Chapter Text
CHAPTER ONE
The envelope had been in your coat pocket for forty-three minutes, warm paper in the middle of a November that had no right on being this cold already.
Every few minutes your fingers slipped inside your pocket and touched the thick folded paper as though the words might rearrange themselves if you left them unsupervised for long enough. Then you felt stupid hoping something you’ve waited long enough to disappear.
Across the pavilion, your son was currently pressing both palms against the glass surrounding the SeaGlass Carousel and staring through it with the same intensity you'd seen grown detectives reserve for homicide photographs.
Your mother stood beside you with two coffees and watched him with that strange love only a grandmother can achieve in life.
“He's doing it again.” She pointed.
You took the cup she offered. “Existing?”
“Investigating.”
You made your most dismissive face, “He's looking at a carousel.”
“Your child has been looking underneath a carousel for six minutes.”
“He likes knowing how things work.”
Your mother gave you a sideways look.Too knowing to believe anything else.
A sip of hot coffee went down your throat. She kept looking at him and your eyes moved from her to the child that was too curious for his age.
“What is it?” You asked after a stretch of silence in between us.
She only denied with her head, her eyes falling on your face.
“You've been my mother for twenty-seven years. I know the different varieties of you not saying anything.”
That finally got her. Her mouth twitched around the lid of her coffee before she looked back toward Arthur.
He was small for the enormous winter coat she'd stuffed him into, dark hair escaping beneath his knit hat, one mitten already missing despite having arrived with two. You could see the surviving one dangling from the clip on his sleeve. The other was probably somewhere between the subway and here, sacrificed to New York before noon.
Arthur crouched suddenly.
“Arthur.” You called over the cold wind.
“I see him,” Your mother said.
“He's about to put his whole head underneath that railing.”
“I also see that.”
“Arthur.” You called him again, a little different from the first time.
His head appeared again. Those enormous brown eyes found you immediately.
“I wasn't.” He mumbled, guilt slipping in between the words.
“You absolutely were.”
Arthur pointed down, “I was looking.”
“With your whole head?” You countered it.
His expression turned thoughtful, apparently considering whether that constituted a valid investigative technique.
Then he pointed. “There's wheels.”
You walked closer, coffee in one hand. “There are?”
“Under there.”
“Stay on this side of the railing, please” You asked nicely.
“I did.” Arthur’s voice went up a notch.
“You were halfway through it.”
He pointed both hands to his own head, “Only my head.”
Behind you, your mother made a sound suspiciously close to a laugh. Arthur ignored her because he had discovered machinery he could question at eleven forty in the morning.
“The fish don't swim,” he informed you.
You followed his finger toward the glowing fiberglass creatures rotating through the strange blue interior.
“I'm going to need you to explain that one.” You were amused and completely lost.
“The floor moves.” He stated.
“Yes.”
“So the fish don't.”
You looked around at the carousel operating, “They go around.”
“Because the floor makes them.”
You crouched next to him. “That's generally how carousels work.”
His nose wrinkled.
You knew that expression too well.
It had appeared around eighteen months old, when he realized cabinet doors could be defeated through persistence and maybe a small shake. At two, he'd worn it while Peter attempted to explain how magnets work. At three, it had preceded the dismantling of a battery-operated train you had specifically told him to leave intact.
“What's wrong with the floor moving them?”
Arthur considered the question very seriously. “They should move themselves.”
Your fingers tightened around the coffee cup.
It's been happening more lately. Nothing anyone passing through Battery Park would notice, but it was there in the smallest detail of how his brain worked.
Arthur continued staring through the glass. “Then they can go different.”
“Different where?”
“Anywhere.” He got more agitated.
A laugh came out your mouth with how simple he sounded, even though he was thinking of something he had no right to worry about at that age.
“It would be a pretty dangerous carousel if every fish got to decide where it wanted to go.”
“They'd have sensors.”
You closed your eyes briefly as your own mother started laughing behind you.
Arthur twisted around. “What?”
“Nothing, baby.” She tried to pull herself together and failed. “Absolutely nothing.”
He studied her suspiciously before turning back to you. “Peter says sensors can stop stuff before it crashes.”
“Peter also told you that Mentos and Diet Coke were a scientifically appropriate activity for my kitchen last summer.”
“That was outside.”
“The first one was outside.” The kid had a strong argument.
His mouth pulled into a tiny smile.
You tapped the end of his nose with one finger. “Get on the carousel.”
“Can I go on the striped one?” His eyes shone with excitement.
There, much better for a three year old.
“You can go on whichever one your grandmother buys you a ticket for.”
Arthur spun toward her. “Grandma.”
She put her hand on her hip, “Oh, now I exist.”
“Please?”
Your mother made him suffer for roughly three seconds. “Fine.”
Arthur grabbed her hand and immediately began pulling her toward the entrance.
You straightened your body more slowly once they were already inside. Your knees had started objecting to crouching sometime during the previous year, which seemed deeply unfair at twenty-eight.
Your mother got three steps before glancing back at you. Her laughter was gone, and her eyes dropped pointedly toward your coat pocket.
You shook your head.
Later.
She knew what that meant. She had known you long enough to understand the difference between avoidance and needing five more minutes before a conversation changed your life.
“Come on, Grandma.” Arthur grabbed her wrist for attention.
“I'm coming.” She shook her head. Unbelievable, that kid.
“You're slow.”
“I carried your mother for nine months around twenty eight years ago. I have the right to be slow nowadays.” She defended herself, still keeping up with his tiny steps.
Arthur looked over his shoulder at you.
You raised your brows. “Don't bring me into this.”
Her turned back to grandma, “Was she heavy?”
Your mother stopped walking when they were probably three steps from the desired fish. You had to bit the inside of your cheek to keep from laughing, because he was being serious with his question, and Arthur just waited.
“Your mother,” she said finally, “was an enormous burden.”
You laughed into your coffee.
“Hey.”
She had that fun edge to her voice, “In many ways.”
“Keep talking. I'm picking your nursing home.” I said a little loud.
“You can't afford a nice one.” She called back walking to the fish again.
“Federal government has benefits.”
The words escaped before you could catch them.Your mother's head turned so fast, it was hard to avoid her searching eyes. So you did the same thing, turned your head away from her stare.
Arthur had already lost interest in the conversation because the carousel attendant was checking all the fishes around for safety. Your mother didn't forget anything. She lifted your kid, settled him into one of the strange iridescent fish and fastened him in. He immediately leaned toward the transparent side, examining some part of its construction instead of enjoying the fact that he was sitting inside a glowing sea creature.
When she came back through the gate her stance was more knowing than it was twenty seconds ago. She only tood beside you as the music started.
You kept your attention on Arthur.
“Federal government has benefits,” she repeated.
“That’s what people say.” You shrugged.
“You got it.”
You reached into your pocket.The envelope had softened slightly at the edges from being handled with your fidgeting fingers since you arrived.
When you passed it to her, you noticed how she didn’t opened it at first.
“You already read it?” She asked as if she didn’t know already.
“Four times.”
“And?”
“It's official.”
Her eyes lifted to yours.
Your mother had never been especially dramatic. She'd raised you through enough bad decisions, injuries and one spectacularly miserable adolescence to develop an impressive resistance to theatrics. Most of her reactions happened in her eyes first.
This one made them shine.
“Oh, honey.” Her voice came out so softly.
“Mom, you look like you're going to cry.”
Her left hand landed on my forearm, and she gave it a little squeeze,“I am going to cry.”
“Please don't.” You closed your eyes briefly.
“Why?”
“Because” you started, “Then I'll cry, and I have to go back to work.”
She laughed, tiny little thing, and the joke came,“That sounds like a you problem.”
“Mom.”
It took two more second for her hand to leave your arm and then she opened the letter.
You knew the relevant paragraphs by memory. It started with congratulations. A section to talk about the appointment. There’s a couple of time you caught the words Special Agent. Then there was the Basic Field Training Course.
Quantico, Virginia. Eighteen to twenty weeks.
Reporting instructions would follow right after. Months away from Queens reduced to neat paragraphs on government stationery.
Arthur swept past you inside a glowing blue fish. He saw you and waved both arms excitedly.
“Mommy!”
You waved back immediately, making his entire face brighten immediately.
Your mother lowered the letter.
“There it is, right?”
You knew exactly what she meant. “I know.”
“You're going to take it. And you're terrified.” Those words came out of her mouth sharply.
You looked at her. “I'm considering the logistics.”
“You organize logistics when you're terrified, sweetheart.”
You took the letter back before she could crease it, and before she could read you better than she could read the damn paper.
“He's never been away from me that long.” You said, trying to keep the shake away from your voice.
“You'll see him.” She tried.
“Virginia isn't Queens.”
She gave you a tired sigh, eyes all over your face.
“It also isn't Afghanistan.” She finally said.
“Very helpful.”
“I try.”
The carousel continued turning. Every time Arthur came around, he found you again, and again.
It hurted to think about it.
You'd worked doubles before. Overnight surveillance. Forty-hour stretches around cases where home became somewhere you changed your clothes. Arthur understood Mommy worked.
But training felt different. It meant choosing to leave for the longest period of time.
“They can send me anywhere afterward.”
Your mother's shoulders settled against the railing. “They can.”
“I signed the mobility agreement.” Hi pointed out.
“I remember.”
You thought about it, eyes focused on the glowing fish, “I could get Chicago.”
“Yes.” Mom agreed.
“Boston. Seattle. Los Angeles.” This time you looked at her to watch her reaction.
“Los Angeles would be annoying.” She took another drink with a smile threatening to appear. “Traffic…”
“Right.” You shook your head “Traffic.”
“What did you think I meant?” She playfully gave your shoulder a nudge.
“Nothing.”
There was another variety of your mother not saying something.
You concentrated on Arthur.
He had found another child in the fish behind him and was apparently trying to communicate across the moving platform using elaborate hand gestures.
“New York is likely,” you said. “I already have relationships with the field office. My work here matters.”
“Then ask for New York.”
“I will.” You took another sip of the coffee.
“And if they send you somewhere else, we’ll figure it out.”
“You say that like I'm deciding whether to change apartments in the same building.”
Her eyes searched something in your face, but they quickly moved to the kid having the time of his life during your lunch break, because that was the only time you managed to see him that day.
“You think I wouldn't follow my grandson?”
You glanced at her. Her shoulders went up around her neck in a shrug.
“I've lived in New York long enough. Maybe I'd enjoy Chicago.”
You saw the amusement in her voice, “You hate wind.”
“I'd buy a coat or two.”
You roll your eyes, this is kind of ridiculous.
“You complain when it's sixty.”
“I would complain in a coat.” Her face gave nothing away, which made it more funny.
A laugh escaped you before you could stop it. She reached over and squeezed your wrist.
There were very few people in your life who could get away with touching you when your head was crowded. Your mother had permanent clearance. Arthur had never needed it.
“You earned this,” she said.
You looked down at the letter.
“You're allowed to want it.”
“I do want it.” You said, voice going lower just by admitting it.
“I know.”
“That's part of the problem.”
Her thumb moved once against your wrist and you looked back at the carousel.
Arthur's fish passed behind one of the larger structures and disappeared. Right there for two seconds, you couldn't see him. Instinctively your body reacted to that fact.Then blue glass emerged on the other side and there he was, talking to the attendant now because apparently four minutes without making a new acquaintance exceeded his limit.
“You were younger than me when you had me,” you said.
“Mm-hm.”
“Did you ever feel like you knew what the hell you were doing?”
“No.”
You turned to her.
Her eyes looked perfectly serious with her answer. There was no comfort waiting, only the truth you desperately needed to hear.
“You get better at hiding it.” Her lips curved tiredly.
“Fantastic.”
“Then your children grow up and produce children who crawl underneath public attractions, and you realize none of us know anything.”
A puff of air mixed with a short laugh escaped you. “He didn't crawl underneath it.”
“His entire head was through that railing.”
“It’s called research.”
Your mother smiled. A gush of wind cut across the park, freezing your cheeks even more.
Arthur came around again.This time he flattened his little hand against the side of the fish as he passed.
You mirrored it against the air without thinking. The ridiculousness of the action was so worth it when that smile with his whole face widened even more.
Your mother watched him for a moment. Then she said, very quietly, “You saw it too.”
You didn't need to ask what she meant.
“Mom.” A warning of we’re not going there today.
“He's getting older.”
“Almost four.” You repeated the same thing Arthur always says.
“Exactly.”
“He's curious.” You tried to redirect the conversation.
“Arthur is brilliant.”
“He's curious.”
“He asked me last week why the microwave couldn't adjust the cooking time itself after measuring how cold his food was.”
You turned your head. “He asked you that?”
She nodded, that grandma's pride shining inside her eyes.
“Peter must have said something"
“Peter wasn't there.” She arched one eyebrow.
Shit.
Your mother looked back toward the carousel. “Then yesterday he told May her toaster wastes heat.”
You rubbed your mouth.
“He spends too much time with Peter.” You held on to the most normal answer possible.
“That's what May said.” She admitted.
“See?”
Arthur vanished behind the center column again. Your mother waited until he was out of view before continuing.
“You see his father in him.”
Your stomach tightened so quickly with her words. Four years had made you good at carrying that sentence, but it didn’t make anything lighter around it.
“I see Arthur.” Your hand started peeling the sticker around the coffee cup.
“You know what I mean.”
“Yeah.” Your answer came quieter. “I know.”
She didn't push further than that. Probably one of the best reasons you could have these conversations with her.
She knew the whole story. Every ugly, confusing piece of it. She knew how old you'd been when everything happened. She knew how fast everything with Tony had spread around your own life and exactly how fast it all ended. She'd sat on your bathroom floor while you stared at two pink lines and insisted the first test had to be defective.
She'd gone to the pharmacy and bought four more.
One of them had that digital screen streaming back at me:
PREGNANT.
Apparently technology had wanted to remove any room for argument that day. Your mother had been there when Arthur was born while Tony Stark hadn't known there was a delivery room to be in.
“You ever think about it?” she asked.
You stared at the carousel.
“Of course I do.” Truth spilled out.
“Recently?”
“Yeah.” That was as much as you wanted to give her here.
She accepted it and turned to see Arthur's ride beginning to slow down. You folded the federal letter and returned it carefully to your pocket.
One enormous secret at a time. That had been your operating principle for years. It worked well until now, so you plan to keep that going.
Arthur's fish came to a stop and he immediately began trying to unfasten himself.
“Wait for Grandma.” You called over the excited kids.
“I know how.” He kept trying.
“You're three.”
He frowned at you through the glass. Stubborn as ever that kid of yours.
Your phone rang out of nowhere. The sound went through you differently from any other noise and Arthur knew it too. His small hands stopped trying to do something he didn't know how.
Your mother looked at the phone clipped inside your coat as you pulled it free and answered.
“Yeah.”
The voice on the other end spoke quickly with technical words you understood too well. Your eyes moved toward Arthur anyway as your mother was already unfastening him.
“Where?” You asked once the main information came through.
A pause. Your shoulders straightened as dispatch kept going.
“When?”
The address was familiar enough.
“I'm twenty minutes out.”
You hung up and turned to the two people who came all the way from Queens to spend twenty minutes with you. Your mother read your face.
“What happened?”
“Reyes.”
Her expression changed. “What about her?”
“Shots fired at the DA's office.”
Arthur had climbed down from the carousel and walked toward you.
You crouched before he could ask. “Hey.”
His smart eyes searched your face.
“You gotta go.”
It wasn't a question.
“Yeah.”
“Bad guy?”
Children reduced police work to terms adults spent careers complicating. You sighed with heaviness inside your chest.
“Someone got hurt.”
His eyebrows pinched together right away. Your cold fingers reached out and fixed his hat where it had started sliding up the back of his head.
“Grandma's going to take you home.”
“You promised lunch.” Arthur's lower lip started to tremble a little.
“I know.”
“You didn't eat.” He only stated the fact.
Your mother looked away. She learned not to interfere a long time ago. His sincerity almost got you worse than the federal letter had. You pressed your lips against Arthur's forehead and stayed there for an extra second.
“I'll eat at work.”
“You forget.” He replied with muffled words against your neck. “Grandma says you do.”
“Grandma's a snitch.”
“What's a snitch?” He asked quickly.
Your mother pointed at you. “Don't.”
You stood with a groan, but Arthur grabbed two of your fingers before you could move away.
“Mommy.”
“Yeah?”
“You come home after?” He asked with such honesty.
There were days when being his mother felt like having an exposed nerve walking around outside your body.
You squeezed his hand. “I'll try.”
His mouth pulled down. Yeah, wrong answer, you knew it as soon as the words left your mouth.
You crouched again. “I'll call you tonight. Okay? Even if it's late. You can tell me what you and Grandma did.”
“And Peter?”
“If Peter comes over.”
You glanced at your mother.
She shrugged. “May said they might.”
Of course they might. Arthur seemed satisfied with this arrangement, then he remembered something.
“The fish need batteries.”
You stared at him.
“What?”
“For each fish,” he explained patiently. “Then they move themselves.”
Your mother pressed her lips together.
You pointed at Arthur. “You are forbidden from redesigning municipal property until kindergarten.”
“Why?”
“Union rules.”
He accepted that with surprising ease.
You kissed him again, stood, and started backing away.
“Love you.”
“Love you!”
Your mother lifted your abandoned cup of coffee. “And your lunch?”
You were already turning. “Eat it for me!”
“That isn't how food works!” She complained.
Arthur's laughter followed you toward the street.
For a few seconds, you let yourself listen to it. That sound that could carry you through your most dark days so easily. That same sound you searched for since the first time you heard him give you at the age of four months old.
Then your phone rang again.
And you went back to being a detective.
***
Samantha Reyes was dead. Nobody had to tell you, it was that obvious.
Uniforms had locked down the floor. Emergency personnel crowded the corridor. Shell casings glittered beneath harsh office lighting while crime scene photographers worked around blood that had spread much farther than anyone expected blood to spread.
You had seen enough dead bodies to stop reacting to the fact of them.
The circumstances still mattered, though.
A District Attorney had been turned into evidence inside her own office. This was as serious as it could get, which got everybody's attention.
“Detective.”
You ducked underneath the tape. “Mahoney.”
Brett looked like his afternoon had gone about as well as yours.
“What've we got?”
“Automatic fire through the windows. Reyes took most of it.” He informed as his finger pointed around the scene.
“Shooter position?”
“Working on it.”
You hesitated a little, then asked, “Castle?”
His face did something so small, but it catalogued inside your brain as useful.
“You tell me.” He told you.
You looked toward Reyes's office.“That's why they called me?”
“You've been attached to enough of the federal side of this mess.”
“Fantastic.” You muttered already turning your body to the office.
“And you know these people.”Mahoney tilted his head toward the far end of the hall.
Karen Page sat in a chair with blood on her clothes. Matt stood nearby. The glasses on his face couldn’t hide his expression from you.
Your stomach dropped.
“Foggy?” You asked dreading the answer.
“Just left in an ambulance to Metro-General.” He answered, distracted with his notes.
“How bad?”
“Hit in the shoulder. They're saying stable.”
You nodded once, then you walked toward the remaining duo. Karen looked awfully pale. Somewhere beyond paper and a ghost, all beneath the dark drying blood. Hands trembling despite the way she'd folded them tightly together.
You stopped in front of her.
“Karen.”
“She's dead. We were sitting there and she was talking and then—”
Her eyes moved toward the office.
You crouched in front of her.“Did you see the shooter?”
“No.”
“Any vehicle?”
She shook her head. They were inside, of course.
“Did Reyes say anything before it happened that seemed strange?”
Matt's head turned slightly. You caught that tiny movement with the corner of your eyes.
Karen hesitated. “She thought Frank was coming after her.”
“Why?”
“She had proof someone had been inside her house.”
“What kind of proof?”
Karen glanced at Matt, even though he couldn’t see. You looked between them. Enough time working on this case to see the information withheld from you.
“Guys.”
“A scan,” Matt said.
You waited for them to elaborate.
“Frank Castle's skull X-ray,” Karen explained. “It was in Reyes's daughter's backpack.”
You stared at her. “Castle put it there?”
“She thought he did.”
“Do you?”
Karen's mouth tightened around my question. Her detective side fight a battle.
“No.”
Interesting, you thought as you stood. Matt was wearing the expression he wore when he had already made up his mind about something reckless. You knew that expression too well. Matt's head angled toward you, probably hearing your stance shift.
You pointed down the hallway. “Walk with me.”
“I'm fine here.”
Yeah, right. Stupid blind man trying to be even more stupid.
You sighed, “Matthew.”
Karen actually managed the smallest, exhausted smile.
“Go.” She told him.
Matt looked betrayed by this.
You offered your arm, falling in that theatrical mode with him. He took it, grabbed his cane and moved with you away from the chairs.
Once you had enough distance, you stopped.
“Where are you going?” You asked no louder than a whisper.
“I'm staying with Karen.”
“Bullshit.”
His mouth flattened.
“You've known me for a year and somehow became less polite.” He observed, as if I was supposed to be offended by it.
“I was never polite.”
“You were once.”
Your head tilted an inch, looking at him properly “You're going to Rikers.”
Silence. Not a good answer, but it was answer enough.
You folded your arms. “Don't.”
“I need to know how Castle got out.”
“So do about five federal agencies and half the NYPD.” You replied getting slightly closer to him.
“They won't ask Fisk the questions I will.” He spoke quickly.
“No, because most of us enjoy having jobs.”
Matt leaned slightly closer, mirroring your actions, “He's involved.”
“I know.”
“You know?”
“Castle doesn't escape a prison block controlled by Wilson Fisk without Fisk getting something out of it.”
He went still after you said it. And it was almost funny watching that information settle.
“You already thought that,” you said.
“I suspected it.” He shrugged.
“Great. Suspect it from here.”
“I need confirmation.”
“You need stitches often enough without voluntarily walking into a room with Wilson Fisk.”
“He's incarcerated.”
You stared at him.
Matt had the decency to look mildly embarrassed.
“Listen to yourself.” You asked, but already knew there was no getting him out of that decision.
“I'll be surrounded by guards.”
“Those famous incorruptible prison guards.” Your voice came out bitter, and Matt winced.
His nostrils flared. You stepped closer, looking both ways around you and lowered your voice so he was the only one listening to you..
“Fisk knows who you are as Matt Murdock. He knows who Foggy is. He knows Karen. He might have just released a man everybody in this building thinks murdered the District Attorney.” You breathed, inhaling and exhaling before you kept going “Castle could've killed everyone in that room if he wanted.”
You glanced toward the destroyed office. Matt shook his head once.
“You weren't there.”
“Neither were you, apparently, because your superhero hearing hasn't taught you what bullets sound like when they're passing your head.”
His jaw flexed hard enough that even with normal human hearing, you could listen to the effort his muscles made.
You pointed a finger toward his chest.
“There. That's exactly why you shouldn't go.”
“Why?”
“You're angry.”
Matt made a low noise inside his throat, swallow whatever lie he had there and turned his head directly to me.
“A woman is dead.” He said.
“And Foggy is bleeding in a hospital.” You said it back.
His face changed with it, and you regretted the sentence as soon as it left your mouth.
Matt's chin lowered.
For several seconds, he said nothing, and when he finally spoke, his voice had lost its edge.
“I know.”
You rubbed your forehead.
“Sorry.”
“No. You're right.”
“That doesn't mean go pick a fight with Fisk.”
“I hate you.” A dash of humor entered his expression.
“You go there and he gets inside your head, don't come crying to me.”
A faint smile appeared at the corner of his mouth. Your body leaned backward, away from him now. You did your part, now it was up to him.
“You'd be devastated.”
“I'd change my number, so you do come crying to me.”
Mahoney called your name from across the corridor.
You turned halfway replying a lazy “Coming.” Then turned back to Matt.
“Hospital. Karen. Home.” You shoved your index finger at his chest.
“Yes, Detective.”
“No prison.”
His expression became painfully innocent.
You pointed at him again. “I'm serious.”
“I can tell.”
You started walking backward.
“Matt.”
He lifted one hand, as if he was just an innocent blind man.
You should have known he wouldn’t listen to a single word you said.
Matter fact, You did know.
That was the infuriating part.
The day that became a total blur couldn’t get worse, until 8:17 that night came, and your mother sent you a picture.
Arthur was asleep sideways across your bed in Queens, one foot outside the blanket and Peter sprawled on the floor beside him with a textbook open against his chest.
You stared at the picture for a long time, not resisting the urge to call her even if the main reason was out in dreamland.
Your mother answered on the second ring.
“Before you ask, yes, he ate.” She spoke quickly.
“That's not what I was going to ask.”
“You were going to ask if he ate.”
Something that resembled a smile touched your lips, “Did he?”
“Pasta, half an apple and enough cheese to financially damage me.”
You leaned against the wall outside an interview room.
“Good.”
She paused for half a second before admitting, “Peter helped him make something.”
Your eyes closed.
“What?”
“A car.” You gasped, then she added, “ And it currently has no wheels.”
“Okay, less concerning.”
Your mother laughed quietly.
Someone passed by you with a stack of folders, cursing at whatever had kept them there past five o’clock.
“How late?” Your mom asked quietly.
You looked through the narrow glass window in the door.
“Late.” You said with no more strength to elaborate.
“How late?”
“I don't know.”
Usually, Arthur slept best in his own bed.
He also was on a strike of four nights in a roll that he woke around five and climbed directly into your bed, then denied doing it when you woke up with his foot in your ribs.
Your mother heard the hesitation.
“I'll stay at your place with him.”
You closed your eyes hard at that, “You don't have to.”
“I know.”
“I might not get home at all tonight.”
“Then don't drive exhausted.” There was concern inside her voice, you noticed.
“I can sleep at Matt's.”
You paused after admitting it.
Your mother had met Matt twice. The first time, she'd spent the entire drive home asking why such a handsome lawyer was single. The second time, she'd realized you knew considerably more about him than you were explaining and wisely stopped asking.
“Fine,” she said.
“Okay, that sounded like judgment.” You pointed out.
“That was one word, baby.”
“I heard punctuation.”
She laughed now, “You're also tired.”
“That doesn't mean I'm wrong.”
She laughed even harder at that. Arthur's picture came to your mind without knocking, again you felt your chest tighten.
“Can you kiss him for me?”
Her voice went gentle. “Of course.”
“And tell him I called.”
“I will.”
You took a shaky breath, “Thanks.”
“You don't have to thank me for taking care of my grandson.”
“I know.”
“Did you eat?”
You looked down at the vending machine crackers in your hand. “Yes.”
“You hesitated.”
“I love you. Goodbye.”
You hung up before she could continue.
Right after 11:46, you finally left.
At 12:21, you unlocked Matt Murdock's apartment with the spare key he claimed you'd somehow acquired despite personally handing it to you three months earlier, just in case you need somewhere to crash near the station. Three minutes later, you discovered his refrigerator contained mustard, beer, two eggs and something wrapped in foil that you refused to investigate.
At 12:31, you found pasta in a cabinet, and by 12:58, you were standing barefoot in his kitchen wearing your undershirt and trousers, service weapon still holstered at your hip, stirring garlic into a pan while wondering if exhaustion could legally qualify as intoxication.
The apartment door opened with that hard shove, but you didn't turn around.
“How was prison?”
The door stopped moving and your smile showed up. Matt closed it carefully behind him.
“I don't know what you're talking about.”
“Your left shoe is dragging.”
You glanced over your shoulder at the silent blind man, bleeding from his lip and an angry purple mark already blooming around his glasses “And you smell like blood. See, I have super powers too.”
Matt stood just inside the apartment. His suit was wrinkled, tie had been shoved into his pocket and hair as wild as it can get.
You turned off the burner. “Son of a bitch.”
“Before you start—”
“You went, even when I specifically told you not to go.” You only stared him down.
“You strongly recommended.” Matt tried to argue.
“I shoved my fucking finger at your chest”
He stayed quiet, which made your blood boil. “And you're an asshole.”
He moved toward the kitchen and you caught his chin when he got close enough. Matt stopped right away.
You let your thumb hover near the cut. “He hit you.”
“He made his position clear.”
“With his fist?”
“Among other things.”
You released him and opened the freezer.
Matt’s head turned to the sound of your steps, “What are you doing?”
“Ice, before I finish what Fisk started.”
You wrapped the last ice cubes he had in his fridge in a dish towel and pressed it directly into his hand.
“Hold that.”
He listened, and did what he was told. You could only stared at him while Matt's unfocus blind eyes stared somewhere around your shoulder.
“How bad?” Your voice came out around twenty per cent softer.
“I'm fine.”
“Not what I asked, dumbass.”
HIs jaw shifted under the kitchen light, “It isn't broken.”
“Your face?”
Matt nodded “My face.”
You went back to the stove, too tired and too hungry to say something else.
Matt leaned against the counter. “What are you making?”
“Food.”
He lifted his nose slightly. “Garlic.”
Your rolled your eyes, “Congratulations.”
“Tomatoes, that fake kind of parmesan...” He kept going.
Annoyingly, that always caught you by surprise. “How do you know I used parmesan?”
“I can smell it.”
“Sometimes I forget how creepy you are.” You said looking him over, trying not burn the damn thing.
“You’re the one that broke into my apartment.”
“I have a key. You gave it to me after I had to climb your fire escape because you were unconscious.”
“I was resting.”
You laughed despite yourself and reached for the pasta to finish this and pass out in his couch. Matt also smiled, but his mouth pulled open again when the movement touched his lip. He hissed with clenched teeth.
“Serves you right.”
“Compassion is going to make you an excellent federal agent.”
Your hand stopped over the pot. His expression changed almost immediately.
You looked at him. “What?”
He straightened.
“You're cooking pasta in my apartment at one in the morning after a District Attorney was murdered.”
“And?”
“And you smell different.”
You blinked twice at the absurdity of it, “That sentence would've gotten anybody else pepper-sprayed.”
“Your heart changed.”
That one came out quietly. He was good like that, he could read you at an impressive rate, and know that something wasn’t normal from the get go.
“You've been carrying something around all day.”
You stared at him for a few seconds. Then reached into the coat you'd thrown over one of his chairs. The envelope came out more crumpled than it had been at lunch.
It slid it across the counter, stopping by the side of his hand. Matt's fingers found it, touched the emblem at the cover, trying to figure out from the print marks.
“What is it?” He asked.
“Read it.”
He raised his brows, and only then you heard yourself.
“Right. Fuck—I’m sorry.”
“You do forget quite frequently.” He tapped his index finger on top of the counter.
“Want me to read it?”
He found the edge and handed it back. “Give me the important part.”
You leaned your hip against the counter.
“The important part is that I'm in.”
He went completely still. Then his face broke into a grin.
“The FBI?” Matt asked.
“Yeah.”
You turned your body to avoid looking at him, inspecting the pasta to check if it was ready to plate. But the truth was, people got excited about it, and it breaks your heart, because you know how much it will cost you to follow that path.
“You got it.”
“I got it.”
The grin widened.
You found yourself smiling back with a tiny pull of your lips before he reached out and caught your wrist.
“That's incredible.”
“It's something.”
“No.” He squeezed a little to bring your attention to his face. “You're allowed to take the compliment.”
“I am taking it.”
“You're deflecting, detective.”
“And You” The pause came naturally, “Are bleeding on my dinner.”
“Dinner that you made in my kitchen.” Matt smiled in that charming way of his.
“Do you want any?”
“Yes.”
I leaned closer, teasing him. “Then stop criticizing the chef.”
Matt squeezed your wrist before releasing it.
“When?”
“Training instructions come next. Quantico.”
His smile faded slightly. “Arthur.”
There it was. Doesn’t have to be a detective to come around that conclusion.
You looked toward the pan.
“Mom will keep him.”
“For the whole training cycle?”
“Yes. I’ll try to get home whenever they allow us.”
Matt could hear lies.
Unfortunately, he could also hear every pathetic little physiological betrayal surrounding a truth you were trying to avoid.
His head tilted and you pointed the wooden spoon at him.
“Don't do that.”
“Do what?”
“The human polygraph thing.”
His mouth twitched.
You focused on the food. Turned down the heat, and started getting plates for both of you.
“I'm going. And I'm also going to hate leaving him.”
“I know.”
You found two plates with a small crack at the edge, but that’ll do.
“Speaking of Arthur…”
He heard it immediately. “What happened?”
“Nothing bad happened.”
You portioned the pasta between two plates and gave Matt the larger serving without comment. He looked like Fisk had tried to fold him into a piece of furniture and gotten frustrated halfway through.
Matt followed you toward the table, one hand grazing the back of the chair until he found it. You waited until he sat before taking the seat across from him.
“He said something today.”
Matt reached for his fork. “Who?”
“Arthur.”
Something in his posture changed immediately, the faint exhaustion in his face giving way to attention.
You hated that he was so good at that.
Matthew Murdock, lawyer, catholic, vigilante, and a professional pain in your ass.
“He was on the carousel.”
“Arthur?”
You stared at him.
Matt's mouth twitched. “Sorry. For a second I thought Wilson Fisk had taken up recreational activities.”
“I can throw this pasta away.”
“You wouldn't.”
“Try me.”
He smiled and took his first bite before you could make good on the threat. His eyebrows lifted almost immediately.
“This is good.” The compliment rolled out of his tongue.
“I know.”
“That sounded very Stark.”
Your fork stopped halfway to your mouth and Matt froze too. For one very satisfying second, neither of you moved.
Then he slowly lowered his fork. “Interesting timing.”
“Go to hell.”
A smile started pulling at his mouth again, careful around the split in his lip.
You kicked him under the table.
“Ow.” He winned like a baby.
“You fight ninjas.”
“That doesn't make being kicked pleasant.”
You took another bite mostly so you wouldn't have to look at him.
The pasta was good. You knew it was good. Usually that would've been enough to occupy at least a portion of your brain, especially after the day you'd had.
Tonight, you pushed some of it around your plate instead.
“The carousel moves from underneath,” you said after a while.
Matt chewed slowly. “I've heard rumors.”
Your eyes narrowed. He lifted one hand in surrender and kept eating.
“Arthur figured it out. He kept staring down between the fish trying to see the machinery.”
“At three.”
“Three and nine months.”
Matt gave a small nod, accepting the correction.
You twisted pasta around your fork without eating it. “He didn't like it.”
“The carousel?”
“The design.”
Matt's mouth twitched again.
You ignored that. “He said the fish should move on their own.”
That got Matt's attention. You could tell by the way his head angled slightly toward you, his fork lowering onto the plate.
“I asked him how he'd stop them from crashing into each other if they weren't attached to anything.”
“And?”
“He said sensors.”
A small smile appeared on Matt's face. “Peter.”
“Peter wasn't there.”
The smile faded. “Ah.”
“Yeah.”
You looked back down.
There were a few seconds where the only noise came from somewhere outside the apartment. Traffic moving along the street below. A horn. Someone shouting something you couldn't make out from the sidewalk.
New York carrying on with itself while you sat in Matt Murdock's apartment at one in the morning thinking about your three-year-old redesigning a very expansive carousel.
“He wanted every fish to have its own power source,” you continued. “Independent motors, I think. He couldn't explain that part very well. He just kept saying they shouldn't all have to move together.”
Matt stayed quiet.
“So I asked him why.”
You could still see Arthur sitting there when you closed your eyes. Little winter coat zipped up beneath his chin, both hands gripping the glass while his fish rose beneath him. He hadn't been watching the lights or the colors anymore. He'd been staring downward, trying to understand how the entire thing worked.
“He said then they could choose where they went.”
Matt leaned back slightly in his chair.
You swallowed.
“He's almost four. He shouldn't think like that yet.”
“Kids think about strange things.”
“Last week he asked my mother why the microwave couldn't tell how hot the middle of his food was and change the cooking time by itself.”
Matt rubbed two fingers over his mouth, careful of the cut. “Peter?”
“No Peter again.” You dropped your fork onto the plate.
The sound was louder than it needed to be.
Matt's amusement disappeared before you even spoke.
“He sounds like him.”
There it was.
The thing that had been sitting underneath your ribs since Battery Park. Making it so difficult to breathe the whole damn day.
Matt didn't move. You both sat there, exhausted to the bone.
With the few people who knew the truth, you rarely had to say Tony‘s full name.
Arthur had his smart eyes when he concentrated. Some days, you could pretend otherwise. They were darker than Tony's, shaped differently enough to belong entirely to your son. Then Arthur would look at a broken toy like it had personally offended him. Or demand to know why somebody designed something badly when they could have designed it better. Or talk with both hands when an idea outran his short vocabulary.
And suddenly you were twenty-three again, standing across from a man who could turn arrogance into gravity and wondering why Tony Stark was looking at you like everybody else in the room had vanished.
Matt reached for his glass of water, the scrape of it against the table pulling you out of your head before you could disappear too far into thoughts of Arthur and Tony Stark and all the things genetics apparently enjoyed dragging back into your life.
“You knew that would happen eventually.”
You looked at him. “I knew genetics existed.”
“That's generally helpful when raising a child.”
The look you gave him made his mouth twitch. “I mean this, Matt.”
“So do I.” He took another drink and set the glass down carefully. “He's getting older. More of his personality is going to start showing.”
“Arthur's personality.”
“I know.”
You waited for whatever complicated, irritatingly perceptive thing he was about to add.
Matt picked up his fork instead. “Then let it be his.”
You leaned back in your chair.
That surprised you enough that he probably heard it in the way your breathing changed.
He calmly took another bite of pasta.
You watched him chew. “You're usually the one who makes this complicated.”
“I can do both.”
“Yeah, you also have a head trauma.”
He nodded once. “Also true.”
Your eyes drifted over his face again.
The swelling around one cheek had started darkening since you'd gotten there, and the split in his lip looked worse now that he'd eaten. Dried blood still caught along the edge.
The joke faded before you meant for it to.
“Fisk scared you?”
Matt stopped chewing.
There.
You'd been waiting for that since you walked into the apartment.
His hand stayed around the fork, but his fingers tightened against the metal. Barely. Someone else might not have noticed.
“Yes.”
You appreciated him for that more than you were going to say.
You lowered your own fork. “What did he say?”
Matt swallowed before answering. “That he'll come after the people I care about.”
“Sounds like Fisk.”
“He knows about Foggy and Karen.”
There was enough space after Karen that you knew exactly what came next.
“And?”
Matt turned his face toward you, asking with his expression something close to —You’re really gonna make me say it?—, your stomach tightened.
Sitting farther back, you pointed your fork at him. “Don't.”
“He doesn't know about you.”
“He knows I worked his case.”
“So did a lot of detectives.”
“Exactly.”
Matt's expression hardened. “That doesn't mean you're safe.”
“Matt.”
He stopped, jaw still tight.
You knew that expression. You'd seen it when he couldn't punch his way through a problem, which unfortunately left him with the much more dangerous alternative of thinking about it.
“I carry a gun for a living,” you reminded him.“I knew about this part of the jobe before I got in.”
“Frank Castle also carries a gun—.”
You stared at him. “Really poor example today.”
His mouth compressed, which immediately pulled at the cut again.
You sighed and reached across the table, taking the half-melted ice towel sitting beside his plate. Water had gathered beneath it, leaving a damp mark against the wood.
“Come here.”
Matt's eyebrows drew together. “Why?”
“Your lip.”
“It's fine.”
“You've been reopening it every time you talk.”
“Then perhaps you should stop making me talk.”
You stood, ice towel in hand. “Come here before I make it worse.”
That finally got him moving.
Matt pushed his chair back and stood slowly, one hand bracing against the table for half a second when his ribs protested. You pretended you didn't notice because he would pretend it hadn't happened anyway.
He stepped closer.
You caught his chin between your fingers and tilted his face toward the light.
Matt went still.
“You know,” he murmured, “most people buy dinner before threatening bodily harm.”
“I cooked you dinner.”
“That's true.”
You pressed the ice gently against the corner of his mouth.
His breath caught half-way through. Your eyes lifted to his face and his unfocused eyes.
“Fisk really got to you.”
Matt didn't answer immediately.
Up close, you could see the exhaustion sitting beneath everything else. The bruises were easy. Cuts healed. Bones eventually stopped hurting.
Fear always took longer.
“He knows how to find weaknesses,” Matt said quietly.
You adjusted the ice against his lip. “I'm not one of your weaknesses.”
His head turned slightly beneath your hand.
“You know that's not what I meant.”
You did.
That was exactly why you didn't answer.
You grabbed the small first-aid kit from beneath his bathroom sink, where you'd personally placed it after discovering his previous medical supplies consisted of expired antiseptic and stubbornness.
When you came back, Matt had moved from the table to the edge of the kitchen counter, sitting there like someone who hadn't spent the evening getting beaten half to death.
You stepped between his knees and tipped his chin toward the light.
“Hold still.”
“I am holding still.”
“You're talking.” You pressed the antiseptic against the cut on his lip.
Matt hissed and pulled back half an inch.
“Oh, stop.”
“You're much gentler with Arthur.”
“Arthur doesn't get punched by organized crime bosses after I explicitly tell him to stay away from them.”
Matt laughed, immediately regretted it, and closed his eyes when the split in his lip pulled again.
You caught his chin before he could move away. “That's what you get.”
“You're enjoying this.”
“A little.”
You cleaned the last of the dried blood away and reached for the antiseptic cap.
“He definitely didn't shoot Reyes.”
Matt's hands rested loosely against the counter on either side of him. “Frank?”
“Yeah.”
His brow pulled together. “Why? Because of the X-ray?”
You glanced at him. “Too convenient.”
You snapped the cap back onto the antiseptic and dropped it into the first-aid kit.
“Somebody puts evidence connected to Castle in Reyes's daughter's backpack. Castle escapes almost immediately afterward. Then Reyes gets killed in an attack that practically signs his name across the wall.”
Matt's expression shifted into the one you recognized from case files spread over too many tables and nights neither of you had slept enough.
“You think he's being framed.”
“I think somebody desperately wants every cop in New York looking at Frank Castle.”
“The Blacksmith.”
“Maybe.”
You started packing away the gauze. “Reyes told us enough to know something went very wrong during that sting. Federal operation, three gangs in one place, Castle's family caught in the middle. Then somebody cleaned the scene.”
“And now Reyes is dead.”
“With Frank conveniently available to blame.”
Matt's jaw tightened. “They knew about the X-ray.”
“Exactly.”
“Which means medical records.” He said.
You shook your head, “Or access to the original.”
His attention went distant.
There it was.
You pointed at him. “You're doing the face.”
“What face?”
“The one where you decide something stupid and disappear fifteen minutes later.”
“I don't disappear.” He slid off the counter.
You caught his arm before he made it two steps.
“Sleep.”
His head turned toward you. “Reyes's shooter—”
“Will continue existing for four hours.”
“We don't know that.”
“The NYPD is working. The FBI is working. Half the city is currently looking for Frank Castle because somebody made very sure they would be.”
“You're working.” He tried.
“I stopped. Because I’m exhausted.” You arched one eyebrow “See how that works?”
His mouth pulled slightly to one side.
You released him. “Four hours.”
“What?”
“Sleep for four hours.”
His expression softened a little. “You're staying?”
“I was planning to steal your couch.” You reply already sitting down and taking your boots off your very tired feet.
“Take the bed.”
“No. You also have work, don’t come being noble—”
Matt went quiet.
Then, “I don't technically have a job anymore.”
Your hand stopped on your left boot.
Right.
Nelson and Murdock.
Whatever had happened between him and Foggy had gone far enough that even you had stopped poking at it.
You looked at him. “Sorry.”
Matt shrugged, though the movement was smaller than usual.
“You should go see him tomorrow.”
“Foggy?”
“He got shot today.”
“I know.”
“So go annoy him while he's medicated. He'll have less energy to throw you out.”
A faint smile appeared. “You make friendship sound threatening.”
“That's how mine works.”
“I've noticed.”
You put the first-aid kit away and came back to find him still standing exactly where you'd left him.
“Are you actually going to sleep?”
“Are you?”
“Yes.”
Matt tipped his head, and you hated that little movement. Especially because your heartbeat had probably already answered for you.
“Eventually,” you added.
“What's keeping you awake?”
Your eyes went toward the federal envelope by the kitchen counter, then toward your phone beside it with Arthur's picture sitting behind the lock screen.
You folded your arms. “Everything changes if I take that job.”
“You already said you're taking it.”
“I am.”
“Then everything changes.”
You stared at him.
Sometimes Matt could reduce months of anxiety into one sentence and somehow make you want to throw something at him for it.
“That's incredibly unhelpful.”
“I know.”
You picked up your phone and opened the picture again.
“I keep thinking about what he said.”
“The carousel?”
You nodded.
Matt came to stand beside you.
Without thinking, you turned the phone toward him.
Then remembered he can’t see shit.
“Sorry.”
“I've gathered he's asleep.” Matt smiled.
You locked the phone, but kept it in your hand.
“Someday Arthur's going to start asking questions I can't answer with ‘we'll talk when you're older.’”
“Yes.”
You looked at him. “You could pretend to be supportive.”
“I am being supportive.” He faked innocence with that damn smile on his bruised face.
Your thumb moved along the edge of the phone, hesitating. The question had been sitting there all night. Longer than that, probably.
“Do you think I'm doing the wrong thing?”
Matt didn't answer immediately. One thing for sure, he wasn’t going to give you the general feel better soon answer. Matthew Murdock had never cared whether the truth made you comfortable.
You looked down at your phone again, thumb resting against the dark screen, and waited for him to either say something useful or make you wish you'd kept your mouth shut.
Finally, he said, “I think you've been making the same decision every day for almost four years.”
Your throat tightened.
You lifted your eyes to him. “You think I should tell him.”
Matt's expression changed before you could start building the argument in your head.
“I think one day… Arthur gets a vote.”
You stared at him.
He must have heard something in your breathing because he continued before you could snap back.
“He's little. You have time.” Matt leaned one shoulder against the counter, careful of his ribs. “And I understand why you made the choice you made.”
“Do you?”
“Yes.”
“You hate secrets.”
“I am Daredevil.”
That stopped you. “Fair.”
A small smile touched his mouth and disappeared just as quickly.
“You've kept Arthur safe,” he said.
“That was the point.”
“I know.”
You rubbed your thumb along the edge of your phone. “Tony's life is insane.”
“I also know that.”
“He flies around the world in a weaponized metal suit.”
Matt lifted his eyebrows. “I wear horns.”
“See? You're proving my case.”
That got a quiet laugh out of him, followed almost immediately by a wince when his lip protested.
You watched him touch the corner of his mouth and shook your head.
“Idiot.”
Matt settled back against the counter while you looked down at the phone in your hand again.
The picture wasn't even open anymore, but you could still see Arthur perfectly.
The dark hair. The way he'd tried explaining sensors with both hands because apparently words weren't enough when you were three years and nine months old and redesigning public attractions.
“He thinks the carousel fish need independent power sources.”
Matt laughed under his breath. “Maybe don't introduce those two near a workshop.”
You looked up. “That's your advice?”
“For tonight.”
You held your eyes on him for another second before nodding. “Thanks.”
“Anytime.”
That was enough emotional honesty for one night.
You pushed away from the table and started toward the couch.
Matt caught your elbow as you passed.
“Take the bed.”
You looked down at his hand and then back at him. “You need it.”
“I can sleep on the couch.”
“You got beaten by Wilson Fisk today.”
You stared at him and caught him by the shoulder to shove him toward the hallway.
Matt stumbled one step before correcting himself. “You're remarkably bossy for a guest.”
“Bed.”
His mouth twitched.
You pointed toward the bedroom. “Go.”
Matt disappeared down the hallway still arguing something about you being bossy, and incredibly rude to the owner of the house you’re crashing in.
You didn't bother answering, mostly because you were smiling.
The apartment finally went quiet sometime after two in the morning.
You stretched out on the couch without changing, one arm tucked beneath the spare pillow. Your service weapon stayed within reach on the floor beside you. The blanket Matt kept folded over the back of the couch smelled like laundry detergent and whatever coffee he'd probably spilled on it at some point.
Your body and your brain were exhausted. But it was hard to shut off properly to catch some sleep.
Tomorrow would bring more paperwork.
Reyes's murder. Castle. Fisk. Whatever came next with this whole circus New York threw at you in the last month or so.
Then there was Quantico sitting on the other side of Christmas and New Years, getting closer by the minute.
Your mother would ask when you planned to tell May you'd officially accepted. Arthur would demand pancakes the second you walked through the door. Peter would deny involvement in whatever mechanical disaster was currently waiting for you at home, and you would pretend to believe him for approximately five seconds.
Normal life.
At least according to whatever definition you'd been using since 2011.
You picked up your phone again.
Arthur's picture filled the screen.
Nearly four.
Dark hair everywhere, one cheek pressed into your pillow, his mouth slightly open in sleep. He looked small like this. Smaller than he ever seemed when he was awake and asking questions you sometimes needed Google to answer.
Your son.
Tony's son.
Even after all these years, putting both truths beside each other made something uncomfortable move beneath your ribs.
Matt's words came back.
One day Arthur gets a vote.
You stared at your son's sleeping face until the screen dimmed beneath your thumb.
Four years ago, keeping Tony Stark out of your son's life had felt like keeping one impossible world away from another.
Lately, those worlds had started getting awfully close.
And Arthur, apparently, had already decided things worked better when they had the power to move on their own.