Chapter Text
Matt Murdock knows, all things considered, that he really needs to work on his savior complex.
When he slammed Poindexter's face against the steel table, he'd been angry (yeah really fucking angry) but he also knew that he'd be buying the man time. A convict who'd injured himself wasn't going to be sent straight back to Gen Pop—he’d be in isolation, being monitored for any further signs of self-harm or aggression.
Matt estimated that would give him at least a week to decide whether he wanted to help the man who had destroyed—decimated, emotionally devastated—his entire life. Enough time to stop listening to the sweet burn of anger, and start hearing the little voice in his head that said all people deserve a chance at redemption. A little voice that every day sounded more like Foggy Nelson.
Matt hadn't counted on getting shot. Brilliant lawyering aside, he’d always been suspiciously short-sighted regarding the outcomes of his—rash, unpremeditated—actions.
The worst part was, he knew exactly why he'd jumped in front of the bullet.
Just because Foggy Nelson was dead did not mean his belief in the justice system had to die with him.
Fisk did not deserve death—he deserved to face a cohort of his peers and to serve time for the atrocities he'd committed. Death would just turn him into a saint, sanctify and wash away his misdoings in the court of public opinion and grief. Vanessa would be able to continue her criminal empire uninterrupted, all under the veil of a mourning widow grieving her lost husband.
So Matt had jumped in front of a bullet shot by a man he had intended to save—and by doing so got himself grievously wounded and plunged the city of New York into government-regulated chaos.
He hoped Foggy would be proud.
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With Karen, Frank, and Kirsten’s help, Matt planned to launch his two-fold defense against Fisk’s regime.
By day, Murdock & McDuffie would be aggressively pursuing legal avenues to stop Mayor Fisk’s use of police brutality in the name of anti-vigilante action. By night, Daredevil and The Punisher would slowly debilitate Fisk’s task force.
He really hoped he could convince Frank to stop goddamn killing people (for the foreseeable future).
At least Heather had made the break-up somewhat amicable. Having your apartment blown up via grenade is the perfect excuse to stop living together. Kirsten had handled her (firm) partner breaking up with her (former) dear friend pretty well all things considered—had lifted Matt’s glasses up, stared at him hard, and stated “At least you won’t be late to work anymore” like the practical consummate professional she had always been.
She had been less practical when he’d told her that he was aiming to legally eviscerate the Mayor of New York City.
“With what money Matt?” She slapped the stack of papers onto the desk.
“And more importantly, with what clients? You think the next tech bro who walks in here is gonna be interested in taking down the Mayor?”
She put her hand against her head and sighed.
“Our clients want help getting away with tax fraud Matt. They’re not interested in delivering legal retribution against a dictatorial government-run police task force.”
She walked up to him and put her hand against his shoulder.
“Matt, we can’t afford to keep on taking pro-bono clients, and we don’t have the manpower to chase down a client we can use to undermine Fisk. ”
Matt really liked working with Kirsten. He liked how firm and organized she was. Liked how she always knew if they had a chance of winning a case.
Right now she oozed of defeat. The normally sweet strawberry-like scent of her perfume had the distinct undertone of anxiety. Kirsten wanted to protect her partner, Matt Murdock. She wanted to keep him from continuing to make dumb decisions (which had recently resulted in him getting shot). She also really wanted this firm to continue to make a profit—especially after leaving her fairly successful career trajectory at the DA’s office.
Matt was thankful Kirsten didn’t know about Daredevil. It would have just worsened the stench of her anxiety.
“I’m going to find someone Kirsten. Someone I can use to take down Fisk.”
Matt smiled.
“Legally, of course.”
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The problem was, even with Karen’s exemplary sleuthing skills and Matt spending his nights roaming through Hell’s Kitchen, they still hadn’t found a trace of Benny Cafaro. He’d been at Foggy’s apartment on the night of his murder. Matt had come there with Karen, smelled him all over Foggy’s couch. The stench of booze, desperation, and fear still palpable.
But Foggy’s apartment had been professionally cleaned. Keys given to his younger brother Theo who had sobbed against Matt’s shoulder while Matt had no idea what to say.
He’d never picked up on Benny’s scent again.
Karen had tried her hardest to find him. Tried to trace his bank accounts, hunt down previous known acquaintances and relatives. All of those leads kept coming up to a dead end.
Benny Cafaro was gone, and if he was gone Matt had no one to take the stand against the Fisks.
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Matt might have been far sturdier than the average man, but even he knew when he needed a day in bed to rest.
The AVTF had targeted some low level vigilantes last night. Pointed a gun at a group of fucking teenagers playing at being heroes, most of them less than seventeen years old, and tried to drag them into an armored van.
Matt listened as one of the officers pistol-whipped a teenage girl to the ground.
Fuck, she sounded young.
Frank had to be the one to stop him from pummeling the man’s face to the ground.
“Red, this ain’t you.” He’d gripped Matt’s hand as it was about to beat the (already unconscious) cop’s face further into stone floor. Around them were the groaning or unconscious bodies of ten different officers.
“You need to let him go Red.” He’d held Matt’s hand even tighter. Matt relaxed his grip and swallowed. These officers had come prepared. He knew he was bleeding from at least four different wounds, and from the way Frank was blinking, he suspected The Punisher had acquired himself a very swollen black eye.
They both reeked of blood.
The dumb teenagers had at least had the good sense to flee once Daredevil and The Punisher had jumped onto the scene.
So Matt found himself calling Kirsten, faking a (he hoped) realistic cold, and telling her he wouldn’t be in today.
He had pulled out his most comfortable thread-bare hoodie and painfully slid into some sweatpants. Kept his feet bare, at least his feet weren’t hurting him. He had every intention of lying on his sofa and just rotting.
Foggy would call this self-care.
Foggy was also fucking dead.
At least Matt had been able to reacquire his previous apartment. Turns out very few people wanted to live somewhere constantly tinged in red (no matter how reasonable the rent may be).
The pain was so palpable, and he was so exhausted. He would’ve almost forgiven himself if he’d missed the subtle sound of the window facing his fire escape being unlocked.
Matt always had to stop himself in these situations. Wait it out. Daredevil would have immediately sprung to action. But Matt Murdock was blind, and would like to keep the general public from knowing exactly how easily he could break a person’s bones.
If this was an assassin, Matt was prepared to give him the beat down of the century. If it was a regular burglar, Matt was in just enough pain that he might be willing to hand him his wallet and wish him a good day.
The window opened and Matt smelled the clear breeze of antiseptic and sweat.
Underneath that, the slight tinge of pine trees.
He knew that smell.
“Counselor,” The flat gravel of Poindexter’s voice started, “Playing hooky today?”
He could hear Poindexter walk stoically into his living room, face his sofa and just stand there. Staring at Matt with an unblinking intensity that Matt could feel burning into him.
Matt responded in kind.
“Got a little beat up last night sweetheart. Nothing I’m sure a little compassion and not murdering me in my apartment can’t fix.” Matt knew his voice sounded particularly dry. He also knew it sounded fucking tired.
Poindexter approached him with deliberate caution. Clear and concise steps. Military precision. He slowly crouched down so he was at eye level with Matt’s prone form.
“You look tired.”
Matt smirked and thoughtlessly muttered, “Blame Daredevil. He keeps ruining all my leads.”
If Matt had known what chaos that one rash and unpremeditated statement would have caused, he would have told himself to shut the fuck up .
But Matt had never been very good at guessing the outcomes of his own actions.
He just listened as Benjamin Poindexter nodded his head mildly, reached out a hand and petted Matt’s hair.
“I understand Counselor” was all he said. Left his hand against Matt’s head for another few seconds. Stared at him some more, and then left the apartment as if he had never been there.
Except Matt could still smell him.
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The next night he was out with Frank. They’d been tracking the AVTF’s movements, trying to secure the location of where the supposed vigilantes were kept.
Frank had managed to escape his confinement, killing multiple cops and breaking even more bones. Unfortunately, the Fisks were smart, and by the next day they’d found the warehouse where the others had been kept empty and the amount of AVTF crawling the streets doubled.
They must have had some hidden location. Some place Frank and Matt would be able to pick up if they just searched hard enough, interrogated enough people.
But whatever security protocols the Fisk’s had set up, whether it was through intellect or fear, kept leading to just more and more dead ends.
The AVTF grunts didn’t know where the captured vigilantes were being held. They would bring them to pre-approved drop off locations, which changed nightly, and hand-picked high-ranking individuals in Fisk’s payroll would be responsible for bringing them to an undisclosed location for incarceration.
Matt was happy to have Frank by his side. But man did Frank escaping lead to more complications.
The sun would be rising in an hours time, and Matt Murdock needed to be at the office bright and early. Ernesto, an Argentine banker residing in New York, was very keen to see what Murdock & McDuffie could do about his little “tax problem”.
He desperately missed the days when he and Foggy had been paid in chickens and blueberry pies.
Frank had given him a nod as he headed off to sleep—or as Matt suspected, to go pay a little early morning visit to Karen’s apartment with a cup of coffee for her in hand. Karen never clarified, but he could feel the warmth of her reddened cheeks and the slight escalation in her heartbeat when the topic of Frank came up. Matt was happy for her. Karen deserved to be happy, even in times like these.
He heard the clip of the gun as it was being set up. Thanked God for his good reflexes when he dodged just as the bullet flew past his left temple.
That precision.
Fuck.
He knew who was shooting at him.
Another bullet. Another dodge.
The last thing Matt needed right now was Bullseye .
He swung onto the rooftop of the next apartment building over, where a very unashamed balaclava-wearing sharpshooter was already aiming a handgun at him.
“Poindexter.” Matt’s voice deepened to a normally very intimidating baritone, “What do you think you’re doing?”
“Hello Devil.” Bullseye replied casually, and shot his gun.
All trauma-ridden past aside, there were times Matt was very thankful for the arduous training Stick had forced him through.
This was one of those times.
He grabbed the gun from Poindexter’s hand and smashed it into the ground. It was five in the morning, he was exhausted and bleeding. The man who killed his best friend was trying to shoot him. He was going to fucking kill Benjamin Poindexter.
He went to shove at the man’s chest just as Poindexter grabbed his shoulder. The result was a very undignified Devil of Hell’s Kitchen with his hips astride his would-be assailant. On the dirty roof of a dingy apartment building. At five in the fucking morning.
And because Matt just had to have superior tactile senses along with his fantastic sense of smell and coordination, it did not escape his notice that both his hands were up against a particularly well-built chest.
Matt was not going to think about that. He was going to ignore the heaving chest and the maniacal I-will-kill-you stare that he was certain Bullseye was shooting at him. He was also most definitely going to ignore the powerful thighs he was currently sitting on.
Matt Murdock knew he had bad taste in women.
He was now discovering his taste in men was even worse.