Chapter Text
Generally, Matt believes in the justice system. He couldn’t be a lawyer otherwise.
But he also knows that the justice system has its flaws. (He wouldn’t be Daredevil otherwise.)
The things that make his hackles rise, that make him want to go out at night and punch something, that make him want to fight the entire system vary in importance.
There’s millionaires skirting their tax payments by declaring certain spendings as donations. There’s divorces that leave both sides bloody but well enough to go on to try and find a better life. There’s companies ditching responsibility for their actions.
Today, it’s Mrs. Ramirez.
Mrs. Ramirez had come to the United States as nothing more than a toddler, the sickly child of refugee parents fleeing from Cuba to the perceived safety of their neighbors. With little more than the clothing on their backs and the American Dream in their hearts, they had built themselves a life on the outskirts of New York.
Their newest client had grown up with snowy winters, loving parents and a country that didn’t quite welcome them but didn’t put in the effort to throw them out, either. It hadn’t been an easy life, as she tells it. Her father had worked multiple jobs, her mother jumping from running the household to keeping up with their community and doing odd jobs in between and the daughter herself, spending more time in hospitals in her first decade on earth than most people do in a lifetime.
Matt doesn’t understand much about medicine except for which bones to break to make sure an opponent wouldn’t get back up and where to punch to knock someone out. A quick online search on her disease had brought up an auto immune disorder, manageable with the wonders of modern medicine but painful and deadly without.
Had her parents stayed in Cuba, she might not have made it to adulthood.
But in the Big Apple, Mrs. Ramirez got the chance to grow up, to go to school, attend college. Her parents had died young, a car crash with a drunk driver and no survivors, and their daughter had faithfully arranged their funerals, had settled their affairs as best she could and had to celebrate her twenty-first birthday alone.
Not that that’s the worst that would happen to her that year.
It had taken another few months, for someone to track her down and claim she entered the country unjustly. She’d known, long before that, that the political climate was changing, that she had to be careful around strangers.
But grief made her let down her guard, and so she found herself, barely old enough to drink alcohol, at court instead of at her doctors’ appointments. Matt and Foggy had taken the case on pro bono, had worked through nights to string together a case for their client.
Judge Evers is old and conservative and one of the last people Matt would have wanted on this case. When he finally announces his decision, the sound of the gavel echoes in Matt’s mind.
Next to him, Mrs. Ramirez takes a shuddering breath.
“You did what you could,” she says, her voice only shaking a little. “Thank you.”
She shouldn’t thank them.
Even their best wasn’t enough.
They lost.
There isn’t even someone Matt can go beat up at night, nobody he can justly vent his frustrations on. He wasn’t enough, and he couldn’t safe her, and now Mrs. Ramirez will be sent back to a country she hasn’t seen since before she could walk.
One of the guards walks over to them.
Matt stands up. “I’m so sorry,” he says, presses his tongue hard against the roof of his mouth to keep his voice from shaking, his face from shattering. He might have lost this case, but he isn’t the one to carry the consequences. It’s not his place to break down, not so long as Mrs. Ramirez can see him.
He doesn’t think he would have made it back to the office if it weren’t for Foggy by his side. Foggy, steady and familiar and always there when Matt needs him. Foggy, who is just as downcast as Matt, but who manages to hide it just a little bit better.
(Matt wonders if it had been him, who taught Foggy to keep going even through the most dire of news.)
They make it back to the office, spare only a few words to Piper and Karen to update them on the case’s outcome. Both women make the appropriately crestfallen sounds, but it’s not their loss, not their defeat, not their shortcoming.
It’s not their fault a young woman gets sent away from the only home she’s ever known.
Matt locks himself into his office for the rest of the day, pours over paperwork, pretends like he’s preparing other cases while getting nowhere at all. At one point, he hears Piper head out, Karen finishing up half an hour later.
By the time Foggy knocks on his door, it’s past six and Matt has no idea what document it is his braille display is currently showing him. “You ready to head out?” Foggy’s voice, always welcome, always a beam of light in his world on fire, lacks the usual enthusiasm, but comes with a level of warmth Matt doesn’t think he deserves right now.
“I’m in the middle of something,” he says vaguely.
Foggy shoves the door open wide, saunters into the room, plops into the chair opposite Matt’s desk. “Bullshit.”
“This is for the Williams’ case,” Matt says, when his fingers finally make out the first few words at the top of the page.
Foggy hums, a sound that tells Matt he isn’t convinced, then reaches out, purposefully dragging his hand over the desk as he reaches for Matt’s hand. He lifts it off the braille display, gently holds it in his own. “And what is the Williams’ case about?” he asks.
Matt knows that tone of voice. He’s heard in time and time again during mock trial at college and even more times after they actually started working together. It’s the tone that says “you can try to argue your way out of this, but you won’t succeed, because I’ve got critical information”. It’s such a sweet tone for such a bitter outcome.
“Tax fraud.” It’s a guess, but Matt knows better than to phrase it as a question. He’s heard Piper talk about a tax fraud case only the day before.
Foggy drops Matt’s hand and it immediately feels cold. “No, that’s the Norman case. Williams is property damage.”
“Could have worked,” Matt says, only a little sorry he got caught in his deceit.
Foggy lets out a breath which, on a better day, might have been a laugh. “Congrats, buddy. You made an educated guess.”
“I think you’ll find it was a very uneducated guess,” Matt shoots back.
Foggy’s laugh warms the block of ice that had made a home in Matt’s chest since the judge swung his gavel earlier today. He pushes his chair back, starts walking towards the door. “You ready to go, then? Don’t want to be late.”
“Late for what?” Matt asks, mind racing through client appointments they’ve got set up for the next few days.
Foggy stops in the doorway. “My aunt’s birthday party. I told you about it. You said you would come.”
Since the very first time Matt’s name had made it onto an invitation next to Foggy’s to one of his relative’s parties, Matt waits for the day they’ll stop inviting him. Waits for the day the sheer endless kindness of the Nelson family will run out, for the day they finally realize that Matt brings too much darkness into their world.
Today of all days, he doesn’t want to bring the mood down.
“I don’t think that’s a good place for me to be today,” he admits quietly. Not today, when his skin is still crawling with restless energy and his fists are itching with the urge to punch something. But he powers down his computer, gets up to follow Foggy out of the room. “I think I need to hit something before I’m fit for company.”
Foggy stops in the middle of picking up his bag.
“I’m heading to Fogwell’s,” Matt hurries to clarify.
Sure, he could put on his armor and find some low-level street urchin and vent his frustration on the unsuspecting underbelly of Hell’s Kitchen’s night life. But he doesn’t think the local muggers deserve the Devil’s ire on a night like this.
Foggy exhales, relief apparent in the way he swallows, the way his heartbeat settles back down to a normal speed. “Alright, then. If you feel up for it, maybe you could come by later?”
Matt doesn’t want to disappoint Foggy, but he also doesn’t want to make promises he won’t keep. “I’m not sure…”
“At least text me when you get home tonight.”
“Who are you? My mother?” Matt forces a laugh out with the words, if only to hide just how much Foggy’s concern means to him.
Foggy scoffs. “If I was half as threatening as my mother, you wouldn’t ditch me for the party. Oh, don’t make that face. It’s fine. Go beat up some sand.”
By the time Matt makes it to Fogwell’s, the place is almost empty and the employees about to close up for the night. They let Matt stay, because they know him and because he promises to lock up after himself.
He gets changed, does some warm-ups while he listens to the staff run through their closing routine and wish each other a good night on their way home.
The sandbag hanging from the ceiling shakes when Matt starts pounding it. He hits it again and again and again.
This isn’t about rage, though, isn’t about letting out the Devil.
It’s not anger he feels, hours after the fact. Not without a target to focus on. But he feels dejected, remembering the sound of Mrs. Ramirez’ voice, so full of desperate finality.
Matt had done for her what he could, doesn’t think another lawyer would could done a much better job. Their arguments were sound, their closing statement well-written. He’d delivered it himself, full of compassion and pulling at heart-strings and a plea to believe in a better world, a call to help build it in that moment.
It hadn’t been enough.
Matt thinks of Piper, of the way she can flip a jury.
Maybe she would have succeeded where Matt had failed.
Many times Matt had sat and listened, had let Piper’s words wash over him as he listened to the jury’s reactions to her words. He’d listen to her turn entire jurys in the span of minutes, witnessed people change their mind just because she asked them to.
It shouldn’t work as often as it does.
Not if all Piper uses are her words.
Sure, she’s a lawyer and a pretty good one. She knows how to run an air-tight argument, how to structure a speech. She knows how to stack evidence to make it look damming or entirely inconsequential.
But Matt knows these things do, so does the opposing council they face down against.
So, Piper shouldn’t be quite as successful with her words.
But if it’s not only her words she’s using…
Matt doesn’t know what Piper can do.
He knows she got information on Randolf Steiner, but that could just be a very specific network she’s linked to.
She had an injury that one Friday that had been entirely gone by Monday. Then again, Matt hadn’t been paying much attention to her physical well-being that particular morning and might have been mistaken.
Piper knows Frank Castle. Which could once again just be the network.
Matt had actually broached the topic with her one day over lunch, skirting around the actual question because he wanted to uphold their truce. “Not that I’m asking questions,” he’d says over tacos, “but I am a bit curious about how you know Frank Castle.”
“Not asking questions?” She’d asked back, with something of a laugh in her voice. She’d taken another bite of her food, shrugged. “I don’t know him, not really. He sometimes works with a few friends of mine.”
“Interesting friends.”
“They are. I think they crossed path with Frank a few years ago in New Jersey while taking down a trafficking ring.”
Which sounds like Frank, alright. But Matt doesn’t think Piper ever mentioned any of her friends working for law enforcement. And if them running into Frank resulted in a collaboration rather than a shoot-out, it’s likely that her friends are closer to Matt’s line of work than working with the police. “And they decided to work together afterwards?”
Piper had taken a deep breath, her heart-rate picking up. “Careful, Matt. That sounds awfully close to you asking questions.”
I won’t ask questions if you don’t.
She’d given him an out.
Matt isn’t exactly proud of taking it.
Matt doesn’t know how long he beats the sandbag hanging from the ceiling of Fogwell’s.
He knows that the sun has down completely, can hear the faint humming of the streetlamps outside. It pairs with the pounding of raindrops on pavement, on rooftops, parked cars and clutter. Barely anyone is outside in this weather. A night like this, there is little need for Daredevil to be out there, either.
He doesn’t think it would have been better than staying in here, anyways. Going out there, hugging the shadows and overpasses until he finds a mugger he can beat up isn’t too fun while sogging wet. Anyone who’s on the streets on a night like this is there because they have to be, or have nowhere else to go. Matt contends himself with being dry and using practice equipment.
Of course, beating at a sack isn’t quite the same as having a sparring partner able to keep up with him. Not that any of the petty criminals could keep up with him by a long shot. And those who could keep up with him – the likes of Fisk or Stick – are too dangerous for sparring to be fun. It had been different with Electra, once upon a time.
He shouldn’t think of her though, so he beats the bag in front of him harder.
His mind wanders to Mrs. Ramirez, the way her breath had stuttered when the judge declared she’d have to return to Cuba.
The bag swings under a particularly vicious combination and Matt waits a moment for it to return to rest before going on. The girl in the shop across the street has finished restocking the shelves. She leaves the shop, still humming the last song from the radio. In the apartment above, a teen is playing a computer game, yelling at his friends via the internet.
Brisk steps turn the corner leading to the back entrance of Fogwell’s. A moment later, the door is shoved open and before falling shut again. It allows inside a gust of cold air, the smell of wet pavement and car exhaust mingled with one Matt had gotten used to over the past year or so.
A quick tap, tap, a hand against a messenger back. A greeting, a way of saying I’m here, and I’m me. A familiar kindness confirming her identity only seconds before speaking.
“Foggy said I might find you here,” Piper says as she shrugs out of her soaked jacket and kicks off her drenched shoes.
Of course. Foggy.
Foggy, who knows to worry about Matt after a day like today, especially after Matt had let him look past his facade at the end of the workday. Foggy, who had to go to his aunt’s birthday party, didn’t push Matt about tagging along but couldn’t stand the thought of leaving him alone with his frustrations.
Piper hits a switch and the single dim lightbulb in the middle of the room awakes with a hesitant hum. “Anyone in particular you’re thinking about while beating up unsuspecting bags of sand?” She grabs the bag, stops the swinging.
“Just… Not my best day,” he admits, throwing another punch at the bag Piper is now holding steady.
“And you decided you needed to beat something up over it?” Great, so Piper is here to talk about feelings.
Matt shrugs, starts unwrapping the bindings around his knuckles. It doesn’t seem like he’ll get any more exercise in tonight. “Clears the mind,” he mutters.
“I know the feeling,” Piper replies, voice calm. “More fun to spar with someone who actually has the chance to punch back, though, don’t you think?”
It is. But Electra is dead twice over, and no one else had ever taken that place of trust and competence that Matt would even consider it. And now he’s thinking about her again.
“Have anyone in mind?” Matt snaps. “Because I’m not seeing any volunteers.”
The snort Piper lets out is surprisingly un-ladylike.
“Spare me the blind jokes,” Matt grouses.
“I was actually going to volunteer myself.”
“What for?”
“Sparring.”
The word lingers between them for a minute. Matt contemplates the offer. He could turn her down, no harm, no foul. But he could also take her up on it. They both know that there’s something off about the other. Maybe this would be an opportunity to find out more about Piper. But it would also be a chance for her to find out more about him.
Piper has already turned, is walking to the boxing ring in the center of the room. “Don’t worry. I’ll go easy on you if that’s what you’re worried about.”
It’s not.
Matt follows her, remembers to fumble for the rope surrounding the ring before climbing in.
“Who says I’m not the one who should go easy on you?”
Piper shuffles on her feet. They’re both barefooted, both in work-out clothes without any padding. Drops of rain still drip from Piper’s hair onto her back.
Piper’s laugh isn’t boisterous, but the sarcasm dripping from her voice still speaks of how convinced she is of her own skill. “Right. Please, go easy on me as I’m just a helpless girl.”
Matt doesn’t have to listen to her heartbeat to hear the lie.
The first punch he throws is slow, easy to dodge. Piper sidesteps it easily. “I was kidding,” she comments dryly.
The second punch Matt sends her way comes at a more natural speed. It’s enough to catch most muggers on the street unawares, but Piper is still unfazed, knocks his fist aside with a sweep of her arm. “That all you can do? Come on, I expected more from you.”
She shouldn’t, Matt realizes. She shouldn’t even expect him to be able to hit her after she changed position after that first punch. Piper’s taunting him. And even if it’s good-natured, Matt wants to show her up. Wants to prove to her what he can do, whatever conclusions she’ll draw from that.
So, he pounces.
With a combination of punches and kicks, he herds Piper across the ring. She evades, and parries, and dodges as she backs away from him step by step. Matt follows, throwing combination after combination at her, but failing time and time again to break her defenses.
Matt isn’t the physically strongest fighter. He’d have to succumb to the likes of Wilson Fisk or Frank Castle on pure strength. He’s still strong. But Piper is stronger. When she doesn’t manage to dodge a punch that comes too quickly after a well-aimed kick, she simply catches his fist with her own.
Matt’s advantage had often been that he is fast. Fast enough to anticipate moves, fast enough to act on information others don’t have. But Piper is faster. She flows around his attacks, dances across the ring, staying just out of his reach.
“Didn’t take you for the kind to run away,” Matt remarks after Piper has just dodged another attack without going into offense herself. “Come at me, McLean.”
Apparently, Piper had just waited for the invite. She laughs as she charges. She is still laughing when Matt throws her clear across the ring a moment later.
Piper is fast, and she is strong, but her form is sloppy and her tactics simple and Matt is grateful for that. He might not beat her on speed or force, but he can out-think her.
Almost.
For every attack Piper starts, Matt knows the counter. Every faint she tries belies itself in the way she shifts her weight. Every move she makes to give herself an advantage is met with a countermove Matt can do on instinct.
But at the same time, he can’t quite match her speed. Even the most complicated combination of kicks and punches is met with block after block. Even the most elaborate moves are evaded with apparent ease. And what she can’t do on speed, she solves with force. She redirects punches and blocks kicks, throws Matt back into the ropes just as he does to her.
It doesn’t take long for Matt to go all-out in the fight.
This isn’t the carefully controlled fighting he does in the streets of his city, each motion set to incapacitate, but never seriously wound. Not the way he fights with people who know nothing about fighting. This isn’t the mad struggle of closed quarters against people with firearms he has to disarm before they can shoot him. This isn’t the desperate attempt to safe his life, safe this city, safe the people he loves.
He uses the ropes at his back to lunge himself in the direction of Piper’s panting breaths, tries to sweep her legs. A laugh bubbles out of him when she actually backflips away from him. “Show-off,” he accuses her with a face-splitting grin.
Piper returns his laugh. “Please, you haven’t seen me showing off yet.”
It actually elicits a bark of laughter from Matt.
A small groan. “Oh, you just shut up,” Piper huffs and lunges before Matt can make a comment on how he hasn’t seen her do anything.
By the time they slow down, Matt’s muscles are sore in a good way. He needs a shower, and a good night’s sleep and he thinks the latter a possibility after this night’s workout.
Across from him, Piper is also covered in sweat, her breathing going faster. Her form, far from good even in the beginning, relying too much on speed and strength has turned downright sloppy.
She still starts another attack.
Matt, who knows nothing if not how to defend himself while dead on his feet, redirects her movement, sending her into the ropes. And that’s where Piper stays to take a few deep, long breaths.
It would be the perfect opportunity for Matt to press the advantage, to try corralling her into the corner, to force her into close quarters she clearly struggles with. But he doesn’t.
“Enough for today?” he asks instead.
The laugh Piper lets out sounds a bit tired, but still genuine. “Yeah, alright. Good fight.” She holds out a hand for him to shake.
For a moment, old habits rear their heads as Matt contemplates pretending not no notice the gesture. But after they just chased each other through the boxing ring for a good fifteen minutes, the attempt seems futile.
He shakes her hand. “Good fight,” he echoes, and means it.
He wants to know where Piper has learned to fight like that. Wants to know how she got this strong, this fast. He wants to know, but he doesn’t want to ask. Because if he asks, so will she.
Piper waits as Matt grabs his things, then they head out of the building together. “You might want to call Foggy,” Piper suggests as they walk through the night, the rain down to a light drizzle. “He was really worried about you.”
The day’s events come rushing in again, putting an instant dampener on his mood.
They get to the crossing where Matt has to turn left while Piper walks straight ahead to get to the closest subway station. If this were Karen, or Foggy, Matt would have insisted on walking them. But he knows Piper doesn’t need his protection. Had known that long before tonight.
“By the way,” Piper says before Matt can say his goodbyes and make his way towards a hot shower. “A friend of mine mentioned Mrs Rodriguez got displaced in the city’s data bank due to technical errors. Says she’s headed down to Philadelphia. But you know, all hear-say.”
Matt can’t see it, but he would swear she winks at him as she says it. He gets the last part of the statement. Plausible deniability and all. The rest of it all though…
“How…?” He doesn’t even quite know what to ask.
Are these the same friends Frank works with? Are these the same friends who got Piper the information on Randolf Steiner? Is whatever they’re doing safe? He can tell by her heart-beat that Piper is telling the truth, or at least something close enough to it that she doesn’t consider it lying.
Did someone actually go through city records to get Mrs Rodriguez out of holding, had done what Matt couldn’t, is setting her up with a new life the next state over?
Did Piper set them up to it, whoever it was, whatever they did?
“You know the deal, Murdock. If you start asking questions, so will I.” Piper’s voice is soft with the smile it carries. “Have a good night.”
And with that, she walks away, leaving Matt wondering if maybe, having to answer questions might be worth it - if he got ask some in return.
