Fic: Stay In My Arms (If You Dare) [3/5]
Title: Stay In My Arms (If You Dare) [3/5]
Fandom: Daredevil (TV)
Rating: NC-17
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Luckily, the next day is Sunday, his day off, and he already has lunch plans with his coworkers. He’s halfway through his salad when he puts down his fork and says, “I need one of you to attack my client.”
“I’ll do it,” Jessica says immediately, and then, “Any particular reason, or just for fun?”
“He’s planning on ending the contract at two weeks because there haven’t been any further threats,” Matt explains. “I need him to reconsider.”
There’s a long and very heavy silence. “Uh, that’s not really how we’re supposed to drum up business,” Luke says finally. “If there’s no threat, we move on, remember?”
Okay, yeah, he should have anticipated this reaction. “There was never any threat,” he admits, because Jessica will weasel the truth out of him anyway. “I was the one who attacked him in the first place.”
Another long pause, and the clink of his dining companions putting their utensils down.
“Is this it?” Jessica asks, breaking the silence. “Am I finally not the most fucked up one here?”
Danny snorts, and she kicks him under the table. Matt sighs. “Nelson works for...someone I’ve been trying to get information on. Someone unsavory,” he explains. It’s safer if they don’t know the name - and probably wiser not to say it out loud in public anyway. “I tried to scare the intel out of him, but didn’t get very far. But now I have access. I can bring this whole thing down, I just need a little more time.”
“Wait, whoa, I thought you were just stopping muggers and shit,” Danny says.
“I was!” Matt says. “But more and more of these low-level criminals seem to be connected. There’s someone at the top pulling the strings, and right now I’m sharing a bedroom wall with his lawyer. I’m not going to get an opportunity like this again.”
“Thirsty, Murdock, very thirsty,” Jessica says over her beer glass.
Matt rolls his eyes, even though she can’t see it behind his glasses. “That’s not what this is about, and you know it.” She makes a noncommittal sound. “Look, I know this is a lot to ask, but if I can get the information I need out of Nelson, it’ll make Hell’s Kitchen a lot safer for a lot of innocent people. Please?”
He can tell they’re exchanging glances. He wishes he could read their expressions, but it still might not help. He’s always sort of been the odd man out in their group, probably largely but not entirely because he’s the only one not sleeping with Luke, off and on.
“I mean, I’ll still do it,” Jessica says finally, and steals a crouton out of Matt’s salad. “I love terrorizing people for a good cause.”
“Nah, you’re too memorable. He’d recognize you,” Danny says.
“So I’ll wear a disguise.”
“Babe, your idea of a disguise is wearing a shirt that’s an actual color,” Luke points out.
From the tone of her voice, Matt can tell she’s scowling. “Like any of you fuckers would recognize me if I wore pink.”
“I certainly wouldn’t,” Matt drawls, and grins when Jessica flips him off. “If Jessica’s too memorable, I assume Luke is too? At least, that’s what I’ve gathered.”
“That’s what I’ve gathered, too,” Luke says, his tone amused.
“Sounds like I’m being volunteered,” Danny says. “All right, Murdock, loan me a clean pair of your black pajamas and I’ll chase your boyfriend straight into your loving arms.”
Matt hadn’t thought of Danny dressing up as, well, Matt, but it makes sense. As far as he knows, Nelson doesn’t suspect a connection between Matt and the man in the mask, but Matt might as well derail any suspicion entirely. “Thanks,” he says. “And he’s not my boyfriend.”
“Sure, not yet. That’s why you need Danny,” Luke says.
Matt turns his attention eating the rest of the croutons out of his salad before Jessica can, rather than deigning to respond to their snickering. The things he has to put up with to protect Hell’s Kitchen, honestly.
*
It’s probably a little too convenient to have Danny go after Nelson that night, but with only two days left in his working week, Matt’s suddenly on a very tight schedule. At least tonight provides him with a prime opportunity. The first Sunday after he’d been hired, Nelson had stayed home all day, still skittish without his bodyguard. This morning, however, he’d told Matt over breakfast that he was heading to his parents in Jersey to help them clean out the garage, “which will surely lead to tears, slamming doors, wills being rewritten on the fly - it’ll be a party.” He’d probably be back around ten, he’d said.
By nine, Matt and Danny are on the roof of a building two blocks away, one that Nelson will have to walk past on his way home from Penn Station. Danny’s wearing a set of Matt’s crimefighting clothes, though he had to find a different fabric that he could actually see through for the mask. Matt’s wearing normal street clothes, albeit ones that are dark enough that he’s less likely to be spotted getting into position.
“So just...you know, get all growly and menace-y, shove him around a little, but don't actually hurt him,” Matt says, keeping one ear cocked for the sound of Nelson’s approaching heart.
“I know,” Danny says, sounding exasperated. “I'm not gonna damage your boyfriend, Matt, don't wor--”
“Shh!” There it is, the familiar steady beat of Nelson’s heart. “He's two blocks away. Go, get ready.”
Danny makes some noncommittal grumbling sounds but moves off. Matt makes his way down to street level and ducks out of sight, ready to intervene at the right moment.
Nelson comes down the street, whistling something jaunty and vaguely familiar. He’s got his hands in his pockets and a tote bag slung over his shoulder with what smells like leftovers in it - ham, Brussels sprouts, buttery potatoes, the plastic smell of tupperware. His heartbeat is steady, his gait relaxed, the picture of bucolic unconcern.
For just a moment, Matt wants desperately to live with Nelson in whatever universe it is he inhabits, where he can stroll down the street of somewhere like Hell’s Kitchen in total contentment, happy and safe in his own skin. Who would Matt be if he could be walking beside Nelson right now, as easy and safe as the song Nelson’s whistling?
He shakes the feeling away. It’s ridiculous, and more to the point, it’s a distraction. Danny’s heartbeat is picking up. It’s time.
Danny leaps out of the shadows rather more dramatically than Matt would have. “Franklin Nelson!”
“Shit!” Nelson’s heart starts to race as he backs up, fumbling with something in his pocket, dropping the bag with the leftovers in the process. “Back off, seriously, I already told you you’ve got the wrong guy!”
“I think not,” Danny booms, and Matt resists the urge to smack his palm into his forehead. He sounds nothing like that. “You’re going to tell me what you know. Now.”
Nelson gets his hand out of his pocket, keys jingling, and something stings faintly at Matt’s nose. Oh. Oh, it’s pepper spray, and Matt’s torn between admiration and concern for Danny. “I said back off!”
But Danny can handle himself, of course. He leaps into a totally unnecessary but gorgeous spinning kick that sends the keychain flying out of Nelson’s hand.
“Ow! Shit!” Nelson hisses, drawing his hand back towards his chest, and anger roars hot in Matt’s blood. He’s hurt, Danny hurt him, Matt told him to be careful and he didn’t listen -
“Listen, you asshole…” Nelson starts, and he doesn’t sound like he’s in that much pain, but Matt’s already moving, slipping out of his hiding place and booking it down the street.
“Oh, I’ll listen.” Danny shoves Nelson up against the nearest building, hands on his shoulders. “I’ll listen while you tell me everything I want to know about your employer.”
“I’m not going to - ”
“Hey!” Matt charges into Danny, catching him around the waist and sending him crashing to the ground. Actually, Danny’s going into a controlled fall and shielding Matt from the impact, but it looks good.
“Ma-Murdock!” Nelson says as Danny flings Matt off of him and they both spring to their feet. Matt maneuvers himself between Nelson and Danny.
“Are you okay, Mr. Nelson?” he asks.
“Yeah, shit, yeah, I’m fine, be careful - ”
Danny feints, and Matt kicks him in the side, where it’ll sting but not do any lasting damage. Danny lets out a surprised yelp. Matt suspects Danny’s glaring at him. “Get out of my way,” he snarls, still way too dramatic.
“No. Stand down before I put you down,” Matt says. “Mr. Nelson, could you please call the police?”
“Uh,” Nelson says behind him.
Danny puts his hands up. “Fine. I’m going. But you can’t babysit him forever.” He points at Nelson. “Sooner or later I’ll get you to break.”
“Uh,” Nelson says again. Matt scents a whiff of fear and moves a little closer to Nelson, offering reassurance, then belatedly remembers that he wants Nelson scared.
“Next time, Nelson,” Danny says, and makes for the nearest fire escape. He’s over the roof in seconds.
Nelson lets out a sigh of relief, but Matt’s still listening. And sure enough… “You owe me, Murdock,” Danny murmurs from the roof, too quiet for anyone but Matt to hear. “If that doesn’t get you laid, nothing will.”
Matt bites back his snort. Seems like that joke’s not going away any time soon. He turns his attention back to Nelson, standing trembling behind him. “Are you okay, Mr. Nelson? I was headed back to your apartment and I heard...did he hurt you?”
“Yeah...I mean, no, I’m fine,” Nelson says.
Matt reaches for his hand. “It sounded like he kicked you, are you sure…”
“Yeah. Yeah, I’m okay,” Nelson says, but his breath hitches when Matt tests his fingers to make sure they’re bending and straightening properly, and Matt can already feel the heat and swelling starting in the smallest one. Nelson’s heart is still racing. Matt’s going to kill Danny.
“Let’s get you inside,” he says.
Inside, Matt fills a ziploc bag with ice cubes, wraps it in a dish towel, and holds it to Nelson’s fingers. He knows from experience that it’s awkward holding an icepack to your own hand, so he pulls up the two barstools at the kitchen counter so that they can sit together, and holds the icepack for Nelson.
“Thanks,” Nelson says.
“It's my job,” Matt says. “I'm just glad I got there in time.” He pauses. “Would you like me to call the police?” Nelson hasn't done so yet, and Matt doesn't know if it's because he's been too frazzled by Danny’s attack, or if he's not planning on calling them at all. Matt doesn't want to call the cops on Danny, of course, but it would look strange if he didn't offer.
“I don’t.” He hears Nelson swallow. “I don’t know if that’s such a good idea.”
Matt turns his attention from Nelson’s hand, surprised. “Why not?”
“Well, they didn’t take it too seriously the last time I told them I was attacked by a mysterious man in a black mask, and that was when I had an actual cop witness it,” Foggy says, a little wry. “Besides, I…he keeps asking about my employer.”
Matt’s own heart starts to race as he leans in. This is it. “Why would the man in black be asking about your boss?”
“I don’t know.” It’s a lie. “I mean, I don’t...I think that...there have been some things, lately, that…” Nelson stops and sighs. “I’m sorry, Murdock, I can’t talk about this with you. Any more than I could talk to the police about it. Attorney-client privilege.”
With an effort, Matt reins in his impatience. “Are you saying there are things your employer is doing that you should be talking to the police about?”
“I’m saying that I can’t talk about it,” Nelson says, more sharply than Matt’s ever heard him speak before.
Matt keeps pushing. “Mr. Nelson, if it’s a question of your safety, I need to know…”
“I’m not worried about my safety. It’s a question of trust, and professional ethics.” There’s a lie on the end of that, but Matt’s not sure what that implies about what the truth is.
Nelson pulls his hand out of Matt’s and closes his free hand around the ice pack. “Look, I’m really tired. It’s been a stressful night. I’m just gonna go to bed.” He stands up. “I guess you were right, it’s too soon to cancel your contract, so, you know...belay that order. And...thank you for saving me.” He starts to head towards his bedroom, then stops in the doorway to look back at Matt. “There’s leftovers in that bag I was carrying, by the way. From my folks’. I don’t know if they’re still good after I dropped them, and I know it’s late for dinner, but…” He shrugs. “I didn’t want you to miss out on a home-cooked meal.”
He closes the door, and Matt sits there, half-listening as he gets ready for bed. Now, more than ever, he’s sure that Nelson knows something unsavory, something that could incriminate Fisk, and maybe himself. Maybe something big enough to bring Fisk down for good. And he’s covering it up.
But he brought Matt dinner, because he thought Matt needed a home-cooked meal.
Matt will save it for tomorrow. For some reason he’s got a stomachache right now.
*
By morning he’s pretty sure he pushed too hard. Nelson’s usual well of endless chatter seems to have dried up; he doesn’t even react to Matt squeezing past him in the hall on his way to the shower, shirtless and sweaty after his morning workout. He’s anxious, if his fidgets and the slightly accelerated pace of his heart are any indication, but it’s not because he’s attracted to Matt.
“Any meetings today, Karen?” he asks when they arrive at the office. She shakes her head, a swish of heat and hair in Matt’s senses. “Good. Hold my calls until lunch, would you?”
The click of his office door shutting has an air of finality to it, especially since he never shuts that door.
“I’m having weird deja vu of my days in corporate America,” Karen says, and turns to Matt. “What’s with him?”
Matt doesn’t want to tell her, but he can’t lie; she’ll find out the truth from Nelson sooner or later. “He was attacked last night.”
Her heartbeat ratchets up. “The same nutjob in the mask?”
“Apparently.” That’s not even a lie, technically. “It was my day off, but luckily I was heading home in time to hear it and…” He shrugs. “He’s not hurt. The assailant got away, though.”
“Jesus.” Karen rakes a hand through her hair, a stressed tic Matt’s noticed a few times. “What does this asshole even want from him?”
Matt gives the tiniest of shrugs, not enough to make his body language unprofessional. “Mr. Nelson’s convinced he’s got the wrong guy.”
“Yeah? Someone should tell the nutjob that.” She shakes her head, then tilts it back up at Matt. “Thanks for saving him.”
“It’s my job, Ms. Page,” Matt says, and takes his usual place by the door. He needs to look into changing up their grocery order, the next time Nelson places it. For some reason, he’s still nauseous this morning.
*
Nelson’s closed off and squirrelly for the next three days. He takes almost no client meetings and spends the day shut up in his office; at home, he does the same, holed up in his home office while Matt tries to concentrate on a book.
Matt listens in, of course, but it gets him nowhere. Whatever Nelson’s doing, it involves a lot of reading, a lot of typing, and a lot of muffled swearing under his breath, but nothing Matt can translate into action. Did Danny’s attack put the fear of God into him? Is he trying to cover up Fisk’s illegal activities - or his own, so he can get himself clear? Hell, he could be penning the Great American Novel, for all Matt knows.
There are phone calls: hushed, anxious ones. But not to Fisk or even Wesley, much to Matt’s chagrin. Some seem to be to banks, because Matt hears dollars and routing numbers. Some are to his parents, asking if they’ve noticed strange cars or gotten weird calls. Matt would think Nelson was planning to make a run for it, but the rest of the calls are to Sergeant Mahoney, and Matt would’ve sworn he was clean.
Besides, the stupidly naive part of him that Stick never quite managed to silence doesn’t think Nelson would abandon his other clients like that.
Then Wesley comes into the office.
Matt forces an instinctive glower off his face and listens to the conversation behind Nelson’s shut door.
“...making some calls to Silver and Brent?” Wesley asks.
“Oh, those.” Nelson’s surprisingly breezy, considering how fast his heart is pounding. “I was just looking into a couple of hinky accounting numbers. Turned out to be a typo, no big deal.” Lie.
“I’m a little concerned you didn’t bring your questions to me. It probably could’ve been cleared up much more quickly than it was.” Lie.
“Honestly, I didn’t think it was a big enough deal to bother you.” Lie. “I’ll call you first in the future.” Lie.
“Excellent.” Matt wonders if Wesley’s smile looks as unctuous as it sounds. “Now, to my real business…” Wesley launches into some byzantine details about real estate holdings and tax codes, the details of which lose Matt almost instantly. He snaps to attention again, though, when Wesley mentions a building owned by his employer containing “a criminal element.” That’s what Elena Cardenas’s sleazy landlord said about her building.
Nelson must think the same thing, because he says, “Junkies?”
“If only,” Wesley says dryly. “We’re concerned that the Russian mob may have set up shop in one of the abandoned buildings. We’ve asked the police to look into this, but…” Matt can sense him spreading his hands as if helpless, as he lies through his teeth. “I wouldn’t concerned yourself with that aspect. Just steer clear of that corner if you can until this mess is straightened out. I saw on the way in that you still have your security.” Matt feels his lip curl slightly. “That’s good.”
“Yeah, he’s...Matt’s been...uh. He’s been helpful,” Nelson says.
Matt. Matt’s so startled by Nelson’s use of his first name that he misses the rest of the conversation; a minute later, Wesley’s bidding an insincere goodbye to Karen and making for the door.
Nelson lets out a tired sigh once he’s gone. “Hey, Karen?” he says.
“Yeah?”
“Stay clear of the abandoned building on 45th and 11th, would you? Apparently the Russian mob’s holed up in there or something, I don’t know.”
“Jesus. Okay, yeah, thanks.”
“Yeah.” Nelson pauses. For a minute Matt’s sure Nelson’s looking his way; then he goes back into his office and shuts the door.
*
Nelson works late that night, long after the sun’s gone down and Karen has bid them both goodbye. He comes out of his office tired and subdued.
“Sorry I kept you so long. You must be starving,” he says as he locks up behind them. “We’ll get takeout tonight, whatever you want, okay? Even that weird health food place with all the sprouts that you ask Karen to get you lunch from sometimes.”
Matt hadn’t realized Nelson noticed what he ate. “It’s not a problem, Mr. Nelson. But thank you.” He tries a flirtatious smile, something to lighten the mood. “I bet I could get you to like sprouts if I put my mind to it.”
But Nelson doesn’t blush, or even smile if his tone is any indication. “Sure,” he says distractedly, and they lapse into silence.
The silence might be a good thing, though, because as they draw near Nelson’s street Matt hears it: low, tense voices talking in Russian. Normally he wouldn’t think anything of it - Hell’s Kitchen is full of all sorts of people speaking all sorts of languages - but one of the voices sounds familiar.
And then, suddenly, in English but with a strong accent: “What about the other one?”
“Shoot him if you want. Who cares? All he said was, kill the fat lawyer shit.”
And the click of a hammer.
“Foggy, get down!” Matt shouts, tackling him to the sidewalk as a gunshot cracks through the night. They hit harder than he’d like, with Matt’s arms around Foggy to protect his head and spine, body on top to take the bullet. It misses, pinging off the wall above their heads.
“Wh - what?” Foggy asks, breathless, terrified.
“Stay behind me and keep your head covered,” Matt says. The Russians are coming around the corner now, weapons drawn - two of them, shit, it’s those asshole brothers who kidnapped the little boy.
Matt keeps himself between them and Foggy, wishing he had the billy clubs safely packed away in his bag upstairs. But no, those are weapons for his night job - no way of explaining them when the mask is off. Why didn’t he work some kind of weapon into his Defenders profile?
“One chance to get out of way,” one of the assholes tells him, gesturing with his gun.
Matt gropes in his pockets. Keys. They’ll have to do. “No thanks,” he says, and throws the keys at Asshole #1’s face as hard as he can.
They hit him in the eye. He screams and drops his gun. “Anatoly!” Asshole #2 cries and fires a few rounds at Matt before turning to check on his brother, who’s on his knees and clutching his face.
“Stay down,” Matt barks at Foggy, and darts forward. It’s risky, but he can’t give the brothers time to recover.
Asshole #2 whirls. Matt kicks the gun out of his hand. “You fucking - ” the asshole starts to say, and Matt punches him.
“Who sent you after Nelson?” he demands. “Who wanted him dead?” Foggy lets out a frightened squeak behind them and Matt’s blood boils.
“Fucking kill you - ” Asshole #2 says, lunging at Matt. Matt turns into the first blow, letting it glance off his ribs, then catches the asshole’s arm and flips him over his hip. He hits the street, head cracking against the asphalt.
Matt stands over him and grabs him by the shirt. “Answer me!” he demands. “Who’s trying to kill - ”
The asshole’s head lolls back. Shit. He’s unconscious.
Matt lets him drop and limps towards Asshole #1, who’s clutching his eye and scrambling for his gun. He needs answers, he needs -
“Matt?”
Foggy sounds terrified, and Matt remembers that revenge can wait. Right now he needs to make sure Foggy is safe. He steps on Asshole #1’s - Anatoly, apparently - hand with a satisfying crunch of breaking fingers and listens to him scream, picking up the gun that’s just out of reach.
“We’re calling the cops,” he says, removing the clip and collecting the other gun and his keys. “You’d better start thinking about what you’re going to tell them when they ask you why you tried to kill my client.”
“Fuck you,” Anatoly spits. The air is thick with the scent of blood, but Matt can’t tell if the eye’s ruined or not. He doesn’t care. “We kill you both.”
“I doubt it.” Matt limps over to Foggy, putting a protective arm around his shoulders. He can feel a fine tremble running through him. “Hey. It’s okay, it’s over. Let’s get you inside.”
“Matt,” Foggy says, choked. “Your leg.”
Oh. Oh, that’s why - that’s why he was limping. He’s bleeding and his thigh’s stinging - not enough to make Matt worry, just enough to hurt like hell. One of the bullets must’ve tagged him.
“I’m fine,” he says. “Come on, let’s go, I don’t want to wait and see if these two have friends.”
In the lobby of Foggy’s building, Matt drops the guns on the security guard’s desk and says, “Call the police and tell them to arrest the two men outside for attempted murder, then ask them to come up and I’ll give them a statement.” Ignoring the guard’s startled spluttering, he gets Foggy into the elevator and up to his apartment.
“Just breathe,” he says as soothingly as he can, though he’s not a soothing person by nature. “You’re fine. You’re safe. The cops will be here soon. Let me make you a cup of tea and - ”
“Matt, you have to go to the hospital. You were shot!” Foggy interrupts.
“I’m fine.”
“You were shot!” Foggy’s hyperventilating. “You can’t make me tea, you can’t do anything for me. You’re fired.”
That brings Matt up short. “What?”
“I said you’re fired,” Foggy repeats, voice tinged with hysteria. “You’re fired, okay? I can’t...I can’t have you getting shot for me, I can’t have people almost dying for me, that’s not...this is my problem, not anyone else’s, and I can’t...I can’t…”
“Hey. Hey.” Matt knows this is crossing a professional boundary, but he can’t hear Foggy this upset and not do anything about it. He takes two steps and wraps Foggy up in his arms. “It’s okay, shhh, you’re okay. Breathe for me, Foggy. Please.”
Foggy takes a hiccupy breath in Matt’s ear, and then another, and another. Matt pulls him in closer, hoping that his calm will transfer a little. He’s probably getting blood all over Foggy’s pants, but hopefully Foggy will forgive that.
He’s not going to fire Matt. Matt won’t let him. Not now that he knows Foggy’s really in danger.
“This is the job, right?” he says. “This is what I’m here for. To keep you safe. And I do know how to do that without getting hurt. The bullet just grazed me, Foggy. I’m fine. Trust me.”
Another rattling breath, but Foggy sounds calmer, his heartbeat less of a frantic rattle against Matt’s ribs. “I do trust you,” he says, and it’s not a lie, and for a moment Matt feels dizzy. Maybe he’s lost more blood than he thought.
He takes a step back. “Let me bandage this, and then we can argue over who gets to make the tea before the cops come, okay?”
Foggy laughs, a wet, exhausted sound, but nods. “Okay. Okay.”
It really is just a graze, they discover once Matt’s pants are off - enough to dig a trench through Matt’s flesh, but not enough to do serious damage. Foggy insists on bandaging it himself, though Matt has to talk him through it. His hands are gentle, so gentle even when he’s disinfecting the wound and Matt barely feels the sting of it, too focused on Foggy’s heartbeat from where he’s kneeling on the floor in front of Matt, warm and close. Matt’s strangely annoyed when the cops come and Foggy has to get up to open the door.
He and Foggy give their statements and Matt hands them one of his cards so that they can confirm his employment with the Defenders in the morning. The Russians are gone, they’re informed - managed to get out of there between Matt and Foggy leaving the scene and the police arriving. Matt curls his hands into fists and wishes...but no, Foggy needed him. He had to get Foggy inside.
Foggy closes and locks the door behind the cops and leans against it. “So now I have a masked nutjob and crazy Russians gunning for me, huh?”
Matt pulls a face. “That’s about the size of it.”
Foggy nods. “Hey, instead of tea, how about we get super drunk?”
Foggy’s got a good bottle of scotch in his liquor cabinet, better than anything Matt’s dad ever drank and three-quarters full. He pours two glasses over Matt’s half-hearted protests. “Come on, you got shot tonight! In the movies they always need a slug of brandy before they pour it over the wound or whatever,” Foggy points out. “Plus, you’re still fired. You could probably use a drink.”
“I really am fine, Mr. Nelson,” Matt says as Foggy puts the bottle down.
“Thought you were calling me Foggy now.” Foggy lifts his glass. “Thanks for saving my life, by the way.”
“All part of the job,” Matt says, pauses, and adds, “And it’s a life worth saving.”
Foggy’s heart stutters, but all he says is, “Flattery won’t get you your job back, Murdock,” and clinks his glass against Matt’s before taking a sip.
Even with his bandaged leg, part of Matt’s itching to be out on patrol, to hunt down the Russians and make them give up why they went after Foggy. He was sure they were on Fisk’s payroll. Another night he might be gently coaxing Foggy to go to bed, giving Matt a chance to leave him safely behind two locked doors and a security guard so that Matt could get to work.
But Foggy was so upset earlier, just because Matt got a little nick. Matt doesn’t want to leave him, not until Foggy understands that Matt’s okay.
By the time the scotch is closer to one quarter full than three, Foggy’s heartbeat has finally slowed down to a comfortably lazy pace. They’re sprawled on the couch, Foggy’s thigh warm against Matt’s, the remnants of their takeout dinner scattered across the coffee table. Matt hasn’t had as much to drink as Foggy, but he feels sleepy and full and good. Even his leg doesn’t hurt.
“Why guarding bodies, though?” Foggy asks. It sounds like he’s continuing a train of thought Matt’s lost. Matt blinks.
“Huh?” he asks eloquently.
“Your job. I mean, obviously you’ve always been a hero…” Matt snorts, and Foggy laughs. “But why this one? Were you just like, hey, the rich douchebags of the world need my services, or what? I’m including myself in that category, by the way.”
“You’re not a douchebag,” Matt scoffs. “You’re great.”
Foggy dismisses that with an airy and somewhat sloppy wave of his hand. “Seriously, though.”
“Why’d you become a lawyer?” Matt asks instead of answering.
“To make a lot of money,” Foggy says, and Matt laughs. “Really!”
“You get paid in baklava, Foggy.”
“Yeah, because I can afford to now. I couldn’t always,” Foggy says, and Matt realizes nothing he’s said so far has pinged as a lie. He frowns, and Foggy shrugs. “Hey, don’t look at me like that. It’s not...I don’t think I’m any more mercenary than anyone else. It’s not about that. But when I was a kid...I dunno, I was probably around nine, so when you were busy leaping heroically into action and saving lives.” Matt snorts again. “Okay, okay. But yeah, that would’ve been around the time that I started listening to my parents talk about money. Or, not listening to, but understanding it. You know?”
Matt nods. He remembers - the landlord asking for the rent, his father’s strained expression when he passed the questions along. Wads of cash with bloody fingerprints on them. Ramen weeks when his dad hadn’t had a fight in a while, and the twist in his stomach that had nothing to do with too much cheap starch and sodium.
“We never had a lot, but it was especially tight, some years. Dad almost lost the store a couple of times. And I…” Foggy sighs. “I would hear them talking about it, worrying about it, and my mom crying, and I remember still being really little and thinking, that’s not gonna be me. I was going to make enough money that I would never have to worry again. That they would never have to worry again.” His tone brightens slightly - a smile, probably. “One morning, after I’d heard them talking about it the night before, I asked my dad what job he thought paid better, lawyer or NBA superstar. Bear in mind I was just as much of a chubby, uncoordinated indoor kid then as now.”
Matt smiles. He likes Foggy’s softness, the give of his thigh against Matt’s. “What’d he say?”
“He ruffled my hair and said, ‘NBA superstar, but stick with the law, chatterbox.’ And that was sort of that.” Foggy shrugs. “The fact that I got to law school and actually liked it was just kind of a bonus.”
Matt pauses, gathering his thoughts. Maybe it’s because he’s a little drunk; maybe he just feels like he owes Foggy some truth. Even if he hasn’t talked about this in...a long time, long enough that most days it’s easy to forget.
“My dad...he died when I was a kid, not long after I lost my sight. Murdered, actually. He refused to throw a fight, and…” He waves a hand. The details aren’t important.
“I remember,” Foggy says softly. “Battlin’ Jack. It was in the papers.”
“Yeah,” Matt says. “He never...he never wanted me to fight. He wanted me to use my head, to make something more of myself than he was.” He smiles crookedly. “He’d probably have liked it if I became a lawyer. But that takes time, and money, and I…”
He shakes his head. “I had my heightened senses from the accident. And I had...training, or some of it, at least. I had a teacher when I was a kid who...it doesn’t matter.” He shakes off the memory of Stick. This is hard enough without that. “I did well in school, I got into a lot of colleges, but...they never found the man who’d had my father killed. I knew I could, but it would take time, and money, so…”
He shrugs one shoulder. “It’s not like I didn’t go to college. But CUNY was cheaper than Columbia, and I could study less. Spend my free time training. Searching.
“It turned out he’d changed his name, moved out of Hell’s Kitchen, out on Long Island, the really blue-blood part of it. Not because of me or my dad, but the Murdocks weren’t the only ones he’d pissed off. It took me years to find him, and by then, he’d heard someone was asking around for him under his real name. He knew what that meant, and he had money. So when I finally tracked him down, he’d hired a bodyguard. A man with unbreakable skin.”
“Mr. Cage,” Foggy realized.
“Yeah. And I…I was twenty-two, and stupid-angry, and I didn’t have the training I have now. I didn’t have a chance.” Matt can still remember breaking his fingers on Luke’s ribs, Luke catching his wrist and holding him without even trying. The scream that broke out of him, a nine-year-old in a man’s body raging against a world that wouldn’t fight fair: He killed my father!
“Luke told me...he told me to get my head straight. To forget about revenge and do something with my abilities, something good,” Matt goes on. “And I said, ‘You mean guarding murderers like you do?’” He smiles a little at Foggy’s surprised noise. “Yeah, I’m lucky he didn’t hit me for that one. Instead...he let me go.”
“Just like that?” Foggy asks, and Matt nods.
“Sweeney - the man who - well, he wanted Luke to hold me for the cops, but Luke wouldn’t. He said Sweeney’d already done enough to ruin my life, and he wasn’t going to help him finish the job.” Knowing what he knows about Luke now, the fact that Luke was reluctant to send him to jail makes sense - but that’s Luke’s story to tell, and Matt doesn’t have the right to share it. “So he let me go, and I ran. Back home, back to...well, I didn’t have anything then, really. A shitty little apartment. No job, living off of what was left of my inheritance from my father’s last fight. No plans for the future. I’d never seen a life for myself beyond tracking down my father’s killer.”
Foggy’s hand is suddenly on his knee - not a come-on but a comfort, warm and steady. Matt leans into him, into the steady pulse of his heart.
“I was trying to figure out what to do with myself when Luke showed up at my door. Well. Luke and Jessica - Jessica Jones, you met her at the demo. She used to be a PI, and Luke asked her to find me, and, well…” He spreads his hands. “Luke thought I was Defenders material. I don’t know what he saw in me, this skinny, angry kid, but he did, and so did Jessica, I guess. Trish - Ms. Walker - she trusts Jessica more than anything, so when Jessica vouched for me...well. Here we are.” He swallows. “Trish even got this lawyer she knows to help bring Sweeney to trial. He’s in jail for life now. So.”
There’s more, of course. There’s the way he felt empty, hollowed-out those few days before Luke showed up, lost without a goal for the first time since childhood. When revenge was a burning ember in his chest it was like he still knew he was: Jack Murdock’s boy. Someone’s son. Someone who belonged somewhere, even if that somewhere was an apartment that had long since changed hands and a lonely grave out in Brooklyn.
Luke and Trish - they didn’t have to take a chance on him, but they did and that - the two of them, sparring with Danny, learning to bat insults back and forth with Jessica instead of taking them to heart, soup kitchens and community gardens with Malcolm - they gave Matt something to be when he wasn’t anything anymore. Jack Murdock’s boy, the Defender.
He can never thank any of them enough.
“Sounds like I owe Luke a lot,” Foggy says. His voice is low and a little rough, and very close. He’s not pulling away from Matt, not even after that. His hand is still on Matt’s knee. “Without him I wouldn’t have met you.”
“Any of the others would have kept you safe tonight,” Matt says, quietly, loyally. “It’s what we do.”
“Yeah. But I’m glad it was you.” Foggy smells like scotch and lemon and that persistent vanilla, like home. “I’m just sort of glad about you in general. It’s a consistent state of gladness that you’re, y’know. You.”
Matt swallows again. “Foggy…” he says, and his hand moves before he gives it permission, cupping Foggy’s cheek, fingers sliding through the softness of his hair. Foggy tilts into it, tilts towards Matt. Matt can hear the moment when his lips part, and the pulse beneath his palm is racing like it did when they first met and Matt would flirt with him.
To get his secrets. Because Foggy is a case and a client and he has no idea why Matt’s really here.
And he’s drunk.
Matt draws his hand back. “I’m,” he starts. “I’m sorry. That was unprofessional. I should...we should probably get some rest. It’s been a long night.”
Foggy shrinks away, body language suddenly stiff and embarrassed. Matt’s knee where Foggy’s hand was is unreasonably cold. “Right. Yeah. We should...you’re right.”
They get up, leaving the living room as it is - Matt’s too tired and tipsy to deal with it now, and he’s sure Foggy is too. He follows Foggy down the hall to the bedrooms; Foggy’s weaving a little in his senses and he’s not sure if that’s because he’s drunk or because Foggy is. He’s so tired.
Foggy pauses in the door to his room. There’s a foot between them but it feels like a mile. Matt’s leg hurts. “Hey, Matt?”
“Yeah?”
“I guess you’re not fired,” Foggy says. “Just...be careful, okay?”
Matt makes himself smile. “Of course, Foggy. After all, I have to keep you safe, don’t I?”
Foggy looks at him for a long moment, then, but all he says is, “Good night, Matt,” before he closes the door.
Chapter 4
Fandom: Daredevil (TV)
Rating: NC-17
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Luckily, the next day is Sunday, his day off, and he already has lunch plans with his coworkers. He’s halfway through his salad when he puts down his fork and says, “I need one of you to attack my client.”
“I’ll do it,” Jessica says immediately, and then, “Any particular reason, or just for fun?”
“He’s planning on ending the contract at two weeks because there haven’t been any further threats,” Matt explains. “I need him to reconsider.”
There’s a long and very heavy silence. “Uh, that’s not really how we’re supposed to drum up business,” Luke says finally. “If there’s no threat, we move on, remember?”
Okay, yeah, he should have anticipated this reaction. “There was never any threat,” he admits, because Jessica will weasel the truth out of him anyway. “I was the one who attacked him in the first place.”
Another long pause, and the clink of his dining companions putting their utensils down.
“Is this it?” Jessica asks, breaking the silence. “Am I finally not the most fucked up one here?”
Danny snorts, and she kicks him under the table. Matt sighs. “Nelson works for...someone I’ve been trying to get information on. Someone unsavory,” he explains. It’s safer if they don’t know the name - and probably wiser not to say it out loud in public anyway. “I tried to scare the intel out of him, but didn’t get very far. But now I have access. I can bring this whole thing down, I just need a little more time.”
“Wait, whoa, I thought you were just stopping muggers and shit,” Danny says.
“I was!” Matt says. “But more and more of these low-level criminals seem to be connected. There’s someone at the top pulling the strings, and right now I’m sharing a bedroom wall with his lawyer. I’m not going to get an opportunity like this again.”
“Thirsty, Murdock, very thirsty,” Jessica says over her beer glass.
Matt rolls his eyes, even though she can’t see it behind his glasses. “That’s not what this is about, and you know it.” She makes a noncommittal sound. “Look, I know this is a lot to ask, but if I can get the information I need out of Nelson, it’ll make Hell’s Kitchen a lot safer for a lot of innocent people. Please?”
He can tell they’re exchanging glances. He wishes he could read their expressions, but it still might not help. He’s always sort of been the odd man out in their group, probably largely but not entirely because he’s the only one not sleeping with Luke, off and on.
“I mean, I’ll still do it,” Jessica says finally, and steals a crouton out of Matt’s salad. “I love terrorizing people for a good cause.”
“Nah, you’re too memorable. He’d recognize you,” Danny says.
“So I’ll wear a disguise.”
“Babe, your idea of a disguise is wearing a shirt that’s an actual color,” Luke points out.
From the tone of her voice, Matt can tell she’s scowling. “Like any of you fuckers would recognize me if I wore pink.”
“I certainly wouldn’t,” Matt drawls, and grins when Jessica flips him off. “If Jessica’s too memorable, I assume Luke is too? At least, that’s what I’ve gathered.”
“That’s what I’ve gathered, too,” Luke says, his tone amused.
“Sounds like I’m being volunteered,” Danny says. “All right, Murdock, loan me a clean pair of your black pajamas and I’ll chase your boyfriend straight into your loving arms.”
Matt hadn’t thought of Danny dressing up as, well, Matt, but it makes sense. As far as he knows, Nelson doesn’t suspect a connection between Matt and the man in the mask, but Matt might as well derail any suspicion entirely. “Thanks,” he says. “And he’s not my boyfriend.”
“Sure, not yet. That’s why you need Danny,” Luke says.
Matt turns his attention eating the rest of the croutons out of his salad before Jessica can, rather than deigning to respond to their snickering. The things he has to put up with to protect Hell’s Kitchen, honestly.
*
It’s probably a little too convenient to have Danny go after Nelson that night, but with only two days left in his working week, Matt’s suddenly on a very tight schedule. At least tonight provides him with a prime opportunity. The first Sunday after he’d been hired, Nelson had stayed home all day, still skittish without his bodyguard. This morning, however, he’d told Matt over breakfast that he was heading to his parents in Jersey to help them clean out the garage, “which will surely lead to tears, slamming doors, wills being rewritten on the fly - it’ll be a party.” He’d probably be back around ten, he’d said.
By nine, Matt and Danny are on the roof of a building two blocks away, one that Nelson will have to walk past on his way home from Penn Station. Danny’s wearing a set of Matt’s crimefighting clothes, though he had to find a different fabric that he could actually see through for the mask. Matt’s wearing normal street clothes, albeit ones that are dark enough that he’s less likely to be spotted getting into position.
“So just...you know, get all growly and menace-y, shove him around a little, but don't actually hurt him,” Matt says, keeping one ear cocked for the sound of Nelson’s approaching heart.
“I know,” Danny says, sounding exasperated. “I'm not gonna damage your boyfriend, Matt, don't wor--”
“Shh!” There it is, the familiar steady beat of Nelson’s heart. “He's two blocks away. Go, get ready.”
Danny makes some noncommittal grumbling sounds but moves off. Matt makes his way down to street level and ducks out of sight, ready to intervene at the right moment.
Nelson comes down the street, whistling something jaunty and vaguely familiar. He’s got his hands in his pockets and a tote bag slung over his shoulder with what smells like leftovers in it - ham, Brussels sprouts, buttery potatoes, the plastic smell of tupperware. His heartbeat is steady, his gait relaxed, the picture of bucolic unconcern.
For just a moment, Matt wants desperately to live with Nelson in whatever universe it is he inhabits, where he can stroll down the street of somewhere like Hell’s Kitchen in total contentment, happy and safe in his own skin. Who would Matt be if he could be walking beside Nelson right now, as easy and safe as the song Nelson’s whistling?
He shakes the feeling away. It’s ridiculous, and more to the point, it’s a distraction. Danny’s heartbeat is picking up. It’s time.
Danny leaps out of the shadows rather more dramatically than Matt would have. “Franklin Nelson!”
“Shit!” Nelson’s heart starts to race as he backs up, fumbling with something in his pocket, dropping the bag with the leftovers in the process. “Back off, seriously, I already told you you’ve got the wrong guy!”
“I think not,” Danny booms, and Matt resists the urge to smack his palm into his forehead. He sounds nothing like that. “You’re going to tell me what you know. Now.”
Nelson gets his hand out of his pocket, keys jingling, and something stings faintly at Matt’s nose. Oh. Oh, it’s pepper spray, and Matt’s torn between admiration and concern for Danny. “I said back off!”
But Danny can handle himself, of course. He leaps into a totally unnecessary but gorgeous spinning kick that sends the keychain flying out of Nelson’s hand.
“Ow! Shit!” Nelson hisses, drawing his hand back towards his chest, and anger roars hot in Matt’s blood. He’s hurt, Danny hurt him, Matt told him to be careful and he didn’t listen -
“Listen, you asshole…” Nelson starts, and he doesn’t sound like he’s in that much pain, but Matt’s already moving, slipping out of his hiding place and booking it down the street.
“Oh, I’ll listen.” Danny shoves Nelson up against the nearest building, hands on his shoulders. “I’ll listen while you tell me everything I want to know about your employer.”
“I’m not going to - ”
“Hey!” Matt charges into Danny, catching him around the waist and sending him crashing to the ground. Actually, Danny’s going into a controlled fall and shielding Matt from the impact, but it looks good.
“Ma-Murdock!” Nelson says as Danny flings Matt off of him and they both spring to their feet. Matt maneuvers himself between Nelson and Danny.
“Are you okay, Mr. Nelson?” he asks.
“Yeah, shit, yeah, I’m fine, be careful - ”
Danny feints, and Matt kicks him in the side, where it’ll sting but not do any lasting damage. Danny lets out a surprised yelp. Matt suspects Danny’s glaring at him. “Get out of my way,” he snarls, still way too dramatic.
“No. Stand down before I put you down,” Matt says. “Mr. Nelson, could you please call the police?”
“Uh,” Nelson says behind him.
Danny puts his hands up. “Fine. I’m going. But you can’t babysit him forever.” He points at Nelson. “Sooner or later I’ll get you to break.”
“Uh,” Nelson says again. Matt scents a whiff of fear and moves a little closer to Nelson, offering reassurance, then belatedly remembers that he wants Nelson scared.
“Next time, Nelson,” Danny says, and makes for the nearest fire escape. He’s over the roof in seconds.
Nelson lets out a sigh of relief, but Matt’s still listening. And sure enough… “You owe me, Murdock,” Danny murmurs from the roof, too quiet for anyone but Matt to hear. “If that doesn’t get you laid, nothing will.”
Matt bites back his snort. Seems like that joke’s not going away any time soon. He turns his attention back to Nelson, standing trembling behind him. “Are you okay, Mr. Nelson? I was headed back to your apartment and I heard...did he hurt you?”
“Yeah...I mean, no, I’m fine,” Nelson says.
Matt reaches for his hand. “It sounded like he kicked you, are you sure…”
“Yeah. Yeah, I’m okay,” Nelson says, but his breath hitches when Matt tests his fingers to make sure they’re bending and straightening properly, and Matt can already feel the heat and swelling starting in the smallest one. Nelson’s heart is still racing. Matt’s going to kill Danny.
“Let’s get you inside,” he says.
Inside, Matt fills a ziploc bag with ice cubes, wraps it in a dish towel, and holds it to Nelson’s fingers. He knows from experience that it’s awkward holding an icepack to your own hand, so he pulls up the two barstools at the kitchen counter so that they can sit together, and holds the icepack for Nelson.
“Thanks,” Nelson says.
“It's my job,” Matt says. “I'm just glad I got there in time.” He pauses. “Would you like me to call the police?” Nelson hasn't done so yet, and Matt doesn't know if it's because he's been too frazzled by Danny’s attack, or if he's not planning on calling them at all. Matt doesn't want to call the cops on Danny, of course, but it would look strange if he didn't offer.
“I don’t.” He hears Nelson swallow. “I don’t know if that’s such a good idea.”
Matt turns his attention from Nelson’s hand, surprised. “Why not?”
“Well, they didn’t take it too seriously the last time I told them I was attacked by a mysterious man in a black mask, and that was when I had an actual cop witness it,” Foggy says, a little wry. “Besides, I…he keeps asking about my employer.”
Matt’s own heart starts to race as he leans in. This is it. “Why would the man in black be asking about your boss?”
“I don’t know.” It’s a lie. “I mean, I don’t...I think that...there have been some things, lately, that…” Nelson stops and sighs. “I’m sorry, Murdock, I can’t talk about this with you. Any more than I could talk to the police about it. Attorney-client privilege.”
With an effort, Matt reins in his impatience. “Are you saying there are things your employer is doing that you should be talking to the police about?”
“I’m saying that I can’t talk about it,” Nelson says, more sharply than Matt’s ever heard him speak before.
Matt keeps pushing. “Mr. Nelson, if it’s a question of your safety, I need to know…”
“I’m not worried about my safety. It’s a question of trust, and professional ethics.” There’s a lie on the end of that, but Matt’s not sure what that implies about what the truth is.
Nelson pulls his hand out of Matt’s and closes his free hand around the ice pack. “Look, I’m really tired. It’s been a stressful night. I’m just gonna go to bed.” He stands up. “I guess you were right, it’s too soon to cancel your contract, so, you know...belay that order. And...thank you for saving me.” He starts to head towards his bedroom, then stops in the doorway to look back at Matt. “There’s leftovers in that bag I was carrying, by the way. From my folks’. I don’t know if they’re still good after I dropped them, and I know it’s late for dinner, but…” He shrugs. “I didn’t want you to miss out on a home-cooked meal.”
He closes the door, and Matt sits there, half-listening as he gets ready for bed. Now, more than ever, he’s sure that Nelson knows something unsavory, something that could incriminate Fisk, and maybe himself. Maybe something big enough to bring Fisk down for good. And he’s covering it up.
But he brought Matt dinner, because he thought Matt needed a home-cooked meal.
Matt will save it for tomorrow. For some reason he’s got a stomachache right now.
*
By morning he’s pretty sure he pushed too hard. Nelson’s usual well of endless chatter seems to have dried up; he doesn’t even react to Matt squeezing past him in the hall on his way to the shower, shirtless and sweaty after his morning workout. He’s anxious, if his fidgets and the slightly accelerated pace of his heart are any indication, but it’s not because he’s attracted to Matt.
“Any meetings today, Karen?” he asks when they arrive at the office. She shakes her head, a swish of heat and hair in Matt’s senses. “Good. Hold my calls until lunch, would you?”
The click of his office door shutting has an air of finality to it, especially since he never shuts that door.
“I’m having weird deja vu of my days in corporate America,” Karen says, and turns to Matt. “What’s with him?”
Matt doesn’t want to tell her, but he can’t lie; she’ll find out the truth from Nelson sooner or later. “He was attacked last night.”
Her heartbeat ratchets up. “The same nutjob in the mask?”
“Apparently.” That’s not even a lie, technically. “It was my day off, but luckily I was heading home in time to hear it and…” He shrugs. “He’s not hurt. The assailant got away, though.”
“Jesus.” Karen rakes a hand through her hair, a stressed tic Matt’s noticed a few times. “What does this asshole even want from him?”
Matt gives the tiniest of shrugs, not enough to make his body language unprofessional. “Mr. Nelson’s convinced he’s got the wrong guy.”
“Yeah? Someone should tell the nutjob that.” She shakes her head, then tilts it back up at Matt. “Thanks for saving him.”
“It’s my job, Ms. Page,” Matt says, and takes his usual place by the door. He needs to look into changing up their grocery order, the next time Nelson places it. For some reason, he’s still nauseous this morning.
*
Nelson’s closed off and squirrelly for the next three days. He takes almost no client meetings and spends the day shut up in his office; at home, he does the same, holed up in his home office while Matt tries to concentrate on a book.
Matt listens in, of course, but it gets him nowhere. Whatever Nelson’s doing, it involves a lot of reading, a lot of typing, and a lot of muffled swearing under his breath, but nothing Matt can translate into action. Did Danny’s attack put the fear of God into him? Is he trying to cover up Fisk’s illegal activities - or his own, so he can get himself clear? Hell, he could be penning the Great American Novel, for all Matt knows.
There are phone calls: hushed, anxious ones. But not to Fisk or even Wesley, much to Matt’s chagrin. Some seem to be to banks, because Matt hears dollars and routing numbers. Some are to his parents, asking if they’ve noticed strange cars or gotten weird calls. Matt would think Nelson was planning to make a run for it, but the rest of the calls are to Sergeant Mahoney, and Matt would’ve sworn he was clean.
Besides, the stupidly naive part of him that Stick never quite managed to silence doesn’t think Nelson would abandon his other clients like that.
Then Wesley comes into the office.
Matt forces an instinctive glower off his face and listens to the conversation behind Nelson’s shut door.
“...making some calls to Silver and Brent?” Wesley asks.
“Oh, those.” Nelson’s surprisingly breezy, considering how fast his heart is pounding. “I was just looking into a couple of hinky accounting numbers. Turned out to be a typo, no big deal.” Lie.
“I’m a little concerned you didn’t bring your questions to me. It probably could’ve been cleared up much more quickly than it was.” Lie.
“Honestly, I didn’t think it was a big enough deal to bother you.” Lie. “I’ll call you first in the future.” Lie.
“Excellent.” Matt wonders if Wesley’s smile looks as unctuous as it sounds. “Now, to my real business…” Wesley launches into some byzantine details about real estate holdings and tax codes, the details of which lose Matt almost instantly. He snaps to attention again, though, when Wesley mentions a building owned by his employer containing “a criminal element.” That’s what Elena Cardenas’s sleazy landlord said about her building.
Nelson must think the same thing, because he says, “Junkies?”
“If only,” Wesley says dryly. “We’re concerned that the Russian mob may have set up shop in one of the abandoned buildings. We’ve asked the police to look into this, but…” Matt can sense him spreading his hands as if helpless, as he lies through his teeth. “I wouldn’t concerned yourself with that aspect. Just steer clear of that corner if you can until this mess is straightened out. I saw on the way in that you still have your security.” Matt feels his lip curl slightly. “That’s good.”
“Yeah, he’s...Matt’s been...uh. He’s been helpful,” Nelson says.
Matt. Matt’s so startled by Nelson’s use of his first name that he misses the rest of the conversation; a minute later, Wesley’s bidding an insincere goodbye to Karen and making for the door.
Nelson lets out a tired sigh once he’s gone. “Hey, Karen?” he says.
“Yeah?”
“Stay clear of the abandoned building on 45th and 11th, would you? Apparently the Russian mob’s holed up in there or something, I don’t know.”
“Jesus. Okay, yeah, thanks.”
“Yeah.” Nelson pauses. For a minute Matt’s sure Nelson’s looking his way; then he goes back into his office and shuts the door.
*
Nelson works late that night, long after the sun’s gone down and Karen has bid them both goodbye. He comes out of his office tired and subdued.
“Sorry I kept you so long. You must be starving,” he says as he locks up behind them. “We’ll get takeout tonight, whatever you want, okay? Even that weird health food place with all the sprouts that you ask Karen to get you lunch from sometimes.”
Matt hadn’t realized Nelson noticed what he ate. “It’s not a problem, Mr. Nelson. But thank you.” He tries a flirtatious smile, something to lighten the mood. “I bet I could get you to like sprouts if I put my mind to it.”
But Nelson doesn’t blush, or even smile if his tone is any indication. “Sure,” he says distractedly, and they lapse into silence.
The silence might be a good thing, though, because as they draw near Nelson’s street Matt hears it: low, tense voices talking in Russian. Normally he wouldn’t think anything of it - Hell’s Kitchen is full of all sorts of people speaking all sorts of languages - but one of the voices sounds familiar.
And then, suddenly, in English but with a strong accent: “What about the other one?”
“Shoot him if you want. Who cares? All he said was, kill the fat lawyer shit.”
And the click of a hammer.
“Foggy, get down!” Matt shouts, tackling him to the sidewalk as a gunshot cracks through the night. They hit harder than he’d like, with Matt’s arms around Foggy to protect his head and spine, body on top to take the bullet. It misses, pinging off the wall above their heads.
“Wh - what?” Foggy asks, breathless, terrified.
“Stay behind me and keep your head covered,” Matt says. The Russians are coming around the corner now, weapons drawn - two of them, shit, it’s those asshole brothers who kidnapped the little boy.
Matt keeps himself between them and Foggy, wishing he had the billy clubs safely packed away in his bag upstairs. But no, those are weapons for his night job - no way of explaining them when the mask is off. Why didn’t he work some kind of weapon into his Defenders profile?
“One chance to get out of way,” one of the assholes tells him, gesturing with his gun.
Matt gropes in his pockets. Keys. They’ll have to do. “No thanks,” he says, and throws the keys at Asshole #1’s face as hard as he can.
They hit him in the eye. He screams and drops his gun. “Anatoly!” Asshole #2 cries and fires a few rounds at Matt before turning to check on his brother, who’s on his knees and clutching his face.
“Stay down,” Matt barks at Foggy, and darts forward. It’s risky, but he can’t give the brothers time to recover.
Asshole #2 whirls. Matt kicks the gun out of his hand. “You fucking - ” the asshole starts to say, and Matt punches him.
“Who sent you after Nelson?” he demands. “Who wanted him dead?” Foggy lets out a frightened squeak behind them and Matt’s blood boils.
“Fucking kill you - ” Asshole #2 says, lunging at Matt. Matt turns into the first blow, letting it glance off his ribs, then catches the asshole’s arm and flips him over his hip. He hits the street, head cracking against the asphalt.
Matt stands over him and grabs him by the shirt. “Answer me!” he demands. “Who’s trying to kill - ”
The asshole’s head lolls back. Shit. He’s unconscious.
Matt lets him drop and limps towards Asshole #1, who’s clutching his eye and scrambling for his gun. He needs answers, he needs -
“Matt?”
Foggy sounds terrified, and Matt remembers that revenge can wait. Right now he needs to make sure Foggy is safe. He steps on Asshole #1’s - Anatoly, apparently - hand with a satisfying crunch of breaking fingers and listens to him scream, picking up the gun that’s just out of reach.
“We’re calling the cops,” he says, removing the clip and collecting the other gun and his keys. “You’d better start thinking about what you’re going to tell them when they ask you why you tried to kill my client.”
“Fuck you,” Anatoly spits. The air is thick with the scent of blood, but Matt can’t tell if the eye’s ruined or not. He doesn’t care. “We kill you both.”
“I doubt it.” Matt limps over to Foggy, putting a protective arm around his shoulders. He can feel a fine tremble running through him. “Hey. It’s okay, it’s over. Let’s get you inside.”
“Matt,” Foggy says, choked. “Your leg.”
Oh. Oh, that’s why - that’s why he was limping. He’s bleeding and his thigh’s stinging - not enough to make Matt worry, just enough to hurt like hell. One of the bullets must’ve tagged him.
“I’m fine,” he says. “Come on, let’s go, I don’t want to wait and see if these two have friends.”
In the lobby of Foggy’s building, Matt drops the guns on the security guard’s desk and says, “Call the police and tell them to arrest the two men outside for attempted murder, then ask them to come up and I’ll give them a statement.” Ignoring the guard’s startled spluttering, he gets Foggy into the elevator and up to his apartment.
“Just breathe,” he says as soothingly as he can, though he’s not a soothing person by nature. “You’re fine. You’re safe. The cops will be here soon. Let me make you a cup of tea and - ”
“Matt, you have to go to the hospital. You were shot!” Foggy interrupts.
“I’m fine.”
“You were shot!” Foggy’s hyperventilating. “You can’t make me tea, you can’t do anything for me. You’re fired.”
That brings Matt up short. “What?”
“I said you’re fired,” Foggy repeats, voice tinged with hysteria. “You’re fired, okay? I can’t...I can’t have you getting shot for me, I can’t have people almost dying for me, that’s not...this is my problem, not anyone else’s, and I can’t...I can’t…”
“Hey. Hey.” Matt knows this is crossing a professional boundary, but he can’t hear Foggy this upset and not do anything about it. He takes two steps and wraps Foggy up in his arms. “It’s okay, shhh, you’re okay. Breathe for me, Foggy. Please.”
Foggy takes a hiccupy breath in Matt’s ear, and then another, and another. Matt pulls him in closer, hoping that his calm will transfer a little. He’s probably getting blood all over Foggy’s pants, but hopefully Foggy will forgive that.
He’s not going to fire Matt. Matt won’t let him. Not now that he knows Foggy’s really in danger.
“This is the job, right?” he says. “This is what I’m here for. To keep you safe. And I do know how to do that without getting hurt. The bullet just grazed me, Foggy. I’m fine. Trust me.”
Another rattling breath, but Foggy sounds calmer, his heartbeat less of a frantic rattle against Matt’s ribs. “I do trust you,” he says, and it’s not a lie, and for a moment Matt feels dizzy. Maybe he’s lost more blood than he thought.
He takes a step back. “Let me bandage this, and then we can argue over who gets to make the tea before the cops come, okay?”
Foggy laughs, a wet, exhausted sound, but nods. “Okay. Okay.”
It really is just a graze, they discover once Matt’s pants are off - enough to dig a trench through Matt’s flesh, but not enough to do serious damage. Foggy insists on bandaging it himself, though Matt has to talk him through it. His hands are gentle, so gentle even when he’s disinfecting the wound and Matt barely feels the sting of it, too focused on Foggy’s heartbeat from where he’s kneeling on the floor in front of Matt, warm and close. Matt’s strangely annoyed when the cops come and Foggy has to get up to open the door.
He and Foggy give their statements and Matt hands them one of his cards so that they can confirm his employment with the Defenders in the morning. The Russians are gone, they’re informed - managed to get out of there between Matt and Foggy leaving the scene and the police arriving. Matt curls his hands into fists and wishes...but no, Foggy needed him. He had to get Foggy inside.
Foggy closes and locks the door behind the cops and leans against it. “So now I have a masked nutjob and crazy Russians gunning for me, huh?”
Matt pulls a face. “That’s about the size of it.”
Foggy nods. “Hey, instead of tea, how about we get super drunk?”
Foggy’s got a good bottle of scotch in his liquor cabinet, better than anything Matt’s dad ever drank and three-quarters full. He pours two glasses over Matt’s half-hearted protests. “Come on, you got shot tonight! In the movies they always need a slug of brandy before they pour it over the wound or whatever,” Foggy points out. “Plus, you’re still fired. You could probably use a drink.”
“I really am fine, Mr. Nelson,” Matt says as Foggy puts the bottle down.
“Thought you were calling me Foggy now.” Foggy lifts his glass. “Thanks for saving my life, by the way.”
“All part of the job,” Matt says, pauses, and adds, “And it’s a life worth saving.”
Foggy’s heart stutters, but all he says is, “Flattery won’t get you your job back, Murdock,” and clinks his glass against Matt’s before taking a sip.
Even with his bandaged leg, part of Matt’s itching to be out on patrol, to hunt down the Russians and make them give up why they went after Foggy. He was sure they were on Fisk’s payroll. Another night he might be gently coaxing Foggy to go to bed, giving Matt a chance to leave him safely behind two locked doors and a security guard so that Matt could get to work.
But Foggy was so upset earlier, just because Matt got a little nick. Matt doesn’t want to leave him, not until Foggy understands that Matt’s okay.
By the time the scotch is closer to one quarter full than three, Foggy’s heartbeat has finally slowed down to a comfortably lazy pace. They’re sprawled on the couch, Foggy’s thigh warm against Matt’s, the remnants of their takeout dinner scattered across the coffee table. Matt hasn’t had as much to drink as Foggy, but he feels sleepy and full and good. Even his leg doesn’t hurt.
“Why guarding bodies, though?” Foggy asks. It sounds like he’s continuing a train of thought Matt’s lost. Matt blinks.
“Huh?” he asks eloquently.
“Your job. I mean, obviously you’ve always been a hero…” Matt snorts, and Foggy laughs. “But why this one? Were you just like, hey, the rich douchebags of the world need my services, or what? I’m including myself in that category, by the way.”
“You’re not a douchebag,” Matt scoffs. “You’re great.”
Foggy dismisses that with an airy and somewhat sloppy wave of his hand. “Seriously, though.”
“Why’d you become a lawyer?” Matt asks instead of answering.
“To make a lot of money,” Foggy says, and Matt laughs. “Really!”
“You get paid in baklava, Foggy.”
“Yeah, because I can afford to now. I couldn’t always,” Foggy says, and Matt realizes nothing he’s said so far has pinged as a lie. He frowns, and Foggy shrugs. “Hey, don’t look at me like that. It’s not...I don’t think I’m any more mercenary than anyone else. It’s not about that. But when I was a kid...I dunno, I was probably around nine, so when you were busy leaping heroically into action and saving lives.” Matt snorts again. “Okay, okay. But yeah, that would’ve been around the time that I started listening to my parents talk about money. Or, not listening to, but understanding it. You know?”
Matt nods. He remembers - the landlord asking for the rent, his father’s strained expression when he passed the questions along. Wads of cash with bloody fingerprints on them. Ramen weeks when his dad hadn’t had a fight in a while, and the twist in his stomach that had nothing to do with too much cheap starch and sodium.
“We never had a lot, but it was especially tight, some years. Dad almost lost the store a couple of times. And I…” Foggy sighs. “I would hear them talking about it, worrying about it, and my mom crying, and I remember still being really little and thinking, that’s not gonna be me. I was going to make enough money that I would never have to worry again. That they would never have to worry again.” His tone brightens slightly - a smile, probably. “One morning, after I’d heard them talking about it the night before, I asked my dad what job he thought paid better, lawyer or NBA superstar. Bear in mind I was just as much of a chubby, uncoordinated indoor kid then as now.”
Matt smiles. He likes Foggy’s softness, the give of his thigh against Matt’s. “What’d he say?”
“He ruffled my hair and said, ‘NBA superstar, but stick with the law, chatterbox.’ And that was sort of that.” Foggy shrugs. “The fact that I got to law school and actually liked it was just kind of a bonus.”
Matt pauses, gathering his thoughts. Maybe it’s because he’s a little drunk; maybe he just feels like he owes Foggy some truth. Even if he hasn’t talked about this in...a long time, long enough that most days it’s easy to forget.
“My dad...he died when I was a kid, not long after I lost my sight. Murdered, actually. He refused to throw a fight, and…” He waves a hand. The details aren’t important.
“I remember,” Foggy says softly. “Battlin’ Jack. It was in the papers.”
“Yeah,” Matt says. “He never...he never wanted me to fight. He wanted me to use my head, to make something more of myself than he was.” He smiles crookedly. “He’d probably have liked it if I became a lawyer. But that takes time, and money, and I…”
He shakes his head. “I had my heightened senses from the accident. And I had...training, or some of it, at least. I had a teacher when I was a kid who...it doesn’t matter.” He shakes off the memory of Stick. This is hard enough without that. “I did well in school, I got into a lot of colleges, but...they never found the man who’d had my father killed. I knew I could, but it would take time, and money, so…”
He shrugs one shoulder. “It’s not like I didn’t go to college. But CUNY was cheaper than Columbia, and I could study less. Spend my free time training. Searching.
“It turned out he’d changed his name, moved out of Hell’s Kitchen, out on Long Island, the really blue-blood part of it. Not because of me or my dad, but the Murdocks weren’t the only ones he’d pissed off. It took me years to find him, and by then, he’d heard someone was asking around for him under his real name. He knew what that meant, and he had money. So when I finally tracked him down, he’d hired a bodyguard. A man with unbreakable skin.”
“Mr. Cage,” Foggy realized.
“Yeah. And I…I was twenty-two, and stupid-angry, and I didn’t have the training I have now. I didn’t have a chance.” Matt can still remember breaking his fingers on Luke’s ribs, Luke catching his wrist and holding him without even trying. The scream that broke out of him, a nine-year-old in a man’s body raging against a world that wouldn’t fight fair: He killed my father!
“Luke told me...he told me to get my head straight. To forget about revenge and do something with my abilities, something good,” Matt goes on. “And I said, ‘You mean guarding murderers like you do?’” He smiles a little at Foggy’s surprised noise. “Yeah, I’m lucky he didn’t hit me for that one. Instead...he let me go.”
“Just like that?” Foggy asks, and Matt nods.
“Sweeney - the man who - well, he wanted Luke to hold me for the cops, but Luke wouldn’t. He said Sweeney’d already done enough to ruin my life, and he wasn’t going to help him finish the job.” Knowing what he knows about Luke now, the fact that Luke was reluctant to send him to jail makes sense - but that’s Luke’s story to tell, and Matt doesn’t have the right to share it. “So he let me go, and I ran. Back home, back to...well, I didn’t have anything then, really. A shitty little apartment. No job, living off of what was left of my inheritance from my father’s last fight. No plans for the future. I’d never seen a life for myself beyond tracking down my father’s killer.”
Foggy’s hand is suddenly on his knee - not a come-on but a comfort, warm and steady. Matt leans into him, into the steady pulse of his heart.
“I was trying to figure out what to do with myself when Luke showed up at my door. Well. Luke and Jessica - Jessica Jones, you met her at the demo. She used to be a PI, and Luke asked her to find me, and, well…” He spreads his hands. “Luke thought I was Defenders material. I don’t know what he saw in me, this skinny, angry kid, but he did, and so did Jessica, I guess. Trish - Ms. Walker - she trusts Jessica more than anything, so when Jessica vouched for me...well. Here we are.” He swallows. “Trish even got this lawyer she knows to help bring Sweeney to trial. He’s in jail for life now. So.”
There’s more, of course. There’s the way he felt empty, hollowed-out those few days before Luke showed up, lost without a goal for the first time since childhood. When revenge was a burning ember in his chest it was like he still knew he was: Jack Murdock’s boy. Someone’s son. Someone who belonged somewhere, even if that somewhere was an apartment that had long since changed hands and a lonely grave out in Brooklyn.
Luke and Trish - they didn’t have to take a chance on him, but they did and that - the two of them, sparring with Danny, learning to bat insults back and forth with Jessica instead of taking them to heart, soup kitchens and community gardens with Malcolm - they gave Matt something to be when he wasn’t anything anymore. Jack Murdock’s boy, the Defender.
He can never thank any of them enough.
“Sounds like I owe Luke a lot,” Foggy says. His voice is low and a little rough, and very close. He’s not pulling away from Matt, not even after that. His hand is still on Matt’s knee. “Without him I wouldn’t have met you.”
“Any of the others would have kept you safe tonight,” Matt says, quietly, loyally. “It’s what we do.”
“Yeah. But I’m glad it was you.” Foggy smells like scotch and lemon and that persistent vanilla, like home. “I’m just sort of glad about you in general. It’s a consistent state of gladness that you’re, y’know. You.”
Matt swallows again. “Foggy…” he says, and his hand moves before he gives it permission, cupping Foggy’s cheek, fingers sliding through the softness of his hair. Foggy tilts into it, tilts towards Matt. Matt can hear the moment when his lips part, and the pulse beneath his palm is racing like it did when they first met and Matt would flirt with him.
To get his secrets. Because Foggy is a case and a client and he has no idea why Matt’s really here.
And he’s drunk.
Matt draws his hand back. “I’m,” he starts. “I’m sorry. That was unprofessional. I should...we should probably get some rest. It’s been a long night.”
Foggy shrinks away, body language suddenly stiff and embarrassed. Matt’s knee where Foggy’s hand was is unreasonably cold. “Right. Yeah. We should...you’re right.”
They get up, leaving the living room as it is - Matt’s too tired and tipsy to deal with it now, and he’s sure Foggy is too. He follows Foggy down the hall to the bedrooms; Foggy’s weaving a little in his senses and he’s not sure if that’s because he’s drunk or because Foggy is. He’s so tired.
Foggy pauses in the door to his room. There’s a foot between them but it feels like a mile. Matt’s leg hurts. “Hey, Matt?”
“Yeah?”
“I guess you’re not fired,” Foggy says. “Just...be careful, okay?”
Matt makes himself smile. “Of course, Foggy. After all, I have to keep you safe, don’t I?”
Foggy looks at him for a long moment, then, but all he says is, “Good night, Matt,” before he closes the door.
Chapter 4