Chapter Text
Peter stared at the man standing in front of his desk.
The man stared back.
At least the Spidey-sense wasn’t tingling, but really that just meant that he wasn’t about to pull out a gun from that brown paper bag—what was in the bag?!—and try to shoot Peter in the face. No, it was all human instinct that had Peter’s heart pounding and staring wide-eyed at the slab of muscle before him. The dude wasn’t particularly huge, but he looked bulky beneath his clothes, more than fit, with muscles not built in a gym. And the way he moved, the way he strutted into the office—like he was in control of any situation he found himself in, and knew it. He held himself like a fighter, like someone trained in using his body as a weapon. His wavy hair and soft beard gentled an otherwise gruff face, a nose that had been broken half a dozen times at least, and flinty eyes that assessed everything in his surroundings and missed nothing.
And he was staring back at Peter.
Peter knew it was his job to greet any potential clients that came through the door, the friendly face to their first impression of Nelson, Murdock, & Page. It was an important job. And he’d only been here less than a month; he couldn’t afford to screw it up so early on. And yet, he couldn’t find it in himself to make his mouth curve up into a smile, to make his lips form a friendly greeting. Everything in him screamed danger! threat! and he wasn’t in the habit of ignoring his instincts.
“Murdock in?” the man asked after what had probably only been about three seconds since he walked in the door.
Peter’s first thought was ‘Does this guy gargle with gravel?’
His second thought was to bodily dive in front of Mr. Murdock’s office door.
It wasn’t an understatement to say that Peter would gladly die for Mr. Murdock. Well, really, he would die for just about anyone: it was part of his sacred oath as a protector of New York City and its people (or, it definitely would be, if he ever took anything so formal as an actual oath). But he would die more willingly for Mr. Murdock than anyone else at the moment. It wasn’t too much of an exaggeration to say that Mr. Murdock was just about all he had in the world right now. (Okay, a little bit of an exaggeration. A tiny one. Barely melodramatic.) Mr. Nelson and Ms. Page were great too, of course, but they hadn’t been the one to advocate for him and talk the other two into giving this super-shifty teenager with a suspicious lack of background and history a job at their tiny firm.
After…everything that had happened, Peter hadn’t known where else to go. He was alone, guardian-less, jobless, school-less, friendless, penniless, prospect-less, hopeless…all the lesses. He’d been literally sleeping on the streets with just a duffle bag full of a few changes of clothes and his old spandex costume wadded in the bottom, when he remembered the really good lawyer who’d helped him out once. Mr. Murdock was kind, professional, and capable without being snooty like Peter’s impression of the Stark Industry lawyers. Nelson, Murdock, & Page was a small firm, which meant maybe they needed some help around the office, and they did good work for the little guys, which was even more important to Peter than a steady paycheck. Plus, it didn’t hurt that one of the bosses was blind, which theoretically meant a 30% less chance of being caught in a compromising position in his Spider-Man suit.
Mr. Murdock had been willing to give him a chance, despite not even remembering Peter from before, and now Peter had a steady (if small) paycheck, real store-bought food, and a roof over his head. And yes, that roof happened to be the same roof under which he worked, because he was sleeping in the storage closet, but it still counted. At least he was never late for work. Part of his first paycheck had even gone towards a nice plush sleeping bag, so really he was all set. He just had to make sure that it was rolled up and hidden away every morning, just in case any of his bosses needed to get something out of the storage closet during work hours. It was probably poor manners (or maybe even illegal; he wasn’t the lawyer here) to move into your workplace’s closet without asking first, and he would really rather avoid any hard questions about it.
Not that that stopped the questions: it had only been a week into his employment there that Mr. Murdock had called him into his private office while Mr. Nelson and Ms. Page both happened to be out and with little segue asked him, “Peter, do you have someplace safe to stay outside of work?”
His heart had done a very acrobatic flip at that before tumbling into a panicked march, and he was glad that it was the blind boss asking him this, because then it was only his voice that gave away his poor lying skills, instead of his voice and face. “Uhh, haha, of course I do? I put an address in my employee file, didn’t I? It’s a really great apartment. Just a few blocks from here. Lots of roommates. Two roommates. Really, my paycheck is the perfect amount for rent. And food. And…things. Though if you ever need to mail me something, you should really just give it to me in person instead. No sense in wasting a stamp, right?”
Mr. Murdock wasn’t staring into his soul—he wasn’t—and that little head cock he did like a curious puppy or maybe a large bird of prey had nothing to do with the completely legitimate doubt he should definitely have in Peter’s story. “…Right,” he agreed finally. “But if you were to ever…get tired of your roommates, I could probably help you find someplace. Else.”
“Sure, yeah, of course. I’ll let you know if I get tired of the really great apartment that I’m in right now,” like maybe in five years if he saved 95% of every paycheck until then.
“I would offer to let you stay with me,” Mr. Murdock went on, and then his eyes widened a little behind his sunglasses, like maybe he hadn’t quite meant to say that, “but, uh—I’ve only got one bedroom, and it’s…not really a great setup for a guest.”
“No! No, of course not! I wouldn’t—I mean, I don’t—I, that’s…That’s really kind of you to offer, sir, but really, I’m fine!” Peter rushed to reassure. “Really, I’m happy where I’m at!”
Mr. Murdock had looked just a little relieved, and then a lot guilty at being relieved, and that had been enough to cement him as a good person in Peter’s book. He hadn’t really offered his own place, but he had expressed concern, and Peter just knew that if he had admitted the truth about his housing situation (or lack thereof) and asked, Mr. Murdock would have done anything he could to help. Even overcome his own discomfort and offer this near-stranger a place to stay with him.
Mr. Murdock had let him talk his way out of his office after that, but that evening when he went to bed down in his little appropriated closet, Peter had found a fresh bakery muffin nearly the size of his head, set neatly on top of his hidden sleeping bag. And after that, almost every day, there had been some new food item waiting for him after the others had gone home. Peter wasn’t sure how Mr. Murdock knew, or how he always managed to sneak the food in even when Peter was watching for it, but there wasn’t anyone else it could be.
So, yeah: when there was suddenly a buff and intimidating stranger—potentially an angry past client?? Those things happened, right?—in the office demanding to see Murdock, holding a threatening brown paper bag that could be hiding any sort of dangerous weapon, Peter’s first and completely rational instinct was Protect with your life!!
He was only stopped from bodily throwing himself in front of Mr. Murdock’s office door as a living barricade when the man in question’s voice called out. “Pete? Is that you?”
The confusion was enough to stall Peter long enough for Mr. Murdock to appear in his doorway, and then the strangest thing happened: the threatening man smiled. “Hey, sunshine,” he greeted, and suddenly it was like looking at a totally different person.
“What are you doing here?” Mr. Murdock asked him, in not at all the kind of tone that someone would use toward a disgruntled ex-client who meant him harm.
The stranger answered in a tone not at all like what someone would use before doing grievous bodily harm. “Can’t I bring my boy some lunch without a cross examination?”
The gentle smile that crossed Mr. Murdock’s face then struck Peter as the most honest expression he’d ever seen him make. Not that Mr. Murdock was generally dishonest (despite being a lawyer) or disingenuous, but there was something almost private between them about that smile that made Peter feel like a creep for witnessing it.
Mortifyingly, that was when Mr. Murdock remembered Peter. Peter who was sitting there, who still hadn’t said a word since the new guy came in, who was watching like a creep. His new smile was less tender, more amused at something Peter couldn’t guess at. “Pete, meet Peter.”
The intimidating man—Pete, apparently, and wasn’t that just ten tons of fun—grunted, eyeballing Peter up and down. “The new secretary?”
That was finally enough to spur him out of his silence. “Office assistant,” he squeaked.
“Secretary,” Pete agreed, nodding once.
“Don’t tease him,” Mr. Murdock reproached lightly, though Peter was pretty sure nothing had ever been less of a tease. “He’s a good kid. And he’s a good help around the office.” Peter’s cheeks heated at the praise. (Is this what he’d been reduced to? His need for validation so malnourished that he blushed just at being told he was doing his job correctly?) “Is that Indian I smell?”
“Yeah. Picked up your favorite from that seedy little place down the street.” Just like that, Peter was forgotten. Pete’s attention was entirely focused on the lawyer in front of him, smiling helplessly at the familiar-sounding argument about “It’s not seedy. It’s well-loved. And they’re doing the best they can in an area that’s—”
They went into Mr. Murdock’s office, shutting the door behind them though Peter could still see them through the blinds that Mr. Murdock may not have been aware were still open. They sat in the two guest chairs on the same side of the desk, chatting lowly to each other as Pete pulled the takeout containers (not guns or knives or a very short bat wrapped in barbed wire) from the brown paper bag and began spreading them on the desk in front of them.
And it suddenly hit Peter in a revelation that was probably about three minutes late: they were dating. Pete had brought him lunch, had called him my boy. Mr. Murdock had smiled at him like he was the last thing in the world that mattered, and Pete had smiled back when five seconds previously Peter would have testified in court that the man’s face didn’t know how. And now they were feeding each other bites of their meals—something that looked like tikka masala, and a green dish that was probably chicken saag, and mounds of jasmine rice and a slab of naan in the middle and Peter’s stomach growled and how had he not smelled that divine aroma wafting from the bag right away and assumed that it was a gun?! Oh, yeah, because Pete looked like a serial killer.
And yes, Peter knew that he shouldn’t judge people based on appearance, but to be totally fair to himself here, he wasn’t judging on appearance. Solely. A good bit of it was appearance. But most of it was in the way Pete moved. Like a predator. Like a weapon. Like someone who had power and knew how to use it. Not like Peter’s awkward first days adjusting to his own new powers. Pete was absolutely in control of his own body in a way that said he could control other people’s bodies, too.
That thought had Peter’s stomach clenching for a reason other than hunger as his heart flipped again and his brain screeched to a halt before running off the tracks entirely.
Pete was a strong, powerfully-built person who walked with a confident swagger and had the muscle mass to easily throw another person around.
Mr. Murdock was a sweet cinnamon roll of a lawyer who sometimes came into the office with bruises on his face, moving stiffly like there were more hidden under his clothes.
But surely he couldn’t be—that didn’t mean that—
No, that was definitely jumping to conclusions. Crazy, crazy conclusions for which he had absolutely no basis. Except that Pete was scary and Peter’s instincts said danger and he knew the statistics about disabled people and abusive relationships—
No, just because Mr. Murdock had a disability didn’t mean he was being abused. He was smart, strong, capable—Except that plenty of smart, strong, and capable people were abused every day for reasons that had nothing to do with their intelligence, strength, or capabilities. Mr. Murdock could easily be one of them, despite the way he himself sometimes moved like a stalking panther and had crazy good reflexes and could catch bricks coming flying through windows from behind him. Maybe it was exactly his intelligence, strength, and capability that had everyone else turning a blind eye (ahem) to the truth that was right in front of them. And Peter would be damned if he was one of those people. He owed Mr. Murdock too much for that.
He was sitting at his desk, head in his hands as his brain spiraled and melted away, when the two finished their lunch and Pete stood to leave. He planted a soft kiss on Mr. Murdock’s cheek and Mr. Murdock made that horribly tender smile again and Peter was in agony.
Mr. Murdock waited until Pete had shut the outer office door behind him before turning to Peter, head cocked curiously. After a few moments, he said, “Peter? Pete brought way too much food. You’re welcome to the rest if you haven’t had lunch yet. Save you a trip out.”
Peter’s eyes definitely did not tear up as his stomach gurgled and his mouth watered. Mr. Murdock was the actual best and Peter would kill anybody who hurt him.
Clint leaned back on his palms, feet dangling off the edge of the six-story building, and let his head drop backwards between his shoulders to observe the newcomer from upside down. Daredevil had let his foot scuff on the concrete roof, which was kind of him to alert Clint to his presence.
“Yo, Double D,” he greeted.
“Hawkeye,” he returned gruffly. Most everything he said was gruff or raspy. Trying to protect his secret identity, Clint figured—like Clint cared about finding out something like that. He didn’t give a rat’s hairy tail who Daredevil was under the mask. Once you fought with a guy and ended up in a dumpster together once or thrice, Clint figured you probably knew just about everything about him that mattered.
“I brought backup,” Daredevil continued, and it was only then that Clint caught the other figure stepping out of the shadows. He snapped his head up and spun around to face the second man. The hair was longer and the beard decently disguised the rugged face that had once been splashed all over the news, but the skull spray-painted over the bulletproof vest was kind of a dead giveaway.
“You really think that’s necessary for this operation?” Clint asked levelly, very carefully not reaching for one of his arrows.
“I’m hoping it’s not, but I’ve tangled with these guys before,” Daredevil explained. “They’re not to be underestimated. Frank is here just in case things get out of hand.”
“Just how out of hand do you expect things to get that we would need to call in the Punisher’s help?”
“Like I said: just in case.” And then, surprisingly petulantly, he added: “And anyway, he wouldn’t let me come without him.”
Clint’s eyebrows shot up. He had never known Daredevil to be someone whom anyone let do things or not.
“The last time you faced these guys, you got knocked into a coma,” Castle growled back, and wow, that weirdly sounded like he cared.
“I don’t even think it’s technically a coma if it was less than two days—”
“It was long enough,” Castle retorted in a much quieter sort of tone, and Daredevil shut his mouth.
“Frank will stay outside on the roof of the building across the way to catch any stragglers,” Daredevil said to Clint, successfully pretending that that weird little exchange never happened. “Non-lethal shots only,” he added, sounding more like a reminder to Castle. Castle rolled his eyes but didn’t object. “The plan is still the same for you and me.”
“All right then. Let’s go kick some ass.” Clint slapped his thighs and rolled to his feet. He was already turning away to find a fun path down off the roof and thus almost missed it: Daredevil and the Punisher turning their heads towards each other, one hand lightly brushing against the other. He instantly spun back around to face them. “Hey, whoa, what was that?”
They both froze. “What was what?” Daredevil asked. Guiltily?
Clint narrowed his eyes at them. Maybe he ate pizza out of the trash and maybe sometimes he forgot his hearing aids on accident and maybe sometimes on purpose and maybe he let himself be tricked into becoming a slumlord and maybe Nat occasionally accused him of being socially oblivious, and maybe he forgot where he was going with this—but his eyes were plenty sharp. There wasn’t much they missed. And he wasn’t stupid. He was a trained spy, damn it: he knew how to read body language. Even if that body language was currently aggressively urging him to drop it.
His eyes widened. “What. The. Flip. You two are dating?!”
Daredevil immediately began spluttering and stammering and Castle’s eyes closed. That was all the confirmation he needed.
“I have no idea where you would get such a crazy idea—it’s absurd—” Daredevil finally managed to get out, forgetting to modulate his voice.
“Give it a rest,” Castle muttered.
“—I mean, Frank Castle? Ew. Who would even—”
“‘Ew’?”
“Hey, I’m not judging,” Clint assured, palms out in peace. “I know how these things can go. I just didn’t expect it, is all. Aren’t you two like mortal enemies or something? You’re always beating each other to hell.”
“We haven’t done that in a while,” Daredevil grumbled, and Clint realized it was true.
“But your ideologies are so opposing,” he pointed out, like maybe they hadn’t noticed.
Castle shrugged casually. “We’re making it work.” Like it was that simple. Maybe it was, and maybe it wasn’t. Clint sure wasn’t about to get into it. There was only one more thing he was curious about:
“How long have you been making it work?”
“Longer than he’s been dumpster diving with you.” Castle smiled nastily and Daredevil whapped him across the back of the arm.
“We would appreciate it if you didn’t spread it around the community,” Daredevil not-quite-asked him. “Not everyone would be as…understanding.”
“Yeah. Sure. No problem. I know how to keep my mouth shut,” Clint easily agreed. He directed the full weight of his gaze straight into Castle’s eyes. “Just so long as you understand that if you ever do anything to hurt him, you’ll have the entire hero community’s boots so far up your ass you’ll never be able to taste anything but spandex again.” Then he turned and hopped off the roof before the Punisher could do something rash like shoot him.
Castle, however, just laughed behind him. “Bring it on, Birdboy.”
“Ow, Frank! Be gentle, you brute!”
Frank was decidedly less gentle on his next swipe of the antiseptic pad. “I wouldn’t have to be doing this at all if your dumb ass didn’t think it was a great idea to jump between two lowlife scumbags set on killing each other.”
Suddenly a gleam entered Matt’s eye and a mischievous smirk crept across his lips. Frank froze. That wasn’t a good sign.
“But you have to be nice to me.”
Frank’s hackles rose. “Yeah? Says who?”
“Clint. Because if you hurt me, you’ll have the whole superhero scene out for your head,” Matt declared, and then he cackled. There was no other word for it. Actually. Cackled.
Frank rolled his eyes at the reminder of Hawkeye's dramatic threat. Still, it was nice to know that the pajama squad cared about his Red. And a couple dozen extra eyes watching out for him couldn't be a bad thing, right?
It wouldn't stop him from grumbling, though. “Yeah? I'll show you gentle.” Matt squawked as Frank bodily lifted him and threw him over his shoulder, carrying him towards the bedroom. He didn't have to see Matt's face to imagine the supremely self-satisfied expression there.
Pete didn’t return to the office again in the next several days. Peter could only fantasize that it was because Pete had recognized the fierce warrior in him and knew that Mr. Murdock had a protector now. More likely, it was because Pete had his own day job and couldn’t duck out that often for lunch dates. But a guy could dream.
He should have followed him that first day. Found out where he worked, where he lived, what he did in his spare time when he wasn’t beating on helpless defense attorneys. (Allegedly. Innocent until proven guilty. You work in a law firm now, Peter.) How was he supposed to find anything out about this guy when he didn’t even know his last name?
Maybe Mr. Nelson or Ms. Page knew more about him, but Mr. Nelson was surprisingly tight-lipped about things he didn’t consider other people’s business, and Ms. Page could sniff out a story faster than a bloodhound could find a missing hiker. She would want to know why he was asking, and eventually his terrible lying would reveal his worries, and he couldn’t accuse Pete of abuse without also accusing Mr. Nelson and Ms. Page of willful ignorance or even complacency. And if there was one thing they weren’t, it was complacent about their other best friend. Ms. Page seemed like the type who would kill to protect her friends, and Mr. Nelson the type to help her hide the body. Really, that probably should have been all the evidence Peter needed to exonerate Pete.
It was just his damn instincts.
And Mr. Murdock was still coming in with bruises.
And maybe he was the first blind person Peter had ever really known personally, but he wasn’t buying all the clumsiness excuses. Even Mr. Nelson and Ms. Page didn’t look like they believed him, but they only gave him disappointed glances he couldn’t see and didn’t question him.
Then one day Mr. Murdock came in trying unsuccessfully to hide a limp, and Peter had had enough of staying quiet. Fear of speaking up was how bad people were able to keep hurting good people. Triumph of evil, good men doing nothing, etc.
Peter waited until Ms. Page had gone to meet a source and Mr. Nelson was out picking up lunch (for the whole office, bless him) to confront Mr. Murdock. Maybe “confront” was too strong a word. They were just going to have a friendly chat. A friendly chat about how Mr. Murdock was worth more than letting himself get beaten by some piece of trash boyfriend who love-bombed him with Indian food and sweet kisses and then split his lips and bruised his jaw behind closed doors, and he had people who actually loved and respected him and wanted better for him and maybe it was some Catholic guilt thing but he should want better for himself too, because he deserved it, and even if he weren’t one of the top ten best people Peter had ever known he would still deserve better because no one deserved to be abused.
See? Friendly. Not confrontational.
He knocked lightly on Mr. Murdock’s doorframe, despite the fact that the lawyer’s face was already pointed at him as he ran his fingers over his Braille reader. That had taken Peter a few days to get used to. Still, it was kind of cool to not have to look at whatever you were reading. It would make reading in bed a lot easier. Maybe Peter should learn Braille.
“Peter?” Mr. Murdock asked after a couple seconds had passed.
“Yeah. Uh. I was wondering if I could talk to you. For a second?”
Mr. Murdock paused his refreshing display and gestured to the seats in front of his desk. “What’s up?”
“Uhhh. How’s Pete doing?” Peter cringed at himself. Well, better to dive right in. Apparently.
Mr. Murdock cocked his head in that assessing way of his that made Peter feel like he could read every thought he was having. “He’s fine.”
“Good. That’s good. How are you doing?”
Mr. Murdock’s head was still tilted at that curious angle. “I’m also fine.” Though he sounded a little less certain about his answer that time. “How are you, Peter?”
Peter skipped right over that. The day wasn’t long enough to answer that question. “Are you? Because I couldn’t help but notice your limp this morning.”
Mr. Murdock’s brows drew down and his mouth flattened. Uh-oh. Defensiveness. Closing off. “Like I said earlier, I missed a stair leaving my apartment this morning and twisted my ankle.”
“Right. Right.” Peter nodded in agreement. “Except I don’t think I believe that.” Whoops, that was veering toward confrontational. Take it back a notch. “In fact…I think… Well, I was wondering, if maybe, if Pete had something to do with it.” There. It was out there now.
The defensiveness disappeared to be replaced by what looked like genuine confusion. “What would Pete have to do with it?”
Okay, maybe it wasn’t quite out there yet. But how did one go about saying “I’m worried that your boyfriend may be abusing you, mostly because you’re always hurt and he looks like someone who hurts people, not that you would know what he looks like—which, coincidentally, is part of why I’m so worried, because have you seen the statistics lately about disabled people in abusive relationships? No, I’m not being ableist because you’re blind; I’m being protective because you’re my friend. And my boss. My bossy friend, if you will. Are we friends?” Yeah, even in his head it didn’t go well.
Peter took a steadying breath. He could stare down the barrel of guns in the hands of criminals every night but he couldn’t have a difficult conversation with someone he cared about? How could he call himself a hero if he couldn’t even try to save his friends? “Mr. Murdock, is Pete hurting you?” he asked seriously.
Mr. Murdock’s mouth dropped open. “You think—Why would—No. No, Peter, he’s not hurting me. F—Pete would never,” he said, firm. “In fact, if anything, he takes care of me. He’s better than I deserve.” Then he seemed to realize that maybe that wasn’t the most convincing argument for “I’m not letting myself be abused,” and Peter swore that if the next thing out of his mouth was “Scratch that, he’s exactly what I deserve,” he would scream. “What I mean is that he’s good. To me, and for me. We’re good for each other.”
“If he’s not hurting you then who is?” Peter burst out. He wasn’t totally sold on the story that Pete was a sweet ray of sunshine, but Mr. Murdock at least seemed genuine in his insistence. And wasn’t a certain degree of trust fundamental to any friendship? He’d said his piece, laid out his concerns; at this point there was nothing more he could do but trust Mr. Murdock’s judgment. At least not without jeopardizing their friendship—and his job. Which would be a small enough price to pay for Mr. Murdock’s safety and happiness, if Peter were sure they were at stake.
The lawyer sighed. “I know I seem to get hurt more than the average person, but it’s all exactly what I say it is. I promise, there’s nothing for you to worry about.” Which was not at all the same thing as “there’s nothing to worry about.” He leaned forward and felt over the desk until Peter obligingly took his wringing hands from his lap and laid one on the desk for Mr. Murdock to find and squeeze reassuringly. “But, Peter, I appreciate you asking. It can be difficult to confront a friend over hard topics like this. That shows a lot of bravery, and compassion. Thank you for caring.” He smiled at Peter and Peter tried his best to smile back. “Now, sounds like Foggy is back with lunch. Let’s go see if he remembered to ask for the extra tzatziki sauce this time, hm?”
But not even the promise of food could distract Peter from the fact that Mr. Murdock had called him his friend, more or less.
On the occasion that Clint wanted fresh, hot pizza—hot from the oven, not hot from the summer sun—and was willing to spend money for it rather than scoring it for free from the dumpster behind a pizzeria—it was most restaurants’ policies to throw out leftover food that couldn’t be sold by end of day, even though it was still perfectly edible, thank you very much, Nat, and even though he now had more money than he knew what to do with, he was still not a proud man—Anyway, on the occasion that he wanted to actually choose his own toppings and enjoy the crust when it still had a soft chew to it, Clint preferred Gino’s Pizzeria on 11th.
So, it seemed, did the Punisher.
Clint couldn’t really blame him. They really did have the gooiest mozzarella, the freshest veggies, the spiciest pepperoni, the most tender crust. Didn’t mean he wanted to run into the guy while buying himself a special treat after a rough run-in with the tracksuit mafia.
Clint was still two doors down and busy deciding if he wanted two toppings or an extra-indulgent three, when Frank Castle pushed his way out of the tinkling door, bright red pizza box in hand. If he hadn’t just seen him up close a few nights ago, Clint wouldn’t have recognized him without the signature skull vest. The hair and beard were an excellent disguise, and he had a baseball cap pulled low on top of that. It was tempting to let him go, pretend he hadn’t seen him. The odds were low that the Punisher was in the middle of a mission, that he would pull a machine gun from the pizza box and start shooting up gangs in the middle of the street. He was probably just hungry. Didn’t a man deserve to eat pizza in peace?
Gather intel, his inner spy commanded, and Clint was too well-trained to ignore it. Even if the intel in question just turned out to be whether Castle preferred sausage or pepperoni.
Castle turned and luckily began walking away from Clint, who sighed deeply before following, casting a longing glance into the pizzeria as he passed. We’ll be together soon, Gino’s. I promise.
Clint stalked him for two blocks until he turned into a tiny park, little more than a grassy space between buildings with two small trees shading a lone bench. The bench was already occupied by a dark-haired man wearing a business suit and sunglasses, so Clint expected Castle to keep moving and find somewhere else to enjoy his pizza, but to his surprise, he sat right next to the other man and began talking. Clint tucked himself into a shadowed doorway with a decent eyeline and observed. Was the other man a contact? A source for underground news of criminal activity? Was the pizza not just a meal but a cover for a clandestine rendezvous? Clint felt offended on behalf of Gino’s. It deserved to be savored, not used as a ruse.
The dark-haired man grinned at whatever Castle said and took one side of the pizza box to balance it between their laps. Castle opened it and produced a couple paper plates, serving a slice onto each. Clint’s mouth watered at the visible cheese-pull. From there it looked like Italian sausage and green peppers—an excellent choice, though in that moment Clint decided he was rather feeling salami and onions.
And then the two of them…began eating.
They certainly didn’t look like they were surreptitiously swapping info on drug traffickers and gangbangers. They looked like two normal dudes enjoying lunch together. Then again, the best spies always did. Was Castle really a spy, though? The man was about as subtle as a freight train. Sniper, yes. Spy? It would be dangerous to underestimate him, but Clint didn’t think he had the acting chops—or the motivation—for such convincing subterfuge. In fact…
He observed the way they turned inward to each other ever so slightly, the easy way Castle smiled at him, the way their thighs touched and their knees knocked together unselfconsciously. Then Castle huffed a laugh and raised a napkin to dab at the corner of the other man’s mouth, and Clint felt his heartbeat spike.
These were not just two dudes enjoying lunch together.
These were two lovers enjoying lunch together.
“What the fuuuuuck,” Clint whispered to himself. The other man’s head perked up and turned slightly his way, and Clint took the opportunity to (surreptitiously) whip his phone out and snap a quick photo. He kept half an eye on them and half an eye on his phone as he reverse image searched the photo—because who needed fancy spy technology these days when you literally had the whole internet at your fingertips?
There were a surprising number of results. Apparently the guy was neither a complete nobody nor particularly concerned with keeping his face out of the public spotlight. It only took a couple minutes of scrolling through news articles to have a decent timeline of his whole life: hero of Hell’s Kitchen blinded at a young age (that explained the white cane leaning upright on the bench beside him), orphaned when his father the boxer was murdered shortly after, then disappearing from the limelight for the next couple of decades until his law firm’s name was splashed all over the Wilson Fisk case. More importantly, the Frank Castle case. Was that where they had met?
There were two options here, as far as Clint was concerned, and he considered them each carefully. Option 1: Blind lawyer Matt Murdock was Daredevil. The idea was, honestly, laughable. Clint had personally witnessed all the amazing, terrible things Daredevil was capable of. There was just no way he could be…a lawyer. Clint couldn’t make the thoughts jive in his head. The violence, the brutality, the pain and terror he dished out nightly to anyone he decided deserved it. Then went and defended those same scuzzos in court the next day? Broke the law in the night to uphold it during the day? Nah.
That left Option 2.
“You done fucked uuuup,” he whispered at Castle.
And, well, he did warn the guy. Open wide, Frank. Time to feel the collective boot.
First, though, he should probably find a gentle way to let Daredevil know that his boyfriend was cheating on him.
“Hey, DD, your boyfriend's cheating on you.”
Huh. He'd never seen Daredevil stumble before. And that was saying something, because Clint had once seen him take a three-inch switchblade to the thigh and then continue parkouring across rooftops. And yet with a handful of words, Clint had made him stumble like a newborn deer.
“Uh,” Daredevil said intelligently. And then, “Sorry, I don't think I heard you correctly.”
“Sure. I said your boyfriend's cheating on you.”
“Oh. I did hear you correctly.” The bottom half of his face looked befuddled. “And…what makes you say that?”
“He was eating pizza.”
“…Right. You know lots of people eat pizza without cheating, right?”
Clint rolled his eyes. Was DD being purposefully obtuse? “Yeah, but it’s who he was eating pizza with.”
“Was it a hooker?”
“No. Well. I don’t know what the guy gets up to in his spare time. But I saw him eating pizza with his old lawyer. Matt Murdock.”
Daredevil’s arms crossed over his chest and he held very still. His lips were pressed tightly together. It looked as though he was trying very hard to control his expression.
“Maybe Frank had a legal question,” he said after a couple of deep breaths.
Clint waved that thought away. “Look, I wouldn’t be saying this if I weren’t completely sure. You didn’t see the way Castle was looking at this guy. Like he hung the moon and stars. Like the sun shines out of his ass. Like he’s willing to give up his life of blowing people’s faces off and grow old together. He’s completely besotted.”
A lopsided smile broke over Daredevil’s mouth. “Really?” he asked in a weirdly unguarded voice. And all right, that was an unusual reaction to hearing your boyfriend was in love with someone else.
“Man, I’m serious,” Clint implored.
“No, no, I believe you,” Daredevil assured, though he didn’t look any less pleased.
Clint squinted his eyes at him, but the expression remained. “Anyway…I just wanted to give you a heads up before I bring the boot down on him. I warned him what would happen if he hurt you.”
“No! Don’t do that. Please, leave it to me. I’ll handle this.” He was still smiling. Clint was beginning to believe that maybe it didn’t quite indicate what most people meant when they smiled. It did have a bit of a psychotic edge to it, now that he was looking.
“Uhh…Don’t go after the lawyer, all right? It’s probably not his fault.”
“No, Matt Murdock is innocent in all of this. It’s just Frank I’m concerned with now.” He smiled even wider, baring all his teeth.
Oh, shit. Clint hadn’t just pushed DD over that final line into murder, had he?
“FRANK,” Matt demanded as soon as he threw open his roof access door, clomping down the stairs without bothering to remove his mask. “You've got some explaining to do!”
“Uh?” Frank grunted, barely looking up from his novel.
“I have it from a very reliable source that you're cheating on me!” Matt declared, and that got a reaction.
“What the hell?” Frank growled, throwing his book down. “No I’m—”
“With that blind lawyer Matt Murdock!” Matt continued.
“Uh,” Frank said again. “...Is this some new roleplaying kink shit we're doing…?”
“Clint told me all about it! How could you, Frank?” Matt's lips were trembling.
Frank rolled his eyes and settled back on the sofa. “Fuck sake. Don't scare me like that, asshole. I almost thought you believed that shit for a second.”
Matt couldn't hold it in anymore and burst into laughter as he threw himself into Frank's lap, pulling the helmet off as he did so. Frank ran his hands through the sweaty hair, mussing it up further. “What did that shit-for-brains have to say?”
Matt finally got his giggling under control long enough to answer. “You remember how I told you he was watching us the other day? In the park, with Gino’s? And his heartbeat started going crazy and he said ‘you fucked up’? I thought it was because he had figured out I was Daredevil. Turns out it was because you have a giant neon sign over your head declaring your undying love for me. He said you’re besotted,” Matt teased, squishing Frank’s cheeks between his hands.
Frank huffed, biting at Matt’s palms to release him. “Yeah, well, for a shit-for-brains, he at least got one thing right.”
Matt froze. “…Is that right?” he asked faintly.
Frank’s hands squeezed tightly over Matt’s hips and he stared squarely into eyes that could never look back. “Yeah. That’s right.”
Matt surged forward to capture Frank’s mouth in a bruising kiss, hands snaking around to the back of his head to draw him impossibly closer. Frank quite happily let him do as he pleased for several moments before regretfully pulling away. There was something that needed to be said.
“You know I would never actually cheat on you, right?”
Matt smiled sweetly. “I know. Because you know that I would actually, literally rip your dick off if you did.” He placed a tender smooch in the middle of Frank’s forehead and then burst out cackling again.
Frank shook his head fondly but didn’t interrupt his glee. Hawkeye was a dumbass and Matt was a sadist who enjoyed Frank’s pain, but it stirred something in his chest to see Matt in the Daredevil suit laughing so freely. That suit that was a symbol of terror and harsh street justice had seen enough blood and pain. Frank didn’t like being thought of as a cheater, by anyone, but he would take anything that made his Red laugh this much.