The red thread

by Lazydaily

matt and Read red strings. For TTS

7. Chapter 7

Smoke. Smoke, ash, and heat.

The taste of it smeared bitterly across your tongue, the charred scent filling your nose until you couldn't breathe. For one terrible moment, you thought you were back in Los Angeles, sixteen years old and bloodstained. Fire did that to you occasionally: sucked you back in time as surely as if a portal had opened beneath your feet and swallowed you up. Your fingers scraped across the cement sidewalk beneath you as you struggled to orient yourself.

This wasn't Los Angeles. This was New York.

You considered instead the possibility this was a repeat of the Incident, when a god from ancient lore had appeared in the sky. Behind him had roared an alien army thirsting for a battle that would have crushed the city were it not for the Avengers. The feeling of deja vu, of momentary panic, was a primal rush. That feeling existed outside your control. It was an instinctive reaction that you could neither fight nor escape. All you could do was breathe through it in heavy gasps, dragging your head along the rough pavement and blinking as the blurriness gradually faded from your vision.

This wasn't aliens or warring gods.

As your head cleared, your rattled brain attempted to assemble the series of events that had led to you finding yourself face-down on the pavement. You'd been coming back from… from the store, that was right. You'd taken the longer route because a pleasant breeze had blown in and it hadn't been as hot. And then… then you'd been tossed up against the side of a building by a sudden blast of force and heat that left you stunned senseless on the sidewalk.

The distorted warble of sirens howled in the distance as you staggered to your feet, your ears ringing. Across the street from you, the building that had been the source of the explosion still burned. People were screaming—and only a few of those screams were coming from inside the smouldering building. You touched a shaky hand to your temple, and your fingers came away sticky and red. Fuck, Matt's gonna be pissed I hit my head again. That cut must have been where you'd hit the building. More blood dripped from your ear on the opposite side, sound from that direction coming sluggish and thick like you were underwater. Other than that, you were... you were ok, you thought.

Are… are the cops coming? The fire department?

No, they wouldn't be coming. Not any time soon at least. There'd been more explosions in the distance, the light from additional fires burning bright and high in the dark night like beacons. More buildings had been hit. That meant emergency services would be swamped. There was no telling when they'd make it to your area.

You needed to help.

As you dragged yourself across the street towards the smoking building, you had only one thought:

I should have listened to Mr. Winter and stayed in bed.

-x-

36 Hours Earlier:

"And I'm telling you that based on the clause in paragraph thirteen, page eight of the contract that your client willingly signed with Ms. Hind, the scenario you're describing does not justify her turning over any personal information. It's privileged." Foggy—and Matt as well—had been repeating the idea, in various forms, for roughly the past hour. You all knew this was nothing but an attempt to spook you, or possibly an effort to get revenge by obtaining personal information that could be spread around. Fortunately for you, your sharks had easily held the line, though their stonewalling had begun to grate on the two people currently sitting across the table from you and your legal team.

That was fine with you considering you hated your ex-client almost as much as he hated you.

"And I'm saying," the opposing lawyer countered, tapping the files in front of her, "that based on the later clause on page 27, paragraph two, my client being called into court for harassment thanks to your client's actions clearly qualifies as—"

God, your eyes wanted to glaze over.

Matt's knee nudged yours under the table, jostling you. He didn't turn away from the people across the table and was by all appearances still completely focused on them, but you could sense the little smirk on his face. Your boredom amused him. Could he blame you though? At first, you'd been fascinated watching Foggy and Matt parry the arguments thrown at them, but that interest had waned about forty minutes ago when it became clear that most of this was for show. Your ex-client didn't have a leg to stand on, Matt had confidently informed you, so it wasn't like any of this bluster was an actual threat. The real purpose of the meeting was putting up the appearance of resistance before finally hammering out a deal that would force your ex-client to leave you alone after months of annoying legal filings.

"She wasn't supposed to be seen! Just find my ex, get me the photos, and come back!" snarled your former client: one Jeremiah something-or-other. Smith? Smitty? Salisbury? Something like that. He looked a lot more put together than the last time you'd seen him when he'd been ranting and raving in a pair of boxers and a robe, screaming at you as your taxi pulled away from the curb. Now he was in some fancy black suit and a red power tie, hair neatly combed, yelling in your face in an attempt to intimidate you. You snorted internally. Fat chance of that. You'd been threatened by far richer people.

Originally, you'd been hired to find his soon-to-be ex and take a few pictures to prove she was in the city. You were unclear why he'd wanted the photos; you'd been uninterested in the specifics and he'd been disinclined to give them. But then, oh then, he'd decided to be an absolute ass to you as well as imply his intention to short-change you on your fee. He'd also, coincidentally, forgotten to check the box labeled 'no contact ' on your contract. Therefore you'd decided the easiest method to fulfill your end of the bargain would be to photograph your target posing in front of an NYC street sign. She'd done so happily, middle finger and all, once you'd explained the situation.

Foggy had thought it was hilarious.

"The contract specifically addressed contact with Mrs. Sully on page fifteen and included a subsection in which you had the option to specify whether our client avoided contact. You signed that section without designating no contact," Matt said, cool and collected. Oh yeah. 'Sully'. That was it. Whoops. "Perhaps you should have read the contract a little more carefully."

"For fuck's sake, I'm sick of this," said Jeremiah 'Dickhead' Sully with a furious scowl. The ugly expression matched his winning personality, which was equally ugly if you said so yourself. As was that stupid red tie that made his head look too big. Like it belonged on top of a life-size bobblehead. Asshole. "This is going nowhere. Just make her give me my money back."

"Mr. Sully, please—" the opposing lawyer sighed in exasperation.

"Mmm, I'm afraid you're out of luck there too." Matt flashed a wicked smile that was equal parts predatory and falsely polite. Seeing him turn that look on an enemy of yours was immensely satisfying and you resisted the urge to stick your tongue out at Jeremiah. You shifted in your seat as Matt continued. "We both know our client refusing to provide the information requested isn't grounds for a refund. Neither is her contact with Mrs. Sully."

Matt was headed towards the final play. The three of you had discussed this part ahead of time. Technically you could go to court over the whole affair and most likely win, but it would've cost more to do so than you were interested in paying. The easiest way out, based on their discussions with Jeremiah's lawyer, would most likely end up being a settlement. If you refunded him a portion of the fee he'd paid, he'd leave you alone. Fortunately, you had the money, and while at first, you'd been reluctant to give so much as a shit-covered penny to the prick across from you, he'd dragged this entire affair out long enough that you just wanted it done with. Besides, Foggy and Matt knew what they were doing.

"However," Foggy took his turn, stabbing a finger in the air, "our client is feeling incredibly generous and would be willing to return 30% of the total fee. 30% of course being the amount your client failed to pay despite ours completing her job as dictated. It's the best offer you're going to get. Unless you'd rather talk about us taking your client to court for failure to pay as your client was contractually obligated to do—"

That was another bluff, but Foggy had insisted it would work if they managed to irritate your ex-client enough.

"Fine!" your ex-client spat, and you mentally added a tally mark to Foggy's win board. Well, I'll be damned. "Fine, just… fine. Fuck the lot of you. Give me the 30% and we can leave."

You'd come prepared. You retrieved your barely-used company checkbook out of your jacket where it hung on the back of your chair, hastily scribbled out the fee—which really wasn't as big a loss as it could have been, courtesy of Matt and Foggy—and flicked it dismissively across the table.

"The firm of Nelson and Murdock thanks you—" Foggy started, but he didn't even make it through the entire sentence before Jeremiah 'Assbutt' Sully had snatched up the check and stormed out in a huff, slamming the creaky door behind him so hard the inlaid glass rattled in its frame. Which granted wasn't saying much, since the glass had been poorly installed and always rattled if you so much as sneezed near it, but still. His lawyer watched him go then turned back to blink amicably across the table. "God, I hate that guy. Such a prick," she said, straightening her shirt cuffs and gathering up her documents. "You guys still on for drinks on Thursday?"

"You know it." Foggy reached across to shake the lawyer's hand. "I'd never miss it. Give Tammy our regards. Good luck on that insurance case next week, too, by the way. You're gonna kill it."

The opposing lawyer saluted and stood to follow her furious client out, leaving the three of you behind to collect your own belongings.

You slumped in your folding chair and rolled your head back to stare at the grungy ceiling tiles and flickering lights. "I don't know how you guys deal with this all the time. I would die. I would literally die. That is not a metaphor."

Matt huffed a laugh. "I can't say dealing with people like Mr. Sully is my favorite part of the job."

"Ha!" Foggy barked, pointing an accusatory finger at Matt. "You're lucky your flaming pants aren't setting off the smoke detectors—we need to replace those, by the way—because I know for a fact you enjoyed chewing that guy up. Don't let him fool you, Jane. Matt's as bloodthirsty as they come. A total barbarian!"

Matt shook his head solemnly, though he could barely keep a grin off his face. "Sounds like slander to me. I could take you to court for it."

"See? He's just itching for another fight already!" Foggy plucked his jacket off the back of his own chair and tapped your shoulder as he rose. "We were gonna head to Josie's. You in? First drink's on us, or rather you since you paid us this morning."

You gnawed on your lip, considering it. The offer of a friendly night out was tempting, and you could certainly use a drink after the ridiculous case you'd been on last night. Then again, you were flirting with true exhaustion and you weren't sure how much energy you had in you. "I don't know. It was kind of a grind at work last night and I'm considering just crashing early."

"Oh-ho! Do I detect an adventure courtesy of the psychic biz?" Foggy leaned over you eagerly. "So what was it? Long lost family being reunited?"

"That would have been interesting, but no."

He threw more questions at you, ticking off options on his fingers as he rattled down what was clearly a mental list he'd previously composed.

"Seance with the other side?"

"No."

"Tracking down one of the FBI's most wanted?"

"Nope."

"Helping the Avengers find their stolen super suits?"

"I regret to inform you that the vision you have of my life is vastly more exciting than the reality."

"Well, you can't keep us hanging now," said Matt, nudging you in good humour. "And he'll keep asking, so I suggest you save yourself and give in. He's relentless."

"Yeah, Jane! Spill!" Foggy put his hands on his hips and tried to scowl down at you, but he couldn't keep the sheer delight off his face. No doubt concocting yet more elaborate adventures that could have kept me up late.

You grimaced because the reality was far less glamorous than helping Avengers or communing with the dead. You rolled your eyes and heaved the words out with great reluctance. "I had to... chase a parrot."

Foggy choked. "A… a parrot?"

"Yes. His name is Theodore. He's big, white, an expert climber, beloved by his owner, and bites like a motherfucker." You helpfully held up your forearm in demonstration, showing off the gauze bandage that covered the wound the enraged parrot had left you with. The hook-beaked bastard hadn't just nipped you, either. You'd been left with two bleeding punctures punched into your flesh by what amounted to a toddler with a set of bolt cutters attached to his face. "He also told me, in increasingly filthy language, what he thought of my mother every time I got close to him."

For a moment you thought you might get some sympathy. You deserved it after the shit you'd gone through to catch the parrot, but then Foggy cracked and a giggle tumbled out of him. "Wait no, ok, I've got it, sorry." He swallowed, attempting to compose himself. Then he saw your expression and lost it again before he could even take a breath, and this time he howled with laughter. Even Matt, the traitorous bastard, covered his mouth to hide what was presumably a smile. Et Tu, Matthew? "Oh my god, I'm sorry, but I can just imagine you with this parrot," Foggy gasped, holding on to the table as if he needed it to stand. "You, so pissed and this parrot just-just, swearing and flipping you the feather!"

"It's not funny," you grumbled, trying to seem angry when in truth you were actually enjoying yourself; you'd already laughed off most of the incident. "I chased that stupid bird all over the city and still ended up with a bite. And he pooped on me. Twice."

But that just made Foggy laugh harder. Matt, suppressing his own grin, settled a sympathetic hand on your shoulder. "Allow us to make it better with a few drinks. Really. It's the least we can do."

"Yes," Foggy said, feigning seriousness. "You could say it will help relieve your… birden."

Matt groaned and you crumpled a piece of paper to chuck at Foggy's retreating back as he chortled his way out of the room, shouting down the hall, "Karen! Karen, come here, I've got a pun for you!"

Matt rose as you did, dipping his head. He was still smiling, little crinkles at the corner of his eyes, visible even with his glasses still on. "May I?"

"Knock yourself out, Murdock," you said with a long-suffering sigh, offering him up your arm. He gently took it, running his fingers up and down your forearm to get a read on the wound under the bandage. The warm drag of his callused fingertips against your skin sent goosebumps racing down your spine as his hands drifted around the bite. You shifted on your feet, waiting for him to conclude his examination.

"Not a through-and-through at least. I'm glad the doctor gave you antibiotics though," he said with a hum, using his fingers to frame the bandaging. You didn't question what part of your body gave away that you'd been taking antibiotics or that you'd made a stop at a late-night clinic. "The skin's a little too warm, but the infection is minor. It may scar, but not badly."

"One more reason for me not to take bird cases anymore," you muttered as he ran a thumb distractedly over the delicate skin of your wrist. "They're practically impossible to track. What a nightmare."

"Call for help next time. I could at least keep you company, even if my prior experiences haven't prepared me for foul-mouthed parrots. Couldn't be any worse than the Russian Mob though." He released your arm, dropping his hands to run quick fingers across the braille documents in front of him. As he sorted the pages, ensuring everything was in order, you gathered up your own papers and laptop. "Really, though," he added. "You're invited out with us. We mean it. Even if it's not tonight, it's a standing offer."

You recognized the olive branch for what it was. The both of you were still cautious with one another, moving in a coordinated dance as you settled by degrees back into friendship. Before, Matt's offer would have been something to reject out of hand, but you'd reached a passive state of acceptance when it came to your friendship. Why worry? You were going to leave soon. The relief that thought provided, the comfort and solidity of the decision, had soothed you and your restlessness. If you were leaving soon, then there was no danger to be found here because there was no way things could change so drastically between now and then. All you were doing was taking the time to get your ducks in a row. It wasn't often you got to plan your escape weeks in advance. It was far more often a sudden, panicked flight brought on by the shadow of a predator lurking in the dark. This, though, was better. Calming.

You could be friends with Matt until then, or until you found a way to safely untangle the two of you from whatever this was.

You'd given yourself a month at most. One month to wrap things up, and then you would be gone. You'd pick up the bag under your floorboards, and gather up any identifying materials in your apartment. Those mementos of Jane Hind's life would either be dropped in the river or burned depending on flammability. Then you'd send off a few nasty emails and messages to certain parties, except for Matt if you could avoid it, in order to ensure you were properly hated. After that, it was hello Boston—or maybe Seattle? You hadn't hit the West Coast in a while, and though the Pacific Northwest was rainy, it also had a temperate rainforest some hours drive outside Seattle. That kind of lush greenery, miles upon miles of towering Sitka spruce and red cedar trees, was a biome you hadn't yet had the pleasure of experiencing.

Why not enjoy this time here in New York while it lasted?

"I suppose I could come along," you told Matt, matching his tentative smile. "Might be nice to get out for something other than work. Speaking of which. How are you, uh, you know." You made a vague gesture, referencing his other activities.

His mouth pulled tight and he pulled his glasses off to rub tiredly at his eyes. Without the opaque shield of tinted glass, the dark circles under his eyes could no longer escape your notice. You kept a lot of late nights yourself, but his were even more exhausting than yours. You rarely had to punch anyone. "I got some info from a… police officer who's connected," he said, voice pitched low so it wouldn't carry through the thin office walls. "One of the two from that station shooting. I managed to get his burner phone, too, but it didn't have much. I've got names, and pieces of what's happening, but not enough to connect it all. The Russian Mob is definitely involved with your client. They've been spotted together."

And here you'd been trying not to get involved with the Russian Mob. Good job on that one, girl.

"I asked around too," you said. "I didn't use names, but—"

He reached out and grabbed your upper arm, his hand tightening almost painfully as he stepped into you and ducked his head. He was so close you could see the flecks of grey and hazel hidden in the brown of his eyes, his scent floating around you. The cinnamon undernotes were stronger here in his office, less blood and salt. It had struck you as significant at first: the way his scent shifted between Matt and D, but the more time you spent around him, the more you were beginning to think differences like those weren't actually all that huge. Matt was D. D was Matt. The only difference was his choice of color palette.

His voice dropped to a rough whisper, frustration leaking in around the edges. "A man was killed just for mentioning a name. You can't be involved in this, in what I'm doing—"

"I'm not, or not outwardly at least," you whispered back, glancing at the door before turning back to him. "I told you I wouldn't use names or talk about anything other than what the Russians are up to. Everyone is talking about the Russians, Matt; it's not like it's a secret they're on edge. People get chatty. I was careful."

You waited as he frowned, standing a hair's breadth away. He'd sense your truth, and what had he expected? You always kept up with what was going on underground. Rumours concerning secretive arrivals in town had saved your life more than once in the past. You weren't going to stop keeping your ear to the ground now, especially not when the knowledge you gathered might benefit both of you. Eventually, Matt couldn't resist the bait you'd tempted him with and murmured, "And did you hear anything?"

"Rumour is Vladimir had a brother delivered back to him headless. He thinks it's you that did it; there was some clue on the body that pointed to your alter ego, although I haven't heard what." You reached up to grip his hand where it still held your arm and squeezed. You knew how he felt about killing, and you weren't going to hurt him again by treating the issue lightly. "The Russians at the bottom of the pack are talking conspiracy, that you're someone's weapon. Maybe you-know-who's, although I couldn't ask that obviously. And right now I'm not sure they're wrong. You're being used, Matt."

He nodded, blowing out a heavy breath. "That matches what I've been hearing. The detective I… interrogated… he acted like there was something a lot bigger going on than just the Russian Mob's distribution system. Fisk is pulling their strings, and he's using me as a distraction. I need to find Vladimir, see what I can get out of him."

"Hey! Lovebirds!" Foggy called, leaning around the doorframe. Your head snapped up and you quickly stepped away from Matt while he dropped your arm. "You guys gonna keep staring longingly in each other's direction or are we all gonna go to Josie's?"

You rolled your eyes as you grabbed your laptop bag and hooked it over your shoulder. "How do you know we were staring longingly and not plotting against you?"

"As if!" he scoffed, though he shot a suspicious glare Matt's way.

"You did try to trade my virtue to her for the state of Wisconsin, Foggy," Matt deadpanned, keeping a straight face. "Maybe I convinced her to ally herself with me instead. Then she'll have my virtue, and all fifty states."

"Traitor," Foggy gasped at you as you shrugged and Matt broke character to grin. "What did he promise you? I can't believe this. Two of my friends just turned on me like animals! Now I really need a drink."

-x-

"You did not—" Karen gasped at you, eyes wide.

You shook your head as you chalked the tip of your pool cue. Josie's was busy tonight, as usual. The noise wasn't what you'd been planning on tonight, but you found yourself happy to be there all the same. "All true, one-hundred percent. They were his lucky briefs and he didn't think he could win an election without them."

"You're so lying."

"I don't know," Foggy challenged her as he lined up his shot, humming to himself. "I've heard weirder. Definitely not out of the realm of possibility at this point."

"Weirder than lucky briefs that win you votes?" Matt laughed as he handed you another beer. You accepted and took a sip as Foggy smoothly slid his pool cue forward. You had to hide your grin behind your bottle at the string of swears he let loose when he misjudged the force needed and the cue ball stopped just shy of nudging the next into the corner pocket.

"You don't read the right newspapers, my dear Matthew." Foggy stepped back, narrowing his eyes at the table as if imagining setting the whole thing alight for its failure to ensure his victory. "Someone saw Thor in Houston buying poptarts last week. Hand to God, it's true!"

"He's been reading this stuff since college. It never ends," Matt sighed.

Karen raised her eyebrows at Foggy. "What, like, Bigfoot-married-my-mother type stuff?"

"Go ahead, laugh it up," he pointed at Karen and then Matt, "but this stuff kept me alive during finals, even Mrs. Bigfoot! Although I will admit: at least Thor buying poptarts is more believable than Bigfoot marriages, or that homeless guy in L.A. claiming someone stole his body. Why wouldn't Thor like poptarts?"

"Why would he get poptarts if he's a god and can eat god-food or whatever it is they eat in Asgard?" you mused absently, circling the table and calculating your own move.

"Have you actually had a poptart, Jane? I'm fairly certain crack is one of the main ingredients. It would explain a lot. Those things are way too delicious for something that you could probably still eat out of the box fifty years from now after a nuclear war."

You hmmph'ed, wrinkling your nose when your shot didn't go much better than Foggy's. That opened the window for him to take the lead again. You were lucky you hadn't bet on yourself tonight.

"Not good?" Matt asked you kindly, leaning his hip against the corner of the pool table.

"Abysmal. I've got no luck tonight seems like. Maybe if someone didn't keep talking about Bigfoot, I'd have had it." You stuck your tongue out at Foggy who retaliated by miming your last shot blowing up in your face.

"Maybe you should have kept that senator's lucky briefs," Karen said slyly, flicking her fingers at you. "Might have helped your luck."

"Oh! Oh, ouch, Jane!" Foggy chortled, doing much better on this move and once again in high spirits, strutting around the table. The man seemed to rebound from just about everything, damn him. "You should go over to the bar and ask for some ice."

"You only won because I let you," you grumbled as Foggy finished up the match, taking you out with little trouble. Your phone buzzed as Foggy enacted a celebratory dance and you snorted, lifting your phone to glance at the screen.

Incoming Call From: Unknown Number

Hmm. It was an unfamiliar number, not one in your contacts, but the area code caught your attention. 213. Interesting. Most likely a spam caller, but it couldn't hurt to check.

"I have to take this," you said, waggling your phone and bowing out for now. "Might be a work call."

"I suppose I, as the magnanimous victor, can allow it." Foggy waved grandly, but then the playfulness fell away and he lowered his voice. "As long as everything's ok and it's not you-know-who calling you."

Matt watched you closely, taking in your body language as you nodded. He was probably focused on your heart and breathing, his senses digging deep inside the hollow of your chest to get a reading on your mood. But you really were ok at the moment. There was no need to get worked up before you knew who was calling. "I'm sure it'll be fine. I'll be back in a minute."

You quickly made your way through the chattering, drunken crowd, darting out the doorway and into the warm, humid night. You took a second to breathe, letting the wet evening air settle around you like a familiar, tattered blanket before you turned and headed for the alley a few storefronts down. That was one of the few downsides of major-city living—there was rarely a time when the streets were anything less than 'somewhat busy.' It could make having certain conversations on the street difficult. Too many listening ears.

Gravel crunched under your feet as you turned down the empty, dead-end alley, stopping about halfway down. A quick scan of the brick buildings bordering the space showed no lights on or easily accessible windows someone might listen from. Satisfied that you were alone for the moment, you thumbed accept and lifted the phone to your ear. "Hello?"

"Mia cara, can't speak long. There might be ears. So listen."

Well, this was a surprise. You knew that voice: rich and thoughtful, each word chosen with all the care of a master statesman. It was a voice you hadn't expected to be hearing from tonight, or any night really. For both your safety as well as his own, he rarely reached out. Even then it was usually an email, a short note in the mail, or—on one notable occasion—a birthday card. It had been years since you'd verbally spoken, and you hadn't received any written word from him since fleeing your last apartment in Minneapolis.

"Listening, sir," you confirmed, straightening up. You'd both have to be short and succinct, and avoid names, just in case there really were other parties listening in. It wouldn't be the first time someone had tried to tap his calls. You paced a few steps further down the alley when someone opened a door on the street, letting out the sound of a crowd. At the reminder of your need for caution, a thought occurred to you. Slivers of ice crawled down your spine despite the warm night and your whole body tightened. You'd given yourself a month but did you have that long? "Is it him? Is it—"

"Relax. Last I heard, he was still in San Antonio."

You relaxed at that, closing your eyes and letting out a shaky breath. If the Man in the White Coat was still in San Antonio, that meant he was at least five cities behind you. San Antonio. Miami. Tulsa. Memphis. Minneapolis. God only knew how long it would take him to work through each of those cities, hunting you down and coming up with nothing, following the false trails you'd laid in your escapes. Some cities you'd stayed in for a short time, others for months. He'd be busy. It didn't mean you could drop your guard, but it meant your methods had been working. You'd have to keep it up after you left New York. "That's good. Why the call, then?"

"Had someone come asking about your history, claimed you were signing on. You're trouble, cucciola, and you're in trouble. I'd have called sooner but you've gotten good at hiding." Leather creaked on his end, and you picked up the tinkle of ice in a glass. He was probably in his study, settled into his favorite chair with a drink in one hand.

It had to have been Mr. Winter who'd contacted him, or maybe Mr. Winter's employer. They were the only ones who'd placed you on retainer at present.

Your false identity was incredibly good, in key part because you and your forger were thorough from top to bottom when creating your new life. You didn't just get a new name and a fake driver's license or birth certificate; didn't just use cash whenever possible rather than cards that could be tracked, or keep yourself off most forms of social media. You'd learned your lesson early on with how quickly you'd been found. No, you lived your new identity, dissolved your own interests and slid the new skin up over yourself until your real shape was completely obscured.

You ate what your identity would eat, drank what they would drink, bought movie tickets to what they would watch, wore the clothes they would wear, shopped where they would shop, and decorated your personal space the way they would decorate. With each new identity you ensured that, on paper, there was nothing that might give away who you actually were. Repeat that with multiple cities, with multiple identities and looks and lives, and it became an incredibly convoluted web to untangle. There were very few outside of Matt who'd seen the real you.

If Mr. Winter and his employer had tracked you back as far as Los Angeles, then you were dealing with someone who was both very, very determined and someone who had access to considerable resources. You were back playing in the big leagues, now. The only small comfort you could find was the fact that, in the circles where awareness of you was more common knowledge, Los Angeles had been your most notorious locale. It was possible Mr. Winter and his employer had realized you matched the profile, without tracking their way back through multiple cities.

That still wasn't much of a comfort.

"How much trouble am I in, sir?"

"Let me put it this way. When he and his friends ask questions, I answer, as should you."

"You don't answer to anyone, sir." Your response was ingrained in you, the words delivered without thought or hesitation. It was a truth as solid as the knowledge that each morning the sun would rise. Where he lived, he ruled, and it was others who followed. That hadn't changed from when you were sixteen. The idea that someone could order him around was absurd.

"Maybe when someone's on my turf. But you aren't on my turf. You're on the King's land and there, his word is law. I have no say."

You were quiet for a moment as you absorbed yet another reminder of just how poorly this could all go for you, should you or Matt make a misstep. He read your silence and his words became gentle. "I could call in some favors, and see if he would be open to an exchange. The king is not needlessly cruel, and I have things here that might help him expand his business if he'd let my hound come home."

It was an offer he'd made years ago, a wrapped gift left there for you to take if you so wished. If you said yes to him, in a few hours there'd be a plane for you, fueled and ready to take you back to Los Angeles. You could return to comfort, be with people who—while certainly not... good people—at least cared about you. They could offer a certain amount of protection from those who would harm you. But that was just it, the cruel truth you couldn't ignore: that level of protection wasn't enough. That had been made clear to you when you'd been found there. There were days when you wished you could take him up on the offer, but you were forced to reject it for the same reasons you had years ago.

"We both know I can't," you said quietly, shaking your head sadly as if he could see you. "You know they're still watching you in case I come back. Thank you though. I'll just… have to rely on my own plan and use what you taught me. I'll be ok; I always am."

"Mia cara," he sighed. "Sono in pensiero per te. Watch yourself, and don't go sticking that puppy nose of yours in places you are not welcome. Do as asked and no more. Understand?"

"I do."

"Take care."

You hung up, staring down at your phone for a beat before slipping it into your pocket and turning back up towards the alley opening. You were both surprised and not to find Matt standing silently, cane in hand, at the alley entrance. You shoved your hands in your jacket pockets, eyeing him warily. Matt hadn't needed to be this close to hear your conversation. With his senses, he could listen in from blocks away. The fact that he'd not only followed you out, but was also letting you see him, was significant. It meant he wasn't going to hide from you that he'd been listening.

He was considering you just as closely as you were him. He seemed calm, almost cautious with his head low and his body at ease and non-combative. He was making himself as non-threatening as he could, which meant he wasn't… judging like you'd been worried he might. At your attention he took a few steps closer, careful and slow as if moving in towards a wounded animal, giving you a chance to move away or reject what he'd done. When you did neither, instead remaining still and allowing his approach, he kept coming, cane tapping rhythmically along the gravel until he stopped a few steps away. Now you were both safe from any curious listeners on the street. "You seem… Unsettled." He paused, licking his lips and choosing his words thoughtfully before continuing. "I thought you didn't talk to people from your past?"

"I don't, usually," you admitted, shuffling a little closer. Matt would pick up on anyone entering the alley but this still felt like a conversation to be had from close up. "We're not supposed to have contact, but, well. You heard."

He nodded, not even bothering to deny the mild accusation though you'd delivered it without any real heat. You weren't upset and he could tell, though he still offered an explanation. "I came out to check on you and make sure you were ok. I ended up hearing the second half. Was he talking about—"

"I think so." You bit your lip and released it. "Matt, if he's wary of the man at the top of this ladder you're climbing, then just maybe consider slowing down a bit."

He shook his head grimly. "I can't stop. Not now."

"I'm not asking you to stop, I'm just..."

"Just what?" he asked softly when you trailed off. "Tell me."

Just… what? What were you asking him? You stared down at your shoes. You couldn't, wouldn't ask him to stop, wouldn't ask him to tolerate the agony of being forced to listen to all that pain and suffering without acting. It would have been the height of cruelty to expect that of him. But it wasn't just that. He helped those people and made the city a safer place. You truly believed that, with all your heart.

So what did you want exactly?

"I want you… to be careful on this one," you said slowly, words coming as slowly as the thoughts did, dripping out like molasses. Your eyes darted back and forth, trying to see through the dark red glass that hid his eyes. You hoped he could hear your sincerity. "I want you to understand that you're mortal, Matt. And that I—we need you here, doing what you're doing. Don't… don't leap on this one without looking, is all."

You hated having to admit anything like this since it implied a certain level of care, but you couldn't get around the fact that you were worried for him, and for Hell's Kitchen. You wanted, more than anything, to know he would be ok when you finally left. You wanted to know that no matter where you landed, Matt would still be here punching faces in and maybe having some moments of happiness in between. He was too good of a person not to deserve that. Just because you couldn't give that to him didn't mean you didn't want him to have it without you. The knowledge that Matt was still breathing, alive and vibrant and full of fire, would go a long way to soothing your mind when you skipped town.

Your words hung between you and there was so much more you wanted to say. You wanted to tell him you were going to leave soon, that you may have to hurt him before you did but you wouldn't mean it. You wanted to tell him you'd miss him dearly, and that he'd become one of the closest friends you'd had since you'd been discovered in Los Angeles and found yourself forced to flee. You wanted to tell him what that meant to you. You didn't say any of those things, not to him or yourself, but the heavy weight of them was there underneath the silence, even if he didn't quite know what it was you weren't saying. Realization passed over his face, leaving his expression soft and a little sad. He dipped his head.

"I can't promise nothing will happen to me but… I'll try."

"Thank you."

-x-

You'd expected a certain amount of suspicious behavior now that you were on retainer for some sort of mysterious criminal mastermind—especially with the warning that had come last night—but the gift basket and attached request you found waiting on your desk the next morning wasn't quite the kind of strangeness you were anticipating.

Sudden appearance of bodies? Maybe.

A bald man with a cat sitting in your chair? Possible.

But little French cheeses? That was not something you'd written down on your mental list of 'things evil overlords might send to workers to keep up morale.'

You read over the note again in puzzlement.

"Dear Ms. Hind,

It has come to our attention that we've failed to properly mark the occasion of you accepting our offer to become part of something bigger. We're also aware you've been working yourself particularly hard this past month. Our first task is simple: take the next few evenings off to relax. Stay in bed, avoid exerting yourself in the heat, and enjoy.

Sincerely,

Your New Employers"

"The fuck?" you mumbled, poking at the package. It was… a very nice gift basket, the contents of which probably cost more than your food budget for an entire month. Included inside was a pricy bottle of wine that looked older than you were, a soft silk robe for lounging around in, a box of gourmet truffles from Switzerland, and hand-crafted cheeses from France. "Holy shit, this is amazing. Maya! Did you see this?"

"Of course we saw it. You're lucky you're not beating us off with sticks." She peeked around the door, eyeing the basket with barely-disguised hunger. "Only thing missing is some fancy crackers. Although if you want to share…"

"I'll get some tonight and bring in whatever I don't eat tomorrow. I get first go though," you laughed, perching on your desk corner as you picked through the basket. Goddamn, that robe was soft, and you were already constructing a plan to spend the night wearing it and lay around your couch eating fancy food. Maybe you'd even watch some cheesy movies, no pun intended.

Mr. Winter and his employer may have been criminals, but they had good taste. There was nothing wrong with taking advantage of that. After all, the gift basket had already been purchased and delivered. It would have been a shame to let it all go to waste and wind up in the garbage somewhere. You were doing your part to reduce waste.

"You deserve the reward I guess," Maya said in mock reluctance. "Guy's got deep pockets and you're to thank for reeling this one in and keeping him on the line for us. They must really like you if they're sending you something this expensive."

"What can I say?" you said, picking up the note again. Yet again, it had been hand-written in black calligraphy on thick, cream-colored cardstock. Who the hell even wrote like that anymore? "I'm a likable gal, and apparently they want to keep me relaxed and happy."

"You gotta admit that note's a little weird though. Telling you to stay home and rest."

"Yeah but telling me to take a few nights off isn't exactly threatening. What other reason could they have other than wanting me to be at my best?"

-x-

Now:

"Hello?" you yelled, scrabbling clumsily over piles of smouldering rubble. You swung your head, trying to listen with your good ear for a response as you coughed again, waving away smoke. You couldn't stay in here forever with all this shit in the air and the chance that the rest of the building would come tumbling down on your head at any second, but you also couldn't leave until you'd checked for survivors. Hopefully, you wouldn't get flattened like a pancake before then. "Hello! Anyone in here?"

"Here!" The gasp was quiet, punched out and breathless, and you could barely hear it over the crackling of the flames and the ringing in your ear. "Please, pomogi mne!"

"Hang on! I'm-I'm coming, keep talking."

There were bodies here.

The further you got into the building, the more corpses you found scattered about, burned and crushed under mountains of debris. You swallowed down the urge to vomit. These weren't the first bodies you'd seen, far from it, but you were out of practice. No doubt Matt would have argued that was a good thing. The familiar sickly-sweet stench of burning flesh lingered under the harsh, sooty top notes of concrete and charred wood. You were going to have to spend a lot of time when you got home scrubbing yourself until you were free of it, or else you'd be having nightmares and flashbacks for the next month.

You couldn't help but note certain clues as you made your way closer to the source of the calls for help. You weren't sure who these casualties were, exactly. Their clothes—the ones that weren't burned to a crisp—didn't look particularly high-end. There weren't uniforms that you could see or religious markings. The fact that multiple buildings seemed to have been hit meant it was most likely targeted, intentional. Or that was your rough guess, right now. For all you knew, these buildings were all connected by the same gas line and this had been an accident. If it was intentional though, you needed to get to whoever was still alive in here and drag them out before anyone else came looking to finish the job.

"Hello? I, I can't hear very well, can you—"

"Ya zdes'! Here!"

You scrambled down into a pit in the rubble, making your way towards the bloodied arm waving at the bottom. This section of the building at least wasn't really burning, and so you had a flame-free path towards him over wrenched steel and splintered wood. "I-I'm here, hey there. Hang on, ok?"

"Please!" he rasped, reaching out to grab at your leg. His grip was surprisingly tight for someone who'd just survived an explosion, his fingers squeezing hard enough to sting. You weren't sure what he looked like under all the ash and blood but his eyes stood out bone white, wide and terrified, against the red and grey smeared across his face. "Please, I can't get out! Pomogi mne—"

"I've-I've got you, I'm gonna get you out of here, ok?" You began to dig at the pile on top of him, your nails chipping and bleeding as you shoved aside whatever you could: blackened wood, chunks of drywall, concrete and rebar. Unfortunately, you didn't get very far before you hit a piece of steel too heavy to lift. The man was pinned at the hip under a massive, heavy beam that stretched untold yards off under more debris. He tried to heave the beam upward with you assisting, but it didn't move so much as an inch. You groaned, sagging against the steel and wiping away the sweat gathering on your forehead.

"Hello? Anyone in here?" yelled a new voice. "Police!"

"Got one over here," replied another voice, coming from the same direction.

The two cops sounded close, close enough to help, maybe. You turned to the injured man to reassure him as his eyes darted to you. "I'm going to go get them, ok? They can help me dig you out. I'll be right back."

He snatched at your pants leg, clawing at the fabric as you began to climb out of the pit. He wheezed at you, frantic in a language you didn't understand.

"Net! Net! Oni s nim!"

"It's going to be ok," you groaned, yanking your leg free from his panicked attempts to keep you there. There was nothing you could do to assist him other than get help. His fingers scrabbled, clawlike, across the ground as he tried futilely to free himself again. "We'll get you out."

You finally managed to reach the top of the dip and there, maybe twenty yards away, were two police detectives—one a woman of average height and build, the other a larger man with a stereotypical bodyguard build. He looked vaguely familiar. They were dressed in plain clothes, button ups and slacks with their badges and guns on their hips as they stood over a victim who'd reached up to them with a trembling hand. Unlike you, they weren't as covered in ash and grit, and clearly hadn't been here long. You'd never been more relieved to see a pair of cops in your life. You lifted a hand to call out to them.

Then the larger cop unholstered his gun, raised it, and fired calmly at the man on the ground.

The two loud pops froze you where you kneeled, your body locking in place as you stared wide-eyed. The dead man's arm flopped limply, head sagging as blood spilled out onto the ground with a wet splatter. The cop sighed and lowered his weapon. "Come on, let's see if there's anyone else. And then, what, you want pizza maybe if Rosie's is still open?"

"We had pizza last night. Let's do Chinese this time. Haven't had egg rolls in ages and I can make 'em open the door for us."

You slithered back down the rubble as carefully and quietly as you could, keeping a hand over your mouth to prevent your gasps from alerting them to your presence. They killed him, holy shit, they killed him. These must have been some of the cops Matt had warned you about, the ones working for Fisk. And if these cops were dirty, you weren't going to count on them for help. Not when you'd just seen them shoot someone. You needed to get out of here, but the man behind you…

Pop. Pop.

The shots had come closer, edging in your direction, and you thanked whoever was listening that you still had at least one good ear to track them with. You crawled over to the wounded man, trying one last time to shift the beam as you bared your teeth, muscles straining with the effort. If you couldn't lift it, you might be able to at least relieve the pressure long enough for him to drag himself out.

Pop. Pop.

He helped as best he could, writhing and clawing like an animal as he tried to drag himself out from under the beam. But not only did the beam not move, his increasingly panicked struggles to free himself shifted rubble and caused a piece of drywall to tumble free.

You watched, seemingly in slow motion, as it landed on the ground with a dull crack!

"Hey, heard something over there."

There was no more time. You touched the wounded man on the shoulder. "You play dead. Do you understand?" you hissed. He stared up at you, face blank, and you pinched his skin until he winced. "Tell me you understand!" At his nod, you released him. He dropped his head down, took a shuddering breath, and closed his eyes. That left you to look for somewhere to hide: an opening, a gap, anything.

There! On the far side of the depression was a hollow in the rubble, a small triangle of dark, enclosed space formed between a slab of charred wood and a hunk of drywall. You might be able to squeeze into it. You didn't hesitate, making your way towards it. Just as you were about to throw yourself into the hole, pebbles from above came skittering down in front of you. Heart sinking, you tilted your head up, and came face-to-face with the barrel of a gun.

"And who the hell are you?" The cop asked. She was blonde, brown-eyed, and seemed almost… bored as she stared down at you. Considering how close she was to killing another human being, you'd expected to see a spark of anger in her eyes, or maybe disgust, but there was... nothing. She looked at you as she might any other manual task—not as something she hated but simply something she had to do, like taking out the trash or changing lanes on the highway. She'd feel no guilt for killing you, and she'd sleep just as peacefully tonight as she would any other night, not thinking of you once.

There was nowhere to go, nowhere to hide, and you weren't sure you could talk your way out of trouble this time. But you had to try.

Your heart thudded in your chest, adrenaline making your hands shake.

For some reason, you thought of Matt, and his smile.

The larger detective appeared beside the first. In contrast to her, he was dark-haired, broad and massive like a bull broken free from its tether. From this angle he appeared even larger, looming over you with a similar bland expression that matched his partner's. Like her, to kill you now would mean nothing to him. Your life was trivial, unimportant; a stepping stone that would carry him forward to whatever came next.

Bizarrely, he brought to your mind memories of that early case with Mr. Winter. Maybe it was simply because you had a gun pointed at you again, but… no. There was something else. He must have felt the same gnawing sense of familiarity about you, because he squinted down at you and then…

He laughed.

"Wait, hold on, Parker. She's one of ours."

What?

The woman with the gun—Parker—immediately lowered it. "I thought all our guys were supposed to be out of here by now."

"Yeah, what're you doing out here? You miss the memo or something?" The man asked you curiously, extending his massive hands down to you to pull you out of the hole. You had no option but to take them, and he levered you up and out with ease. "Jesus, look at you."

Think, think, think.

Your mind raced for an answer. You couldn't say too much, but you couldn't say too little. They apparently knew that this was going to happen, and that meant that you should have too if you were one of them. And explosions, explosions would have had to be carefully timed, right? So, mix the truth with the little info they'd given you but keep it vague.

"Store run before everything got shut down," you said, clearing your throat and shoving your hands in your pockets to hide the tremor. You needed to appear as casual as they did. You forced your shoulders to relax. "Thought I could make it back home in time but guess not." The explanation spilled out smoothly, your years of telling half-truths allowing you to rely on instinct now when you needed those skills the most.

Don't say too much. Most liars tell long stories, with too many details. Keep it simple, precise.

The man laughed again, as if you'd just said something particularly funny at a party and not while you were standing in a burned-out building, surrounded by a bunch of dead bodies. "Man, I feel that. Might have tried to go for a beer run myself if I'd been off tonight. But girl, you got shit timing."

"Tell me about it. I can never keep track of time. It's a, uh, personal failing."

The woman, Parker, was still watching you, radiating suspicion until the man nudged her with an elbow. "Relax. She helped track down Oscar. Saw the famous psychic in action myself. Bastard was hiding up in the ceiling in a hidden attic, if you can believe it, and she found him like it was nothing."

"This is the psychic? Shoulda led with that. Jesus, John." She rolled her eyes, but then finally appeared to unwind, shoulders falling as she raised an eyebrow at you. "I'd have been in deep shit if I shot you. Maybe you could do me a favor and not bring that up with anyone."

You bit the inside of your cheek until it bled, forcing a grin onto your face. You'd been here before. You'd had to lie through your teeth to save your life. You could do this. Breathe. Keep it up. Calm. "Your secret's safe with me, as long as you both don't spill my dumb ass was outside tonight."

"You won't get any argument from us. And I get being outside," Parker said, holstering her weapon as John slid down the rubble to continue his search. You resisted the urge to turn and watch. Play dead, dude. Just play dead. "But—shit, be careful you idiot! I don't wanna have to drag you outta here cause you busted an ankle—but anyway, why are you even in here? It's not safe, and you already look like you got pretty banged up."

"Ah, you know how it is." You gestured towards the street, coughing to cover for a moment as you formulated an excuse. "Some lady saw me on the street and I figured it'd look better if I seemed like I was helping, you know? Less suspicious."

Something flickered there in her eyes, the tiniest bit of wariness returning, but then John behind you called out, "Hey! Got another one down here. Jesus, this fucker was playin' possum. Real courageous, you little shit."

"Net pozhaluysta ne!" the man screamed, giving up on playing dead and skipping straight to pleading.

Parker waved you out. "Go on, honey. You ain't supposed to see stuff like this. Get on home and we won't tell 'em we saw you if you don't tell 'em I had a gun on you."

Pop. Pop.

She stepped past you, making her own way down into the pit they'd pulled you out of.

And you? God help you: with nothing you could do to save anyone there, you left, and you didn't look back.

-x-

People had gathered at the front of the building, so you slipped out the back, using the shadows to remain unseen. The two cops inside the building may have promised you their silence, but you were eager to avoid any further attention from people who might be more willing to discuss the psychic they'd seen wandering around.

You'd made it a full block away when your cell rang an out-of-key tune. You were surprised it was still working—the screen had cracked and the display was fucked to hell, pixels darting erratically across the screen. It took you a few taps before you managed to accept the call and lifted it to your good ear.

"Foggy?"

"Jane!" he shouted, coughing as hoarse as a thirty-year smoker. Someone on his end was crying, words that sounded like Spanish. Karen's voice cut in, soothing whoever it was. "Jane, are you-are you ok? Where are you?"

"I'm ok, I think. Are you?"

"Me and Karen are on our way to the hospital with a client. She's hurt. Can you-can you call Matt—"

Oh god.

You hadn't had much time to consider anyone else before now, too focused on what had been happening inside the burned-out building. Had Matt been outside tonight? It was that kind of evening, and lately he'd been hunting—

Your heart sank.

He'd been hunting the Russian Mob.

You pressed a hand over your mouth to stop a cry from escaping. With his heightened senses, the explosions—damaging enough to your own ears—would have been so much more painful and disorienting to him if he'd been nearby. Or, worse, had he been in… had he been in one of the buildings?

"I haven't heard from him," you whispered. It didn't look like there'd been any missed calls on your phone, no messages short of the panicked texts from Maya and Daniel, and the emergency alert broadcast ordering all civilians to stay inside. But it hadn't been that long since the first blast, you didn't think. Or had it? How long had you been out of it after that initial explosion? "He hasn't called, I don't—"

"Could you… could you try to check on him? Please, Jane, he's-he's my friend and you can find him, right? I can't—" Foggy's voice cracked and your body let out its own little shudder in sympathy even as your breath hitched at the thought of finally, at last allowing yourself to see Matt's threads.

It was one thing to open yourself to seeing a stranger's threads. With a stranger you retained an emotional distance and clarity; there was no real risk to you. With someone closer though, it could be far more intimate, and more dangerous. To expose yourself to the threads of someone close was to open yourself to the possibility that you saw your own. It would remove one of the final walls you'd painstakingly built around yourself. Foggy didn't know what he was asking, but then… would you risk it, if it meant you'd be able to find Matt?

...Yes. For him, I would.

You rubbed at your eyes, swallowing around the lump in your throat. "I'll try, Foggy. I'll try to… to find him or hear from him, ok?"

"Thank you. Call me or-or text me if the lines are down. I'll be at the hospital with Karen. Let me know as soon as you can. Talk later."

"Stay safe." You hung up, taking a minute to breathe. Part of you didn't even want to wait that extra minute, but you knew you needed it. Panic would get you nowhere right now and you had to stay calm.

First, you texted Maya and Daniel back, jabbing fingers hard against the broken screen as you typed in short, matter-of-fact confirmations that you were alright. Next, you punched in Matt's burner number. You may not even need to go hunting for his threads if you could reach him on his phone.

You wavered on where to go as you waited for him to pick up. You could head home, but you didn't want to do so until you knew Matt was safe. You also weren't sure where to go if you were going to start looking for him. Knowing him, if he hadn't been close to the explosions when they'd been set off, he'd have moved in that direction not long afterwards, especially if Fisk's cops were scoping the buildings. That would have alerted Matt to the fact that something criminal was going on.

He didn't pick up, and eventually, you were connected to the voicemail service. You closed your eyes. This doesn't mean anything. He could be fine. There was no verbal message to signal who you'd called; just a short beep after a period of silence. You cleared your throat. "Hey, D. Checking in to make sure you're ok," you managed, pacing up and down the sidewalk. "If you could call me—"

Your phone beeped, signaling a call on the other line. You lowered it to glance at the screen, puzzling out the letters through the myriad of spiderweb fractures in the glass.

Incoming Call From: D

You'd never hit 'accept' so quickly. "Are you-are you ok? Where—"

"I'm alright." His voice was rough, pitched deep and rasping so badly on your damaged phone that it caused a hiss of static. He grunted, and somewhere in the background, you heard the sound of a slamming door and the distant howl of sirens. All of which told you precisely nothing about where he was, since you were pretty sure the entirety of Hell's Kitchen could hear sirens at this point. "Tell me you're ok."

You heaved a sigh, a weight lifting off your shoulders. He was alright. Maybe not perfect, but he was alive and able to answer your call and that was the best you could have hoped for. "I'm a little banged up, but nothing big."

"How bad?"

"Does it matter?"

"To me it does." His steps became rhythmic, and there was a jolt on the last word as if he'd begun to climb something. Was he going upstairs? Or maybe he'd started running. Fuck, you hated not knowing. "Answer, please. Not a lot of time."

You groaned, shaking your head and wincing when the gesture set off sparks behind your eyes. "Bleeding ear, uh, minor cut on the head, otherwise just bruised pretty much."

"Go home then. Fisk's cops are all over the place, looking for me and… and Vladimir."

Your eyebrows shot up at the development. "Wait, you have him?"

"For now. I'm trying to get a name out of him. I'll tell you about it later when I come to… to check on you after this, if I can."

'If I can'? What was that supposed to mean?

"Matt, do you need me to—"

"No. Go home." Then he hesitated. You listened to the soft, stilted sound of his breathing before he continued, tone going hard and cold. "If they tell you to find me, you do it. You don't hesitate."

That drew you up short. No, no you would not. The very idea that you'd ever lead his enemies to him was one you rejected so fully that you practically spat into the phone. "I'm not going to—"

"Promise me. Promise me you won't fight them on it. Track me like you would anyone else."

Everything about this was wrong, so very wrong. "And what happens if I lead them right to you?" you demanded.

And even across the unknown distance between you, through the warped static emitted from your shattered phone, you could hear the feral grin on his face.

"They've tried to catch me before. Let's see how far they get this time. "

-x-

Matt must have known. He must have, because the call came in minutes later.

"I realize you're most likely at home but we have a job for you if you're available and uninjured. Simple. Easy."

They'd sent a car for you, one smooth and black and sleek. You'd bet money those windows were just as bullet-proof as the last set had been. You'd have felt guilty dragging your filthy, dust-covered self across the clean black leather seats if you weren't so bitter about what you were being forced to do. Up front, dressed in black, was a different driver this time—a woman, though she was just as unassuming looking as the previous driver. It must have been a requirement, being someone who could blend in and escape notice.

You had no real options here unless you wanted to appear suspicious. You stared down at the box beside you. It was small and grey, soft when you passed your fingers over it. It fit neatly into the palm of your hand.

"The item has already been procured. No contact with the target, as requested. In fact, we'd prefer it if you could simply narrow things down to a two-block radius for us. And, of course, alert us if the target suddenly becomes… deceased."

It couldn't be something that belonged to Matt. It wouldn't make sense. They didn't know who he was, and he wasn't the kind of guy who'd leave something he cared about lying around. Not when he was in the black outfit. You were going to chase someone else. Please let it be someone else.

You'd wanted to ask who you were chasing, but Matt had insisted on adding an extra clause to your contract. Mr. Winter and his employer were not to give you any information on your targets, and you were not to pry. They would give you an item, you would track it, and you'd alert them. One, two, three. Then your job was finished. No meetups with targets, no contact. You were as far removed from trouble as you could be while still doing business… and while being close enough for Matt to pick up clues based on nothing but your scent or general proximity were he to follow you without your knowledge. He couldn't do that now.

"So, where should our driver pick you up?"

You flipped the box open, steeling yourself for whatever was inside.

It wasn't what you were dreading, and you resisted the urge to give yourself away by sighing in relief. There was nothing inside that belonged to Matt. Instead, it was a small Russian cross made of copper. There was writing carved into it, no doubt Russian, but you didn't look too closely. You licked your lips and met the driver's eyes in the mirror as she awaited your directions.

"Ms. Hind?"

You opened up your third eye, and the threads around you flared to life. Tied to the cross in your hand was a thin blue thread.

"...Alright. I'll be out in front of my building. Give me… give me a few minutes to get over there."

-x-

After the way you'd worked yourself up, you'd been sure there'd be more to it, but it was as easy as you'd been promised. The vehicle slowed for each roadblock, the mandatory pauses eating up valuable time, but at each point the car was eventually waved through by uniformed officers and allowed to pass uninspected. Eventually, you narrowed your target's location down to a two-block radius, confirming it by having the driver circle the area. Whoever the target was, they were hiding in a run-down warehouse district, and the few little ripples of emotion you caught coming down the thread indicated they were furious and in a truly terrible amount of pain.

"And the target is still alive?" the driver asked calmly, not turning around. At your nod, she slowed the car long enough to tap out a text on her phone. Then she turned the car around and started back the way you'd come, maneuvering her way through the same roadblocks and slowdowns.

You tried not to think about the pain you'd felt radiating from the blue thread. Or how long it had been since you'd talked to Matt.

Ironically, you suspected you'd ended up not being needed all that much, based on the number of cop cars that had raced by the car on the way there. Maybe you'd just ended up confirming what someone higher up already knew. That still didn't sit well with you. You didn't feel safe checking the news, or calling Matt to check on him, while you were still trapped in the car. That left you with no other option than to sit, silent and on edge as you stared out the window. The not-knowing ate at you. That absence of awareness wasn't the comfort it normally was, thanks to Matt. He was probably out there right in the thick of things. At the very least, maybe you'd pointed the cops at someone else.

Or had you? You had no idea who you'd tracked, whose thread—blue and glittering—you'd followed. Matt had said he could handle it, but so much could have happened since then. It felt like it had been hours, your sense of time warped and skewed by fear.

"Let me out here," you told the driver suddenly. You couldn't wait any longer to call Matt. How long had it been since you'd talked? You needed to check in, ensure he was alright even if you were bound not to breathe a word of what you'd just done. The driver didn't hesitate, smoothly guiding the car over to the curb and unlocking the door. You swung it open and set your feet on the sidewalk.

"Hey," she said. When you glanced back in, she gestured at the road. "Cops are telling everyone to stay inside, so get home quick." You nodded and hopped out, swinging the door shut behind you. The car pulled away from the curb with a quiet purr.

You waited impatiently for the car to turn the corner at the end of the block. You were only a few blocks away from your apartment at this point but you walked another half a block just in case. There weren't many places a car like that could blend in, especially not now when it looked like the city had shut the streets down and there were few cars still on the road. All the more meaningful that this particular vehicle had been allowed to move freely along the closed streets. A shudder ran down your spine at the realization.

You'd worked with… powerful people before, but this was different. The Man in the White Coat had military contacts, you were fairly certain, or maybe a few Feds in his pocket: people who were interested in the results he promised studying you would provide. He generally had nothing on a local level, which allowed you to move unnoticed to an extent. Here in NYC, though? Here, whoever this Fisk was, his grip down on the street was airtight. All the more reason for you to be cautious.

When no car materialized at the end of the street, you withdrew your phone. Even if they were watching, it wouldn't be all that suspicious for you to make a phone call after everything that had happened. You tapped repeatedly, growing increasingly frustrated until you managed to call Matt. He didn't even bother to greet you when he picked up.

"You home yet?" he asked without preamble. He was panting, his breathing heavy and labored as if he'd just run a marathon. A second later you heard a clang like he'd just brought his foot down on something hard and metallic. He swore quietly and it filled you with dread.

"Almost. They picked me up like you said they would." There was only so much you could tell him. You'd both planned on him picking up clues based on what you and your body couldn't hide from his heightened senses. When it came to words, you were limited.

"Did you do what I asked? Are you safe?"

"Yes." You passed a hand over your face as you walked. "I didn't want to, but—"

"I can't say if it was me you tracked, but it wouldn't have mattered if you did. A cop found me earlier. A young one, not one of Fisk's. He managed to call it in before I could stop him. They're outside, and more are coming. None of this is your fault."

Oh god, and Matt was, Matt was—

"Are you trapped?" You stopped walking, finding yourself alone and cold on the empty street.

"I'm going to try to find a way out," he said quietly. "But I-I don't..."

"If anyone can find a way out, it's you, right?" You tried to laugh but it came out choked and wobbly as the knowledge of what might happen took hold of you. No, no no no, not like this. "Matt, tell me you're coming back."

"I—" he faltered. "My apartment is… is closer. To where I am now, if you wanted to wait there instead. I don't know if I'll..."

Your breath hitched, something razor sharp and jagged cutting its way into your chest.

He really doesn't know. Doesn't know if he'll get out.

"I'll wait at your place," you sniffled. "You'll need someone to patch you up. When you get back."

He said your name. One word, the syllables melting together. It had the tone of a goodbye, of an ending, and you closed your eyes against it. "If I don't see you again—"

"Stop it," you cut off what sounded like the start of a confession, ignoring how close to tears you sounded. "Go… go punch someone's teeth in and get the fuck out of there. If you can order me to find you, I can order you to stay alive."

"I'll try," he murmured, but it was still far too soft and mournful for your liking. "The key to the rooftop door is taped to the underside of the stairs leading up to the roof. I left it there in case you-you ever needed to get in. "

"Don't you give up on me, Matt," you whispered. "Ok?"

"...Goodbye, sweetheart."

-x-

You were on autopilot.

The only thoughts you allowed yourself concerned the immediate tasks before you. Your first step was stopping by your apartment—thankfully undamaged—only long enough to grab a change of clothes, one of your burner phones, and a few toiletries you might need for an overnight stay. Matt's goodbye had shaken you badly and you weren't willing to stay in your own apartment any longer than absolutely necessary. You needed… you needed to be wherever he would end up. You had to believe that he would come back.

His key was under the stairs leading to his apartment building's roof, hidden away out of sight just like he'd said. You untaped it with numb fingers. How long had this been here? The dust under the stairwell to the roof hadn't been disturbed in some time, weeks at least, which meant… he'd left this here for you some time ago. He may have kept it here even while you both were fighting. He'd wanted to make sure you had a safe place to go.

I will not cry.

You refused to, no matter that everything about tonight hit something inside you that you generally pretended didn't exist. He was forcing his way past every wall you'd erected and now, with the possibility of a true ending hanging over you, you couldn't even bring yourself to fear the possibility of a red thread formed from your friendship with him. You just wanted him back.

You fumbled the key into your pocket and headed up to the rooftop entrance to let yourself in.

Matt's apartment had changed little from the last time you'd been there. That included the bathroom, where you showered. It made sense. You had to believe that even with his heightened senses and his ability to map a room, keeping everything in its designated place was a comfort and provided a certain feeling of safety. You tried to leave everything where you found it in the shower, scrubbing hard as ash and soot, blood and dirt ran down the drain. You went over yourself two, three, four times trying to ensure the smell of the burning building was gone, for yourself just as much as for Matt. You wanted the night to be over.

Your ear seemed to have stopped bleeding, as had the cut on your head, which was smaller than you'd originally worried. You still couldn't hear that well, but that would hopefully improve over the next few days. You ached all over, though the hot water was helping. But goddamn if that stupid parrot bite didn't still hurt like a bitch. At least the pain helped ground you.

Showered and dressed in a clean set of clothes, you went through the motions of bagging up your old clothes the same way you had the first time you were here. After that, you hunted down Matt's first-aid kit so you could rewrap your arm in clean gauze. And then… then you were left with nothing else to do, and you wandered aimlessly, running your fingers against the myriad little elements that made Matt's apartment a home. You tried to think of something else to do, to focus on. Matt obviously didn't have a tv for you to watch. You'd left your laptop back at your apartment. If you'd been of a right mind, you'd have grabbed it so you could keep updated on what was going on. As it was, all you had was your one damaged phone, and your burner.

Eventually, you found yourself curled up on the couch. Folded on the back of it was a blanket that smelled like Matt and you pulled it down and tucked yourself under it. Then you dragged open the news app on your phone… and waited.

The stories sucked you in as you tried to make them out on the broken screen.

'Sources say the masked vigilante is potentially connected or responsible for the explosions—'

'—reported a hostage situation earlier this evening—'

'—multiple officers killed on the scene and anonymous sources within the force are certain the same individual responsible for the kidnapping is also respon—'

'—forces then entered the building—'

'—officers reported that the suspect has escaped at this time—'

You closed the news app on your phone and pulled the blanket around you tighter, soothing yourself with the subtle scent of copper and cinnamon as you stared out the window. He had to have gotten out, right? The news had reported his escape, but would they have known if Fisk's men had caught him instead?

He got out. Fisk wouldn't sign off on a police manhunt otherwise. It would make no sense.

You buried your face in the blanket and breathed deeply, forcing yourself to believe it.

This whole thing had just gone so very wrong. You knew Matt wasn't responsible for the explosions, but no one else seemed to. The news had taken the reports of his guilt and run with them. Things admittedly looked bad, but… someone would question how neatly this story fit together, wouldn't they? They had to. All they'd have to do would be to look at the good things Matt had done and recognize that he'd been set up, positioned as a convenient sacrificial lamb.

You rested your chin on your knees, closing your eyes against the headache vying for your attention. You had a feeling Matt had been played this entire time without his knowledge. The pieces had lined up all too well. It was possible that this Fisk had simply prepared for every contingency, but you also had to wonder how much of this had been predicted. Matt had been outfoxed. That wouldn't sit well with him, and no wonder. Matt wasn't exactly short on brains himself, so being funneled into the chute like this would surely grate at him. It was what you'd been afraid of—that Matt's penchant for swinging at men no one else would touch would eventually lead to him throwing down with someone well above his level. Someone who could hit back, and hit hard enough to keep him down.

It explained why your old friend in Los Angeles had called to warn you about Fisk. 'You're on the King's land, now.' He hadn't been joking. The big question remained: what would you do about all this between now and when you were supposed to leave in a few weeks' time?

The rooftop door opening stirred you from your thoughts and you leapt up off the couch, darting anxiously to the bottom of the stairs. You'd left most of the lights off, not wanting anyone else to know you were here, and with Matt presumably still all in black, he'd be difficult for you to see. You searched the darkness, frantic, until the obnoxious red sign across the street lit up and Matt appeared at the top of the stairs.

"Oh thank god," you breathed. The sudden relief left you almost weightless as Matt hobbled his way down the stairs. He was filthy, covered in dirt and blood and soot, and you'd never been happier to see him. Alive. He's alive, he's ok. At the bottom step, his legs buckled just a little and you caught him, suddenly finding yourself with two arms worth of burning hot, dust-covered Matt. Under the excuse of holding him upright, you shivered and buried your face against his neck, soaking in the warmth and scent hiding under the coating of grit and sweat. He was a welcome, heavy weight leaning into you and one you gratefully accepted, though you hoped he wouldn't bring up the tears you were leaving on his shirt. His arms circled around you weakly and he buried his face in your hair, drawing in a shaky breath before exhaling a relieved sigh.

He's alive. He's fine.

Time slowed and you basked in it, in the comfort that he was alive. You ran your hands up and down his spine soothingly, scraping your nails gently until he was almost boneless against you, a faint resonation in his chest that made you think he'd swallowed down an exhausted moan. He clearly needed this reassurance, the comfort of gentle touch, just as much as you did.

It's ok. You're ok, we're ok.

"I'm glad you're alright," you mumbled, the words muffled where you'd burrowed into him. You'd taken enough time that you were fairly certain your words would be steady now. "I told you: if anyone could get out, it was you. Getting me all worried for nothing. Ass. You're an ass, Matt Murdock."

"I'll try to be more confident in my abilities next time," he said, letting you hide behind the teasing as he rested his cheek fondly against the top of your head.

"You hurt?" You hadn't seen any obvious blood except around his face and mouth, but he was moving like he was in pain, the careful motions of someone who knew that a sharp ache was lying in wait just around the corner.

"Nothing worse than usual."

"I'm absolutely sure that's why you feel like you're about to fall over if I step away."

"Maybe I've just been taken in by how strong you are." He leaned further into you, the bastard, and you widened your stance to balance out the shift. "Also I may have fallen... through a few floors."

"You probably should have mentioned that sooner, you ridiculous man." You nudged him back upright, directing your mind to finally, finally focus on a new task that would distract you from just how shaken up you were and your own blossoming aches and pains. With one hand out in case he stumbled, you ran your gaze up and down his body to inspect for injuries as he straightened his back and groaned with the motion.

There was blood around his mouth and a bit beneath his nose. You reached up without thinking, going for his mask to tug it back so you could get a better look. One of his hands darted up and caught your wrist, twisting it away. You didn't fight it, keeping your fingers slack. The grip was tight and unyielding, a band of steel locked tight, and he shuddered before releasing it with a mumbled apology. Part of him was still running on instinct, then. More slowly this time, you tried again, pinching the damp black cloth between your fingers and beginning to peel back his mask.

Soft brown eyes darted sightlessly around you as the fabric pulled away. You slid the mask back further until you pulled it free from his sweat-soaked hair, reaching down and carefully slipping it into his pocket for lack of a better place to put it. Then you set your hand along his jaw and nudged his head left and right, taking in the injuries, including the one you could see on his lip when you tilted his head down. He allowed your actions, unresisting and passive. He'd taken a serious beating tonight, but you really had seen worse on him, not that that was saying much. You gently ruffled his dark hair, making it stand on end. He rewarded you by wrinkling his nose at you but otherwise didn't stop your efforts. Being playful had seemed to help settle him before and hopefully it would do the same now. "Fortunately you're someone who still looks good even with their face beat to shit. How are you, torso-wise? Anything to be concerned about?"

"Bruising, mostly. I'll live." He tilted his head at you, finally turning his senses on you. "Your ear sounds like it hurts though. You're lucky it didn't rupture with how close you must have been. And you showered," he paused and inhaled, lips parting before he frowned, "but I can still smell the smoke. What were you doing inside that building?"

"Getting too close for comfort." At least he hadn't picked up the rest of the scents you'd tried to scrub off, or maybe he was just too polite to say. You weren't sure you were ready to talk about that yet so you nudged him. "Go shower first. That shit on your skin has to be agony. I'll tell you about my night when you get out. You require assistance or you ok?"

"'m alright. Then I might… might pass out on the couch after we talk."

Not if you had anything to say about it. That man was not sleeping on the couch when he'd fallen through floors and been beaten on by who knew how many people. You'd drag him to bed kicking and screaming if you had to. "Go on. I've got things covered out here."

He gave you a grateful nod—you'd been right about how unpleasant that grit on his skin must feel, you suspected—and disappeared into the bathroom with a change of clothes.

Now, with him in the other room, you had a moment to breathe. You scrubbed a hand over your face as you also took the opportunity to silence the alarm bells that had begun to ring again inside your head now that you had a second and hey we really have something you should be concerned about!

Stop. Think about something else. Pick a task.

So you did. You puttered around, distracting yourself with ensuring the door Matt had entered was locked, and then with sending a text to Foggy and Karen that Matt was alright, you'd found him. You washed your hands in the sink, scrubbing up to the elbows and otherwise wiping off what had transferred from Matt to you. Fuck, your ear was really starting to hurt. You checked the news again, but things weren't going well on that front. By the time Matt was done showering, you'd updated yourself on the current breaking stories. Even though these stories were clearly wrong and why is no one saying anything?

The soft padding of his feet—completely intentional, you knew; the man moved like a cat when he felt like it—alerted you to his presence and you glanced up from your place on the couch where you'd curled up under the blanket again. His movements were stiff, pained as he moved into the living area, clad in sweats and a worn grey t-shirt. You narrowed your eyes at him, trying to determine just how bad his other injuries were. At your expression he grimaced, then reached down and briefly tugged the hem of his shirt up, baring his torso to you. The action exposed a wealth of soft skin, the sharp curve of his hip, a faint trail of dark hair that disappeared below the low-riding hem of his grey sweats… and a whole lot of bright red impact marks striped up and down his body. A truly hellish set of bruises were going to make their debut in a day or two.

"I'm wondering if I should call you a masochist but I don't want to give you any ideas," you said, unsure what to say regarding the mind-boggling amount of holy shit that has to hurt that was currently advertising itself on his body in great splashes of red. Not as bad as that one night on the roof, but still incredibly painful looking. "How are you even moving right now? You're gonna be blue as the ocean when all that bruising settles in."

He snorted and dropped the hem, hiding the marks from your view. "I've had worse. You learn to fight through it eventually."

He started to shift towards the couch but before he'd even lifted one foot, you shook your head. "No sir, Mr. Murdock. Bed, not the couch. Any chatting can be done tomorrow." That was good. Tomorrow was good. By then he might have forgotten about just how much this had all affected you, and you'd have had a chance to compartmentalize… everything else.

He rocked on his feet silently as if tempting you to stop him, which was still entirely something he would do despite being beaten and bruised, of course it was. You stood with a huff, curling your bare toes against the floor and lowering your head stubbornly just in case he really did feel like a fight. You weren't afraid of him, not even a little.

Or maybe he's just tired and can barely stand on his feet. You softened and tossed out a compromise. "If you want I'll sit in there with you and we can go over tonight. But not out here. I'll bring you some aspirin and some water."

Besides, I need a few myself. Also I apparently still smell like smoke and I'm not about to let you sleep on a couch that smells like that.

While he grumbled about it, he ultimately did what you wanted and you quirked a lip as you went and filled two glasses with water. Ensuring he was looked after, reminding him that he wasn't alone right now, was helping to settle the restlessness inside you. This was something you could do, something that both reminded you he was alive and gave you a task to focus on. You hummed as you dug around in his cabinets until you found the comically large bottle of painkillers.

Huh, I wasn't even aware they sold it in counts this big.

You took two for yourself, throwing them back and downing them with a few swallows of water. That done, you collected Matt's glass and pills, and brought both to his bedroom where he was sitting on the side of his bed, legs spread wide. He sighed as if in great reluctance before taking the provided pills and you made a show of supervising, crossing your arms and looming over him as he chugged back the water. When he was done you took the glass and set it aside. You'd take it back to the kitchen in a bit.

Which left… where to settle in, and your brain tangled itself up in the sudden swell of indecision. You'd shared a bed before but that had been, well, before. You didn't want to leave, but you couldn't quite bring yourself to crawl into his bed again, to make yourself that vulnerable even if it was just to curl up there next to him, no matter how much you wanted to. So instead you tapped Matt's legs until he swung them up onto the bed, then you turned and settled yourself down on the ground. You stretched your own legs out and leaned back against the bed frame. It wasn't as uncomfortable as it could have been, even achy as you were. You'd learned to make due just about anywhere—you'd fallen asleep on trains, in cabs and buses, passed out on benches and up against trees. The bed at your back was a lot softer than the bark of an old oak or a rigid plastic seat in a bus station. And... and you were close to him. That went a long way.

The sheets rustled as Matt stretched out above you, his breathing soft. Then, haltingly, he detailed to you what had happened that night, starting with reaching the building he'd tracked Vladimir to. It filled in a lot of the holes in your own adventure, and some of the reasoning behind it.

Fisk used me to track Vladimir and confirm proof of life. That has to be who I was sent after.

Your part in the game had finally begun, and you'd been moved like any other piece on the board. If the young cop hadn't already heard Matt, you'd have led them right to him. You were going to need to come up with a way to ensure this didn't happen again.

You tried to focus on what Matt was saying, and you were quickly drawn back in. Around the time he began describing a sniper killing cops outside the building he'd been trapped in, his voice got rough and shaky. His hand slid over the edge of the bed and dropped to brush against your shoulder. He didn't grab you. He just… left his hand there against you, his fingertips resting so lightly on your skin you could barely feel it. His breathing stuttered and fell into rhythm with yours. Then his voice grew steady once more.

He skirted by any mention of your last phone call, and you didn't bring it up. The moment slid by, a weighted pause in his tale, and though you both felt its passing, you let it float away into the dark without remark.

He'd almost been caught, you thought, as he touched on his escape through the sewers. He'd come so close and if there hadn't been that grate to let him into the subway...

"Hey," he whispered. "I'm ok. I got out."

"You almost didn't." You tilted your head to rest it lightly against his arm where it draped over the side of the bed. "I'm allowed to worry about that. About you."

"The feeling's mutual. Tell me what happened, and why you were in that building."

You gave him your own rundown of the evening, careful to avoid the topic of your drive, which you very much could not tell him about aside from things like how many cop cars you saw on the way or buildings that appeared damaged as you were driven by. He was less interested in that, though, than your time inside the building. The muscles in his arm tightened, his fingers curling when you described having another gun pointed at you.

"You tried to save that man. You did the right thing," he said after you'd finished. You weren't sure why he'd focused on that, pulled that small element from your story to examine more closely.

"Didn't do much." You drew your legs up until you could rest your other arm on your bent knees in front of you. "They still killed him."

"They did. And they'll pay for it." Despite the words, he wasn't able to deliver them with anywhere near the same level of confidence he'd had a few days ago. He'd been cast adrift by the loss tonight. You knew that anger was lurking down inside him somewhere, fury at the way he'd been used and manipulated; it was only a matter of time until it resurfaced. For now, though, it was buried deep and you weren't going to stir it up.

"You came close to dying," you murmured. "At least rest for a few days."

"Maybe I did, but so did you," he said roughly, and oh, there it was: the wrath swimming under the surface like some great unseen behemoth in dark water, and you'd just caught a glimpse of it as the sea rippled in its wake. "Fisk's cops, they could have killed you."

"But they didn't, because I'm useful. So I'll just continue to be." You reached up and squeezed the hand against your shoulder, and after a moment, he squeezed back, calming. "And you, you need a new plan."

He shifted on the bed above you with a quiet groan of pain before he stilled again. "Agreed. I'll have to find another way to stop him. If he has this many cops on his payroll, judges and politicians..."

"It'll have to be something big from that accountant." You tilted your head back and let your eyes droop closed. "Stealth, Matt. Play the long game until you've got something big enough."

"And how many people will he hurt between now and then?"

"He'll hurt more if you fuck up and don't catch him at all because he killed you."

Matt made a disagreeable noise but you grinned bitterly to yourself, knowing you'd managed at least to win on that one even if it had been something of a low blow. "We'll look at this accountant guy. I can help you find him if you need it." The fact that he hesitated, thinking it over instead of outright rejecting you, told you just how in over his head he was feeling. You'd been there. "I can do it without getting close. Even a few blocks away will be enough for you."

He blew out a heavy breath, tightening his grip on your hand. "Alright. But you have to do exactly what I say."

"Noted."

"And if I tell you to leave—"

"Go to sleep, D." You bumped his arm again with your head. "Talk tomorrow."

And as you both fell asleep, neither of you even considered untangling your hands.