Archive of Our Own

There are jars full of bills on his desk and Foggy isn't sure how they got there.

Labeled neatly on the metal lids are, presumably, the cash amount in them.

There's over a thousand dollars in cold, hard cash sitting on his desk.

At least enough to pay several bills.

What the fuck.

What the fuck.

They don't usually get paid, working pro bono for anyone and everyone, and sure, free foods and repairs are nice, but it's not… money.

And they have bills to pay.

Bills for their apartments, too, not just the office.

You need money to be alive, basically.

It doesn't matter how good your doors work or how much food you have if the door isn't yours and the food doesn't have anywhere to go.

Working pro bono is good for the heart but bad for the wallet.

He doesn't regret it, not really.

They're helping people.

They're making their lives better.

That's all Foggy really wants to do, even though he'd really like a consistent income because hello? consistent income? who doesn't want that?

But now there's money on his desk.

That he did not put there.

"Karen, do we perchance have money goblins?" He asks cautiously.

Karen snorts and says, "Why did you just say perchance? And what do you mean by money gobli– oh. Nope, no, I understand money goblins now. Still though, perchance?"

"Money goblins?" Matt quirks an eyebrow and scrunches up his nose.

It's unfairly charming.

Matt can't even appreciate how gorgeous he is, ugh.

"I've got jars full of cash on my desk," Foggy explains. "And I have no idea how they got there."

"Oh," Matt says, and sniffs and/or tastes the air like the weird-ass motherfucker he is. "Smells like Peter. I think that's the money he gets from doing jobs after school."

And.

That.

Uh.

What?

"Are we– are we getting our bills paid for by an actual literal child?" Foggy chokes.

Karen puts a fist to her mouth and says very, very quietly, in a strangled tone of voice, "I think we are."

"Oh my god," Matt suddenly whispers, looking alarmingly like he's about to have a full breakdown within the next few seconds. "I don't– Foggy. Foggy, I'm having so many emotions, what do I do?"

"Can I get that in writing?" Karen asks from behind her hand.

"No."  

"Are we just– going to take the hard earned money of a fetus??"

"I don't think we really have any other options?" Karen says, but it sounds more like a question than anything. "We're… so, so broke guys. We need the money."

"He waited," Foggy gasps in realization. "He waited until we were super broke and couldn't turn down the money! That conniving little gremlin!"

"Oh no," Matt wheezes, and one of his hands is pressed to his mouth in a fist. "I can't do this. I'm going to ruin him, he's so good and I– I love him so much?? Oh my god."

Foggy hesitantly places a hand on Matt's shoulder. "There, there? Emotions are healthy?"

"Emotions are the worst." Matt hisses, and Foggy is like a solid 65% sure that there's itty bitty tears in the corner of Matt's eyes.

Complete and absolute emotional breakdown.

Does Matt even know how to have healthy emotions?

"He's like the little baby brother you never knew you wanted and I never needed because there's thousands of us." Foggy says. "We're like rabbits. Someone's always getting married and someone's always having a baby, and I don't know any of them, but they all know me because I'm the lawyer Nelson."

"That's rough, buddy." One of their many waiting room clients consoles.

Woops.

He might've… forgotten they were there?

To be fair, he was very confused.

Random cash on your desk is confusing.

And then Matt was dying of feelings.

He was preoccupied.

Leave him alone.

"Thanks, man. Matty, are you done?"

"What if I ruin him??" Matt whispers, absolutely horrified.

Foggy takes pity on him and pulls him into a side hug.

"Just do what you've already been doing and it'll be fine, Matt, promise. But right now, we have clients, okay?"

Matt nods, purses his lips, and Foggy dies a little bit inside at the slow, methodical shut down he sees go across his best friend's face.

Complete and absolute emotional repression.

Boxing up all his feelings and putting them in a nice little corner with all of the other cardboard cubes.

Actually, you know what, scratch that, Foggy dies a lot inside.

It feels like heartbreak.

It feels like sorrow.

It feels like grief for the person Matt could've been if that old bastard hadn't gotten his hands on him.

If Foggy ever meets that guy, he might just shove him off a cliff, ninja reflexes be damned.

Karen and Peter would probably help him.

Matt squeezes his hand like he can see all of the horrible, murder-y thoughts and scenarios rushing through Foggy's head.

Or maybe he can smell it.

What had he called it?

Ozone and sea spray?

"We have clients, right?" Matt says, and it drags him out of the void.

Foggy inhales, takes a deep breath, and lets it out.

"Yeah," he smiles, and for once he's glad Matt is blind, because that means he can't see just how not okay Foggy is. "We do."

———

Foggy's not sure what he was expecting after Matt got himself shot in the head, but Peter showing up at the police precinct with desperation in his eyes was not one of them.

But there he is, a faded baseball cap twisted backwards on his head and a black eye bruising yellow under his glasses.

He immediately abandons Brett's attempts to get him to explain as soon as he sees Foggy, slipping past and grabbing onto his hands with a feral intensity that reminds him a little too much of Matt for comfort.

"I need to talk to you," Peter whispers, and he sounds so grim that Foggy is worried someone died. "And it's really important and it can't wait. It's about–" Peter abruptly ducks his head to lick his lips, continuing on in an even quieter voice, "it's about the guy that hit that hospital. That almost killed your client. Because I checked the hospital cameras that weren't broken and I recognized him."

Cameras?

And then, when Peter breathes in, it rattles so damn hard Foggy wonders if he ran there without taking his inhaler afterwards, or if he's dying and Foggy's hearing the final rattle of his heart.

And then he registers what exactly it was Peter said.

And his blood runs cold.

And he stops breathing.

And he says–

"What?"

"I know him," Peter breathes, almost a whisper, almost nothing at all. "I know him and he helped me and I don't understand."

"What do you–" And Foggy cuts himself off. He cuts himself off, and he breathes, and he asks Brett as quietly as he can for somewhere he can talk to Peter without being overheard.

Brett eyes the kid with something that might be concern before glancing back up at Foggy.

Something hardens in his gaze.

"Follow me," he says, and leads them to the captain's office, convincing said captain that Peter is Foggy's distressed nephew and that he just needs a couple minutes with his uncle, you understand, don't you?

And Peter uses those big doe eyes of his, sinking into Foggy's side and shaking with genuine panic.

The captain breaks.

They have ten minutes.

Peter curls up on the sofa and Foggy crouches onto the ground to hold his hands.

"What do you mean he helped you?" He asks, and it's a bare whisper.

Peter slips one hand away to pick at the cap, tugging it off and holding it close to his chest.

Like he's afraid it'll get taken away.

"I met him," he whispers, voice trembling, "after I'd been running with a gal all the way from Central Park to Midtown to try and get her away from some guys that didn't understand what no meant. My lungs hurt so bad, and we'd been running so long, and he stepped in, and got us away, and gave us waters, and made sure we got home safe."

Peter's head dips and he tucks his chin down, into his chest and the cap.

"He was nice. He saved us. And he was dangerous, but not to us. Not at us. Like how Matt is dangerous, but not to me, or to you, or to Karen. Not to kids.

"He was good. And I'm trying to understand what your client did to make him so mad, and why he would do what he did."

And that… 

That wasn't what he'd been expecting.

Not at all.

He's not sure what it was he thought Peter was going to say, but it wasn't a story about a man that saved two kids from goddamn rapists and took them home.

That's not something a psychopath would do.

That's not the kind of person a psychopath is.

Not a man who would help.

Not a man who would step in.

Not a man who would see kids safely home.

"He gave me this hat," Peter whispers. "And asked if I was okay. And he was gentle, and moved slow, to not scare us, and I think his kids are gone. I hugged him, and he gave the gal some brass knuckles so she wouldn't be defenseless again, and he told me his name when I asked.

"So I just… I want to understand what that man did to make Mr. Castle be so cruel. What did he do Foggy?"

And he doesn't… 

Foggy doesn't know what to say.

He doesn't understand either.

The things Peter told him, they're at odds with the bullet hole in Matt's helm and the bodies in the Irish bar.

Those things, they're the actions of someone wild and crazy and absolutely fucking batshit with no regard for human life.

But what he did around Peter, that's the kind of shit decent people do, normal people do, the kinda things a genuinely good person would do, and he wonders, distantly, if this Castle guy is another two faced sonuvabitch like Matt.

Foggy just… doesn't understand.

He doesn't understand how he's supposed to reconcile these two images as the same person.

It doesn't make sense.

Castle helped Peter.

Castle opened fire in a hospital.

Castle took Peter home.

Castle shot Matt in the head.

Castle let Peter hug him.

Castle gunned down the Irish.

Despite all his open fire, Castle had never hit civilians.

He helped kids.

He shot Matt in the one place that wouldn't kill him.

Foggy isn't sure what picture that paints, but he definitely knows he doesn't like it.

It doesn't add up.

Castle was dead set on Grotto.

But why?

What did he do?

"I don't know what he did, buddy," Foggy whispers back, just as quiet, and squeezes Peter's hand. "But we're gonna find out."

Peter ducks his head again, and leans forward so that his forehead rests on his knees, right on top of Foggy's hand.

"Okay," he says.

Foggy runs a hand through his hair, and then, even though he knows Peter is going to insist he's too old for it, he picks him up to balance his tiny weight on his hip.

Peter doesn't protest, just wraps his arms around Foggy's neck, and that's what really makes it sink in that he's worried.

That he's distressed.

That he really cares about this Castle guy even though he only met him once.

Foggy isn't sure the guy deserves that.

But he's really not sure about anything to do with Castle right now.

Peter buries his face in Foggy's neck, and he holds him close to his chest for a minute, maybe two, before setting him down.

Peter screws the cap back on and holds his hand for just a little while longer.

The faded embroidery on the cap says Marine Corps.

And Foggy wonders if this Castle guy went to war and never came back.

———

He was clumsy.

He should've been more careful.

He should've been more observant.

But he'd been sloppy, trying to finish the fight.

Distracted by x-rays and police reports.

Bang bang.

One, wildly off course.

The second, right through the meat of his shoulder, like a knife through butter, quick and easy. And painful.

It had hurt.

A lot.

He might've screamed.

And then he'd kicked the gun out of the other kid's hand, too young to have any idea what he was doing with it, and punched his lights out, with maybe more force than necessary.

It echoed in his head.

Bang bang.

He'd turned to the other kid, young, too young, art supplies spilling from his backpack and sunflowers painted on his headphones.

He'd held out his hand, the good one.

The kid had taken it.

And Peter had told him to run.

And he did, after a swift hug and a messy thank you, sprinting from the alley with a train ticket tight in his hand.

Blood trickles down from his shoulder.

It's dark.

He shouldn't have stayed out so long, and now he's paying for it.

Bang bang.

The pain is dizzying, pulsing, radiating out in a spiral that feels more like it belongs to a dislocated shoulder than a bullet wound.

Peter takes his bandana off, and wraps it around as tight as he can.

He steps over the boy, slumped on the pavement, and kicks the gun so it rests farther out of his hands.

He slips out of the alley, and quietly phones the police as he walks away.

Then he calls Matt.

It doesn't go through.

He tries two more times before he picks up.

"Hey, Pete." Matt says over the line, and he sounds happy, sounds pleased, sounds obnoxiously, but quietly, torn and maybe guilty. "What's up? You see the news?"

The news?

"No," Peter replies, and his voice shakes more than he wants it to. Police cars zoom past him and he smiles, just a little. "I've been out. Lost track of time and I– uh."

Matt is very quiet when he speaks next, and Peter can hear the sounds of other people laughing and drinking in the background. "Peter, what happened? Why did you call me? You can't lie to me, bud, so don't even try."

Peter licks his lips and grimaces at the pulsing stars behind his eyes.

"I, uh– please don't be mad." He croaks.

He wants to hang up, he wants to hang up, he wants to hang up.

"I won't." Matt swears. "What happened?"

He looks away from the red slowly soaking through his jacket.

"Got shot," He whispers. "Shoulder. Still in there."

Bang bang.

Dammit, dammit, dammit.

He wants the echo to stop.

He wants it to stop.

It pounds through his head, drills into his ears, pulses like a drum beat.

"If I– if I go to a hospital," Peter stutters, "May and Ben will know and I c-can't– no hospitals." He whispers. "No hospitals."

Matt is quiet.

Then he says, "Go to my apartment and I'll meet you on the way," and sounds thunderously calm.

"Okay," Peter agrees, and then he hangs up, because he's not sure what else to do.

He walks.

Walks and walks and walks, feeling more nauseous and dizzy with each step, until the spots dance in his vision like dust motes and fireflies, and his knee gives out, for just a moment, and he stumbles.

Matt, unexpectedly, catches him.

"Hey, kid." He smiles, and Peter notes that it looks fragile, before Matt's sweeping his knees out from under him to carry him bridal style.

Peter doesn't care.

"Hi, Matt," he whispers, and it feels too strained for comfort.

"Think you can hold on for a bit longer?"

"Mhmm."

"Good. Tell me about your history quiz?" Matt asks.

Peter scowls at the memory. "The textbooks all call them Indians. They're Native Americans. It's not that hard."

"That's dumb." Matt says eloquently.

"I know," Peter groans, and then gasps as the spots dance and stab into his brain like ice picks. "Ow, ow, ow."

"Hey, hey, hey, look at me, buddy, look and me and keep your eyes open."

"'kay," he whispers against the stakes in his head, and his entire body feels impossibly small.

He feels so little.

So tiny.

So weak.

"Hey. Hey!" Matt shouts, and Peter starts to focus back on him. "There he is. Sorry. You did so good getting here, you know that? I'm so proud of you."

"You're always proud of me," Peter mumbles. "You say it all the time."

Matt smiles, and he can see himself reflected in the dark red of his sunglasses.

"Because it's always true."

It doesn't hurt as much in Matt's arms, and the nausea starts to go away, the dizziness getting easier to bare.

He walks quickly, confidently, and every step vibrates through Peter's bones.

He's not sure why, but it's comforting.

Then they get to the steps of Matt's apartment building, and Peter changes his mind.

It's agony, and he can't scream.

They go up and up and up through the stairwell, and then Matt's pushing open the exit, and walking down the hallway, and opening his apartment door, and–

There's a woman sitting on Matt's couch, drinking… something. A beer?

She's pretty, with dark hair and bright lipstick, but Matt goes stiff when he, presumably, registers that she's there, and that sends a jolt through Peter's addled mind.

Matt pulls him closer to his chest and his face goes thundercloud dark.

Daredevil serious.

"Hello, Matthew." She says, and her accent is nice to listen to, and maybe that's what about her that makes her dangerous. She's pretty, so no one expects her to be a threat. "Who's this?"

"None of your business," Matt snarls, dark and low. "Get out."

"Aw, Matthew," she pouts, pushing herself up to stand from Matt's armchair, but he doesn't let her get any farther than that.

"No." He growls. "We're not doing this. Not here, not now, not ever. Get out. I have more important things to do than be your distraction, Elektra."

He sounds hurt.

It makes Peter hurt too.

"Ouch," the woman– Elektra says. "And here I missed you.*

Matt laughs, but it's not a happy thing. It's mean, and bitter, and loud. "No you didn't. What the hell are you really doing here? You have twenty seconds."

Elektra sighs. "A business meeting. I'm in New York for a business meeting, and I thought it'd pop by, chat a bit, walk down memory lane, ask for your help, but this– this is so much more interesting."

And when she says interesting, she's looking right at him.

Peter looks back.

He wonders what she did that hurt Matt.

Can she tell that he's shaking?

Because he can.

"Yeah, well, enjoy the city– far away from here and far away from him." Matt snaps.

Peter's hazy brain doesn't know why, but Elektra drops it and looks away.

"I want to hire you, Matthew," she says instead. "Dear old dad, before he died, did business with the Roxxon Corporation. Thanks to his poor investments, they hold the majority of his wealth."

"How sad," Matt croons, "but in case you don't remember, I'm a defense attorney."

"I'll pay well." Elektra offers.

He laughs. 

"I'm not taking your money. And even if I did, even if I didn't have other things to take care of, there's not enough time."

"For what?" Elektra asks, and sounds genuinely confused.

It's very convincing.

Peter almost buys it.

"Oh, just research." Matt scoofs. "Accounts, shareholders, hierarchy of the–"

"You have fifteen hours."

"Fifteen hours, Elektra, are you insane? I don't–" Matt growls. "I don't have time for this. I don't have time for you, I have more pressing matters."

"Matthew," Elektra sighs. "You're the only person I can trust."

Matt laughs again, and it vibrates through Peter's whole body in all its cruelty, in all its pain.

He wraps his good arm around Matt's neck and hugs him as much as he can.

"Well, sweetheart, you don't break into my house and then talk to me about trust." Matt whispers.

Oh.

That's what she did.

"Don't overthink it." Elektra says, and takes a step forward. "It's just a bunch of guys in business suits."

Matt takes one back.

"They won't know what hit them." She promises.

Matt takes another step back, moving in an arc.

"Would be fun, like old times." She swears.

Matt does that laugh again, the one that rumbles like a thousand cuts.

Why won't she just stop?

"Oh, you and I, we have very different ideas of fun."

Elektra scoffs. "You can say whatever you want, but I know you."

"No," Matt whispers, "you don't. You don't, not anymore.

"Not ever again."

Peter's heart hurts.

It hurts, and it's not just the bullet wound.

"Well that's disappointing," Elektra says softly, and she really does sound disappointed.

"Get out," Matt orders, velvet soft, "Don't make me ask again."

And she goes, with a quiet opening and closing of the front door.

Tension drains out of Matt's shoulders after a minute, and he squeezes Peter close to his chest one more time before finally laying him on the sofa.

"I'm sorry." He apologizes gently, and Peter scoffs.

"Don't be sorry." He mumbles. "Not your fault."

Matt sighs. "It was a little my fault?" He tries.

Peter winces as his arm twings. "No."

Matt sighs again.

He's been doing that a lot.

"I'll get the first aid kit, and the painkillers." He says. "I'll call Claire too– oh, shit. Fuck. Peter, have you called May and Ben?"

Peter sinks into the couch.

"No?"

"Jesus–" Matt screams a little into his hands, before leaving all together to lug the first aid kit out from under his bed.

He drags it back over and takes off his glasses, setting them on the table.

"Call your aunt," Matt orders. "Or your uncle, and tell them something. Take this, too," he pushes Aspirin into Peter's hand, "while I call Claire, okay?"

Peter takes the offered painkillers, and Matt digs around for his phone while Peter holds his in his hand.

He has 50 missed texts and 15 missed calls.

He swipes the notifications away and clicks on May's contact.

She picks up almost instantly.

"Peter!" She screams into the receiver, and it sounds like she's been crying. "Oh my god, Peter, where have you been?! Ben, Ben, it's Peter!"

Shit.

Shit shit shit.

"Sorry, May," he whispers, and it comes out more strained than intended. "I just– I lost track of time and um. I didn't wanna worry you. I was helping this kid, and I got hurt, but I uh, I got away, I just. I just didn't wanna worry you. I'm sorry." He finishes lamely.

"You got hurt?! Peter, what happened? Does this– does this have anything to do with, with the black eyes, and the bruises? Not just bullies? Honey, we'll always be worried!"

"I'm okay, May, I just. I wasn't paying attention, is all. I'll be okay. You uh, you remember M-Matt? Mr. Murdock, the law firm that helped us?"

"The one you've been helping out at?" Ben's voice asks over the line.

"Yeah. Matt, he uh, he was closer, and I just– I didn't wanna be a bother, so I called him. I forgot to call you, though, and I'm sorry. It's just, it's a Saturday, and you guys have been so tired, and I figured you could use a break. From me."

His phone is silent.

"Oh, honey…" May sighs. "We love you. We'll never get tired of you."

"Kiddo, that's very sweet," Ben says. "And we appreciate the sentiment, but do you know how worried we've been, not knowing where you were?"

"I have an idea." Peter croaks before he can stop himself, and he hates it.

Crash, boom, goes the plane.

Bang, bang, cracks Matt's helm.

Ben is quiet.

And then he says, "Sorry," even though he doesn't know what he's apologizing for.

Peter hates that too.

"Don't be. It's not your fault."

Ben decides not to push it.

"Peter, what happened?" May asks again.

He opens and closes his mouth a couple times before he finally manages to says, "Hurt my shoulder. Some dumb kid that didn't know what he was doing. I'll be okay." He repeats for good measure.

Peter wonders if they believe him.

It's quiet for another minute.

He wonders then if they muted the call to decide whether or not they believe him.

"Okay," May finally replies. "Alright. It's late, I won't make you come home, but you promise to be here in the morning?"

"And that you're really okay?" Ben adds.

Peter smiles, and feels like the worst human being to ever grace the Earth.

"I promise. I'm alright and I'll be home in the morning."

"Okay," May breathes. "Okay. We love you, you know that? We love you, so, so much."

"I know." He whispers. "I love you too."

"We're going to talk about this tomorrow." Ben says.

"I know."

"After, you can help me adjust the crystals in the kitchen, okay?" May offers.

Peter's heart feels like it's breaking.

He doesn't deserve to help adjust the crystals.

He doesn't deserve all this understanding.

He doesn't deserve Ben and May.

"Okay."

"We love you." May whispers.

Peter chokes back a sob.

"I love you too."

And then he hangs up.

And his phone is dark.

And he tosses it away and curls up even more on the couch.

Matt settles down beside him with a thunk of medical supplies.

Peter leans into him, for just a second.

"I'm gonna need to dig it out, Pete." Matt whispers, and he nods.

"It's gonna hurt." He warns.

Peter nods again.

"Can you take your shirt off on your own so I can get to it?"

Peter's breathing hitches, and then he remembers Matt is blind, and he trusts Matt, and Matt is safe, and Matt already knows, and he nods one more time.

"Yeah. I might need help, though."

"Okay."

And Matt helps him struggle out of his blood soaked jacket and T-shirt.

It hurts, peeling the congealed blood and fabric mixture off his skin

The bullet wound isn't bleeding anymore, or at least not a lot, but it still isn't pretty to look at.

He picks at the other strap of his–

He picks at the other strap.

He picks at the other strap, and Matt gives him something to bite down on, an old piece of leather, and he nods once, fingers digging into the sofa.

Peter doesn't scream what Matt slips the ice cold whatever-it-is into the bullet hole.

He doesn't, and that surprises him.

Instead, he chokes on a howl and leans over to–

Matt slides a trash can under his fingers and Peter vomits up his lunch, and then his snack, and then whatever bile is left in his body, Matt rubbing circles into his back.

He never touches the fabric and Peter is grateful.

He feels horrible.

Tired and shaky.

But he also feels better, in a way.

The nauseas gone.

He's still dizzy, but the nauseas gone.

"Keep going," he croaks against the acidic bile in his throat, and Matt clicks his tongue but eases him back up anyway.

Then he digs around in the bullet wound and it feels even worse, but at least the nausea stays far fucking away.

The brunt of it Matt pulls out in tweezers, but it looks chipped.

"I can't get the other fragments out," he apologizes softly. "I might cause more damage."

And Peter whispers, "Okay," because it's really the only thing he can say anymore.

He's said it so much it almost doesn't sound like a word anymore.

Matt hums something distracting under his breath as he cleans the wound and Peter latches onto it desperately.

He doesn't scream through the stitches either, just winces with ever pull and stab of the needle.

When Matt finally starts wrapping the gauze around it, Peter wants to cry.

It's done, it's done, it's done.

It's over, it's over, it's over.

And then Peter decides fuck it, he got shot at twelve years old for the first time ever he's allowed to goddamn cry.

So he does, and it's quiet at first, hitching in his chest and rattling through his body as Matt throws away the bloodied supplies and roots around spare clothes Peter can wear.

Then it burns his eyes and closes his throat, makes his limbs shake and his heart quiver.

Matt rushes back over, a soft shirt and sweatpants folded over his arms, and Peter stumbles into them before he's so far gone that he can't move.

Then he wheezes and chokes on air, tears falling as he struggles not sob.

Matt flounders for a moment, hands hovering, before just picking Peter up and holding him in his arms like he's five years old.

Like he's five years old and doesn't know how to be an orphan.

Peter sobs and it feels like relief, like anguish, like guilt.

He's okay, he's alright, he lied to May and Ben and they still love him even though he lies and lies and lies and he doesn't deserve it.

"It's okay, it's okay, it's okay," Matt whispers into Peter's hair. "It's okay, kiddo, buddy, it's okay, it's okay, it's okay."

"I-it's n-no-ot," he hiccups and cries and hates himself so passionately for a moment it's a wonder he's ever felt anything else before in his life. "It's n-no-ot ok-a-ay. I k-keep lyi-ing a-and t-they alwa-ays beli-e-eve it."

"I know, I know," Matt says, "I know, but it'll get better, kiddo, it'll get better, I promise."

"H-how do y-you kn-o-ow?" He whimpers, and feels absolutely pathetic.

He swears he feels Matt press a kiss to the top of his head through the fog, and he is so, so tired.

"Because it has to," he whispers, and it echoes in Peter's head like a gong, like a siren, like a choir in a church.

Because it has to.

———

Sunday is rough.

It starts with stealing one of Matt's shirts and jackets because his are still, you know, soaked in his blood.

And, uh.

Kinda torn through because of the bullet.

Yeah, they're never seeing his house ever again.

It continues with a walk to the firm, being fussed over by Karen and Foggy, and then Elektra depositing a bunch of money in the firm's bank account.

Peter feels unjustly offended.

Which, of course, leads to a reluctant explanation from Matt, after which Karen crows in delight because it's hilarious and Foggy groans into his palms because it's exhausting.

Then Matt takes Peter home because he doesn't trust him to not pull his stitches like the mother hen he is, and he gets sympathetically deposited into his aunt's smothering arms.

Matt kinda-sorta helps the situation by chiming in that he'd done something similar after he was blinded because he felt guilty about something or other, staying the night at someone else's house, and in the end being alright even though his dad was about ready to have a breakdown.

Peter sees May silently vow to help him, and he's not too sure how that witchy-Catholic showdown is gonna go, but he wants to be far away.

After all of that, May and Ben make him sit down and talk about self worth and the importance of communication, before very sternly taking away his phone and grounding him for the rest of the day and the following week.

Uncle Ben helpfully adds that if he does chores he'll be able to shave time off of his sentence.

In the end, Peter cleans up his room, the kitchen, and the living room, docking off a day.

He tries for a more deep-clean, but the weight of the vacuum pulling on his shoulder makes him want to curl up and never move again, so he settles for tidying, dusting, and picking things up.

And that's his Sunday.

Which is, in the grand scheme of things, probably one of the last normal days he's going to have for a while.

Monday is, at first glance, significantly better, phone released to him while he's at school, but then he actually gets there and finally learns what it was Matt meant by 'You see the news?'

Saturday night Frank Castle was arrested and charged and painted like a terrorist for the whole world to see while Peter was bleeding in Matt's living room.

Peter knew it was going to happen at some point.

Mr. Castle getting arrested, that is.

He just wasn't… prepared for it.

And he's not quite sure what he's supposed to feel.

But disappointment doesn't really seem acceptable.

Mr. Castle is–

He's definitely– he's definitely scary.

He's a very, very scary guy.

He killed a lot of people, has killed a lot of people.

But Mr. Castle also helped him.

He gave Peter his hat and let him keep it.

He hugged him back.

And all of those facts and observations are twisted around in his head like Celtic knots.

It's all ridiculously complicated.

And so Peter's not sure if he's supposed to be sad that Mr. Castle was caught or happy that a murderer was arrested.

What he does know, at least, is that he doesn't want him to die.

And Peter settles on that as the only shred of certainty he can find.

At study period, the teacher doesn't even attempt to wrangle the class.

It's just Castle, Castle, Castle.

Michelle and Ned aren't immune, but he's not really surprised.

What is surprising is when Michelle unexpectedly asks him, "What do you think?" 

Ned stills above his phone and turns to look at him expectantly.

"Why do you want to know?"

Michelle blinks at him, and feels like staring into the face of a lion.

"Your opinions are interesting," is what she finally says.

Peter has to take a second to reboot his brain, and when he does, he takes another minute to consider his answer.

What he ends up doing is saying very, very quietly, "I don't think he should die."

Michelle leans forward and laces her fingers together on her desk.

Ned moves to fully face the both of them, and Peter gives in to twist his desk around like half the other people in the room.

"Elaborate, Parker."

He crosses his arms and immediately regrets it cause ow, fuck, and shoves his hands into his pockets instead.

"I don't think he should die because he's human, and deserves human rights. I don't think he should die because the news isn't saying the full story, and facts are being covered up. I don't think he should die because DA Reyes is a lying, manipulating witch who broke a witpro contract and is gunnin' for Castle too much for someone with nothing to hide."

The firm's sign says open, Peter recalls, but there are no clients.

Michelle stares at him, calculating, taking in the information presented and processing it into something recognizable.

Lots of people have been looking at him like that, keep on looking at him like that.

He figures he better get used to it.

"You sure got a lot of feelings for someone with nothing to hide," she parrots back at him.

He almost smiles.

"Nelson and Murdock's sign says open, but they have no clients, and haven't had any since Reyes broke the witpro contract with their client Elliot Grote, who is now super dead."

"The firm that represented your guys' apartment floor?" Ned asks.

Peter hums. "That's the one."

"Nelson and Murdock," Michelle muses. "The Fisk case guys?"

"They're defense attorneys."

"Defense attorneys you sure know a lot about," she says back.

He takes a moment to think.

Then, Peter shrugs and decides why the hell not and to throw them a bone.

He's very aware of what happened with Matt and Foggy, and how it's his fault.

He doesn't want that to happen with Ned and even Michelle, because he's not sure he'll be so lucky.

If he eases them into it, drops hints and leaves breadcrumbs, maybe it'll be better.

Maybe it'll be easier.

Maybe, if it works, he'll be able to slowly stop lying to May and Ben about everything he does.

Maybe.

Maybe, maybe, maybe.

"We're friends. I forced them to let me into their lives with coffee, painkillers, and really strong firewalls after I witnessed a murder I couldn't take to the police. You know how many all nighters they pull? Too many."

"Wait, wait, wait–" Ned hisses in alarm. "Go back. Murder?!?"

He swallows uncomfortably and damn he thought he was getting better.

"Yeah. Wrong place, wrong time. Icky stuff I don't super wanna get into. Remember when I was spacing out a couple months ago? That." Peter coughs to cover up the hitch in his breathing. "Any other questions?"

Ned purses his lips and doesn't say anything, but it also looks like something akin to understanding is blooming in his eyes.

Michelle is hard to read, but he thinks that maybe she's gone a few shades paler, her jaw more set than when he last looked.

"You take constructive criticism?" She finally says.

Peter smiles, and it's shaky as all hell.

"No."

———

Matt has always hated hospitals.

Too many sounds, too many smells, too many tastes.

Too many moving parts and dying breaths.

Infection and death and disease, the rot of tissue and the rattle of lungs, the sludge of clogged arteries and the scream of heart monitors.

Grinding bones and acid bruises and copper blood, iron and decay staining the air and the floor and the walls in a way that will never wash out.

Antiseptic and disinfectant and hydrogen peroxide, the squeak of cart wheels and the clatter of needles, the rattle of pills and the slosh of IVs, the smell of clean, too clean, burning, razing bleach.

Wiped up sick and bleached out blood, every bed stained with death and decay and rot, smothered by detergent and fabric softeners into one horrible mess that might just be worse than anything else in the beautiful, pretty, living cemetery they call hospitals.

Matt hates hospitals.

He walks into Frank Castle's room anyway.

The first thing that sticks out is how barren it is.

Wiped completely clean.

All open floor plan, one countertop lined above by cabinets.

He can hear the expansion of Frank's chest, hear the bruises and fractures and the strain of the fabric belting him down.

If he listens carefully, he can hear the almost silent rattle of the handcuffs as his body moves and his hands flex and his fingers twitch.

"Oh my god," Karen breathes, and it sounds like horror.

It must be worse than it sounds.

"Matt," Foggy calls, "the tape."

He stops.

He takes a deep breath.

And he puts on his best calm lawyer face.

Peter and Foggy both agreed it was very convincing.

"Frank Castle," he says, and he can maybe, just maybe hear the butterfly sound of fluttering eyelashes, drowned out by the change in breathing and the rattle of his chest. "My name is Matthew Murdock. These are my associates, Franklin Nelson and Karen Page."

"Yeah," Frank croaks, "I know who you are. You protect shitbags."

Ouch.

Actually, eh, not really.

Matt takes a deep breath and clears his throat.

"We came here today to make you an offer. We don't want money for our services, we're not interested in fame or free advertising. Weren't even assigned to your case. We don't have to be here."

He waits a moment to let that sink in.

It's not a very long moment.

Frank's smart.

"But you take a quick look around, you'll notice we're the only ones who are. As you may well know, your list of enemies extends well beyond the gangs you've killed. You're very good at making powerful enemies. And the day you were admitted to Metro-General for the round you took to the head, a do-not-resuscitate order was placed on you."

Stutter of the heartbeat.

Not surprise, but almost.

Resigned?

"And a shoot-to-kill order," Foggy chimes in, "just a few days ago.

Karen swallows harshly. "We know, because we heard it given."

She sounds guilty.

Welcome to the club.

"These orders were issued by the District Attorney." Deeper inhale, near silent sigh. Resignation for sure. This might as well happen? "And the fact that she's had it in for us ever since we started asking questions tells us we're on the right track. Someone in the DA's office wants you dead, Mr. Castle and we'd like to know why. You let us take your case, we can soften your sentence, and give you a shot. Maybe even find out who's responsible for what happened to you. We're talking about your life, Mr. Castle. We can help you keep what's left of it."

"Yeah." Frank wheezes, and it sounds a lot like death. "Kinda like what you did for Grotto, huh?"

And then, because he can, because he knows Frank's soft on kids, because Frank is being a hard-headed dumbass, he adds, "There's a twelve year old boy out there that wants to buy you a new hat."

And Frank's heartbeat stops.

There it is.

"What?"

"You saved–" his brain suddenly scrambles for a second that feels like an eternity, and what he finds himself continuing with is, "–my brother, Mr. Castle, and he's an excellent judge of character. He thinks you're someone worth saving, and so do we."

Frank clicks his tongue against his cheek. 

Rainstorms and licorice and ugly twisted orange.

Disbelief.

"Sure you do," he mutters, and there might be a sneer tacked on for effect.

Karen's breathing goes sharp.

And then she's moving, heels clicking, her purse rattling as she– digs around? Yanks something out?

"Karen!" Foggy barks, and Matt thinks that maybe she crossed the tape.

She'll be fine.

Frank can't hurt her, and even if he could, he wouldn't.

"Foggy!" She barks back, and it sounds mocking. Her hair swishes as she turns her head, and the hospital bed rattles as she pushes something thin and air-light into Frank's line of sight.

It smells like varnish and dust.

Frank's heart stops again.

Picture?

"You want answers?" Karen asks. "So do we, but none of us will get them if you're dead.

"Where did you get that?" Frank whispers.

Karen's breathing hitches and she hesitates. Foggy drags his hands through his hair.

Someone's walking down the hall.

Click click click.

"From your home." She finally admits, and Matt wants to yell.

Karen.

Girl.

No.

We don't break into terrorists' houses without backup! Jesus Christ!

Even he knows better than that.

"You were in my home?" Frank whispers, and he sounds so confused. He sounds like the guy that sobbed against a gravestone, not the man that massacred the Dogs of Hell. "Why were you in my house?"

The door rattles.

Shit.

"Who's in there?" Someone that might be Reyes barks. "Open the door!"

Busted.

"You went into my house?" Frank repeats.

"Someone is lying about what happened to your family, Mr. Castle." Karen hisses, and then the dragon herself stomps into the room, all hairspray and heels and bubbling oil rage.

"You three, out!" She orders.

"Now!" He whispers to Karen, grabbing her arm and dragging her away. Foggy takes his other side, and it's a nice temporary shield from the roaring witch behind them. "We're on shaky ground. You need to be really careful."

"Excuse me." Reyes bites out in the hallway.

Matt lets go and smiles.

"How can we help you, Ms. Reyes?"

Her voice is low in what might be a threat if Matt hadn't already decided Peter bleeding in his arms was the scariest thing in the world, right up there with his dad's cooling body and Foggy's imaginary corpse. 

"Get your things and go." Reyes snarls.

"Uh, we have a little bit of business here left." He says bemusedly, and wants to smirk at the irritation he can practically feel rolling off her.

"Frank Castle already has counsel. So, unless you've asked the public defender for permission to speak to his client, you are in violation of New York legal ethics." She grinds out.

"We spoke to the PD this morning. To be honest, he doesn't seem all that prepared to tackle this case." Matt says, and he does his best to sound genuinely concerned. "Although, he did mention the conversation that you had with him yesterday." He tacks on.

Reyes takes a deep breath.

"Matt Murdock, is it?"

"Yeah, pleasure to meet you."

"You have a reputation of being a smart man, Mr.Murdock." She starts, and wow, does Matt wanna know where she heard that from. "And since your colleagues seem unable to grasp the hornets' nest they keep kicking, let me direct this at you. Leave this ward, leave this man, leave this entire case behind before you wake up six feet under the ash that was your reputation and promising legal career."

Awwww.

That's cute.

Go drown yourself in the Hudson, Reyes. Maybe it'll clear your head.

"We have a right to a private conversation with a prospective client." He smiles.

She clicks her tongue.

Does she think she's gotten the canary?

"Not if there's a conflict of interest."

"And what conflict is that?" Matt asks.

"Elliot Grotto." She practically purrs. "You can't represent Castle when one of his victims was your former client."

"Alleged victims." Foggy drawls.

"All the same." Reyes dismisses.

Oh ho.

That is exactly where he wanted her to be.

He may be blind but damn if he hasn't expertly won this game of chess.

Get fucked, Reyes.

"Representing Grotto might have complicated matters, but then again, all evidence of our work with him and our deal with you seems to have disappeared from public record." He says as sweetly as he can . "It's almost as if someone didn't want it known that you violated a witpro contract, jeopardized the safety of said witness, and then ordered a shoot-to-kill on Castle."

"But I guess Ms. Reyes could just confess to that when she files this conflict of interest complaint." Foggy says faux-helplessly. "We have our case files to back up our story. How's your side looking?"

Reyes' heart stutters.

Gotcha.

"The fact of the matter is, Ms. Reyes, the only person who shouldn't be here right now is you. Seeing as it's a breach of ethics for the prosecuting attorney to communicate with the defendant without his assigned legal counsel present. So, if you'll excuse us, we'd like to resume convincing Mr. Castle that, unlike his current legal counsel, we can actually help him." He finishes, and personally, he's really proud of that speech.

Weird.

Pride? About himself?

Wild.

Reyes is silent, and he hears Brett rush over.

He smells like stormcloud and green.

"You already did." He says.

Reyes twists around. "What?"

"Castle doesn't want the public defender." Brett explains. "Says Nelson and Murdock are his lawyers now."

Matt beams.

"Thank you, Detective Sergeant. If you'll excuse us." And he turns his goddamn back on her. Snub for snub. "Foggy, do you have my cane? Thank you."

And they walk, walk, in a dignified manner, all the way down the hall and into an empty room.

Matt closes the door and feels like shouting even though he's not quite sure what to do now.

"Finally feel like we have the upper hand against that woman." Karen mutters.

Matt shrugs. "Yeah, she bluffs well, but she'll negotiate. She doesn't want this going to trial."

"Of course." Karen says. "She wants it to end quickly, so she can move on to burying us."

"Just deal with one problem at a time." Matt suggests, and Foggy guides him by the elbow to a table where he can set up.

Old habits die hard.

"So where are we supposed to start?" Karen rhetorically asks the room at large. "Let's… let's have the charges and evidence summary brought in here. We can weed through it and work out what terms we want directly with Frank."

Matt nods. "It'll save time."

"Can't believe this is happening."

Foggy snorts. "Oh, this is happening all right."

And then someone's knocking on the door.

Stupid.

"Yeah, come in." Matt calls.

"Car service for a Mr. Murdock." A man says.

Uniform, judging by the sound of the fabric, no weapons, lax muscles.

Soft, a man just doing his job.

Not a threat.

He takes a minute to listen and–

It dawns on Matt like a tidal wave.

Goddammit.

"Car service?" Foggy asks.

"Um. It's, uh, not a very good time." Matt says.

"My employer was quite insistent." The man replies.

Foggy sidles up behind him. "His employer?" 

"Yeah, the new, the new client. Um, could you just give us a minute?"

The man leaves.

Matt doesn't waste any time. "It's Elektra." 

"What?" Foggy asks.

"You know how we made a deal that she would get the hell out of New York if I helped her?"

"Uh, yeah, I recall seeing as how that was preceded by literal ninjas and finding out the Yakuza hadn't actually left. "

"I think this is the deal."

"Seriously?" Karen says but starts shuffling through what files they have on hand anyway.

Foggy drags a hand down his face. "This is such bad timing. This is such bad timing."

Matt feels kind of really bad.

"I'm sorry." He says, and reaches out a little to grasp Foggy's wrist.

Karen might've cooed.

He steadfastly ignores it.

Foggy sighs. "It's okay, just go. Go. It'll be alright."

Matt nod. "Um, call me with any issues. This shouldn't take long, anyway."

"Famous last words, Matty."

He smiles.

"Then they're good last words to have."

———

"And hey– hey!" Foggy yells as Matt opens the door. "You pull bullshit like this morning again and we will be having problems. The hell even was that anyway? You never said."

Matt scowls into the wall. "Night ran late and Elektra got cut across the throat. But hey. We found a train car full of dirt."

Karen snorts. "Oh my god."

"Dirt?" Foggy asks incredulously. "Guarded by ninjas? That's why you were late and hung me out to dry?"

"Must be some real special dirt." Karen says and puts the Thai on his table.

"Only the best dirt for the Yakuza." Foggy mumbles.

Matt tentatively smiles. "Quality dirt, you might say."

"Premium dirt, even." Karen chimes.

"I hate you both." Foggy announces, and then collapses on his couch.

Right now, his heartbeat is the only way Matt can be reasonably sure that it's a lie.

"It's okay, I hate me too."

"Matty."

"You started it." He defends.

Foggy… steeples his fingers? Potentially squints at him? 

He can feel the scrutiny.

"We're discussing this later, Matthew." He warns. "Right now, however, we need to work on getting our mistrial."

"And it all hinges on Matt putting this guy through the wringer." Karen hums.

He snorts. "Lucky me."

"It'll be fine," Foggy says over his takeout box. "You pressure guys into confessing all the time. It's like the main part of your sketchy night job being literal Satan."

Karen snort-laughs into her water and coughs.

"Yeah, but uh, that's on threat of breaking people." Matt reminds.

"Like glow sticks." Karen muses.

"Like glow sticks, Foggy."

"I'm sure you can work around it." Foggy dismisses. "Think of it as you making it up to me for having to cover your ass in court, Matthew."

"Okay, okay, I said I was sorry! Really, I am. I didn't mean to be late, but from what I heard it was amazing. Way better than what I could've done."

"Mhmm, thanks for the compliment. And Matt, you're always sorry. It's starting to lose meaning, buddy."

"I have a lot of things to be sorry for."

"Ugh, you're so painfully Catholic."

"And yet, you put up with me."

"Yeah," Foggy groans. "And it's giving me stress ulcers."

"It's not. I would've heard it." Matt says.

"That! That shit right there, that's why I'm gonna get stress ulcers, the knowing, and the parkour, and the new conspiracies every other day."

"The stitches, the bleeding out, the bruises, the four AM text messages of still alive," Karen adds.

Something in his chest tightens and squeezes.

"I can't help it," he mumbles defensively. "It's just… how I am. I… I need it."

The air grows noticeably tenser.

Karen's stopped over her takeout completely.

Foggy is silent.

Was that… the wrong thing to say?

Then Foggy sighs.

It tastes like a storm front, heavy and cold and the warning of rain.

His poorly-healed fractures ache with the thought of it.

"I'm not… mad at you, you know that, right? Just… irritated?"

Matt ducks his head to tilt away.

He blocks out his heartbeat.

"I know."

I don't.

"You just, you can't go running around the city during the night and then go back to being a normal person during the day, and hope that there won't be crossover. We worry about you Matt." Foggy stresses, and it hurts. It hurts more than acid that burned his eyes ever did. "And it's not just us, man. It's Peter, too. That kid's twelve and he thinks the world of you Matt. He's also frighteningly familiar with mortality. You know how many funerals he's been to? Four, if you count joint ones as two. You really wanna be number five?"

He chokes.

No.

No no no, never–

Bang.

Dad?

"No!" Matt yells. "I don't, I don't want to– I don't want to be funeral number five, but Foggy it's so damn hard to stop, and I'm trying to be careful, I really am, but the law doesn't stop secret organizations, or help the women that get tailed and taken in the dark. The city will just go right back to how it started if I stop. And I can't–"

He chokes on air.

Tries to inhale, to breathe, and swallows past the acid in his throat.

Crosses his hands behind his head.

Blinks back the heat behind his eyes.

"I can't do that," he whispers. "I don't want there to be any more ten-year-old Matt Murdocks. I don't want there to be corruption. I don't want to be needed."

It's a lie.

He'll always want to be needed.

Matt breathes in, and hates the rattle in his throat all the way down to his bones.

A hand nears his shoulder and he flinches away.

"I know, Matt." Foggy gently whispers, and he's right next to him, holding his hands palms up and Matt doesn't know when he got there, stupid, stupid, stupid. "And I'm not trying to make you stop. I just want you to know, that your actions have consequences. They affect other people, not just you."

He leans forward, and Foggy gently pulls his hands away from behind his neck.

Karen hovers by his shoulder, holding her hand to get chest like she was burned, and he realizes she was the hand.

He tilts his head towards her, and she slowly reaches back out.

He doesn't flinch this time when she touches his shoulder.

"I'm sorry." Matt whispers.

"I know," Foggy repeats, "but you need to learn how to be someone other than the Devil of Hell's Kitchen, Matt. I know you used to be. Some nights– maybe come over for movies, or dinner, or go drinking with us. Take breaks. You're only human."

"I'll– I'll try." He promises, and wants to choke when his heart doesn't beat lie. "I'll try."

"That's all I can ask, Matt." Foggy says. "I've missed my best friend. Now let's figure out how to kick Reyes' ass."

And Matt–

He's tries for a smile.

"I could– get Tepper thinking about the real report?" He suggests.

"Yeah," Karen says. "Get him thinking about the real truth."

"And when he's disoriented–" Foggy starts.

"–I follow up with something like 'Who had you change the report?' And even if he says 'no one,' it proves–"

"– It proves that the report was changed." Karen finishes.

"That's it," Matt says.

"See?" Foggy says. "You're a natural."

Matt and Foggy must be doing something with their faces, some micro expression, because Karen says, "What?"

"You ever consider law school?" Matt asks.

Karen's heart beat startles.

"Oh, I don't know."

Foggy shrugs. "Well, Matt and I know a lot of good people at Columbia. I mean, if it's even something you want." He rushes to tack on. "Just thinking Nelson and Murdock might be more fun as Nelson, Murdock and Page. We all know you do more than a secretary."

Matt nods. "Mhmm."

Karen's heart beat startles again, flutters, really, and it's probably… bashfulness?

Is that even a word?

"You're, you guys are sweet. Uh, I don't know. I don't know if law school is really the right fit for me." She says. "Um, I guess there's just something about the rules and the loopholes. It just feels like the truth gets lost a little too often."

"Well, not every case will be The People v. Frank Castle." Matt reminds.

Never again.

He's so stressed.

Never again.

"Right, right." Karen nods. "But, you know, it's not just this case. It's... Uh…"

Foggy tilts his head.

He never used to do that.

Matt wonders if it's for his benefit.

"What is it?" Foggy asked.

"You know, we - You ever think back to the night we first met? All of us?"

"Uh, yeah." Matt says.

Foggy nods. "It's not everyday we get a client like you, K."

Karen swallows, and puts a hand over her mouth. Her breathing rattles.

"While I sat in that police station, alone, I was afraid of the whole world." She whispers. "At least, until you and Foggy came into my life and... You trusted me. You gave me hope. And then we came back to your place, Matt."

He quirks a smile. "I offered you Thai food."

"Pinnacle of generosity, coming from this guy." Foggy says, and it feels like a quiet forgiveness.

"God, I remember everything about that night," Karen chokes, "'cause it's not every day your life is threatened, then saved by a man in black, who later turns out to be your employer and the guy whose house you ran away from."

"It's not really a house, but like, I get your meaning." Foggy nods seriously.

"Hey."

"You have a counter made of plywood."

"Do I?"

"Do you– Jesus Christ."

"I'm blind, Foggy. Blind."

"Yeah, yeah, you can't read screens or see colors but you can do like, a triple backflip, we get it."

And then someone laughs.

Ice shoots through Matt's spine and he's turning before he's even registered Foggy and Karen moving away from the stairs.

Elektra peers down at him.

God– every time.

Every time.

"How long have you been up there?" He asks. "How long have you been listening?"

"I wasn't listening." She says and it's a lie lie lie. "I didn't hear anything about your work that would make me want to tie a noose and test it on my neck."

Asshole.

"I warned you not to interrupt my life." Matt growls.

"Yes, yes, that and stay away from the boy. But this? This is not your life, Matthew."

And damn does that make his blood boil.

"You may not give a damn about what I've made for myself, but that is what's most important to me. All right? My job, my people, my friends."

"Right. Sorry." She calls.

Matt exhales through his nose. Patience is a virtue. Patience is a virtue. "What do you want?" He grinds out.

"Is this show and tell? Me and you and your little friends? Eh, whatever, I don't really care." Elektra says. "I looked more carefully at Roxxon's construction investment. Seems there's only a small number of projects in New York capable of moving that much dirt. We pay the sites a visit, I bet we find out what they're hiding."

She sounds so smug and it's so irritating because all of that sounds obnoxiously important and interesting.

"What are these sites?" Matt asks.

Elektra hums like doesn't every single one of the locations memorized. "Um, the Conservatory Hotel, the Midtown Tunnel project, and some big build site at 44th and 11th."

Karen chokes behind him and Foggy swears.

No.

"44th and 11th." He breaths.

"You know it?" She asks.

"Yeah," he croaks. "Midland Circle. There was a tenement on that block before Wilson Fisk swallowed it up in his Better Tomorrow initiative."

Funeral number three.

Elektra hums and tilts her head. It feels mocking. "How did the Japanese get hold of it?"

"I don't know. But before I fought Nobu, I found blueprints at Midland Circle." And God do his scars burn. "I always thought Nobu was just a weapon Fisk sent to take me out, that Fisk had interests tied up in the building, but maybe he didn't want it at all. I mean, what if he only acquired Midland Circle for the Japanese?"

"Nobu?" Foggy whispers. "The guy that gutted you like a fish?"

He nods.

"That's a curious riddle," Elektra chirps, "one I think we should go and solve together."

He scowls. "Elektra, I got court in the morning. I got a case to prepare, I got–"

"Tomorrow night, then." She dismisses easily. "Finish your homework. I'll do some recon."

And then she's gone.

Matt lets out an exasperated sigh, and tries to work his blood pressure down to reasonable levels.

"Wow," Foggy whispers, "she is a bag of cats."

Karen startles a laugh. "What?"

"You heard me. Bag of cats."

Matt snorts and drags a hand down his face.

"Jesus Christ."

———

"I'm going to kill her," Matt hisses. "I'm going to kill her and string her up and leave her for the crows."

It's falling apart.

Everything's falling apart.

Dammit dammit dammit.

Foggy kicks the wall.

"The one witness that could've helped us do what I wanted to do, which is take down Reyes! The one witness!"

They could've gotten more time.

They needed more time.

And then Elektra ruined it.

"There goes our mistrial," Karen whispers.

"I told her," Matt growls, "I told her to stay away."

And really, he shouldn't be so hurt, he shouldn't, but the whole damn thing tastes like betrayal on his tongue and he wants to scream.

Foggy drags his hands through his hair. "I knew she was crazy, I knew , but I didn't know that she was homicidal."

"I'm feeling pretty homicidal right now," Karen snarls.

Matt laughs, and it isn't nice. "Here, fucking here!" 

"God– damn it." Foggy says. "She can't– she can't get away with this, Matt, and I know that sounds dumb, but Elektra just derailed our entire fucking trial. Everything was hinging on Tupper's confession! Everything! And now it's being thrown out!"

"Oh, trust me, she is not walking away tonight without broken bones." 

"You know, I bet she thought she was helping," Karen adds quietly. "I bet she thought she was helping you, Matt. And I think that makes it worse."

And–

Karen's probably right.

Elektra probably thought she was helping, was making Matt's life easier.

And that just makes him angrier.

"It doesn't matter if she thought she was helping," Matt growls. "She didn't. This happens– this happens every time! She thinks she's helping when really, she's making it worse! Ugh!"

"It's like college," Foggy whispers angrily, "but a thousand times worse. She nearly got you expelled, screwed your semester of torts, civil procedure... You almost missed the final because she hurt you so bad. And now, she's breaking into an ME's house!"

"Talk about a level up in crazy," Karen mutters.

"Yeah, sounds about right," Matt says. "Christ."

Foggy leans against the wall and drags his hands through hair again.

He's going to start pulling out chunks at this rate.

"Who's going up on the stand tomorrow?" He asks quietly.

Matt folds his arms. "Karen?"

"His CO, I think."

Foggy sighs. 

It feels like defeat.

Like quiet resignation.

"He better give a damn good statement," Foggy whispers. "Because if he doesn't? We're fucked."

———

Karen's phone buzzes when she's more than halfway to Matt's apartment.

'He's really gonna testify?' stands out as her most recent conversation, right above 'Elektra might not make it through the night'.

'Where did you hear that??' she types out in response, and it's been sent for barely a minute when she hears, "I have my ways," and startles so violently she almost drops her phone.

"Peter," Karen gasps. "Don't scare me like that."

He smiles at her, but it's dim at best.

"Sorry."

"Sure you are."

"Yeah, I'm not, you're right."

"I'm always right."

Peter laughs at her, and it's a whole lot lighter than his smile.

They walk in silence for a while, Peter skipping every couple of steps to keep up.

"How is he?" He suddenly asks, gaze trained firmly forward.

Karen sighs.

"Which one?"

Peter grabs her free hand to swing their arms.

"Yes?"

"He could be better. The both of them," she tacks on. "Frank is… complicated at best, but I didn't tell you that. Matt is having a hard time and it's affecting everyone."

Peter scowls. "Couldn't she've chosen a better time to drop in? When Matt wasn't in the middle of the biggest case of the century?"

"I don't think she could've," Karen says. "Matt's just unlucky like that. Foggy says it's a Murdock thing."

Peter is strangely silent at that.

Just swinging their arms, back and forth, back and forth.

Thinking.

"Parker's have something like that," he says suddenly, very quietly and without prompting. "And it doesn't leave any survivors."

Karen's breathing stutters.

Shit.

Right.

Peter's an orphan.

"Maybe you and Matt will… will balance each other out. Cancel out the bad luck." She suggests as they round Matt's block.

Peter hums, but it sounds skeptical. "Maybe."

"Didn't you say there was something for bad luck?" She asks when Peter moves to open the door for her, just to get him to think about anything else.

Anything else to wipe that horrible understanding off his face.

He pauses and furrows his brow.

"Uh, hematite beads. They're good for luck. Tiger's eye, but that's more good luck-y and finding truth and stuff." He rambles. "But lots of stones and plants have multiple meanings and not everybody agrees on what they are."

Karen starts on the stairs and Peter follows quickly behind.

"That sounds rough."

"It is. Some people don't think hematite is good for counteracting bad luck at all. Everybody has different opinions and beliefs, I guess." Peter decides.

"That's true with most things." Karen says. "What're you doing here anyway?"

Peter actually stops, mouth open but silent, brow furrowed.

"Uh… something? I had a reason," he mumbles, "What was it, what was it… wait, wait! I remember! I was talkin' with JB about Kevlar and the polymer in Matt's suit while we were walking some dogs cause he's a vet and figured he'd have some ideas, and he did, so I wanted to talk to Matt and his suit guy about making it more durable when the trial is over, but I figured I'd let him know in like, advance."

"That's… fair?"

Sometimes she forgets how smart Peter is, and just how involved he is in their lives.

In Matt's life.

In the bullets and the guns and the stitches and stab wounds 

Sometimes she forgets that Peter goes out during the day, like Matt does at night, to help the people no one else's down.

Sometimes she forgets that there's a fresh pink scar on Peter's shoulder full of shrapnel that wasn't treated and stitched in a hospital.

Sometimes she just forgets.

Then Karen brushes the thoughts away and opens Matt's door.

"Matt?" She calls.

Peter slips past her but stops where the wall opens into the room.

She notices his hands curl into fists.

Once she catches up to him, she can see way.

An old man, standing in the middle of Matt's living room, blind eyes trained on them.

Matt doesn't talk about him a lot, but Karen knows who he is, and so does Peter.

Stick.

The wall divider slides open and Matt stumbles out, preternatural grace all but vanished.

"Karen. Peter. Hi." He says lamely.

"Hi Matt." Peter greets, but his eyes are trained on Stick and his shoulders are still tense.

She wonders if one of those leveling-ruler-things would come out even if she placed it across them.

Matt turns to her. "Karen?"

She can just barely see Elektra behind him.

She's probably moving though, so she isn't dead.

Karen's not sure what she would feel if she was.

"Frank Castle's going to take the stand tomorrow." She says. "Foggy wants you to be the one to question him."

He stills. "He's going to take the stand?"

She nods. "Yeah."

"Oh."

Peter is still glaring quiet daggers at Stick.

She can't really blame him.

"Is she doing any better?" Karen asks.

Matt shrugs. "She isn't dead."

"That's good."

Is it though?

Matt nods. Then he tilts to look at Peter.

"What're you doing here?" He asks quietly.

Peter shuffles backwards without taking his eyes off of Stick.

Boy is determined.

"I got some ideas to make your suit more bullet proof." He says. "Wanted to ask if I could talk to your suit guy."

Matt makes… a face.

She thinks it might be fondness, or possibly internal screaming.

"I can ask." He wheezes.

Maybe a mix of both??

That cheers up Peter significantly.

"Cool." Then he leans around Matt, finally looking away from Stick, to glare at Elektra. "If you hurt him, I'll doxx you." He threatens.

"Peter," Matt hisses in surprise.

Karen coughs to cover up a startled laugh.

"I mean it," he says.

Matt nods. "I'm sure you do but you can't just doxx people."

"I can and I will." Peter insists.

"Karen," Matt whines. "Can you–"

"Demon child," she calls, "come hither and we'll find someone else to harass."

"Is it Stick?" He asks curiously. "Cause I'd love to harass Stick."

The man in question coughs.

"No," Karen says, "but if we hurry we can go to the Bulletin and poke at Elison until he gives us something to do."

Peter narrows his eyes at her. "This is a trick."

"Is it working?" She asks.

Peter purses his lips and tilts his head. "Maybe."

"Then let's go."

He's still for another moment before sighing. "Fine."

He latches onto Matt in a hug before bouncing over to her side and under her arm.

As Karen shepards him out, she can hear Stick say, "Nice meetin' ya."

Peter scowls, and before she can close the door, yells, "Can't say the same!"

Which is.

Hmm.

Rude?

And she should be berating him for such behavior as the responsible adult currently in charge of him?

… Nah, who is she kidding, fuck that guy.

Karen gives Peter a high-five.

"Nice."

———

The stairs leading to the Supreme Court Building is swarmed with reporters and police like a kicked anthill.

And she's going right into the heart of it.

Yikes.

"Miss Page?"

Karen startles.

A woman is walking towards her.

"Yeah."

"Agent Gallagher." She introduces. "Follow me. I'll get you through security as quickly as possible."

Karen sweeps a loose strand behind her ear. "Thank you."

She lifts the tape and Karen rushes under it.

"Excuse us." Gallagher says, and Karen tries to make herself smaller.

"Excuse me." She whispers.

"Pardon me." She mumbles.

"Sorry." She apologises when she accidentally bumps into someone.

"Wait here." Gallagher orders and walks off.

And then there's… Foggy.

He looks tired, but Karen does think she or Matt look any better.

They're all tired.

They're all drained.

"Hey." Karen greets with more enthusiasm than she feels.

Which is.

Exactly zero.

Foggy snorts. "Guess I'm not the only one that got Reyes's invitation."

"Invitation is putting it nicely. "She sighs. "Security is nuts."

"Frank Castle's on the loose." He says. "I wouldn't take any chances either."

Karen shakes her head. "No, not even Frank could have orchestrated an escape that quickly."

"How– how's that even possible?" Foggy asks, and Karen wishes she knew.

None of it feels right.

"Guessing that's what the District Attorney wants to ask us." Karen guesses.

He sighs, dragging a hand down his face. "This case just keeps serving up the shit burgers." He mumbles.

Click click click.

"Mr. Nelson, this way." Gallagher says.

Foggy waves. "See you on the other side."

"Yeah."

Karen glances over her shoulder, and sees Matt making his way towards the tape.

"Excuse me, sir." An officer says. "Do you need a hand?"

Awwww.

Karen loves it when people aren't absolutely horrible.

"No, thank you." Matt smiles, brushing him off. "Thank you so much."

"I see Reyes dragged you in, too." She remarks once he's climbed the steps.

"Hey, Karen. Are you alright?"

"Other than being hauled in as a suspect in the escape of a confessed murderer?" She asks. "Yeah, I'm great."

Matt smiles, and it looks kinda fragile. "Yeah, this whole case has been a disaster. I'm sorry I pulled you guys into it."

"Don't be sorry." 

Matt's smile falters and he sighs. "How are you otherwise?"

"Good. How's the bag of cats?" Karen grins.

Matt snorts. "Still a bag of cats."

Agent Gallagher walks back into view. How does she do it? "Miss Page? Come with me."

"Yeah, sure." She glances back.

Matt stands there, hands tight around his cane.

He looks very, very alone.

Like all saints and martyrs do.

"Mr. Murdock," Gallagher says. "I'll be right back."

And then she's walking away, into the belly of the beast, Karen mere steps behind.

Foggy meets her, and Matt follows closely after.

And they walk, Gallagher pulling point far in front of them.

"According to my buddy," Foggy says after a while, "Reyes is most likely about to grill us like fish."

Karen frowns. "She has no cause."

"On paper, we're still Frank Castle's attorneys." Matt points out, with the grace to at least look somewhat guilty.

Foggy rolls his eyes. "And I am so proud of that."

"Frank's out, but instead of going after him herself, Reyes is dragging us into the lion's den." Karen says incredulously.

Seriously?

"What could we possibly know about his escape?" Matt asks.

Foggy snorts. "Precisely dick. But if Reyes can find a way to blame us for all this, she will."

"Karen, you spent the most time with him." Matt says. "He say anything? Anything at all that could help us right now?"

She looks away.

A knife twists in her chest and she wonders when it got there.

"Nothing about an escape."

"I went over Castle's transfer work." Foggy says. "He wasn't waltzing into some country club. They were burying him in their highest security control unit with all the other rock stars on cell block D."

Matt stumbles.

Hard.

Gallagher stops and gestures to a door and waiting room.

"Uh, Matt, this way." She says.

"Hey, Foggy. You said cell block D?" He asks, and his voice is dry.

Disbelieving.

Maybe even nervous.

"It'll be just another minute." Gallagher says.

Foggy nods. "Thanks."

"Does that mean something to you?" Karen asks, and desperately hopes it doesn't.

"Yeah, I like to keep track of the people who might want to kill us." Matt chokes out.

"The Punisher?" Foggy guesses.

"No, not Frank." He says with a sudden intensity. "Wilson Fisk. Frank blows his trial, and ends up on Fisk's cell block? And a day later, he's on the street."

Oh no.

No, no, no.

They put him in jail, god dammit.

Foggy squints. "Uh, those are two very separate dots. You can't just connect them."

Uh, no, she thinks maybe Matt can.

It makes a horrible, horrible kind of sense.

Any option was a better option as opposed to a mental ward in Frank's opinion, that much she knew.

"Oh, come on, Foggy. I'm right. Fisk made this happen." Matt insists.

The office door opens. "She'll see you now." Gallagher ushers them in.  "Ma'am? They're here now."

And Reyes looks… tired.

Exhausted, even.

Human, in a college sweatshirt with no strings, speaking softly into a phone before ending the call and looking at all of them.

There's bags under her eyes.

Karen has never felt pity for someone that was such a pain in her ass before, but right now, that's kind of all she can feel for Reyes.

Besides the, you know, quiet burning rage and indignation.

"Thank you for coming."

Foggy scoffs. "Kinda hard to say no when the cops pick you up."

Reyes stutters and it's a full body motion, like a movie missing a frame every couple of seconds. "Well, I'm sorry about that. Could you, uh– Please, have a seat. Please."

Karen guides Matt to sit between her and Foggy. "The second chair, Matt."

Foggy crosses his arms and leans back. He looks irritated. "I don't know what your play is, lady, but let's cut the shit. You brought us in expecting to sweat privileged information about our client out of us, not only breaking laws but also cutting into our personal time. This trial? It's wrecked us. We're trying to find new jobs. We have other things to be doing, so let's make this quick, okay?"

Reyes sighs. "Yes, if the honestly helps. We have to get Frank Castle off the street before anyone else gets hurt."

Really?

Really?

Is she kidding?

Karen squints "You're asking for favors, after all the shit you've pulled?"

"If you want our cooperation," Matt whispers, in a tone that borders on dangerous, "then we need to know what you know, all right? All of your cards on the table, right now."

That tone, it doesn't just border on dangerous, it borders on Daredevil.

Reyes holds a fist over her mouth and leans on her desk.

"I've made mistakes." She whispers after a while and.

And that's.

What?

"Excuse me?" Karen asks.

Reyes bows her head. "Central Park. Castle and his family. I screwed up."

Oh, no.

No, no, no.

No ma'am.

"Frank Castle's family being gunned down is not a mistake, it's a massacre." She hisses.

"Wait. I swear to God, if I had any idea that people might get hurt–" Reyes chokes on air. Good. "I would not have done that. Done it."

Matt goes dangerously still, and it about fits her mental state.

"You– your office were part of it?" He whispers.

"Why am I not surprised?" Foggy mumbles.

And that's the missing piece.

The missing body.

"They were more than just part of it." Karen says lowly. "It was a sting."

Reyes stops moving.

"How do you know that?" She asks, disbelieving.

Karen scowls. "I've gotten really good at digging up shit people like you wanna keep buried."

"Hey, Karen–"

"Just–"

"Probably not a good idea."

"Trust me." She grinds out.

Foggy gives up being the voice of reason and goes back to silently keeping Matt from losing it.

Someone has to.

Tower steps forward. "Ma'am, they need to know." He says quietly.

Reyes looks away, but nods regardless.

Tower takes a deep breath, and Karen leans back.

It's been a while since someone just told her the goddamn truth.

"Last year, the DA's office learned there was a new player in the drug trade. Calls himself the Blacksmith." He starts. "He wasn't gonna flood the market, he was gonna be the market. And we were tracking kilos, but this guy dealt in metric tons. Volume like that should have made him easy to find, but he was a ghost. No sign of how he was getting the product into the country, where it was coming from, nothing. Then one of the cops we planted deep undercover got word that the Blacksmith was arranging a meeting between three unaffiliated gangs. Dogs of Hell, Kitchen Irish, and the Mexican Cartel."

"Blacksmith wanted to broker a deal." Reyes takes over. "They set the meet for Central Park, midafternoon. Look, our guys were there. They were ready.

"But the sting, it just, it– it went south."

It dawns on Karen then, slowly and horribly before drowning her like a tidal wave.

"You didn't clear the park, did you?" She whispers in horror.

Foggy goes stiff in his chair and Matt's nails have dug into the chair's arms.

"I thought about it." Reyes admits, so very, very quiet, like it'll hide her sins from the world. "But I decided that an empty park could show our hand. So, yes, I greenlit the operation, civilian traffic and all. And it, oh-so-predictably, all went to shit."

Foggy is holding onto Matt's arm now, and she can see where the stuffing has started to split.

"Blacksmith didn't show." Reyes intones, and it's like the beginning of the end. Like the first words of a prophecy that spells the apocalypse. "Before we had a chance to move in the gangs got rattled and opened fire on each other. Our undercover was killed and Castle's family–" she looks away, like it isn't her fault, like it isn't all her damn fault. "God damn it."

"So after that horrible decision, you made it worse." Foggy says into the quiet. "You tried to kill him and ruin us to save your own political ass." He starts to stand. "You know what, lady, you're on your own."

"Wait, wait." Reyes says desperately. "This is not about me anymore. I found this in my daughter's backpack before sending her off to school."

And Frank's x-ray is slid across the table.

"Castle." Foggy says. 

Reyes inhales sharply. "You know once he gets his sights set on a target, he never stops–" "Where's your daughter now?" Matt interrupts.

"Upstate New York somewhere, in a location I can never know about, surrounded by men with guns assigned to protect her." Her voice cracks. Karen kind of feels sorry for her, or at least for the kid that's gotten caught in the crossfire. "My baby girl."

"Ms. Reyes, it's highly unlikely Frank Castle would target your family." Matt says. "He's got a soft spot for kids."

"This is hard to understand, but he has his own internal code–" Karen starts.

"I'm sorry, am I supposed to trust that?" Reyes barks, and then sighs, bone weary. "I don't care how much time you spent in an interrogation room with him. He's coming after my child."

"He wouldn't." Matt insists. "Castle doesn't hurt kids."

Peter's proof of that.

"What do you want from us?" Foggy asks tiredly.

He looks done.

She feels done.

"If he contacts you, just let us know." Reyes says.

"You want us to break privilege?"

"I wanna make sure that nobody else gets hurt." Reyes corrects. "Look, I– I know what I've done here. But please. I don't give a shit about my job anymore. I just wanna keep my family safe."

What happens next, it happens slowly and then all at once.

Like a slowing of time.

Like the calm before the storm.

Just a tilt.

A single tilt.

And then Matt's reacting like a live wire, screaming, "Get down!" and bullets fill the room.

She can't see anything, can't hear anything besides the loud and sawdust and blood.

Matt is curled up above her, shielding her from the world, and she dimly wonders how his enhanced senses can take it.

Karen hates being a damsel in distress.

But when Matt moves off of her, launching himself over to Foggy, and she sees Reyes, eyes open, red seeping through her papers and splashed over the x-ray, remembers Ms. Cardenas, and Ben, and even Matt himself, she thinks she might be grateful someone was even able to protect her at all, in this world that does it's best to swallow them up.

———

The door clicks open.

"Hey," Foggy calls, voice soft.

Matt stops and quietly berates himself for not paying attention. "Hey. Sorry, just, uh, researching. Looking for something."

"Hmm. I paid the electric bill through the end of the month, so enjoy it while you can." Foggy says.

"And then what?"

"And then it'll be cold and dark. Think you'll be able to find somewhere by then?"

"Maybe."

Foggy sighs. "I'll keep an ear out, yeah?"

"Yeah." And then Matt starts to laugh, just a little. "It's really over, huh? Nelson and Murdock?"

And suddenly Foggy's there, leaning against his side, arms crossed.

"Yeah. Guess so. But I mean, at least it's just the firm that's dead. We're still here," he says, and Matt thinks he might be smiling. "The Nelson and Murdock behind Nelson and Murdock is still alive."

Matt smiles too, just a bit.

"Kind of a miracle, after all that shit at the hospital."

Foggy winces. "Yeah, man. You rushing out the window in street clothes nearly gave me a heart attack. Pete was yelling about armour and stab wounds the whole time."

"It's been– a crazy couple of days." He says breathlessly.

Castle and Elektra and the trail and Stick and the Hand and–

Foggy snorts. "That's putting it mildly. You know, Marci came by after. Some of the higher-ups at her firm were impressed with my opening argument in the Castle case."

His smile widens. "Yeah, I'm not surprised. You were great."

"Neither am I." Foggy says, and Matt's heart feels strange and warm. Like honey. "Not anymore. The Castle case was in many ways a disaster, but it made me realize I'm really good at my job."

Finally.

Finally, finally, finally, 'cause Matt?

He's been telling Fogs that for years.

Matt leans against him, tilting his head over Foggy's shoulder. "Nelson and Murdock was never just your job. You were there for every client who came through the door. Rich, poor doesn't matter. You were the heart of this place."

"You gonna try to convince me it's worth another shot?" He asks quietly.

Matt crosses his arms and closes his eyes.

Once upon a time, maybe.

Or in a different world.

But here?

"Nah."

Foggy hums, and it resonates through his whole body.

"What were you looking for?" He asks. "You know, before we had this fun heart-to-heart."

"You really wanna know? Like, details?"

Foggy sighs but doesnt leave. "Sure."

"Well, there's this group that I've been following. The Hand." He starts.

"Ah yes, the opposing faction of your bizarre but unfortunately real war."

"Mhmm. They move through the city, and then they just" he snaps his fingers, "disappear. Like magic. The last place I had a fix on them was 49th and 10th. Then they were gone." He moves one arm to gesture at the papers on his desk. "I thought maybe they might be using the subway tunnels."

Foggy snorts. "Only if they're idiots. Subway tunnels are heavily patrolled and dangerous as shit. My grandfather used to tell me stories about abandoned railway tunnels."

Matt tilts his head towards Foggy. 

He's never heard this one before.

"Abandoned? Why?"

"They kept caving in." He explains. "Cost a ton. The city just finally threw in the towel. Gated them up. Best thing to ever happen to bootleggers like Grandpa. Said he could go for miles without seeing daylight." Foggy says, and it sounds like he's smiling again. "Whatever the Hand are, forget magic. Look for manhole covers."

And that?

That right there?

That's why Foggy is his best friend.

He thinks of the things Matt doesn't, comes up with the solutions to problems he's tried over and over to solve, pulls him back to reality and out of the personal Hell he's made for himself.

Foggy is his grounding force.

He doesn't know what he'd do without him.

"Thank you, Foggy." He whispers into his shoulder. "That's really good work. Thank you."

Foggy leans his head to rest on Matt's, for just a moment. "That's what I do."

And it feels… good.

They feel good.

Nelson and Murdock.

It feels good.

Not perfect.

But good.

"Peter wants to go out for Chinese next week," he says, "claims to know a really good, okay-ish quality place in Queens."

Foggy hums, and it's warm and light and fond. "I think we can manage that."