting that if his expression was anything to go by. You were rewarded with a small, quick smile. "She's fine. I got your message."

"I'm so sorry, Matt," you said, speaking in a big rush as it all came spilling out. The note of fear in his voice, the desperation, had haunted you since you'd gotten his messages that night. You needed him to understand. "About all of it, I just didn't—my phone just… you have to know that no matter what, even if we aren't talking, if you… if you call for help, I wouldn't-I wouldn't ignore you, not for something like that. Not even if you're angry with me."

Hell, even when you did run eventually, you were pretty sure that if Matt somehow found a way to contact you, you wouldn't even stop to consider not helping him, no matter how far away you were. There was something about Matt Murdock that stirred a sense of loyalty in you, a reaction you couldn't quite explain.

"In truth, I stopped being angry a while ago," he admitted, confirming your suspicions. He tilted his head down with a sigh. "But by then I wasn't sure you'd even want to hear from me, not after I'd been such a—"

"No," you cut him off, finally recognizing that thread of self-loathing for what it was. "No, you hadn't been. Things went sideways so fast, Matt, we just… The whole thing was a mess."

At that, he nodded, and you reached up and rubbed at your temples. It was a relief to know he wasn't angry about the fight in your office anymore, but that still didn't explain why he hadn't called you back after that night you'd dropped your phone in the pool. Was it something you'd done? Had he changed his mind about you?

"What I don't understand though," you continued, "is if you weren't mad, then why didn't you call me back after I left that message?" Your voice was tentative, and you dropped your hands down under the table so you could press them flat to the seat. It wouldn't hide the nervous tension in them from Matt, not really, but the principle of it soothed you.

"I meant to." Regret or maybe shame passed across his face, and his attention skittered away from you. If he could see you, you'd have said he couldn't meet your eyes for guilt. "I was angry again when you didn't call back, and then… and then hurt."

You closed your eyes, sitting with that knowledge that you'd hurt him. It had been accidental and really, not your fault. You couldn't have predicted you'd fall into that pool, or that you'd be unable to access your messages for hours. But it didn't make you feel any better, because he'd still been vulnerable and alone. He'd reached for you, and you hadn't been there. You'd suspected he'd felt hurt, but to hear the soft admission from him...

"Matt—"

He shook his head, continuing as you opened your eyes. "But then I heard your message the next morning. I-I almost called you, so many times. But my friend, the nurse, was hurt. Because of me."

Definitely Martyr Matt, then. This explains so much. It answered a lot of the questions you'd had, pieces slotting into place. One piece in particular, however, stood out. Was he really…?

"Wait, I'm confused. You're not mad, and all this," you waved at the contract and the space between you both, something like butterflies fluttering inside your chest, "is… is all this fine now and this is—you're trying to protect—"

He stirred, his head swinging back up to face you. "This," he said grimly, tapping the contract, "is still an issue. You're working for bad people, and I haven't forgotten about it. But we should also consider that the people who get close to me are always in dang—are you laughing?!"

You couldn't help it. You'd tried to bite it down. But the tickle in your chest had turned into a giggle, and it had spilled from your throat before you could stop it. It rapidly progressed to laughing so hard you were wheezing, shoulders shaking as you gasped for air. Matt was not amused, looking wounded that you weren't taking the idea of you being in danger—solely due to him, of course—more seriously. You had to force your words out between heaving breaths. "Oh my god, Matt, I'm over here terrified of you getting hurt being near me and you're worried about the same thing on your side and both of us are still in danger even without the other around! It's-it's goddamn ironic! And now Foggy thinks I'm psychic—"

"I still can't believe you told him," he muttered. And that just set your giggles off again.

"And that!" You pointed at him with a mad grin sharp around the edges, a little hysterical. The stress, hurt, and frustration was spilling out of you now unchecked, pouring forth like the dam inside you had finally cracked open. You slapped your hands on the table, barking another laugh, and leaned forward, lowering your voice as if you were telling him the most hilarious dirty joke in the world. "And the best part is, I didn't even tell him! He just-he just fucking figured it out and he gets it more than you do! He knows why I'm scared out of my fucking mind!"

And maybe that was a low blow, a barbed shot fired across the table, but it was the truth. You were scared. So very, very scared.

Your breath hitched.

Matt flinched hard at that, drawing in a sudden breath. His hand rose, quickly reaching across the table towards you but as your laughter died down you withdrew out of reach, groaning and putting your head in your hands. His hand fell back, and you? You were just… tired. Tired of everything, because god, this hurt.

Is this what it feels like when I push someone away?

"Just help me with this?" you mumbled, trying not to let your voice crack. You didn't cry in front of people if you could help it and that emotional release had almost done you in. "Please? If… if you can find me a loophole, I'll tell you whatever you want to know about him."

A hand settled on your shoulder and you looked up at Foggy, who squeezed sympathetically before sliding in next to Matt. Matt must have waved him over.

"So, Matt… what do you say?" Foggy elbowed him gently. "Want to help me rip apart this contract?"

Matt rubbed a hand over his mouth, drained the last of his beer, and pulled the braille contract over. "No promises."

They debated and argued back and forth for another hour before you said goodnight and headed home. They paused their emphatic discussion of a particular clause on page 36 to say goodbye, and Foggy even stood up long enough to give you a hug, which you were secretly grateful for. The second you stepped away, they delved back into it.

It had been good to see Matt again. Even if it wasn't perfect, it had been something solid, tangible. It was as if his presence alone cast some warmth your way, and you'd spent so very long in the cold dark.

Whatever had happened with Matt's nurse friend must have really rattled him though. It wasn't like you could blame the guy, either. Pot, kettle. How many people had you left behind over the years? Always, always making sure to wound them deeply enough to keep them from following after you, if you didn't just leave them high and dry before they got that close in the first place. Trailing along behind you was a whole string of ex-friends, roommates, lovers, and a few you'd even dared to call your found family: all of them adding up to one big shameful green thread of your own.

You shoved your hands in your pockets as you walked. But that was the thing, wasn't it? It sounded like Matt had been keeping you away because he feared you'd be in danger, but you already were. The Man in the White Coat, various scientists, past clients—there were people who would dearly love to own your talents if only they could find you again, and they weren't above using the people around you to do it. You had just as much reason to worry for him as he did for you.

What a cruel twist that you both had ended up meeting each other: two people who brought so much danger to the table.

You kicked a pebble as you headed up the steps to your apartment building. You knew you'd have to say goodbye to Matt one day. That was just the way your life went, the way it had been for years now. You stayed as long as you could, until you had too many connections or you got enough money or you heard people were looking for you. Then you burned your bridges and ran. That fire was a necessity.

But there was no reason to light the match before you had to, right? You were making decent money. You were anonymous in a city this large. And Matt, well, you could keep Matt around as a guard dog a bit longer if you were careful.

You shook your head. Or maybe you were just selfish.

Either way, you'd done what you could to get Matt back on your side. You'd just have to let the chips fall where they may.

That thought must have been enough to comfort you, because that night you slept well for the first time in weeks. There were no nightmares, no tension and exhaustion stiffening your muscles when you woke up to greet the never-ending noise of the city. The change in your mood was noticeable enough that it drew comments.

"Someone's feelin' better," Daniel sang. "Good night?"

"Better than usual," you admitted, stopping to lean on his desk and peer down at what he was doing.

Ugh. Paperwork.

"Take it you made up with the handsome Mr. Murdock?"

"It's getting there." You shrugged, drumming your fingers. "There's progress at least."

"Well, keep it up," he hummed, dark eyes sparkling as he shifted to the computer. He tapped away at his keyboard, sending off a document to the print. "My guy and I've been together two years and we still fight like cats 'n dogs occasionally. Always worth it to work it out."

"Matt's just a sort-of friend, you realize this, right?"

He scoffed. "Friend, lover, doesn't matter. Fix the fight, and everyone's happy. Now if only he'd—sweet fucking baby Jesus, that goddamn printer again!"

You had two notes on your desk. One was from Ms. Gonzales, thanking you for finding her daughter. Her note was accompanied by a very nice bottle of wine, one with a small panda-stamped ribbon tied around the neck of it. The second note was from Mr. Winter and read as followed:

Dear Ms. Hind,

As you are no doubt aware, my client is eager to hear from you about our offer to keep you on retainer. There are sensitive matters we would like to hand off to you, but can only do so once the appropriate contracts are filed. If at all possible, we would like to have your answer by the end of next week.

We look forward to hearing from you.

Regards,

Mr. Winter

You growled and crumpled the paper before chucking it in the trash. If Matt was going to be a part of what you were doing, he needed to figure it out, and soon.

You fished your phone out of your jacket and fired off a text to Foggy.

Text sent at 8:47am: that client wants me on retainer and needs to know by end of week, so need an answer

Text sent at 8:48am: is M in or out?

You paced impatiently across the dark carpet and watched your screen for Foggy's reply. His replies were almost always prompt during work hours, and usually outside them as well. You weren't sure he even had an off switch. He seemed to run 24-7 on an unholy blend of bad coffee and sheer force of will. Your phone buzzed after a minute, his return text appearing.

Text received at 8:49am: working on it, this contract is CRAZY and we haven't found a loophole outside criminality yet. Idk if I want to strangle your past lawyers or marry them

He'd added an eye roll emoji and three hearts to the end. You snorted and typed in your response.

Text sent at 8:49am: i told you it was thorough

Text received at 8:50am: yeah, but i think he at least sort of gets it now why you couldn't talk. will keep working on it and keep you updated

Even with Foggy's assurance, the sense of calm you'd had enjoyed upon waking quickly evaporated. You were left instead with nothing but unease. You hated a ticking clock, especially one that was out of your control. You couldn't force Foggy and Matt to analyze your contract faster. If they couldn't come up with an answer by next Friday, you were going to have to decide on your own whether to accept the offer provided by Mr. Winter and his mysterious benefactor. It wasn't like you hadn't made these decisions solo before but now there was an added pressure, as if the stakes weren't high enough already.

You'd forgotten what it was like to have people whose opinions you cared about.

At least you had cases to take your mind off the impending decision regarding Mr. Winter. You and Maya were busy as hell. According to both your sources, there was escalating activity down below amongst the various criminal elements. The hornet's nest that was the Russian Mob had been kicked into a frenzy—it was a safe bet who was responsible for that—and they were snatching people off the streets left and right. That in turn meant a lot of relatives coming to you and Maya, seeking your particular skill set. You were forced to turn down more than one case thanks to unfortunate Mob connections. You and Maya wanted to make money, sure, but that was one beast you had no desire to tangle with.

By the middle of the next week, you were exhausted from late nights and too much work. Your steps dragged like leaden weights as you shuffled into the elevator that would take you up to your apartment. Mrs. Johana, the woman who lived in the apartment above you, gave you a sympathetic look as you stood beside her and sleepily pressed the button for your floor. She was an older woman, mid-70s, with dark steel-shot hair woven in tight braids, and a brilliant smile she turned on just about everyone. You liked her.

"Long day, hon?"

"The longest," you mumbled.

"I'll send Stevie down when I get home. I'm sure she'll make you feel better."

You waved as you headed out the elevator, wandering down the empty hall to your place. The first thing you did once you were inside and had set down your bag was open the window that led to the fire escape. There was at least a breeze tonight, sweeping away some of the humidity that made the air feel so terribly heavy and thick.

Footsteps creaked above you, then the window one floor up opened as well.

"Incoming!" Mrs. Johana announced cheerfully as a large, fluffy grey cat came trotting down the fire escape. Stevie the cat leapt up into your window with a purr that would have given a motorcycle a run for its money, and offered herself up for some cuddles.

You picked her up and made your way over to your couch to sit. Sometimes you wondered if you—a normal, non-enhanced you—would have been allergic to cats. You knew there'd been some genetic tinkering before you were born, and presumably, they'd altered anything that might be linked to any obvious allergies. What other genes must they have messed with, trying to get results? And what switches had they flipped to give you your ability to see threads?

Stevie rubbed her face against your hand to distract you before she settled into your lap, rumbling happily. She was a massive thing, a good twenty pounds of fluff and stocky muscle, and she made a wonderful lap cat.

You drifted off, dozing on the couch.

When you awoke, you weren't sure how much time had passed. Stevie was no longer in your lap, though the leftover fur ensured you wouldn't forget she'd blessed you with her glorious presence. Instead of on your lap, she was over by the open window, meowing happily.

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

God, it felt like it had been forever since you'd heard that rhythm, and something twisted inside you at the sound.

"Hey, D. Come on in, and watch the cat." At your welcome, Matt—garbed in his usual late-night, tight black getup—folded himself up and slid in through your open window.

"So you do have a cat," Matt threw your way, just a touch accusingly as Stevie purred and wound back and forth between Matt's legs.

"Nope," you said, popping the p as you let your head fall back against the couch to stare at him upside down.

Matt tilted his head, then nodded. "I get it. This is one of those shared custody, 'I don't own the cat, the cat owns me when she's not living with other people' things, isn't it?"

"Still nope." You were enjoying teasing him. You weren't sure if he was fucking with you or not but Matt swung his head in seeming bafflement, as if to confirm with his heightened senses that yes, there was indeed a large furry cat in the apartment and it was not a raccoon or a possum or a stuffed animal. Satisfied with what he sensed, Matt snorted and pointed down at Stevie. You barked a laugh and took pity on him. "She belongs to the neighbors upstairs. She just likes to come down occasionally. Apparently she was friends with the last person who lived here and she wasn't keen to give up the habit. Especially when the noisy grandkids come to say hi."

Stevie stood up on her hind legs and gently patted Matt's leg, begging for pets. Matt obliged, easily lifting Stevie up into his arms as Stevie purred. She bonked her head affectionately against Matt's chin and even with the mask you could see him scrunch up his nose.

There was quiet for a moment, other than a sneeze from Matt, presumably from Stevie's extra fine hair tickling his face.

It was peaceful, almost. On a good night you may have basked in the silence, but tonight you couldn't resist the urge to break it.

"I take it you're here for more than holding the neighbor's cat," you said at last, taking in the long line of black that currently composed Matt Murdock. His shirt had ridden up a little, and your eyes caught on it: a flash of warm skin at his hip and… was that a patch of gauze? Figured. You directed your gaze back up towards his face. "You want a drink or anything?"

"I'm fine, thank you. You were right, though. I wanted to talk to you."

You waved grandly at him in acceptance, closing your eyes and hmm-ing. In your exhaustion, you didn't have the energy to put up your usual walls. And what would be the point? You couldn't hide from him, not when he could slide his senses all the way down into your bones. You kicked your legs out. "I'm all ears."

"I told Foggy that your client is the same as ours. And we've gone over the contract," he sighed. You fluttered your eyes back open as he moved across the room towards you, still holding Stevie. You didn't even want to think about how much cat hair was going to be on Matt's shirt after this. Maybe you'd get him a lint roller if you were still friends around Christmas.

You bit your tongue at the thought of the Devil painstakingly lint-rolling his intimidating black outfit.

"It's all we've been doing," he continued, thankfully unaware of where your thoughts had strayed.

"And?"

"And, nothing. Unless he or his people broke a law in front of you, you can't talk about anything he's done." He growled in frustration, which was unacceptable to Stevie. The cat gave him a dirty look and squirmed out of his arms. She marched over to you and granted you a parting headbutt before trotting to the window, leaping out, and disappearing up the fire escape back to her own apartment.

Matt brushed off his shirt as he went to close the window before he returned, this time kneeling in front of you. He tilted his head in the fashion that you'd learned meant he was focused on you completely. He didn't slide his mask up, didn't let you see his eyes, but he had that look around the part of his face you could see, the solemn mouth that said trust me and please and oh, how much you wanted to. "Are you sure you can't just—"

You closed your eyes, letting out a shaky breath before shaking your head. You still couldn't talk, you just couldn't. At the very least, you could make sure he knew why. You wouldn't allow a repeat of the fight in your office. "Matt, I can't. If anyone finds out—"

"They wouldn't. Not from me."

"I know you wouldn't but Matt, if I get held to a lie detector test or really get pushed on it and I can't truly say I've never broken a contract, they'll know. Either this client will find out, or one of my other past clients will." You swallowed. "I'm… I'm afraid of what will happen."

His hands twitched, fingers curling loosely. He'd tilted his head down, attention on the soft space inside you where your racing heart was tucked away. "I could protect you," he said, so very resolutely that for one vulnerable second, you almost believed he could.

"You would try," you said, not unkindly. "And maybe you could, for a while. But if this client is as bad as you think, he'd just have to wait. Eventually, I'd be somewhere without you." You let the unspoken consequences hang in the air. Pain flashed across his face as if you'd physically struck him, flickers of anger in his clenched jaw as he stiffened and drew back. A shuddering breath followed the action, his muscles tightening in readiness, only there was no one here to fight, no one here for him to protect you from. His surging instincts had nowhere to go, nothing to do but circle inside him.

"Then I need you to think, really think, of anything he might have done to you or in front of you that was illegal. Even if it's something small, it can help me. And then I can take him down, and I can keep you safe. You won't have to be afraid anymore." His voice was rough, hoarse, and the plea was clear: give me something or someone to fight.

You groaned and dropped your head into your hands. "Matt, I've already gone over everything." You'd even pondered whether or not the bodyguards drawing their guns that one night had been illegal but as best you could tell, they could have simply argued they'd feared for their lives or that they'd suspected you of being armed. That reasoning had been enough for you to rule it out. "He hasn't done anything illegal to me or in front of me and I don't think his goons have either. He's very careful."

Matt murmured your name, taking your wrists in his hands and despite the rising tension in him, the touch was gentle as he dragged your hands away from your face. Your skin almost seemed to tingle where he'd taken your wrists, as if your body was startled by his touch. His hands were still so warm, even with his gloves on. "It doesn't have to be information that would break the contract, then. Give me whatever you can, even if it seems pointless. Let me have your jacket or a shirt you wore on a case for him, or tell me if someone who worked for him smelled like chlorine—"

Your head snapped up, his words lighting up a series of memories in your mind as connections came together—

The scent of chlorine.

"Not letting me go is against the law, I saw it on TV."

The lock of straining muscles as you pulled back and prepared to kick at unyielding glass.

Holy shit. Holy shit, the driver.

"Oh my god, I've got it!" you blurted, leaping to your feet. Matt rose, closely shadowing your steps as you darted to grab your bag in the corner by the front door that contained the contract. "Matt, I think I've got an opening, and I'd-I'd be able to tell you all of it, or all of what happened on one case at least." If you were right, you'd be able to provide Matt a lot of information about that one night, and it might be enough to lead him in the right direction. Who knew how much he could find in that abandoned house?

"Are you sure?" He shifted in agitation beside you, crowding you as you pulled the pages out, flipping through them to ensure they were all there. His scent—salt, warm fabric, faint cinnamon, the copper tang of blood—swirled around you, causing your fingers to briefly stutter at the distraction. "If you're giving more than hints, you need to be sure. Don't put yourself in danger just because—"

"I'm fairly sure, I think."

"You're sure or you think?" he shot back.

Good god, why had he swung so wildly away from 'Give Me The Information' to 'Think This Through?' He needed to make up his mind. You scowled as you turned to face him, and he was so close that you almost accidentally elbowed him in the ribs. Your scowl softened to a frown, and you leaned your back against the wall as you peered up at him.

What the hell happened that's got you like this, Matt?

"I thought you wanted this information from me. You're not acting like it."

"I'm acting like I want the information, but not if it gets you hurt!" he growled, looming up over you, and oh, hey, there was your old friend D again: deep voice, smoky heat and all. Even trapped as you were between him and the wall with nowhere to go, you weren't frightened. Just… puzzled. After all, his actions would have been more intimidating if you'd missed the tiny, shaky inhale he drew in.

His nurse friend got kidnapped. Then you told him you're scared and that he can't do anything to protect you. Of course he's on edge now.

You wanted to smack yourself at the realization of just how firmly you'd slapped Matt's Warrior button. No wonder he'd swerved back towards keeping you safe; the drive to protect was one of his strongest instincts. So instead of pounding your head against the wall, you gnawed on your lower lip in thought and crossed your arms, considering him. "Look, isn't there a clause in here somewhere…" He was way too close—practically on top of you—for you to properly hold up the contract so instead you took a chance and flicked the stack of papers lightly against his abdomen. He startled with a quiet noise, muscles jumping at the touch to somewhere so vulnerable when he was worked up. You hoped the playfulness of your action served as a reminder to his brain that you were fine and he could relax. "Like, a paragraph saying I can ask you about whether something is a crime? Really, really vaguely? I'm fairly certain I had that put in."

Come on, Matt. Engage the lawyer brain, not the Beat The Shit Out Of People brain.

He tightened his hands into fists before releasing them, shifting in front of you. "Maybe," he eventually rumbled. He drew in a deep breath through his nose, lips parting. The heated fabric of his shirt just brushed against your folded forearms, a feather-light touch, before he exhaled slowly. You let him go through the process a few more times until his breathing started to sync with yours. "I… I think—"

"Maybe, or you think?" You teasingly arched a brow, and he seemed calm enough now that you carefully reached out to poke him. You only got one tap in, your finger prodding ticklishly at the lean muscle just below his ribs before he squirmed away from your finger with a huff. "Come on, that was a very important lawyer-ly distinction to you a few minutes ago."

"You're hilarious," he grumbled, stepping back from you and shaking his head like a dog that had just come out of the pool.

"And yet I remain unappreciated."

"Not to everyone," he said, rolling out his shoulders and setting loose another breath. "There was… there was a clause like that, I think. I can call Foggy, we'll meet you at Josie's."

"You don't want me to just hit you with this now?" You held the papers up.

He shook his head. "If we're coming at this from a legal angle, I want Foggy and I both on this to make sure you're safe."

That was probably a good thing. It would give him a chance to calm down, and give you a little time to figure out how to relay to him that you'd been, well…

Fuck. That's not gonna go over well.

"I'll meet you there." You managed to keep your voice level, which was a pretty big victory all things considered. One step at a time.

You made your way around the apartment, gathering what you needed as he headed to the window and opened it. He didn't thank you, but he did spend a moment there on the sill, listening to you, before he slipped outside and disappeared.

-x-

You gestured to the contract as soon as the two of them sat down, beers in hand, across from you. You didn't even wait for them to speak before you jabbed at the pages. "So all this time I've been going about this wrong."

Foggy stifled a yawn and brought out his own copy of your contract, covered in red underlines and scratchy shorthand. He must have been asleep when Matt had called him, but he didn't seem annoyed at all that he'd been woken. "What'd you find?"

"I've been wracking my brain trying to think of something the client did or something his people did once I got where I was going." You flipped through your contract to the relevant page, in case you needed to reference it. "But this whole time I'd forgotten one of the most important things: how I got to those places in the first place. Or rather, how I got to one case in particular."

"I'm assuming that means on this case, you didn't just walk?" Matt's focus was honed in on you, sharp and solid. He'd arrived at the bar not long after you, only now instead of all black, he was dressed in a wrinkled button-down and slacks. As if he hadn't just been dressed in a vigilante costume and throwing himself off your fire escape a little while ago, the nerve of him.

"What would happen if, in theory, uh..." You faltered, trying to keep the question vague enough that you couldn't be called on it in the future but also trying to underplay it enough that it wouldn't hit Matt too hard. "Say someone tried to leave a car, and the driver made sure the doors were locked so they couldn't get out, and then continued taking them to the location against… their… will?"

As you'd rambled, Foggy's brows had slowly risen as he'd become increasingly alarmed. Matt, though? Matt went absolutely still, and if you hadn't seen the sharp inhalation that preceded that stillness, you'd have thought he was nothing but a statue. Late-night chatter from the rest of the bar filled the sudden void of silence at the table. When Matt spoke, his voice was hot and molten, three words ripped from somewhere deep in his chest. "He kidnapped you?"

"Only a little?"

And yup, ok, despite your best efforts you'd just summoned up D in a crowded bar. Whoops. You could see it, hear it, feel the heat, the seething rage from across the table. The sensation was so strong you rocked back in your seat, glancing around to see if anyone else had noticed. The driver who'd locked you in the car was lucky he wasn't there at that moment. You had no doubt he'd have been shitting his own teeth for weeks once Matt was done punching them down the guy's throat. And as much as you appreciated the thought, you needed to keep Matt's mind here, focused on this moment now and not on the idea of hunting down the driver and making him regret the very act of happening to exist in the same universe as 'things known as cars.' "In reality, I can't really answer." You directed this at Foggy, distracting him and giving Matt a chance to collect himself. "That's for you guys to decide since I believe I'm allowed to ask you if this scenario would be considered a crime."

"Was it clear you were trying to leave?" Foggy rubbed his chin thoughtfully as you gently, pointedly, and without looking away from Foggy, nudged Matt's foot under the table. "I'm not talking just… trying to open the door secretly. I mean, more—"

"Yeah, no, at one point I was leaning over to kick out the back window. I was not subtle."

Foggy blinked and gave you a look. "Can I ask why you didn't immediately recognize this as a crime and call the cops?!"

"It was, uh, kinda overshadowed by everything else and there was a lot going on. Which I would love to tell you all about if you will confirm this was a crime." You dragged out the last sentence for emphasis, looking meaningfully at the contract again.

"We could argue it fell under false imprisonment." Foggy was getting excited now, slapping the table as he saw the same opening you'd seen earlier. "That could definitely work. As long as this wasn't like… an uber driver or anything, right?"

"Nope." You quirked a lip nervously, though in truth nothing about this was humorous so your smile fell flat. "This was one of the client's drivers that was sent for me."

"Perfect! Which means now we have a crime committed by someone in your client's employ, on company time, as you carried out your job. This is—" He elbowed Matt. "See! I knew there was a loophole."

You eyed Matt but he was still silent. The way he gripped the table spoke volumes about where he was mentally at that moment, which was to say: not here with you in the bar. Foggy noticed it too, and reached over to gently touch Matt's arm. It was a calming gesture, absent any awareness he was touching the arm of someone who could break the bones in a man's hand as easily as you might break a few eggs. "Hey, it's ok, buddy. She's alright." He shot a distracted look your way. "He can't see you, so he can't—"

You gave him a weak smile and, under the table, you hesitantly shuffled a foot out and lightly nudged Matt again to get his attention. "No, understandable. And I'm fine, really."

"Not a mark on her," Foggy reassured him as Matt finally released the table, though he was still wound tight as a drum. "I'm looking at her right now and she's ok, and we got this now. Trust me."

"She was kidnapped!" Matt snapped at him, one hand clenching. "That doesn't leave someone ok." You waited patiently, as did Foggy, and after a moment he seemed to remember where he was. "But," he tilted his head towards you, "you're right. You're ok now. And you can tell us what you know about him."

"Well," Foggy reminded him, "within certain limits that is."

You were fairly certain you knew what he was talking about but it was always best to get clarification. "I can't talk about other cases, right?" you asked.

"Just the case during which the crime occurred," Foggy said, stabbing a finger in the air with sarcastic vigor. "Which leaves us pretty—pardon my German—fucked on anything else, yeah. You also can't talk to the police about this yet, not unless you alert the client first after confirming with us that this was a crime. And you can't use names! Or faces. Just, you know, general specifics. So basically, ugh." He scrubbed a hand through his messy hair and threw a frustrated glance in Matt's direction. "Thinking about it, I'm not sure how much of this might actually be helpful."

"Still worth it to know. There could be something there we can use," Matt said, gesturing to you. "So… give us the rundown then. As best you can."

"Well…" You scratched your nose in thought, mentally rewinding to the case in question. "It started with the client not long after I got in for work that morning." From there, you launched into a carefully censored recounting of the events in question. Matt and Foggy both listened intently, only breaking in now and then to ask a few questions. The further into the story you got, the more restless Matt became. Towards the end of the story, only Foggy was still asking questions; he'd even gotten out a pad of paper and had written some notes. Matt, on the other hand, had long since lapsed into dark silence. It was that anger of his again, only—at least for now—there wasn't any target in front of him he could take it out on. He was reining it in better than before at least, barring the moment you described how the bodyguards had pointed their guns at you. His hand had tightened on his beer bottle so much you'd thought he might shatter the glass.

"Holy shit," Foggy mumbled. "This guy is sketchy. I mean, based on our working with the guy, I'm pretty sure we'd find no connection between the driver and your client. Probably just shell company after shell company. And even if we could solidly connect them..." He tapped his pen to paper. "You said you used a code name and he uses company checks, so it's not like we have his name personally, or the driver's. I'm going to advise not going to the police, considering what he might do. There's not enough to qualify for that clause in your contract anyway and we still know next to nothing about him. Matt?"

If you hadn't been watching Matt, you'd have missed his minute flinch when Foggy mentioned the cops, and his reaction drew your brows into a furrow. "I, uh," Matt said, clearing his throat and shifting. "No, I agree, going to the police would be too dangerous. It's not… not safe."

That reaction to cops was new.

You'd thought his tension had simply been related to the kidnapping of his friend, but there was more to this and you were dangerously out of the loop. Matt was… spooked. He was never spooked. And if it could throw someone like him off balance, what chance did you have?

"And this is the client who wants you on retainer?" Foggy directed his next question at you.

You filed away Matt's reaction for later and returned to the conversation. "He wants his answer by the end of the week. At this point, after all this..." And that was just it, wasn't it? It had been one thing to accept it when it had been happening. You'd been able to rationalize it away to yourself even if you didn't like it. But now that you'd actually had to describe the events to someone outside your own head, it seemed… more than you wanted to deal with. You had enough clients to survive without Mr. Winter's money. Sure, you'd lose out on a boatload of cash, but why take such a huge risk when you could make do without? "I figure I should just say no at this point and quit working with him. Saying all this out loud makes it seem kinda ridiculous to sign on with him."

Foggy opened his mouth to speak but Matt beat him to it, reluctant words pulled from him on a heavy breath. "You have to sign it, at least for now."

"What? Matt!" Foggy gaped at him as if he'd grown two heads, grabbing his shoulder while you sat there in disbelief. "Dude, you met this guy, and he basically kidnapped her! What happened to all that, you know, justifiable rage?"

It just didn't make any sense. First, he was upset because you were working with Mr. Winter and now Matt wanted you to keep working for him? After the fight and the long silence, you got this? What had changed between then and now? "Sign, don't sign, don't work for the bad people, work for the bad people! What the hell do you want from me, Murdock?" you hissed. "I'm sick of playing catchup here so if you could just pick a lane, that'd be fucking great!"

Matt had dug his feet in, steadfast in the face of your anger, and even with his glasses on you knew the bastard was somehow meeting your eyes. He licked his lips, tilting his head at you. "What do you think him and his… employer will do when you just say no?"

You faltered, as did Foggy. The words had been spoken with complete calm, the solemn certainty of someone who'd seen the results of the path you were all looking down. Matt waited, and when neither of you said anything, he nodded slowly. His fingers twitched again, curling against the table: a tell. Unhappy. He wasn't as calm as he wanted you to think. "Exactly. Men like these, they don't… they don't take no for an answer. They don't just let people leave after working with them. We need another way out for you."

Your first instinct was to deny that this sort of thing could happen with Mr. Winter, but why? Why deny it, when you knew it could be true?

Because, you thought. Because it feels safer. It felt safer to think of Mr. Winter as just another client, someone who held true to the rule of law and business. It was a comforting image, the idea that were he to be denied further business he would simply shrug and move along. After all, he'd been nothing but polite and friendly.

Or had he?

You'd had a gun pointed at your head. Oh sure, you'd had that happen before. It came with the territory, with your background. You'd been treated far worse, and you could easily rationalize it away as nothing but a pair of twitchy bodyguards. That was how you'd rationalized it away. The reaction from the guards was to be expected when working with the wealthy or powerful.

And it wasn't even like you weren't aware that bad people could treat you kindly, bad people who were capable of terrible, terrible things. That included people in your past that you'd still spent relatively happy years with.

For a second you could feel it again: the heat of the flames, worsening the already dismal heat of a long-gone Los Angeles summer. The tang of gasoline and blood and ash returned to your mouth.

"Look away, mia cara."

The less said about your time in Los Angeles, the better.

Put all that together and... there was no reason not to believe Matt. He was right, and you trusted him. It didn't matter that Mr. Winter had been polite to you until now. You had no idea how long those polite mannerisms would last before you had another gun to your head. So if Matt said telling him 'no' was too dangerous, then… it was.

"What do you think I should do, then?" you said tonelessly, sagging in absolute defeat. You knew what was coming before he said it, but it still hit like a gut punch anyway.

"Sign the contract."

"Matt!" Foggy hissed. "Dude, there's gotta be another way. If this guy is bad news, then this could get her killed!"

"So could saying no," Matt shot back, just as furious. "At least this way they know to stay on their guard and follow the contract as outlined, just like they did with us. It'll help protect her until we find another way out for her." He turned to you. "I can't make you sign, but…" He hesitated, and there was something… something grief-stricken on his face and you realized, suddenly, that he didn't want this any more than you did. And yet you were trapped.

"Jesus, Matt," Foggy whispered, looking over at you.

You wished you could see Matt's eyes.

You wished you weren't alone on this side of the table.

And a part of you wished you'd never come to this city.

This was precisely the opposite of what you'd hoped to get involved in. You'd avoided working with anyone openly criminal for precisely this reason. It was what the contract was for. And here you were, bound in a net of your own making.

You'd have to trust the contract, and the men sitting across from you.

"Fine," you said. "Where do I sign?"

-x-

Mr. Winter's courier was pleased to take the signed contract of retainer off your hands, and that night upon arriving home, you found an unmarked envelope had been slipped under your front door. Inside the envelope was a short note, handwritten in elegant script on thick cardstock:

We're pleased to have you. We'll be in touch.

Your plan to go about your days as usual wasn't working because with everything that had happened, the urge to run had begun to rise again far stronger than before. You'd felt that desire in the past, and now that same tide was surging up and you were choking on it as surely as you would the sea.

It was like an itch on the back of your neck, one you couldn't scratch no matter how hard or deep you dug your nails in. In the past you'd tried jogging, going at punching bags, and cleaning your living spaces from top to bottom. The twitch had never left you until you finally gave in and skipped town. Still, you tried again just in case. You jogged. You hit the gym. Your apartment was practically sparkling. And things were much the same. There was no relief to be found. At night you tossed and turned, restless and unfocused.

The go-bag hiding under your floorboards called to you. Inside was a temporary new identity—fake papers, cash, hair dye, a few keys to cars hidden in various storage lots scattered across major cities, and a burner phone. You'd done this dance before, and you knew what you needed when you packed up. It was designed to keep you until you got a hold of your contacts who'd provide you with a more solid identity. It would let you run.

So why hadn't you just… gone already? You should have. Things had gotten too hot here. Too much attention, too much pressure, and too much connection—to Matt especially.

You shied away from that thought even now that you were considering an escape. Denial was protection. And maybe that was why you stayed, you'd have realized if you'd allowed yourself the chance to consider it. To leave would be to admit to yourself that you'd gotten too close, and now you cared.

"Can I come in?"

You waved Matt in with a frustrated gesture, and he slid, black-clad, inside your open window. You'd already been pacing for at least an hour, which he'd no doubt heard, so you didn't bother to stop. The itch was particularly strong tonight and you were trying to wear it out so you could sleep. Maybe you'd go for another jog?

Matt regarded you as you paced restlessly and contemplated the floorboards under your bare feet. He didn't speak for some time, and you half expected him to leave in your distraction. Which would have been fine. You were edgy at the moment, you'd freely acknowledge, and thus not ideal company. Besides, if he wasn't going to speak, neither were you. Not this time.

"I'm sorry," he said at last.

Your pattern of steps faltered briefly, thrown by the apology. Then you waved again, more dismissive this time as if flicking the apology away. This whole mess was on you, you'd already decided. "Not your fault I had to sign. It's on me for agreeing to work with him in the first place. I didn't vet him, which in the past was fine but now it's come back to bite me in the ass."

"I meant about… being angry with you. I shouldn't have been."

That stopped you on your heel as surely as if you'd hit a brick wall, and you turned to blink at him in confusion. "But I, I was—"

"You were scared," he finished, his lips pulled tight and solemn. "And I was t… I read it wrong. I should have felt that, your fear. Tasted it. Heard it. Felt it here," he tapped his chest, trying to relay his meaning, "and I did. But I didn't get it right this time, what it meant. I'm also a lawyer. I know when people are afraid to talk, and I should have understood why. So… I'm sorry."

And that, that was… not what you'd been expecting at all tonight. You rubbed at your temple. Why did he have to be so… so…

You turned away from him, feeling exposed. You'd done your best to move past it, but his anger had stung. For some reason the apology hurt too, throbbing with the dull ache of a fading bruise. "You don't need to apologize."

"I do."

This was a fight you weren't going to win. They were only two words but he'd delivered them confidently, and with no room to push back. He was going to keep pressing the matter until you gave in, so you did. "Then I thank you for the apology. I accept. And I'm sorry too. I'm working with bad people, you were right. And I wanted to tell you when you asked, but I just…"

"You were scared," he repeated, coming to stand in front of you. Nothing but black, head to toe, all dark warmth with only the exposed skin around his mouth leaving him human. "I wish I could say you didn't have to be."

The itch to run had changed, and now you just… wished you could lean into him.

"Do you know the name 'Wilson Fisk'?" he asked you. It seemed out of left field, a question pulled from the ether and you frowned.

"No. Should I?"

He shook his head and moved to sit in the chair across from the couch you stood in front of. Distance yawned between you again, but maybe that was a good thing. You needed distance, and clarity. Matt and his warmth were too enthralling, too tempting. It distracted you, muddled your thoughts. You tossed yourself down onto the cold couch instead, sinking into it with a sigh.

"It's a name I keep hearing," Matt said. "Might be related to your client. Or maybe just the Russian Mob. I don't know, but people are terrified of him. Far more than they are of me. Have you heard of someone named Vladimir, maybe?"

"So you're why the mobsters are all running scared and in a panic," you accused in good humour.

His rumbled, satisfied, "Mmm," was distracting. The smirk he shot you—warm and deliciously sinful, one corner of his mouth turned up—was equally so. Fuck, this man was dangerous in more than one sense of the word. "You could say that."

"I do say that, you ridiculous man," you replied with a roll of your eyes. If he were closer, you'd kick him for his audacity. "And now I'm distracted by the thought of you scaring the shit out of bad people. Help me out here."

He laughed, stretching his own long legs out and crossing one ankle over the other, relaxing as he leaned back. God, you'd missed him. Missed this. "Fine. Yes, I'm scaring them. Trying to rattle them and find someone who can tell me about whoever Fisk is. Although someone else has done some of the work for me. They're under the impression I removed someone's head."

The way he said it so casually was strange, considering how ridiculous the thought was. You huffed in disbelief and then jokingly paused to consider. "I don't suppose you decapitated someone by accident?" At his flat expression—conveyed with only his mouth and a head tilt—you held up your hands. "Right, right, no killing. I remember."

"You think I would do that?" He wasn't letting it go for some reason, regardless of the fact you'd ceded. His body had tightened up, like he was preparing for a physical blow. You'd touched a nerve. And, there I go again. Foot in mouth. "Is that where you think I'm going to end up?"

"Matt, I'm sor—"

"Because that's a risk, isn't it? Something you should be afraid of. The Man in Black, and what he's capable of. Why aren't you?"

"Why aren't I what?" There was a landmine here. There was a landmine here somewhere and you were still in the dark, stumbling around unaware of just where it was. You were lucky you hadn't tripped over it, or maybe you had, and now you were left wondering if you could safely pick your foot up without being able to see.

This was about more than just a bad joke, more than about you, and you had a feeling you were about to get to the heart of his recent erratic behavior. He refused to turn your way, head rolled back in a forced show of relaxation as if he didn't care, but he did. He was vulnerable, armor cracked so badly you could fit your whole hand through to touch the fragile flesh underneath.

You needed to be careful. You needed to get this right.

Voice bitter, he continued. "Why aren't you afraid of me? Of what I might do? I didn't scare you the last time I was here when I cornered you; your heart rate was too calm. You should have been happy someone like me was staying away, but you weren't."

There were a lot of questions there you could have answered, including the one disguised as a statement, and you pondered over them before you chose the first. It seemed the easiest place to start. "Matt, if I wasn't afraid of you before, why would I start now?"

He curled a lip, still not turning towards you. "You were afraid of me when we first met. Of what I might do to you."

"Because I didn't know you then," you reminded him, recalling that night on the rooftop. "And then you started joking with me about grand duck larceny, and you saved me from being shot despite not knowing me, and you talked a guy off the ledge. After that I knew you weren't… someone I needed to be afraid of. You're a good person, Matt. Nothing you've done has changed that opinion."

"Good people don't like hurting people. I beat a man, tortured him, pushed him off a roof into a dumpster. And I enjoyed every second of it." He tipped his head towards you, curling his lips in a humourless grin. If it was supposed to make you feel threatened, it failed. All it did instead was make you ache for him. "You're telling me you're not afraid of someone who could do that?"

"I'm not. You know I'm not."

"Maybe you should be." The words were dragged from him, rough and broken. He slumped as he lifted a hand to rub across his face. "How could anyone let themselves lo—... be around someone like that? Someone who hurts people so easily? Someone who's so close to being like-like the people he's..."

There it is, you thought sadly. There's the real wound. Oh, Matt. You weren't sure where it had come from or how long it had been there, but it had cut deep. And he was finally baring it to you, offering you something so fragile and delicate that you knew you could crush it in your hands without any real effort at all.

You didn't bother denying or softening what Matt did at night. You'd known from the start how he operated—you'd met him as the Man in the Mask first after all. It had never bothered you, and it didn't bother you now. Those men had deserved it, but that wasn't the right path to take here.

You chewed on your lip, and then an idea came to you.

"Would you torture me?"

His whole body shuddered at the question, and his answer was immediate and emphatic, filled with more emotion than you were able to read.

"Never."

"Karen? Would you leave her in a dumpster?"

"No, but that's not—"

"The little kid that lives down the hall from you? Would you break his nose?"

"Stop."

"That old lady Foggy told me about who came to you guys? Would you smash her face in? Enjoy it? Or maybe—"

"Stop!" One of his hands slammed down on the arm of the chair and he reared up, teeth bared and ready to fight. You'd hit that button again, just as you'd intended.

The sudden silence was broken only by his panting and the calm, steady beat of your heart. His chest heaved, fingers tightening and releasing on the arms of the chair. You waited until he'd come down from the ledge you'd just pushed him up to, and then you gestured to him. "I don't think I'd ever be afraid of someone who reacts like that to the thought of hurting innocent people. You're not as close to that line as you think, Matt."

"I can still… I can still hurt you," he breathed, but it was unsure and faltering where he'd been confident before. "It-it doesn't have to be me making you bleed. I hurt you earlier."

"You could, and you did, but so could any other friend," you said thoughtfully. Matt had made himself vulnerable in his honesty to you, so you needed to return it in kind. "Just like Foggy could hurt you. Or Karen could hurt him. And like I could hurt you. I may not have punched you earlier, but I still managed to hurt you with that… that joke I think."

"That's different."

"Is it?" You chewed on your thumbnail as you thought it over. "I know how you feel about killing people. Did it hurt when I said it?" His hesitation was all the answer you needed. And god, the idea that you'd done that was a physical ache, but it made your point. "So I hurt you. I did that. I fucked up."

He shook his head, but his tone had at last become pensive instead of closed off and dripping with self-loathing. "You didn't mean it."

"Doesn't matter." Now it was your turn to struggle, your turn to attempt to verbalize your thoughts. "We all fuck up sometimes. And we... that's part of being friends and caring about other people. You figure out how to say sorry and make up for it. You telling me Karen and Foggy never had to apologize to each other cause they said something stupid?"

The snort that escaped him had you grinning, at the victory. "And yet they're still friends. You're not… you're not perfect Matt. No one is. But you make up for it when you aren't. With you, the pros far, far outweigh the cons. I trust you. I trust your judgement. You're my friend and I c—I really am sorry."

The amendment came at just the last second, and you caught the words 'I care about you' before they could escape. Your heart thumped once, hard, slamming against your rib cage at the almost-slip. A small slip, of course. Not because you did care but because...

Your mind raced for a better answer, reaching for protection, and for now, at least, found it.

He heard your heart, he must have since it had skipped inside your chest enough to rattle in your throat, but to your endless relief, he read it instead as fear over how he'd take your apology.

"I keep ruining this," he sighed. "I feel like I keep—"

It was fine. You'd almost slipped, not because you did care but rather because you'd been about to lie to Matt. He'd have sensed it, heard the lie, and hearing you lie about caring for him would have done far more damage than not saying you cared. But you'd spared him from that. He was ok, as were you. You were safe.

You sagged into your couch with relief. There was a quiet voice in the back of your mind, one filled with objections to your rationale, and you'd have to deal with it later. But for now? You could ignore it. You'd had years of practice.

If I don't look, it's not there.

You waved a hand, but the calming of your body did a lot of the speaking for you. "You didn't ruin anything. This was me, not you. Apologies and talking about this is hard for me, but it needed to be said. That joke was… that joke was wrong of me to make. I don't want to hurt you. I really am sorry."

His breath hitched just a little. And then, he… reached up, and slowly tugged his mask off. His warm brown eyes, when they turned sightlessly towards you, were soft and fond, perhaps the softest you'd ever seen them. His voice when he spoke was just as tender. "...Thank you. For… for all of that."

The clock ticked, and you both sat, but at least this time it was a comfortable silence. Eventually Matt, who'd closed his eyes, gave a little groan and readjusted into a sprawl. You wondered if he'd fall asleep in your chair if you left him alone long enough and the two of you could manage to quit riling each other up. Eventually, just when you were considering dozing off yourself, he returned to his original topic. "I'm going to use the… the murdered Russian, Anatoly, for my benefit. Keep going until I get to the top. This has to stop."

Well, that sounded ominous. You gave him a careful side-eye but you most certainly weren't going to push him right now, so you let it slide. "What was the name again? Vladimir?" you asked. You frowned at the ceiling, trying to dig through your memories, hunting for anything relevant. "Sounds familiar." You drummed your fingers on the couch. "I could ask aro—"

"No." It was a forceful interruption, guttural and sharp as he grit his teeth. "You can't talk to anyone about this. Not about Fisk, or the Russian Mob. They've killed people for even saying his name. You need to stay quiet."

"I'm not an idiot, Matt." You tipped yourself over onto the couch with a grunt, dragging yourself along until you could stretch out comfortably on your side, facing him. "I won't ask about the F-word, though. I can't promise I won't ask about the Russian Mob because everyone is talking about them and it would be weird if I didn't want to know enough to at least avoid stepping on any toes. If it makes you feel any better, I'll do my best to seem uninterested."

"I'd feel better if you agreed not to ask about any of it," Matt said sharply, brow furrowing. "Promise to call me if you're going on a case like… like that one again so I can come keep an eye on you."

"I can't just call you for every one of those cases that might go sideways, Matt."

"You can. You have to. We're talking about someone powerful. Someone with cops on his payroll, and people who kill themselves rather than tell me anything about him." He grimaced, rubbing at his eyes. It made sense, though, and explained why he'd rejected the idea of going to the cops earlier in the week. "I don't know who yet but I'm going to find out, and until then you need to stay under the radar and let me help you. Don't attract any extra attention."

You snorted. "Hard to do when they've got me on retainer as a psychic."

"Your contract should help," he said, mouth twisting into a stubborn line. "And I'll protect you when it doesn't."

And that, that hit you in a way that hurt. You swallowed around the sudden jagged shards of glass in your throat. God, you wished that were true. His lie had been unintentional but it was still a lie. "Matt—"

"I mean it. This, all this your client's involved in, I'm going to stop it. I won't let them hurt you."

You'd thought it was better now that you could see his face but no, it was so much worse, because now? Now you could see the earnestness with which he spoke, the determination. Stubborn man.

"You can't protect me from everything, Matt."

"How do you know unless you let me try?" He leaned forward further, like he wanted to reach for you across the space between you. His gaze settled somewhere around your mouth. "I know we… things went a little fast. But let's just take it slow. You talk to me and I help you. Let me help you. Please."

It was true that the two of you had dived headfirst into this strange friendship, caution thrown to the wind. You'd succumbed to the draw of someone who might finally understand you, your abilities, your loneliness. Maybe he had been sucked under by the same current, dragged along like you until the two of you had finally, inevitably, tumbled and crashed against the rocks. It had hurt, this fight, and even now the bruises of it lingered.

And that was worrying, in and of itself. It shouldn't have hurt you as badly as it did. You shouldn't have fixed it, should have let it go. Instead you'd made things so, so much worse.

"Ok," you said. "We can… yeah. Ok."

As he flashed a vulnerable smile, eyes lighting up, you felt something solidify inside your chest, a decision made. You were going to find a way to untangle yourself from this friendship without hurting him. You had to, because you were going to run soon.

And unless you found a way to protect him, it would destroy Matt when you did.