Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

“…And the shipment?” A man asked from inside a building.

The building was made of concrete, the sound of it made obviously recognizable from the echos of thick wet raindrops. It was tall and many of the windows were broken, water slipping in and leaving puddles.

It must be abandoned, too, because it smells of mold and must, even through the dampening effect of rain.

Matthew opened his mouth slightly in an attempt to get a better feel for what may be inside; he had a hard time smelling the underlying scents through the rain, so he may as well try to taste them.

It helped a bit. He could taste a slight spicy, sharp, smoky flavor that leaves a sickly sweet aftertaste - gunpowder, just barely noticeable. He couldn’t discern much of anything else besides what he could already sniff out.

“Supposed to be here tomorrow, at the docks,” A second man replied. Matt thought he might be picking up a rather strong cigarette smell from him. Hard to tell, from the top of the opposing building.

The first man hummed. “And you’re sure there won’t be any…complications? You claim to be a good businessman.”

The second scoffed. He must’ve shaken his head or look to the side; his clothes rustled in a manner similar to that. “This is Hell’s Kitchen, there’s always complications.”

He sounded similar to someone Matt’s heard before. He’s been trying to track down a lot of different threads lately, so it’s possible he has. John, perhaps? He fits the bill.

The first doesn’t like that answer, though, not at all. Matt picked up on a slight growling sound from him, quiet and low in the throat. He leaned forward, clothes moving noisily, threatening, “Do I look like I care what this place is? All you have to do is get the fucking job done.”

“Look, man, I don’t think you understand,” Possibly-John replied, voice getting low in return, “if you’re not looking for complications, this ain’t the place to be. The Devil prowls around here.”

Matt smirked to himself.

“So?” The first asked, bored with the excuses.

“We may have a good track record, Doctor, but we can only escape the Devil’s eyes for so long.”

Matt resisted the urge to huff a laugh, then.

They may have escaped his eyes, but they certainly hadn’t been escaping anything else, especially as of late.

He’d been finding more and more people, specifically women and small children, being held captive. In fact, he busted one such place just two days ago.

He was still sore, bruised, and nursing a minor knife wound on his bicep from that, and he was almost certain it had been a different group from whoever this new “dealer” was, but he was also nearly entirely certain that they were planning to give those people to the same new gang he’d been working on tracking down. A gang this apparent doctor will be reporting back to.

He allowed himself to shift, slightly. It was hot here in Hell’s Kitchen, this time of year, but it was night and the rain was cooling, even if the feeling of droplets hitting him got a little distracting, - annoying, even - so he didn’t have to worry about freezing like he does in the winter. With his heightened senses, specifically touch in this instance, it was a bitch to put up with.

He figured now was as good a time as any to go in and ask some not-so-friendly questions of his own. Carefully, he began to make his way over to the men.

He listened to the rain more intently for a moment, listened to the exact details while judging how big the jump was, before he leaped across the street. He quietly caught himself on a window that had been broken for a while now, holding back a grunt as his body collided with the concrete. There must have been glass on the window; it cut through his gloves slightly and pricked at his fingers. He stayed hanging motionless for a moment, making sure he hadn’t been heard.

The doctor spoke up again after a moment of silence. “Look, I don’t care what you have to do. Make sure your track record stays good and the assets are delivered, or you will find yourself in less than favorable conditions.”

Matt pulled himself up with his arms, his injured arm detesting the motion, then used his legs to help. He crouched in the window.

“Yes, doctor. But, I’m telling you, even if you do manage to avoid the Avengers here-” Matt tilted his head curiously at the mention of the group. “-you will still find yourself with many a problem, especially here in the Kitchen.”

Matt flipped his way down to a window at the same level as the two men.

“Yes, yes, everyone knows New York has too many vigilantes. You think your little Kitchen - what a stupid name, by the way - is special?” The doctor audibly sneered. “You’re idiots. We have set up in plenty of undesirable places, this is no different.”

He carefully slid the window open since that one wasn’t broken. It was dark out, the moon covered by the storm cloud. The noise of the rain muffled the sound the rickety window made.

This gang had set up in other places.

Matt decided to wait a second before doing anything. These guys seemed to have a funny way of giving themselves away.

Possibly-John shrugged, clothes shifting. “Whatever you say, man. I’m just saying, this ain’t gonna be some piece of cake like you seem to think it’ll be.” He turned to leave.

That was fine, he could leave, Matt would be visiting him tomorrow. This doctor, though, Matt would be snagging tonight.

The doctor huffed in frustration, mumbling something Matt didn’t pay attention to at the moment since it mostly sounded like cursing. Matt cautiously slunk his way through the window, boots lightly touching down.

There was a camera in the room. He could hear the buzzing. It sounded a bit shoddy, too, so he wasn’t too concerned. The only people who would see it were cops and plenty of them have already been established to hate him. Why should he care if they have some grainy footage of him…questioning a criminal?

He slowly prowled closer to the doctor’s back, unnoticed. He tuned his attention nearly entirely onto the doctor. His heartbeat was faster than average, evidence of his apparent anger, but steady. Daredevil hadn’t been heard, then.

The man smelled like hand sanitizer and chemicals, with the underlying scent of dried blood. Matt decided he didn’t really want to taste any of those things, so he kept his mouth shut for now.

Step. Step. Step. Step. Pause, the man seemed unnerved by something. His heartbeat had sped up. Had he noticed he’s being watched? The man looked around. Step. Pause. Step. Pause. He was within arm’s reach now.

The doctor turned around. His breathing hitched. The sulfurous smell of stress began to leak out of him, combining with the lovely smell of adrenaline that Matt could almost hear rushing through his veins.

Daredevil grinned.

He socked the doctor in the nose. Then, he grabbed the back of the man’s clothes and dragged him over towards the wall. He threw him up against the concrete, just barely lacking enough force to injure him badly, for now.

The man sputtered, grunting. He made a high-pitched noise he tried to muffle. It sounded almost like a whimper. Daredevil crouched down in front of him.

“I’m going to ask you questions,” He said severely, voice low and gravely, unnatural, “and you’re going to answer. I will know if you lie. Do not lie.”

The doctor made some kind of movement with his head - his clothes rustled, too. It must have been a nod, based on the sound of it and the vibrations through the air.

“When is the shipment coming in?” He asked. A simple question. He already knew what the supposed cargo would be.

“I d-don’t know,” The man stuttered. His heartbeat got skipped. Lie.

Daredevil there his fist into his face, where his eye should’ve been. The man gasped, breath stuttering now too. “Don’t lie. When?” He gritted out.

“I cannot say. I can’t- I can’t- they’ll-“

Daredevil grasped his fingers, pushed the joint upwards. He listened to the bones creak until they snapped. “You’ll tell me, now,” He demanded.

“F-fine! At- at midnight! It’ll be there at midnight!” The man claimed as his heart skipped a beat, practically pleading, “He- I don’t know that much about the operation. That’s- that’s all, please!”

He took another finger, repeated the process. The man cried out.

“Fine!” He growled, growing angry in the midst of pain, “At one. In the morning. One A.M.”

Truth. Daredevil smiled a cruel smile.

“Your name and age?” He prompted.

“If you think I’ll tell you that-“

Snap. Another finger broken. He hadn’t delayed it, that time, didn’t strain the bones first. The man couldn't help but gasp again, breathing fast. Matt thought he might’ve been being a little dramatic; Matt’s had plenty of broken bones and what’s he’s doing really isn’t too bad. Then again, not everyone is a vigilante, he supposed. And he wouldn’t expect his friends to walk off a broken bone, so maybe it hurt more for others.

“Fine,” The man growled lowly, “Doctor Aaron Evans. Forty-two.”

Truth.

“And what did you plan on doing with the people you’re having kidnapped and brought here? The kids and others? The women?” He asked.

“I won’t answer that,” Dr. Evans said, determined. That was what he believed the truth was; his heart rate didn’t change. But that meant he knew what the answer was.

Matt hated people who hurt innocents. Especially kids. He grasped Dr. Evan’s hand. It was smooth, pristine. He must have someone else do the dirty work.

“You will,” He said in return, threatening. “Or your hand will never be useful again.”

Dr. Evans audibly bared his teeth in a challenge. “I will not bend to you.”

That’s a lie. His heartbeat sped up, and even if he thought that was the truth, then his nervousness had given him away.

Daredevil took his time grabbing the palm of the doctor’s hand with two of his own, slowly prying in two different directions. He once again heard as they bent and felt as they trembled under the pressure.

Dr. Evans muffled a panicked noise.

“You will tell me,” Daredevil said again. A reminder, not quite a threat.

Snap. Snap. Snap. Different bones in the had began giving out. The doctor made a strangled, dry sob. Snap. Snap. Snap.

“I won’t,” Dr. Evans gasped, as if trying to convince himself of it, “I won’t.” It was a lie.

Daredevil picked his billy club up wordlessly, pinning the doctor’s wrist to the ground with the sole of his boot.

“Please…” He gasped out again, under his breath. Any normal person wouldn’t have been able to hear it. Begging to some unforeseen force.

Matt decided to let the Devil out a little more, play up the part; he smiled, showing too many teeth and making sure to show off his sharper-than-average canines.

“You can beg,” Daredevil teased, “but you will find no mercy.”

His billy club crushed down. A scream rang out and echoed around the filthy building.

“So…what exactly did you drag us in this room for, Cap?” Clint asked, brow raised. His feet were set of the meeting table, arms crossed.

Steve sighed disappointedly in response. He sounded stressed.

“Give ‘im a sec, Legolas,” Tony said, giving a grin. He crossed his arms and leaned to the side where he stood next to Steve. “We’re waiting for the good doctor to get here.”

Natasha sat down in a chair next to Clint. “Is Thor coming?”

“Nope,” Tony answered, popping the ‘p,’ “The man’s off-world right now. Visiting his father or something.”

“So we’re just waiting for good ‘ol Bruce,” Clint said dryly, adding, “What taking him so long?”

“He was analyzing some of the chemicals we managed to save last raid,” Steve sighed. “He’s decontaminating now, just in case.”

“The ones that Hydra didn’t blow up with us? Those ones?”

“Correct, birdbrain,” Tony grinned, “the ones that weren’t decimated.”

Natasha gave them both an unimpressed look.

“Alright,” Bruce said, opening the door quietly and walking in. He sat down. “Sorry I’m late.”

“You’re fine, Bruce. You were doing important stuff,” Steve said, smiling.

Tony nodded. “Don’t apologize for doing stuff, Brucie-bear.”

That earned him a rather flat look from Bruce.

A beat of silence. “Okay, look,” Steve said finally, “we’ve got another lead on Hydra’s attempt at a New York base.

“We busted their last one pretty quickly, but this time it’s somewhere there’s less cameras and more crime, more overworked law enforcement.”

Tony pulled up a hologram of an area of the city and gestured grandly. “Hell’s Kitchen. Ever since the Incident, it’s been a real lover’s fest for the criminal world.“

“It’s a good area for Hydra to take advantage of, if anything,” Natasha agreed.

“Yeah.” Steve nodded. “When you and Clint scoped things out, we asked the local police to put up cameras in a couple places, preferably small ones. They did, but-“

“But they’re shit. Absolute shit,” Tony scoffed, bordering on disgusted.

The corners of Bruce’s lips twitched upwards in amusement. Clint huffed a laugh as well. Steve just looked mildly disappointed.

“Language,” Natasha reminded. Steve looked more disappointed.

“Leave it to cops to find the most inexpensive, useless solution,” Clint mumbled, looking somewhat amused now, too.

“As I was saying,” Steve continued, clearly pretending that he wasn’t interrupted, “they’re too grainy too make much of anything out. Tony couldn’t facially ID anyone.”

“But that means there was someone to ID, right?” Bruce asked.

“Yup! JARVIS, pull the thing up, please?” Tony clapped his hands.

“Of course, Sir.”

A very blurry image of two men standing in the middle of a dark, concrete building with about a zillion broken windows came up.

“Okay…but, like, even I can’t make shit out of that, and my eyes are fantastic,” Clint drawls.

Tony smirked, which earned an amused look from Steve. “Yes, but we have some audio, luckily enough. Plus, if you watch it, a pretty interesting person makes an appearance.”

“Not that the audio is super good,” Steve added quickly.

“Yes, that, but, still, this is what we have.”

“Play it?” Natasha asked. Tony may continue to ramble for several minutes without a reminder.

“Oh, yes, Jarv?” Tony requested, moving out of the way of the hologram.

The light turned down and the video started playing. It was grainy, but the video was very clearly of two men, one with a hood up, fabric gloves on, and wearing a medical mask. The other one had short black hair and pale skin.

The audio played, too. They had been right about the audio; it has been raining out and that blocked most of the conversation. They could just barely make out some of the words, and even then they were out of context and confusing. They seemed to be arguing or disagreeing over something.

After a while, a few pixels in one of the few intact windows seem to have either shifted or glitched.

The window slowly opened. Someone or something was watching these two men.

There were a couple dark red pixels indicative of something more than the night, just barely visible. Neither man noticed. The pixels stayed motionless until the man in the hoodie and mask walked away.

The man with black hair was facing away from the window. He seemed irritated by the conversation, too caught up with himself to pay much attention to his surroundings.

The red…man(?) crawled inside the room with the black-haired man, a strange smoothness to his movements. The black-haired man didn’t notice.

The red person prowled closer and closer, as much intent and focus in the man as a hunter in prey. The man finally seemed to catch on that something was wrong, pausing and looking around in front of him. The red person stopped, too, tilting their head.

The man looked around a few seconds more. The person took the opportunity to move silently within reach.

The man turned around. For a split second, all was motionless. Then, the red blur punched him in the face, grabbed him by the scruff of his jacket, dragged him to the wall, and threw him up against it.

The video paused when the red person crouched down in front of the man, and said something in a low gravely voice that the camera couldn’t pick up over the rain. There were horns on the person’s head, visible now to the horrible camera footage.

“What follows is a pretty lengthy torture session. The man was found later at the police station, face bloodied, an eye swollen, a broken hand, and several broken fingers,” Steve reported.

Tony continued for him, “They don’t have any real evidence on him, so he won’t be in jail, but he’ll be in the hospital for a while.”

The room was quiet. Natasha looked curiously at the video. Clint appeared just as thoughtful.

“Would this be the Daredevil guy?” Bruce asked tentatively.

“Daredevil guy?” Clint repeated.

“He was responsible for the take down of Wilson Fisk, twice, apparently. There are lots of witness accounts of him in a red costume with horns attacking and beating criminals. There are also lots of accounts of him in a black mask, when he was dubbed the ‘Masked Man’ and ‘the Devil of Hell’s Kitchen.’ Not that we can confirm that this is the same person,“ Natasha cited helpfully. Trust her to know information on random vigilantes.

Bruce nodded, but then hesitated and added, “He’s taken down a lot of gangs, apparently, but there’s also several people he’s been accused of killing or attempting to kill, not all of them criminals.”

“In short, most people don’t know what to think of him. Not a trustworthy guy,” Tony concluded, gesturing as he spoke.

“News to me,” Clint remarked.

Steve nodded at him. “Me too.”

Bruce clicked a pen that had been on the table, fidgeting a bit. “So, what’s the plan?” He asked.

“The plan is mostly to work around the guy,” Tony said, placing his hands on his hips.

Steve sighed. “We can’t really trust him. Whether he’s killed people or not, he’s a vigilante. And we’ve signed the Accords. As much as they’ve been weakened and dumbed down, thanks to Tony and Ms. Potts, we have them for good reason now.

“We can’t just have people, super-powered or not, running around, beating people up, and calling it justice without some kind of responsibility. Having at least the government know their identity, as bad as that sounds, is the only way to ensure that they won’t just stab random civilians while still calling themselves heroes. I understand that much now.”

“Actually, I’d argue that super-powered people doing that makes it worse,” Tony mumbled passively.

“Yeah, but not everyone trusts the government with that kind of stuff. I wouldn’t, if I had the choice,” Bruce said, mostly arguing on behalf of the vigilantes for empathy’s sake. “Plus, the Accords target more than just vigilantes. They target enhanced and super-powered peoples, whether they’re regular civilians or not. A lot of them are even forced through some pretty invasive testing. Their entire life is effectively uprooted for a few months and suddenly the government knows everything about them, their life, and their body.

“A lot of that is what I was running from when the other guy first became a thing.”

“We’re working on that,” Tony grumbled.

“And do you guys even know how vigilantes work? I mean, Nat obviously does, but like…we can’t just waltz in Hell’s Kitchen guns blazing,” Clint added. Natasha nodded shortly in agreement.

Steve gives him a confused look. “What do you mean? It’s not like he owns the place; it’s New York, we all live here, and he would probably appreciate some help with Hydra.”

Natasha cut in, leaning forward on her arms, “Vigilantes tend to be especially territorial.”

Tony snorted, a hand moved to hang by his side. “Like wolves?”

Bruce rolled his eyes fondly. “Sort of.”

Clint continued again, shrugging, “To the Devil or whatever his name is, it’s not just New York or some blocks of city. To him, it’s Hell’s Kitchen, a place he patrols nightly and works to keep safe. He’s bound to be a little protective and, like Nat said, territorial.”

“I’ve observed many vigilantes for SHIELD,” Natasha added. “Clint’s met a few. They don’t appreciate other heroes, or anyone that isn’t normally part of the area they patrol, coming in and doing things, good or bad.”

Steve raised a brow. “So, what, we need to ask a law-breaking, criminal man’s permission to do what’s right just because he doesn’t like us being there? We have video and audio here of him torturing someone, presumably for information, even though we all know people lie and give unreliable answers like that. Why in the world should we listen to him?”

“What will he do if we don’t?” Tony jumped on the bandwagon, grinning a bit mockingly. “Throw a tantrum? Try and kill us? He’s just one guy, we’re the Avengers. He’ll end up in prison and his identity will be revealed to the whole world. Plus, we already have government permission to handle Hydra how we see fit, given some stipulations. That’s all the permission we need.”

“ ‘Cause vigilantes are super big respecters of the government,” Clint chuckled quietly.

“He’s one guy that’s been controlling the crime situation there for several years now,” Bruce reminded, patient. “Even if you don’t want to ask for permission, we should ask him for his opinion or his help. He knows the area better than we ever would, especially if he lives there when’s he’s not fighting crime, too.”

“And do we exactly follow laws all the time? All of us have some crimes we could logically be convicted for,” Natasha said.

“Didn’t you start out as a vigilante, Tony?” Clint asked, mostly teasing.

Tony made a face. “I guess. When you say it like that. Kind of. Probably.”

“Exactly.”

Tony hesitated, a rare sight, before adding, “Look, I’m not condoning what they’re doing now, but I understand their want to test some enhanced people. Regular doctors wouldn’t be able to help enhanced people with all their problems and being tested through the Accords gets them access to better healthcare and a better self-understanding.

“Also, some even have powers that are dangers to both themselves and others. That would provide them with the help that they need to control their powers when no one else knows how to teach them that. And if they use highly destructive powers against the law for morally incorrect reasons - murder, mostly, I mean things like murder - it would be easier to find out who, when, and how to stop them.

“Plus, becoming a hero, or a vigilante, whatever, comes with a loss of privacy. You put yourself in the limelight, you lose privacy.”

Steve frowned at Tony, turning towards him. “They should have access to better healthcare and understanding, but what the Accords are doing now is forcing them into medical tests, stealing privacy, uprooting lives, and all kinds of things. They shouldn’t be automatically forced into medical tests just because they have abilities that others don’t.”

“Some of these powers, enhanced abilities, could kill people with one wrong move or one bad day,” Tony argued. “We can’t afford to just have people running around and keeping that secret. Whether they chose it or not, they have more responsibility than any typical civilian.”

Bruce sat up in his chair and raised a brow warningly. “Tony, I get what you’re saying, but forcing people to give up their privacy to the government and forcing them to go through what is essentially experiments is…”

“Wrong,” Clint concluded for him. Bruce nodded.

“And a lot of vigilantes don’t give up their identities because they have people to protect. These vigilantes aren’t celebrities, they have real enemies who will kill them and the people they associate with, and these vigilantes don’t have protection against that,” Natasha pointed out, crossing her arms as well, “In fact, a lot of them, like Daredevil, actively stay out of the limelight - avoiding cameras, only going out at night, not talking to safe civilians unless necessary.”

“The Accords would provide them protection. And celebrities face threats of death as well,” Tony said in return, looking increasing frustrated.

“They would,” Steve agreed hesitatingly. He looked conflicted; he’s been very conflicted about the Accords since the day he signed them.

Bruce sighed. “Let’s- let’s not do this right now.”

Tony frowned but conceded. Steve sighed and sat down.

“So…” Clint dragged the word out after several seconds of awkward silence, “the plan?”

Tony sat down as well. “Well, we got someone to look at the audio, and they suggested that there’s supposed to be a shipment of something at the docks of Hell’s Kitchen tonight.” He gestured towards Steve to continue.

“I’m thinking that once it gets dark out we’ll set up a stakeout and wait for the shipment of whatever it is they’re bringing - whatever it is Hydra wants, we can’t let them have,” Steve said, looking to them for their approval of the plan.

They nod agreeable, though Natasha tilts her head ever-so-slightly.

“And Daredevil?”

“We don’t have a way to contact him, so he either comes to us or we continue on how we plan to. I don’t really plan on working with him either way. As much as I support what most vigilantes are trying to do, a lot of them go about it the wrong way, and he’s no different,” Steve said.

Clint shrugged.

“Sounds like a date, then,” Tony grinned.

Chapter Text

Matt is a very busy man, these days. His official job (as a lawyer, of course) was demanding enough on it’s own; paperwork, brainstorming, reading up on evidence, and etc. are all things that are very much both headache-inducing and time-consuming.

What he considers to be his other job is as Karen’s assistant, at this point. She may have started out as their assistant, but now she essentially works as a private investigator, and has essentially began bossing them around. Since Matt is both a lawyer and has outstanding hearing, she’s taken to both consulting him on legalities and dragging him around the city to see what evidence he can pick up for her.

Finally his other, other job is his less-than-legal night job, which never has a shortage of work to be done. Especially as of late, since some new gang has decided they wanted to try and move in, which just can’t be allowed.

This isn’t even accounting for the time that he needs to go to church, do his own personal, not-official investigating, and just spending time outside of work with Karen and Foggy. In addition to the other vigilantes he looks things over for, lends a hand to, and, in the case of a certain Spider-Man, giving some tips on fighting for. Needless to say, as a man with 3 jobs and two separate teams, he does a lot of work.

All in all, it’d be accurate to say Matt doesn’t get much sleep, or rest in general. And, as such a busy man, he is currently hustling his way to work in an attempt to not be late.

This isn’t exactly an unusual occurrence, but he usually isn’t quite so pressed to get to the office. After all, he and Foggy are their own bosses - there’s no one to fire them if they don’t get there on time, excepting their clients, because they set up their own office times and meetings.

However, lately him and Foggy having been absolutely drowning in paperwork and arguments. Why? The Accords.

A young woman of sixteen years of age had ran through their doors one fine evening and asked for their help in a very panicked manner.

Her name was Margaret Brown, and she wasn’t particularly remarkable. She kept straight A’s in school, was part of the student council, and had a penchant for tea.

She also happened to be “enhanced.”

She had mildly enhanced strength, enough to be able to lift what a football player could despite not being built like one. Super-strength was one of the more common “enhancements” for mutants to have, and Margaret’s was subtle enough that is was hardly noticeable.

But one day, her friend had nearly gotten mugged - not a rare occurrence in Help’s Kitchen. Margaret had been passing by on the way to school, and when she saw her friend in potential danger, she acted immediately to protect her.

She incapacitated the mugger and then immediately called the police, who quickly realized a regular teenaged girl of her body type wouldn’t be able to rough up someone like Margaret had. As the law now required, the police called their superiors, who came in and essentially tried to legally kidnap Margaret.

Which lead to her running to the nearest legal experts she knew of, who also had a local reputation of getting paid in two bucks, a dust bunny, and a chicken or two. Nelson and Murdock, attorneys at law, and Karen, a well-known investigative reporter/detective in the area.

Due to the nature of the issue, Foggy and Matt had argued to not let Ms. Brown be kept in a cell. It was similar enough to what they had done for Karen when she was accused of murder and almost killed in her holding cell.

Now, Ms. Brown spent most of her day hanging around at the office, not wanting to be left alone or around people who wouldn’t be able to protect her legally.

Matt swings the door to their office open and shuffles in hurriedly. The displaced air echoes through the room and he can feel the others in the room. He recognizes Foggy’s heartbeat and the smell of Karen’s perfume. Ms. Brown must have had her daily orange already; he can practically taste the citrus.

“Hello,” He greets awkwardly.

“You’re late,” Foggy chides automatically, from near the window. There’s a fan in the window; it’s hot and humid outside, and no amount of air conditioning seems to do the job. Foggy always had a penchant for positioning himself near the nearest breeze, anyways.

Matt gives him his best apologetic face.

Karen laughs lightly. “Hi, Matt. Maggie is here,” She says from her desk. She’s long since been let in on the secret of Matt’s night activities, but she’s also aware their client doesn’t know and won’t ever know if all goes well.

“Hello Mr. Murdock,” Ms. Brown says politely. He can sense her slight wave, despite her thinking he won’t be able to know of it. He finds little things people do like that amusing, and even a little endearing. She’s sitting in a creaky plastic chair that they left next to a cheap little table that has been reserved for food exclusively.

“Ms. Brown! How are you doing?” He asks, moving further into the office and reaching out to feel for his papers.

“I’d be better if you called me Maggie like everyone else,” She huffs with humor. He’s pretty sure she shakes her head, but her hair close enough to brush her shoulders. He’s pretty sure her hair is in an afro, but it’s hard to tell based exclusively on how the hair flows around her. Hair is tricky in general.

“Matt’s committed. I’ve seen him call a toddler by their last name before,” Karen says, shaking her head. He can hear the smile in her voice. He smiles, too.

“We were roommates in college and he still called me ‘Mr. Nelson’ for a solid two months,” Foggy adds, turning in his chair. His clothes rustle as he must cross his legs.

Matt locates his papers, feeling the slight bumps on them.

Ms. Brown gives yet another huff in exasperation.

“Anyways, what are you guys thinking about my…situation,” Ms. Brown asks, a little nervously. He can hear her fingers rubbing against each other as she fidgets, a bit sweaty from both anxiety and the heat of the day.

“It’s…less than ideal,” Foggy admits, shrugging audibly, “we’re doing more than going up the supreme court, at this rate. The Accords are international law that the States have agreed to follow, which means our best bet is to convince the government that they either shouldn’t or can’t follow these laws.”

“They’re thinking that your best bet is to take this to supreme court and convince the judges that following the Accords would be unconstitutional and infringing on citizens’ rights,” Karen adds, “but, with Fisk playing mayor, it’s obvious that we’re going to have to put in some serious work to have some irrefutable evidence and arguments.”

Fisk had recently run for mayor, and managed to succeed. He still had a terrible reputation in Hell’s Kitchen, many of the people here feeling betrayed and distrustful of Fisk, plus the people who had already been personally wronged by the man.

But NYC was a big place, and while Hell’s Kitchen was a big enough community, it wasn’t enough to overrule the majority.

There are plenty more people like Fisk around the country, gang leaders or not.

“If we remove morals from the scenario, that just leaves the constitutional law, which the Accords, as they stand, definitely violate,”
Matt says evenly, taking his papers under one arm and straightening, holding his cane upright in front of him in one hand.

Foggy gets up and gently taps another stack of bumpy papers to Matt’s elbow, which Matt takes and feels before tucking them under his arm as well. “Specifically, we believe them to be in violation of the fourth, sixth, and eighth amendments. Maybe even the ninth, but that one is kinda vague,” Foggy says.

“I’m going to be investigating most of the people involved in your case and keeping an eye on Fisk,” Karen assures, nodding minutely. She stands to walk over to the table, probably to grab some blueberries, standing near Ms. Brown.

Ms. Brown pauses, taking a moment to take it in. Lawyers, it seemed, had a habit of talking quick and making points quicker, and Karen has definitely picked up on it.

“So, my chances are…?”

“Your chances are decent, to be honest,” Matt says firmly, “The United States has a long history of sticking with the constitution as much as possible, and an even longer one of going against the status quo in one way or another.”

“And if we aren’t able to win your case with the supreme court, we’ll take it to the U.N. and challenge international law if we have to. But the odds of that are lesser than us winning is the U.S.,” Foggy tacks on. Matt nods along with his words.

Ms. Brown takes a steadying breath. “So…not screwed, hopefully?”

“Yes, Maggie,” Karen pats her hand gently, giving a smile, “if all goes well, you should be back to school in no time.”

All had not been going well with one Peter Parker, lately. In fact, things for Queens haven’t been going well altogether lately.

Perhaps, Peter had theorized, it could be blamed on the new mayor - a man Peter knows to have been a big problem for a certain neighboring vigilante and is becoming a big problem for himself.

Or, it could just be because that was his luck.

“Now, now,” Peter chastises a petty thief, hanging upside down from a strand of webbing, “isn’t that a bit cliché- stealing old ladies’ purses?”

Crime rates have really skyrocketed recently, which mean Spider-Man isn’t only patrolling at night now. Today, he’s out doing his normal rounds.

He leans forward slightly as the man visibly snarls and takes a step back. He webs him up before he can take another, pinning him to the wall next to a shop. He absently thinks about his upcoming driving test - which he figured he would give a shot, even though he lives in NYC, where absolutely no one but taxi drivers drive.

The New Yorkers around them barely spare a glance, all too used to their resident Spider-Man doing random acts of equally cliché heroics. He does hear the occasional muttered thanks, though, so that’s nice.

He flips down from where he’s hanging, putting his hands on his hips as he lowers his head and shakes it. He sighs dramatically before walking forth and plucking the purse from the thief’s hand. Honestly, purse thieves these days; they don’t put in half the effort.

“Alright, uh- David?” Peter questions. That had been his name, right?

The purse thief gives him a sneer. “I need that damn money, Spiderman,” He says, looking near outraged. The way he’s webbed up in a starfish pose doesn’t give him any points in intimidation.

Plus, he said “Spider-Man” wrong.

“I can tell you’re saying my name without the hyphen. I keep telling you people- it’s not one word,” Peter says, giving another dramatic sigh. He’s sick of seeing his name misspelled on just about everything. You’d think journalists would put in enough effort get it right, but nooooo. Freaking JJJ spelled it right, but he was the only one, and he hated Spider-Man!

“You said you needed the money?” He asks, circling back around to the thief’s remark, “Why’re you stealing it from little old ladies like some sort of kids’ TV show villain?”

“Shit, whatever. My kid is starving, Spiderman, you’ve gotta understand. I’m starving,” He explains desperately. It appears that just Peter taking interest in his struggles is enough to reduce his apparent anger to nothing.

New Yorkers continue to pass by without care. Peter feels a familiar feeling in his chest.

He looks at the guy for a second, really looks at him. He has tattoos all over, and is tall and broad enough that he probably looms over others without trying. One of his tattoos mentions something about prison. An ex-convict, then?

“David, didn’t they let you out of jail once already? What’d you even do to get locked up?” Peter asks, tilting his head.

“I didn’t do nothing- swear on God. Jesus- that Fisk guy, the new mayor, he had me thrown in jail for murder! I was- they- I didn’t do it, you’ve gotta believe me, but I was in there for years and now my little girl’s fuckin’ traumatized and I- I can’t get any jobs,” David rambles, stumbling over his words, “Please, Spiderman.

“Please.”

Peter gives a real sigh, this time quiet and entirely to himself. He walks closer to the man, starts using his strength to peel away his webbing. “David, you can’t steal like this. You aren’t the only one that needs money,” Peter says, frowning, “But- look. I know a family who runs a business a couple blocks down. They run the pizza shop on the corner, you know the one?”

He nods, looking a little confused at the change in events even after having practically begged for it.

“They’re looking for a cook. They’ll pay good and won’t ask too many questions,” Peter advises, stripping the last bit of webbing off. What a waste, really. He flicks it against the brick wall next to them, then wonders about the irony of a teenager lecturing a full grown on his life choices.

He shoves the purse into David’s chest, giving it a quick pat before pulling back. “You’re gonna go return that. I’ll know if you don’t,” He says, wiggling a finger at him like a parent to an unruly child. Screw irony.

“Thank you,” David breathes, standing in place even as he’s given back full range of movement, “Thank you, Spiderma- uh, Spider-Man. Thanks.”

Peter beams at the correct version of his name, his masks’s eyes moving with his eyes to make the smile obvious. “Of course! Be good, don’t do drugs!” He calls, thwipping some webbing up towards the corner of a building’s roof and swinging up.

He follows David for a bit, watches him as he apologetically returns the purse to the nice old woman. Said nice old woman immediately begins lecturing him, which he stands there and takes, before offering David a cup of coffee and a pie, claiming he looks far too thin.

Peter gives a fond smile before standing up from his crouch and wiping at his forehead. Not that it helps, since he’s in a full body, mostly spandex suit, but it gives him the illusion of help.

It’s been hot and humid out lately. Not that summer in New York couldn’t be bad, but this summer was particularly terrible. With all the rain washing in and out, it left the heat heavy and wet. He couldn’t even go inside without feeling the weight of wet air like a blanket around his shoulders. He could even almost swear the oppressive warmth had given the city an almost orange tint to it.

The only good thing about the summer was that he could do daily patrols in addition to nightly ones. He had to work around his photography and chemistry internships, but otherwise he had a lot more time on his hands.

He could also make his schedule more unpredictable, which was a huge plus, mostly because it allowed less guessing at the fact that he had a day job or, the less often guessed, went to school of some kind.

Sure, the Accords said he had to reveal his identity, but Peter had his friends and aunt to worry about. He can’t afford to put some of the last people left alive in his life at danger because of him. It was hard enough knowing that just him being a mutant was dangerous.

And Peter had never really gotten along with the law, anyways. He’s always been a vigilante, not really a government-sanctioned “hero” like the Avengers. He has petty feuds with plenty of Queen’s cops, and not-so-petty grudges against other, and also frequently teams up with other ungovernable vigilantes.

Peter’s phone rings from one of the few thin, hidden pockets (he refuses to ever tell anyone how he got these fantastic pockets to fit in seamlessly with his suit because, yes, he is sixteen and he will be that petty if he wants to). He looks at the caller, frowns, and turns it on mute. He puts in his pocket, lets it ring.

He and the caller aren’t on good terms right now.

He ignores the vibrations against his leg and swings off to do his part in the city. After all, there’s always more work to do, and not all of it is always petty thieves, especially as of late.

“Eddie. Eddie. We’re hungry,” V says for the umpteenth time.

Eddie ignores him firmly, keeping his grip on the motorcycle and his eyes on the road. He knows they’re hungry, it’s not like they don’t share a stomach.

“Eddie.”

Eyes on the road. They’re almost there. Oh, how interesting, there’s some grass on the side of the road. And a couple trees. Riveting.

(In the back of his mind, he privately curses out any and all existing parasites and symbionts that are sort of like parasites sometimes.)

“Eddie….”

He tries to wonder about why Spider-Man might have requested their presence. He had mentioned another investigator friend, didn’t he? Something about bad politicians?

“EDDIE!”

“Oh my God, what!?” Eddie says, long past irritated.

“We’re hungry,” V says.

“V, I’m well aware. I know, okay?” Eddie huffs, exasperated, “We’re almost there.”

“We are? Why didn’t you say so?” V asks.

“I thought you said you knew everything I know?” Eddie lets V pout for a moment at his sarcasm. “Anyways, I did say that. Twice, actually.”

“And then you ignored me.”

He sighs. “Yes, I did do that. Sorry. I don’t like long drives, either.”

V gives a long-suffering groan. “Then why are we going? Surely the arachnid offspring is fine.”

“He- He’s not actually a spider, V. He asked for our help. It’s the very least we can do for him after one of your cousins, or whatever, bothering him. We may have helped him out with that, but I get the feeling we were more annoying than helpful most of the time.”

“But, we didn’t mean to! And I was…polite, like you always want me to act with other humans,” V tries to reason, “and he is strong. Not a loser like you.” He pauses. “I didn’t like him as much as you though. You make a much better host.”

“Nice to know I’m still the favorite,” Eddie sighs.

“We are tired,” V says impatiently, changing the subject.

He shrugs in response. “The city is just an hour out. Spiderboy said to avoid a couple blocks nicknamed Hell’s Kitchen and to not eat anyone in his territory. But NYC is pretty big, so it shouldn’t be too much of an obstacle.”

“We’re hungry now,” V complains.

Eddie takes his turn to breath a long-suffering sigh. “We’ll eat when we get there.”

“Right away?” He asks. He really does have no concept of “patience.”

“No, we’ll get in trouble with the law and-“

“This law already hates us. I am not allowed to exist, and you are my host. We will be arrested either way,” V tries to point out.

“Yes, but only if they know that you exist quite literally inside of me and aren’t fucking dead,” Eddie says monotonously. This is a very well-rehearsed conversation.

V sniffs indignantly. “Pussy.”

Several moments of silence pass.

“Are we there yet?”

“Soon.”

“So…Spider-Man, the kid from Queens, has asked a free range investigative reporter, who has been previously fired and disgraced, to come help me keep an eye on the politicians here?” Karen deadpans. They’re standing in Matt’s office, his door closed.

Foggy and Ms. Brown are standing in the other room, but they have to keep their voices hushed in here; the walls are thin enough that everyone can here a normal conversation through them, apparently. Matt wouldn’t know for sure, he always hears everything.

“Yes. He, um- well, let’s just say that the things he had reported on before being fired are less fueled by mental illness and more by truth than most think,” Matt tries to explain without giving too much away.

Karen is silent for a moment. She shifts, her shoes scuffling across the carpet a bit. “And you heard this through…?” She prompts.

“Through the grapevine. Of my, uh, nighttime hobbies,” Matt says. He’s well aware of his awkwardness at this point.

“Matt,” Karen sighs, but he can pick up on her amusement well enough, “ ‘nighttime hobbies’ don’t really imply innocent things. Maybe not criminal things, but…”

Matt readjusts his sleeve pointedly. “Maybe I am doing less than ‘innocent’ things at night. You don’t know.”

“I would almost find that believable if I thought you had any time to commit any acts of lust,” Karen laughs.

“I promise you, it wouldn’t be just an act of
lust,” Matt smirks, tilting his head as he angles his head down at her. He can hear the blood rush to her face, feel that minute change in the already warm room. He knows that she isn’t interested in him like that, though, not anymore. He just enjoys teasing her.

“Stop being such a flirt. Aren’t you Catholic, anyways, Matthew?” She giggles, “Is this something you’re going to have to, what, confess to your priest?”

“It’s hardly flattery, Karen. I’m not being deceptive,” He says smoothly.

“Oh, but you are distracting me from the point of this conversation, aren’t you?” She has a knowing tone in her voice, but he can still hear her talking through a smile.

He just shrugs, smiling as well.

“You’re implying that this guy actually found an alien, which now has some sort of symbioses thing going on with him?” Karen questions. She sounds a little skeptical.

“Yes,” Matt nods, not elaborating.

“And who told you this?” She asks.

Matt shuffles a bit on his feet, readjusting his hold on his cane. “The same person who got him to come east.”

Karen’s silent for several moments. He assume she’s thinking, so he stays quiet too.

“Alright. What’s his name again?” She relents.

Matt smiles. “Eddie Brock, I believe.”