Chapter Text
The smell of blood could, as Matt and Foggy shuffled into their cab for the night, have been a coincidence.
It's cheaper to get a taxi than it is to get an ambulance, after all, and the faint coppery smell paled in comparison to the much stronger stench of vomit.
The smell of gunpowder, however, wafting in from the side compartment by the driver's leg, could not have been a coincidence.
Matt tensed. He could taste the tang of the metal in the gun.
"Name's Jake. Where you headed?" The driver asked in a sharp yet familiar New York drawl.
Foggy cheerfully rattled off the street number. He shut the door with a thunk.
Matt was not going to panic. Visibly. He strained his senses, trying to get a hold on the rest of the vehicle.
The trunk of the taxi was blissfully empty. Sure, there was a spare tire and a spare battery, but no human-shaped duffel bag, so Matt counted his blessings and moved on.
Vomit. Alcohol. Sweat. Cocaine. Chocolate. Blood. The sharp, lemony tang of cleaning product masking over it all, as though the driver spent hours cleaning the backseat thoroughly last night.
The man's jacket had no stench of gunpowder attached to it, while the gun smelled like it was fired within the last day or two. The gun had to have been fired the day before, then. Enough time for the driver to have changed outfits. The jacket was old, but hadn't had enough time to absorb the driver's scent yet. Thrifted?
The driver's posture was deliberately loose, leisurely tapping the wheel as he drove. Matt knew better, though. He could feel a current of tension in the driver's languid body, muscles coiled to spring at first sight of danger.
Some box-shaped object in the cubby of the front seat. Smelled like... paper. A book, most likely. A pack of cinnamon gum in the cupholders. And of course, the gun. Hidden in a compartment underneath the cupholders. Freshly fired, two bullets missing from the casing.
Matt debated if it was smarter to leave now and get a new cab.
Foggy, for some godforsaken reason, continued to make small talk with the driver.
"How long have you lived here?" Foggy leaned towards the driver's seat, demeanor like sunshine and heart rate unbothered.
Matt fought to control his mouth from twitching. It was mostly unsuccessful.
The driver licked his lips, a loud saliva smack that caused Matt to wince. "Just got back after an... extended vacation in London. It’s a relief to be back. Lived here most of my life."
Lie. Matt's breath hitched.
"That's awesome," Foggy prattled on. "For us, we're Hell's Kitchen, born and raised. We run a law firm there now, actually. 'Nelson and Murdock'—with enough word of mouth, maybe we'll get actual clients someday."
"We get plenty of clients," Matt corrected.
"Paying clients," Foggy clarified.
"Wait. You’re the guys who helped Gena, aren’t you?" Jake asked. "Told me how you helped keep her diner when the loan sharks got too much."
"Sure was, Jake." Foggy smiled.
Jake's heart skipped a beat, as though he wasn't quite used to hearing his name out loud.
As though the name he was using was fake.
"Foggy." Matt's fingers clenched around Foggy's in warning.
Foggy adjusted his grip and squeezed back. "Hey, it's okay. Don't worry. Are you doing alright?"
Jake's (if that even was his real name) movement stilled. His eyes trained on the road ahead.
Matt gritted his teeth. "Yeah. Just... nervous."
"You sure?" A nod. "Alright then, dude."
Matt didn't bring it up again after that.
The ride after that was mostly quiet. Occasionally, the driver would whisper to himself under his breath.
“—Could be. 'M not certain.”
“Yeah, well, with our track record? Don't doubt it—”
“—Don't worry, don't worry. I got us.”
Was he having a conversation with someone? Matt couldn't hear the telltale whine of an earpiece. Nor the other side of the conversation.
After being safely deposited at their location, Foggy exited the car first, turning towards Matt for help getting out. Before Matt could accept, however, the driver ahem-ed dramatically.
Matt froze. "One moment, Foggy." He sank back into his seat and shut the door. Fishing for his wallet, he grabbed some cash and put it in the till box.
A shuffle of coat fabric meant Jake had turned towards Matt. His fingers clenched around the backside of the driver’s seat.
"Relax." 'Jake' huffed out a faint laugh. Was he smiling? "Gun’s not for you."
Matt tensed. He knew.
"If you hurt Foggy, I will chase you to the ends of the earth and put you in prison myself."
Jake huffed. He did not seem convinced. "And if I hurt you?" He asked.
Matt shrugged.
He could handle his own.
Jake hummed a bit under his breath, wringing his hand on the leather of the wheel. His tone was forcefully light. "Say, if I happened to need a defense lawyer, could I contact you guys?"
Matt squeezed the stick in his hand. "... What for."
"Normal things. Promise." Jake tapped the seat leisurely. A skip.
"Lie," Matt growled.
Jake laughed in response. "Okay. Probably not normal. Nothing's normal when it comes to—me. My life." The driver's heart skipped as he stumbled through the use of 1st person. "But you don't know when your life could fall to shit 'cause of some scumbag's plan, and I always like to keep a door open for when things get worse."
Matt weighed his options. On the one hand, this person has probably killed before. The gun's presence still hung heavy on Matt's senses, a heady cocktail of metal and weight and smoke.
On the other hand, it's not like he hadn’t defended a murderer before.
Foggy said they needed more paying clients, right?
He sighed, and pulled out a business card with sharp edges and braille underneath the raised ink.
"We reserve the right to refuse a contract for any reason," Matt replied coolly, "but you're welcome to call."
Matt stumbled out of the taxi, his arm immediately grabbed by Foggy and tucked into his elbow.
Jake waved the business card around as he gestured goodbye. Wind whistled from the cardstock between his two fingers.
"Thanks!" Jake shouted, a little too callously to sound genuine.
But despite all the lies spoken during the ride, this time his heartbeat didn’t waver.