Chapter Text
"If thou remember'st not the slightest folly
That ever love did make thee run into,
Thou hast not loved." - William Shakespeare, As You Like It
-/Prologue/Prologue/-
It falls from the heavens as if trying to wash away the violence and bloodshed that has been surrounding Hell’s Kitchen since the moment it came into being, as if trying to cleanse the city of the immeasurable heartache, the darkness it has always kept deep within its shadowy back alleys and high, concrete topped roofs. Each drop of water that falls ring out hard and echoing in volume against the concrete slabs that make up the sidewalks, the pavements, the crumbling buildings raised like hands scraping to touch the grey clouded sky high above.
To a general passer within the city, to someone without an ear for sound, who seemingly is just desperate for shelter from the rain, it would seem there was no rhythm to it, no rhyme, just the steady deathly patter, loud as gunshots; as vicious as the crime played out in the streets all around, bombarding the city with a merciless storm.
But to some select few, the storm could hold beauty. The singularity of each drop, coming together to form an orchestra, punctuated by rolls of thunder every so often, the steady drum in the background, keeping time. Keeping the beat.
Deserted. That’s how the streets of Hell’s Kitchen feel that day. There’s not a soul brave enough to dare such weather, not a soul brave enough to battle the chilling winds, the soaking wet rain. Not a soul.
Well- maybe one or two. There’s always an exception to the rule somewhere in the books. Always.
In the back alley of a murky street - seemingly indifferent from every other murky street surrounding it, in a city full of murky streets - a man stands tall and strong against the harsh weather, unmoving, his silhouette casting an eerie shadow against the ground. Anyone in the city would know this man just by looking, they wouldn’t even have to think, wouldn’t even have to try and place him: he is in the news so much, in the papers every day, everyone would just…know.
The red suit standing out in the darkness. The horns giving loo to the name everyone is so eager to condemn or condone: Daredevil. In all his glory, standing on a back alley street, in the desolate rain.
Maybe one or two.
In the rain beside him stands, against all odds, another man, wet hair clinging to the heavy grey suit like a child to a teddy bear- a red tie to match the blood red colour that stains over the Daredevil’s suit.
He is not someone that anyone would know just by looking. He is not someone in the news, he does not strike fear into the hearts of men, people do not condemn or condone him. The people who know him though, those people love him. He is a smile when there is nothing but sadness, a laugh when there is nothing but fear. He stands for what is right, yet not in the same way the Daredevil does - and while infinitely less well-known, he is, and always will be the prize of Hell’s Kitchen, even if no one really realises, even if no one really knows him.
One man is dark, one man stalks the city at night with a merciless mind, taking a fist to anyone of bad intentions and he enjoys it.
One man is light, one man walks the city in the day with mercy in his heart and a smile on his face, joking with anyone to brighten up their day and he enjoys it.
There is no reason they should be in an alley together. Foggy Nelson and the Daredevil, the two of them infinitely different, pure opposites except for in their morals - pure opposites in their actions - at least the actions open to speculation by the general public. One a lawyer - one a masked vigilante. Perhaps, if you were looking, you would realise that they complement each other perfectly. Perhaps if you were looking, you would think that they did not.
It depends really, on whether you know what’s hiding beneath the mask. But that is a different tale, for a different time. This is not iron man, or Captain America. This is not someone well known - this is not someone who let’s everyone see the face behind the mask.
This is the devil.
The devil standing on a street next to a man.
There is no reason for them to be standing in an alley together: at least none that the city would swallow willingly.
They certainly wouldn’t accept the excuse Foggy Nelson was just telling the Devil off.
If anyone actually cared to dare the rain as it falls from the heavens as if trying to wash away the violence and bloodshed that has been surrounding Hell’s Kitchen since the moment it came into being, as if trying to cleanse the city of the immeasurable heartache, the darkness it has always kept deep within its shadowy back alleys and high, concrete topped roofs - then perhaps they would see and would know that Foggy Nelson was just stood in the rain, telling the Devil off.
“You can’t keep doing this. Come on, you’ll catch a cold in this, you really think bad guys are out and about in this weather?”
It’s private, this moment. Something that’s shared only between them.
Except it’s not.
Someone dares the weather. Someone sees Foggy Nelson telling the devil off.
That someone is Karen Page.
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Things I know about the Devil of Hell’s Kitchen Daredevil by Karen Page:
1) He saved my life.
2) He believes in doing the right thing.
3) He can fight (a bit like a ninja)
4) He’s probably hot
5) He has a deep voice
6) He might be a terrorist.
7) He helped track down and lock up Fisk.
8) He’s on our side and not a terrorist.
9) He looks after this city.