Not Taking No for an Answer
The heel of his hand collided with your nose, driving pain up through your head, stars scattering across your vision. In your haze, the salty tears running down your face started to taste bitter, hot, and thick over your lips. You were bleeding.
“You think you can run?” His voice crackled roughly in a broken, furious yell over the sound of your hysterical sobs. “You think you can hide from this?”
Those sobs became hiccups, any attempted words drowning in stuttered squeaks. He leaned in closer to you as your blood and tears mixed, dripping down your shirt like slow rain at the end of a storm. You wanted to yell, to kick, to scream, but your voice was raw from the amount of screaming you’d done already. All gone to waste, no less. And what would you kick at - him? That’d just end with more of your blood pooling on the smooth marble floor. Acid swirled in your stomach, the threat of more suffering clawing at your chest, threatening to tear you apart from the inside.
“I'm not what you want!” You managed over the pain in your throat and the taste of your own blood. "You know I'm not what you want!"
The old man only laughed, looking down on you with sightless eyes.
“You have no idea what you are.”
You felt yourself begin to scream again. You shrieked, the shrill sound surging from the depths of your core, ripping through your lungs as if it was all you had left in you - your only hope for survival.
You screamed.
And screamed.
And screamed.
You shot up, screams at the edge of your mind fading back into phantoms of the past. Shivers wracked your body. You clutched at your chest, the feeling of ropes around your wrists and blood on your lips all too real. It was all you could do to remind yourself that this wasn’t real, that it was just a dream, a scary story begging to be back in the light of your attention. As you worked to slow your breathing and calm yourself, you gradually became more aware of your surroundings. You remembered that you were in your apartment. Safe.
I’m okay. I’m here. I’m safe.
The first thing you noticed was the jarring noise of your alarm, in the same rhythm as the screams from your nightmare.
Hilarious.
You jabbed your thumb against your phone screen to shut it off once and for all and took a deep breath. Your once-neat bed was all but wrecked, the comforter half off the mattress, and it took you more than a few tries to free your legs from the twisted, tangled mass that was once your sheets. The cold sweat coating your skin was starting to feel like a sticky film, and you ached for your morning shower. You checked the time - seven on the dot - and lifted yourself out of bed on weak legs.
Just keep breathing. In. Out.
The hot water felt like cashmere on your skin, ribbons of clean, hot safety pouring down your body in waves of addictive comfort. It was the closest thing you’d gotten to a hug in weeks. You scrubbed at your skin, scrubbed until you were raw and red and heaving with the effort, scrubbing away the horrors at the bottom of your memory that would leech back into your present whenever you weren’t looking.
You’d been scrubbing for years, and though those screams had become muted over time, you could still hear them. In deafening noise and in the sound of silence, they always seemed to find you - still threatening to make you pay, still threatening to put you in your so-called place.
Still threatening to drag you into a war you never asked for.
“Here we have a fresh cup of coffee, just the way you like it.”
You smiled. “Thanks, Ray.”
Ray’s hand hovered over your desk for a moment - which was nothing short of an entire mess. Really, with the number of papers, pens, and case files strewn about, it was like a bomb had gone off. He found a spot near the edge of your desk with just enough room and carefully placed the cup down, and with that, the desk was no longer visible. It might as well be made of paper, your laptop, and your latte.
“Looks like you’ve got a lot on your mind, Sel,” he noted, juggling a full tray of coffees in one hand and his own drink in the other. You chuckled.
“That’s an understatement.”
“Prepping for the Big One?”
The ‘Big One’ was a mission Ray had been working on for months. It was an investigation into a New York crime family and some shady political chats that led to a murder, to put it plainly. Janelle assigned you to the case last week, and you’d begun familiarizing yourself with it but were, admittedly, a little more off track than you should have been.
The folder on your desk containing information on Anatoly Ranskahov - apparently an FBI person of interest, unsurprisingly - spoke to that off-trackness.
“Yes, sir,” you lied, rifling through the papers. “As much as I can prep. I’m catching up on months of work here.”
“No doubt in my mind that you’ll catch up in no time.”
“How very misguided of you,” you laughed. Ray looked down at you, the jokingly offended expression on his face fading into a smile. “But thanks. The coffee should help.”
“Always does, O’Malley!”
Ray sauntered off to the next row of cubicles, and you slouched back into your chair. With a subtle glance outside your cubicle, you flipped open the Anatoly folder to see a far-off, blurry shot of him crossing a street. The mental image you could paint of him was far from clear, but you could at least get a rough idea. Blonde hair, pale skin, medium build. You skimmed the first page, landing on a list of known associates that could confirm or deny whether this was the right Anatoly.
These sorts of files mattered little to the FBI. They were copies of case and personnel files sent from the NYPD and could be accessed by agents of any level. Although someone might be listed as a ‘person of interest,’ the level of interest could be anywhere from off-the-charts to barely existent. Matters involving the low-interest people - like Anatoly - remain under NYPD jurisdiction until the FBI finds a reason why they need to take it into their hands. The files are more of a professional courtesy than anything else; some prove useful in your cases, while others sit in filing cabinets, collecting dust.
And in turn, they’re easy for you to borrow, even for days at a time. No one else in the office will be looking for them.
The list of Anatoly’s known associates was short, but its two names carried more than enough weight for you. The first was Turk Barrett, described as a “low-level ammunitions and weapons dealer” and a “low-level threat.” The second name was Vladimir Ranskahov.
His brother.
You sighed with something that wasn’t quite relief or contentment but came close to both. This name was a win, another piece of the puzzle snapping into place. You lifted your latte and took a long, indulgent sip, the tightness in your neck and shoulders releasing just slightly.
Your desk phone started to ring, interrupting your small moment of triumph. At work to work, I guess. You lifted the black, corded, remarkably outdated device to your ear and tried your best to inject your voice with a borderline irritating level of friendliness.
“Agent O’Malley!”
“Hey, Selena! How goes it on this beautiful morning?”
You smiled at the sound of Foggy’s cheerful voice. “Morning, Foggy. It’s going just fine.”
“Just fine? In the life of a super-spy? I doubt it, but for the sake of your cover, I won’t dig.”
“Ha, ha. How’s the lawyer life treating you and Matt?”
“Starting to treat us better, actually. Finally got a case that’s going to court this week.”
Your breath caught in your throat. Prohaszka. “That’s- that’s great!”
“Yeah, I mean the money’s great, but for a minute there, I forgot how much work it takes to actually work.”
“Such an unfortunate reality.” You paused, considering how to proceed. “When are you guys in court?”
“Today and tomorrow, as long as we don’t end up with any crazy complications,” he mused.
Today and tomorrow. “Did you luck out with a midday session in the main building? Given you calling me at nine, I’m guessing you didn’t end up with a morning slot.”
“Nah, we got an evening slot for both days in that new extension. Smaller room, but the air conditioning is to die for.”
Perfect. “Ah, well, evening’s not so bad.” Another pause. Should I even bother asking? You clenched your teeth and went for it. “So, what’s the case? Attempted murder? Bank robbery?”
“Now, now, Agent O’Malley. I’m sure you understand attorney-client privilege.”
Dammit. “Shit, of course. It’s the investigator in me. Curious to a fault.” It didn’t matter, though. There was only one case they could possibly be going to court for this week. “Well, for your guys’ sake, I hope it’s nothing too crazy.”
“Thanks, Selena. Actually, speaking of court, once we’re done with this case - Matt and Karen and I were hoping you’d join us for a drink. Thursday night, maybe?”
“Oh!” You perked up. Going for a drink with Nelson and Murdock and Co was a great strategic plan, sure. But going for a drink with Foggy, with Karen, with Matt - that sounded… well, fun. And you could use an evening out. “I’d love to! I mean - yeah. Yeah, that’d be great.”
Foggy chuckled on the other end of the line. “Sounds like a plan, stan. We’re picking the place, just so you know.”
“Works for me.”
You rattled off your personal phone number so he could text you with more details and found yourself hoping he’d share it with Matt. Stop that. After Foggy ended the call with an ‘all the best, Miss Secret Agent,’ you turned your eyes back down to the Ranskahov file. Anatoly and Vladimir - one of many recent steps in the right direction, one level closer to the ultimate.
Not to mention the blessing that was Foggy’s phone call.
Tonight, thanks to him, you had a chance to unravel another piece of this puzzle. A chance to interrogate Prohaszka’s killer wouldn’t come around again, so you’d have to use whatever means necessary to find out just how much he knew. You could even mention the Ranskahovs by name to pressure him further, all while using no small amount of physical force to get information out of him. Maybe, just maybe, you could uncover a clue that would lead you even closer to your current goal: Wesley’s mysterious employer. The man behind the curtain, running the show from the shadows, who had more to answer for than he knew.
With a sip of your latte, you smiled to yourself. This was shaping up to be a better day than you’d expected.
The sunset had been brilliant. Rays of golden yellow and orange turned the scattered clouds pink and purple, the colors iridescent with how quickly they changed. Rosy clouds became dark plum and muted gray as the radiant sky faded into darker tones of indigo and navy blue. A cool breeze picked up with the shift in the sky and it played with your ponytail, wisping hair around in the wind. The stars had begun peeping out from behind the sky and they winked at you teasingly from light years away. And, to top it all off, the moon shone down on you, a glowing crescent brighter than the sun and ten times as beautiful.
A memory of your adoptive mother came to you. It was a summer evening a month after she took you in, and you and she sat on lawn chairs in her backyard, gazing up at the stars. She showed you all kinds of constellations - Orion, Cassiopeia, the big and little dippers - and although you didn’t feel quite comfortable enough to chat much just yet, the way she filled the silence was comforting. Along with the constellations, she talked to you about the moon, drawing it into a lesson about how even the moon moves through phases on its way to being whole again - and that despite nights where only a sliver of light is left, this resilient moon will always return to full.
She’d known you came from a difficult situation, though she wasn’t aware of the details. Granted, no one knew the details but you, and at your age, you didn’t even want to think about your past, let alone explain it to all these new people in your life. It would be too painful to tell your new family all that you’d been through just when you were rediscovering safety, comfort, and love. One of the social workers on your case had recommended to your parents that they change your legal name, something about it being safer in case someone from your past came after you. This social worker had suspected abuse, and she was right, sure - but she had no idea.
That night in the backyard was one of the first times you felt something like closeness towards your mother. Not on a deep level, no, but talking about the moon and the stars was as good a first step as any. The next day, you told her you’d decided on a name - Selena Eve. You explained the meaning behind it, and as tears welled up in her eyes, they welled up in yours, too.
You were the moon, a moonlit night. Just as the moon would change and shift from light to dark and back again, so would you - but your mother gave you hope that you could always rediscover the light.
A flash of bitterness coated your tongue. My mother.
Though the way your birth father let go of you was hurtful, the way your adoptive mother did it was a different kind of pain. The difference was, you hadn’t felt love from your birth father, not really. His focus on high-society life, his business enterprise, getting ahead, and getting wasted squashed any chance of there being room left in his heart for you. Since your birth mother had died in childbirth, there was really no place in that home for you to find love. He didn’t even go after you when you were taken, and you wondered whether he realized you were gone at all.
But your mother had chosen you. She held on to you tightly for years, promising she’d never leave - and yet, the second you graduated from university, she abandoned you. Wouldn’t return texts, calls, or emails - you even wrote her a letter, which returned to your mailbox soon after it was sent, marked ‘Return to Sender.’ You were turned away virtually, in writing and, on one of the most awful days of your life, face to face.
You sucked in a breath of the cold evening air. Dusk fading fast into the night, you steeled yourself. You were still the moon. You would still return to full. No one could take that away from you.
And now, you were the Nightingale, too.
It was the second day of the court proceedings. Yesterday, you headed to the courthouse after work, praying you wouldn’t run into Nelson or Murdock. As the general information on current and upcoming criminal hearings is public knowledge, you were able to finally find a name for the man who killed Prohaszka: John Healy. With this knowledge, you returned to the courthouse that night to wait it out and hopefully jump Healy once he left. Unfortunately, your hours of waiting on a rooftop ended with Healy leaving under police protection, armed guards transporting him away from the courthouse and out of your reach.
Tonight, you prayed for a different outcome.
Though you wanted justice, you also needed answers, needed information. If Nelson and Murdock lost the case and Healy was pronounced guilty, he would leave again under police custody, off to a jail cell where there was no chance of interrogating him. If they won the case, though, if Healy was pronounced not guilty - that or a hung jury could set him free. You knew it wasn’t right, but in the grand scheme, it was a necessary loss for real justice to prevail.
That’s what you kept telling yourself, anyway.
The crispness of the night air felt more like a clammy, damp cold to you now. You pulled your mask over your face and stared down at the back courthouse doors, thankful that your blue long-sleeve was thick and thermal even though it made you sweat. Healy would either walk out in handcuffs and flanked by officers, or he would stroll out a free man. Should he appear how you wanted him to, you’d jump down the fire escape and use your surroundings to your advantage. You mapped it out - small alley, overflowing dumpsters, sharp fencing with jagged edges, a car parked in the middle of it all. There was plenty for you to work with; you just needed the opportunity.
Your ears perked up as the door creaked open, grating on its hinges-
Come on, come on…
-and out walked John Healy. Alone.
You smiled.
If the man was shaken by his day in court, he didn’t show it. Healy held a duffle bag in one hand and sauntered over to the parked car. You got to your feet and moved slowly and silently to the fire escape, descending a few levels while keeping a sharp eye on your target. He opened the trunk, tossed in his duffle bag, and - no.
Not again.
A dark figure jumped down from another fire escape just as Healy shut his trunk. He landed on top of the car, and his knee drove into the windshield, abruptly smashing it entirely. You knew him immediately this time - the Man in Black. Jack.
Interrupting your mission for a second time.
You half expected Healy to dive out of the way or be knocked on his ass, but he held his own. He reached out at Jack, ready to power punches through him, and knocked him to the ground. You were shocked, but the Devil quickly regained control, returning to his feet and surging at Healy. The two of them fought in a chorus of grunts, kicks, and jabs, limbs driving into other limbs and softer spots, their pain numbed by their wrath. You rushed down the fire escape, your footsteps masked by the noises of the men below you.
Your feet hit the ground as Healy flew into a pile of trash. He lay there, dazed for a moment, before grabbing a nearby piece of pipe from the ground and getting up to swing it at Jack. From your view beneath the shadows, you couldn’t see much detail - but you watched in awe as Jack wrenched the pipe from Healy, quickly turning the tables and ramming it into Healy’s chest and gut.
Ouch.
Healy groaned but twisted the pipe out of Jack’s hands - who then grabbed Healy by the throat and shoved him into the wall. He struggled for a moment but soon slithered out of Jack’s grasp, and they resumed battering each other. You swore you heard a nose break and wondered whether jumping in would help Jack or just distract him. You were there for a reason, but you didn’t want to put him at risk.
Jack flipped Healy over and into a mirror, more broken glass scattering across the pavement. Healy got up and ran at Jack, tackling him. Jack tried, but Healy was too quick, throwing a fist at Jack’s head and wrenching his wrists around to the back of his neck. With this grip on Jack, Healy was in control, and he shoved Jack towards a sharp spike protruding from the top of the fence you’d noticed earlier. Jack strained, but Healy was stronger than either of you had expected. The spike was less than an inch from Jack’s eye, threatening to impale his head at any moment.
No.
You ran towards them, drawing a dagger and throwing it at Healy. It sliced across the back of his neck, and he wailed, releasing his grip on Jack, who then turned and threw him to the ground. Jack whipped his head around to face you as you approached the two of them.
“Eve,” he whispered urgently. “You need to get out of here.”
“Thought I told you I don’t take orders.”
The knife had clattered to the pavement just a few feet from where Healy hit the ground. In your momentary distraction, he outstretched his arm, grabbed the blade, and swung his arm back to carve the knife through your calf.
“Agh!” you yowled, your knee buckling. Jack dove down on top of Healy, pinning his arms over his head. Healy slipped one hand free and shoved it towards Jack’s face. Jack got the arm back down, but not before Healy could cut a nice slice below Jack’s lower lip.
You glanced down at your calf, blood soaking through the sliced fabric. Pain radiated out from the wound and through your leg, and though it wasn’t too deep of a cut, it was deep enough to hurt. A lot.
Healy got his arm free again and swung at Jack. Jack dove out of the way and got to his feet, Healy doing the same. In the low light, you could see blood dripping off Jack’s chin from the slice of your knife. You winced.
“That all you got, Devil?” Healy crowed, lurching at him. You dove between them and grabbed onto Healy’s sides, kneeing him in the gut. He tripped backward before lunging back at you, and though you were fast, he was faster, swinging the knife at your face. As you turned, it grazed over your eyebrow and down your temple, splitting the skin just enough to bleed.
If I hadn’t turned, that would have been my eye.
“And how about you?” Healy hissed, pausing. Jack took a moment, too, catching his breath and - you assumed - waiting for a good time to strike.
“You’re the one they warned me about, aren’t you? The little Nightingale?” Healy snickered. You clenched your jaw, nails digging into your skin at both the scorn of this man and the pain in your leg. “I’ve seen real birds die over bigger issues than this.”
Healy sprung at you and Jack dove towards him, wrenching Healy’s wrists behind his back and seizing your knife. You grabbed Healy’s shoulders, rammed your forehead against his nose, and kneed him in the gut once more.
“Gah!” He yelled. The sting on your forehead quickly disappeared, remedied by the sight of Healy’s dazed, pained expression. He thrashed, struggling against the two of you - but it was no use.
Jack spun around to face Healy, and you took the spot behind Healy's back, wasting no time. You held his wrists together and kicked at the back of his legs until he fell to his knees, Jack holding him off the ground by his neck. Jack did what you’d done and rammed his head into Healy’s nose before dropping him to the ground. Healy groaned and blinked hard, almost out of it. Keeping a firm grip on his wrists, you crouched behind him and drew another knife, placing the cold edge just against his neck. He immediately straightened, his breathing as sharp as the blade. It momentarily struck you how well you and Jack worked together.
You moved your lips closer to Healy's ear, your voice breathy and composed in a manner that you knew would send chills down his spine - and not in a good way.
“Good thing I’m not dying tonight.”
The Devil crouched to one knee and placed his knife against Healy’s neck, the tip of it just nearly piercing through his skin.
“Now,” he growled, his voice hoarse, probing, dark. “You’re gonna tell us who hired your lawyers.”
Healy scoffed, and you pulled your knife tighter against his neck, which brought a certain rigidity back to his posture. Just a gentle reminder of who’s in control here.
“You’re gonna tell us who hired your lawyers,” Jack continued, “and you’re gonna tell us who he works for.”
“I don’t think so, buddy,” Healy hissed. “There’s nothing you and your bitch can do that’ll make me talk.”
At that, Jack bared his teeth with a snarl and finally shoved the knife into Healy’s neck, breaking the skin. You could feel Healy shaking in pain, grunting desperately to keep any cries at bay.
“Who does he work for?” Jack bellowed, moving his head just in time to avoid Healy spitting at his face. Jack drove the knife further into Healy’s neck, the metal splitting through layers of skin and into the sickeningly slick resistance of fat and muscle. Healy finally screamed. You almost gagged, surprised Jack hadn’t killed the guy by mistake. Healy pushed back against you, but you held him steady, hoping Jack wasn’t just going for some alleyway murder, extreme-torture style.
“You don’t understand!” Healy wailed. “You don’t know what they’ll do to me-“
“Who does he work for?”
You held your knife steady as Matt kept pushing his deeper, ever so slowly but no less horrifically painful for Healy. The squelch of skin and muscle splitting began to make you dizzy. Healy’s uneven cries ripped from his chest, and you could feel his sweat against your skin, feel his resolve slipping through him, the agony thickening the air, muddling his mind-
“Fisk!”
You couldn’t help but gasp, taken aback at Healy’s admission.
“Wilson Fisk!”
You saw Jack tilt his head slightly, examining Healy for a moment. He then wrenched the knife from Healy’s neck and stepped back, dropping the weapon onto the pavement. Healy wailed once more and tipped forwards limply, and you finally moved your knife away from his neck and let go of his wrists. He fell onto the ground, weak and debilitated.
Jack took a few deep breaths. “Time for you to go.” Healy didn’t say anything, rolling onto his back as you put your knife back in its sheath. “You’re gonna get in that car of yours,” Jack continued, “and drive until the sun rises. And if we ever see you here again-“
“No,” Healy managed over broken, sobbing breaths. “No, no, no….”
“I wouldn’t play any more games if I were you,” you hummed, standing sure and stoic over Healy. His eyes darted from the Devil to you and back again, his agitated glances frenzied and frantic.
“Oh, shut up,” He groaned, twisting slowly and weakly up to his feet. “I’m already dead.”
You furrowed your brow.
“Don’t you get it?” Healy spat, his voice growing shrill. “I gave him up. Him.” He groaned again. The guttural noise came out more a broken howl, like an injured wolf crying out to the moon, in fear that this would be the last time he’d feel its light. “You don’t do that to him.”
Jack took a slow, careful step closer to you. Healy began to pace in a small circle, his eyes on the ground, shaking his head. You found his stuttered, fearful movements unsettling.
“You don’t know what he’ll do to me - what he’ll do to the people I love.” The man looked back at you, his blue eyes blank and wild with more fear than you’d seen in a very long time. “I’m not just out of a job. I’ll be a wanted man by morning. He’ll hunt me down. He always does.”
Jack shifted his jaw. “Healy-“
“No!” He shouted at you both, his hands beginning to twitch and shake. His eyes somehow grew more frenetic, darting around the alley, and he lifted his hands to the back of his neck as the pacing resumed. You could hear him whispering under his breath.
I don’t want to die, I don’t want to die, I don’t want to die.
And, then, a marked shift:
I’m already dead. I’m already dead. I’m already dead.
Healy stopped pacing and turned back to you and Jack, a sober look in his distant eyes. “You have no idea what you’ve done to me.” Then, the man almost smirked, the lift of his lips spitefully sad. “Should have just killed me. Saved us all the trouble.”
Wait-
“NO!” Jack shouted. You only saw Healy turn and dive forwards before your vision was clouded with black, strong arms wrapping tightly around you, your face buried in Jack’s shoulder. You could still hear, though, and you almost threw up at the sound. You’re a federal agent, sure, but you’re still human, and the sound, the sound of squelching and sputtering and metal driving through bone with a crack - that was something you’d never be able to forget. Jack felt you shaking and pulled you impossibly tighter, his fists stretching into open hands, pressing warmth and protection into your back.
“Is- is he-“
“Yes.”
Jack said the word shortly, curtly, focusing entirely on holding you as tight as he could. You didn’t know him, and you weren’t sure if he was doing it more for you or for himself, but you didn’t care. He pulled away just slightly, his hands still on you, sliding down to the small of your back. “I didn’t want you to see it happen.”
Part of you wanted to look, but all of you knew that was a bad idea. You lifted a shaky hand to cover your mouth, jaw dropped in shock and in what was the beginning of a sob. Jack pulled you back into him, his embrace like a heavy blanket, keeping your soul in your body and your feet on the ground.
“I’m so sorry, Eve, but we’ve gotta go,” Jack whispered, his voice a low rumble that you could feel through your chest. “We can’t have the cops think this was anything other than-“ he paused, not wanting to say it outright. “-Healy’s decision.”
“Okay. Yeah.” You breathed against his chest. He pulled away from you gently and frowned.
“Your leg. That’s a bad cut.”
“I’ve had worse.” You shifted your weight and immediately regretted it, wincing as pain shot up from the flex of your calf muscle. Jack shook his head.
“Come on, let me help you back.”
“No. I’ll be fine.”
“You need stitches, Eve,” he insisted. “Do you have a first aid kit at your place?”
You were exhausted, injured, and the last thing you needed was some guy following you into your apartment. “Yes, Jack, just go. I’ll be fine.”
“Eve.” He said sharply. “How are you gonna get home like this?” Jack leaned in, his voice almost pained. “Limping, in a mask, with blood all over yourself?”
You scoffed. “Like you don’t limp home all the time.”
The Devil heaved a sigh, thinking how ironic and slightly annoying it was to have met someone almost as headstrong as him. Almost. “I’m not taking no for an answer.” When you didn’t budge, he tilted his head with a sigh, letting his tone drop into something more tender.
“You can trust me.”
You shifted your jaw and stared the Devil down. As you did, though, you became more and more aware of the pain in your calf. Opting to ignore it, you took a stride forwards, and the unsteady leg buckled under your weight - sending you right back into Jack’s arms.
“Shit,” you hissed. He silently helped you back onto your feet. You couldn’t see his eyes, but the rest of his face gave you a look that just screamed, ‘I told you so.’ You sighed. “Fine.”
Jack pursed his lips. “And you’re gonna let me stitch you up.”
“There is absolutely no reason why I can’t do that myself-“
“It’s too awkward of an angle. You’ll tear more skin just trying to reach it.”
You winced at the thought of injuring yourself more. And, to be fair, he had a point - you’d need crazy flexibility and a really good mirror in order to even clean the wound.
“Okay, double fine,” you hissed. “But you need stitches, too. That gash under your lip isn’t gonna close itself.”
Jack shook his head, a low, irritated chuckle leaving him. “Eve-“
Your eyes pierced through his mask, so much so that you knew he could feel it. “I’m not taking no for an answer.”
“Son of a fucking bitch, oh my God-“
Even with the Man in Black’s surprisingly gentle touch, the antiseptic from your first aid kit felt like boiling oil across the slice in your calf. He’d been forced to cut off the lower half of your pants, as rolling them up your leg was a recipe for more pain, and taking them entirely off was not something either of you was about to consider. You lay on your couch, and he sat on the other end, your leg in his lap, a towel over his thighs. Excess antiseptic, now tinted just slightly pink, passed out of your cut and dripped onto the towel.
He grimaced. “Sorry.”
“No, it’s fine, I just - Jesus!”
It had taken the two of you about thirty minutes to get to your apartment. You started out with one arm draped across Jack’s shoulders, his arms supporting you as you limped through darkened streets and back alleys. He helped you grab your bag of regular clothes from a nearby rooftop and refused to let you change - something about a timeline for optimal healing for your cuts. You grumbled that it’d be safer to just take the time, but he was insistent, and you gave in, the two of you fully masquerading in your alter-egp getups all the way back to your apartment. There had been a few points where a police car would speed past, sirens wailing and lights ablaze, and the two of you had to duck into a dark corner, a dirty alleyway, behind a dumpster - whatever spot would enable you to hide and wait it out. In those fleeting moments of forced stillness, your head to his chest or his hand on your back, an unreal combination of extreme danger and pure safety swirled through your chest.
With such a dangerous man in your corner, practically carrying you home, you supposed it just made sense.
And now - after a thoroughly challenging climb up your fire escape and a very awkward crawl through your living room window - you sat with him on your couch, his hands working deftly to clean your wounds. You both had decided it best to keep the masks on out of respect for each others’ privacy. Even though, again, the guy was in your living room with your leg in his lap.
What a weird situation.
“I’m guessing you’ve done this before?” You asked through gritted teeth.
“Yeah,” Jack answered, pressing a clean, dry cloth against your calf. His grip was firm but tender, and you only winced slightly. “On myself, a lot.”
“Doesn’t surprise me.” He took his hands off your leg and turned to the first aid kit, its contents laid out on the coffee table. “You seem like you know what you’re doing. Makes me feel a little better.”
Jack reached over your legs to draw out a freshly sanitized surgical needle and suture thread. “I grew up doing this sort of stuff, really.”
“Man, how long have you been a vigilante?”
He laughed. “No, no, not for me.” A pensive look passed over his face. “My dad would come home all messed up sometimes. It was just us, and I wanted to be able to help him, so...“ he paused, something flickering in his jaw. “...I learned quick.”
He threaded the needle, his movements perfect and precise, breaths even and calm. Watching him work in such a peaceful, focused way, you found a spark of admiration flittering through your chest. “Did your dad get into a lot of fights?”
“Yeah, actually.” Jack half smiled. “He was a boxer.”
You smiled. “Knew you got that skill from somewhere.”
He laughed again. “My father was less skill, more dogged determination. Blood, sweat, and tears, you know.” Another pause, as if he was trying to figure out what was okay to share with you and what would be too much. “His biggest fight, though, wasn’t physical. It was his ego that got the best of him.”
You let out a long, low sigh, thoughts of your birth father flashing in your mind. “Reminds me of my father, believe it or not. Not the boxing, but the ego. It’s hard.”
Jack turned his head toward you with a nod. “I know he loved me, I do - there were just some… key moments in our life together where his ego came first.” He paused. “Didn’t end well.”
“God, I can relate to that.” More to the ego aspect than the love aspect, but still.
Jack sighed and stilled for a moment. He softly placed a warm hand on your knee and your breath hitched, his thumb reaching over the cut edge of the fabric onto your skin. “Hope you don’t relate too much.”
The slow stroke of his thumb took you by surprise at first, before fading into something feathery, light - almost hypnotic. You looked up at Jack, something less than a smile but more than nothing playing on your lips. The same expression passed over his. It was something peaceful, a small understanding you each had of the other’s pain - a tiny piece of sad comfort between the two of you. Not quite something, but more than nothing. Especially with the way his thumb was tracing circles on your skin.
“Alright, Nightingale.” He tapped his fingers across your knee, ending the moment. “Time to get you stitched up.” You groaned.
“You know you don’t have to call me that.”
“Seems like it’s a more widely used name for you than ‘Eve’ is,” Jack mused, double-checking his needle to ensure it was correctly threaded. “What gets you that kind of name, anyway?”
You thought of harried typing in the middle of the night, threats sent and received, blood and fury both virtual and very real, and a name like a battle cry, no louder than a whisper and yet infinitely powerful. “It’s complicated. I could ask you the same question.”
“You could,” Jack added, “but I just think ‘Man in Black’ is a little more straightforward than ‘Nightingale.’”
“Oh, please. Aren’t you the Devil now?”
He scoffed. “I like to think I am not the Devil.”
“You are to some people.” You tipped your head towards him, the probing evident in the way your voice lilted. “If not the Devil, what would you want to be?”
Jack turned his head, searching for some far-off answer in the distance. “I just want to be a good man, Eve. I want to help people, help make my city a better place.”
You paused for a second. “You’ve definitely used that line before, haven’t you?”
He turned back to you with a laugh. “That obvious?”
“Little bit.”
“Yeah, well, doesn’t make it any less true.” He sighed. “I’m guessing that’s your goal, too? Or at least something similar?”
You wanted to say yes, but although helping people would be a happy byproduct, your goals were different, to say the least. “Like I said. It’s complicated.”
Jack turned to you, tilting his head and shifting his jaw as if he wanted to say something but decided against it. He handed you a clean cloth to bite down on and lined up his needle with the edge of your wound. You’d gotten stitches a few other times before, but all other times had been in a hospital or a doctor’s office, with numbing agents and other painkilling drugs. This, getting stitches on your couch by a random man in a mask, was a unique addition to the list of your medical experiences.
“Wait,” you froze. “Your mask.”
“What about my mask?”
Is he serious?
“Jack, you need to be able to see my cut clearly in order to stitch it up.” You placed your hands over your eyes in an effort to display good faith. “You can take it off. I won’t look, I promise.”
“As much as I believe you wouldn’t look, I’m gonna leave it on.”
“I don’t know if that’s such a great idea.”
“Trust me, Eve.” Jack placed his hands back at your calf. You heaved a breath, lifting the cloth to your lips.
“Fine. But if this ends up as some super gnarly scar, it’s on you.”
The first suture hurt the most. Jack warned you, even counted down from three, but the needle running its thread through your skin was a sensation you hadn’t felt in forever, and a painful one at that. A grunt escaped you as you clamped your teeth against the cloth in your mouth. But, the rest of the stitches became easier and easier, and it was over before you knew it.
“All done?”
“Almost,” Jack said, placing the needle back into the first aid kit and drawing out a small tub and some gauze. “Antibiotic ointment and gauze. Make sure you change the gauze and reapply the ointment every twenty-four hours.”
“Or if it gets wet or dirty.”
He smiled. “That’s right.”
Jack’s touch was soft and tender as he applied the ointment to your wound. He carefully slid his fingers over the slit in your skin, making sure he didn’t knock any sutures out of place or reopen the cut. It wasn’t painful, but the damaged skin was sensitive under his touch, and every pass of his fingertips over the wound sent tiny shivers rushing up through your leg. He then wrapped the gauze tightly around your calf, securing it with a safety pin, and you were done.
“How does that feel?” He asked as you moved the leg off his lap and onto the floor. It still hurt, but the pain felt lesser now that you knew it was taken care of.
“Better. Much better.” You turned to Jack, eyeing the dried blood beneath his lips. “Especially now that it’s your turn.”
A sigh drew itself from his chest. “You don’t have to.”
“I want to.”
After a few more short moments of the Devil refusing to be helped and you not letting him get away with it, he finally submitted to your demands. You had made the valid point that if he ended up with a distinct, gnarly scar of his own - on his face, no less - he’d answer for it in his real life. His gash wasn’t nearly as big or deep as yours, but still. Not worth the risk.
He slid closer to you on the couch until his knee bumped yours. But, he didn’t move it away, and neither did you. The tiny bit of contact was almost negligible, totally innocent and innocuous. Nothing bigger than convenience, so it’d be easier for you to take care of his wound.
Right?
You grabbed another clean cloth and the antiseptic and turned back to Jack. The cut glistened with blood, not dripping anymore but still very apparent in the light from your lamp. Drying blood trailed from his gash, down his chin and just under it, save from a few drips that had landed on his shirt. You poured some antiseptic into the cloth and put the bottle down, leaning in. So close to him, you could feel heat radiating from his body, the scents of blood, metal, smoke, and cinnamon prancing past the edge of your nose.
“Okay,” you tried to say calmly, though it came out as more of a half-whisper. “I’m gonna get you cleaned up first.”
Jack only nodded and lifted his chin up in offering, leaning in closer to you. You hesitated for a moment, knowing you should be looking at where the blood was but finding your eyes stuck on his lips.
“I’m ready,” Jack hummed, his announcement snapping you back to reality.
“Right, right. Good.”
Gingerly, you placed your empty hand at the base of Jack’s jaw, tilting his chin up further with your thumb. His head moved easily under your touch, eager to get this over with or to get the blood off his skin, you assumed. The flex of his neck and shoulders stirred something warm within you. You reached up with the damp cloth and stroked it down the underside of his chin and jaw, taking a few strokes to get all the blood off.
“There’s another little spot,” Jack breathed, his voice rough and yet still soft. “Just by my adam’s apple.”
You looked down, and sure enough, there it was - a streak of blood further down his neck, scarlet offset by the deep beige of his skin. He tilted his head back down to face you as you gently rubbed the red away. You looked back up to him and moved the cloth to the front of his chin, wiping blood off cautiously and meticulously to avoid pulling at his cut. It felt like he was staring at you in patient silence, watching your brow knit and your lips purse, and you wondered whether his eyes were on you or closed beneath the mask.
“That feel okay?”
“Yeah,” his voice crackled as you pulled your hands away to grab the antiseptic. He cleared his throat. “Yeah.”
“I need you to keep your lips together, okay? No drinking the antiseptic.”
He snorted. “There go my evening plans.”
You held the cloth at the edge of his chin and moved the bottle’s nozzle just over the top of the cut. Your other hand - wrapped around the bottle - brushed the corner of his mouth. His skin was surprisingly soft, save for the tiniest scrape of stubble. As you squirted the antiseptic through the wound, you felt him tense up, his muscles straining slightly, but he didn’t make a sound. His hands rested in his lap, fingers twiddling against his thighs.
“Got good pain tolerance,” you murmured, dabbing at the wound with your cloth.
His voice was just as much of a murmur, more a deep vibration than anything. “Kind of a job requirement, don’t you think?”
“Guess so.”
You drew a smaller needle from your kit and threaded it, lining up its tip with the edge of his gash. Your other thumb rested on his lower lip, leaving his mouth slightly open, the feeling of this subtle touch almost too intimate to you. That patient silence grew thicker somehow, your hands on his skin, his lips softly parted, hot and gentle breaths floating over your hands in a slow rhythm.
No. Not intimate. Just surgical. Surgical.
He clenched his jaw as you threaded the first suture. Like you, it seemed to get easier for him as you went. His took far fewer stitches than yours, and you were done quickly. You traded your needle for the ointment and smeared it over his stitches, accidentally getting a streak of excess over his lower lip.
You wiped your hands on the cloth and reached back up to his face, one hand cupping his jaw to hold him steady. He didn’t resist, letting you move him, so soft and pliable for someone who’d just driven a knife through a man’s neck for not giving him what he wanted. You slid your other hand over his cheek and swiped your thumb across his lip, getting most of the ointment off. His breath hitched, and you fought to ignore it. You swiped once more to get the rest of the ointment, moving your thumb a bit slower, letting it linger at the corner of his lip before finally pulling your hands away.
“There,” you breathed, the word thick and fuzzy in your mouth. “All done.”
Jack sat still for a moment and lifted his hand. He traced his fingers over the stitches, then his lip. You noticed his fingertips linger on the same spot your thumb had lingered.
“You’re good at this, too,” he nodded, his voice soft. “Thank you.”
“No problem.”
You moved to pack up your first aid kit and saw Jack tilt his head to the side out of the corner of your eye.
“Wait,” he said. “Your face. Let me bandage it.”
A small laugh escaped you. “What, you want the last word or something?”
“I might as well, while I’m still here,” he insisted. “Unless you’re in a hurry to get back out there.”
“God, no,” you shook your head, echos of knives in skin, blood pooling on pavement, and Healy’s desperate cries running through your memory. “Tonight was enough for me.”
Jack paused a moment before grabbing a butterfly bandage and turning back to you. “Did you get what you were looking for, at least?”
You breathed for a moment in thought as Jack prepared another cloth with antiseptic. John Healy’s fatal slip could be the key to everything you were chasing after. One whisper of a name - or pained scream, rather - that ended his life and imbued yours with an even stronger level of purpose.
Another name to add to your growing collection, this one carrying weight you didn’t think you’d find so soon.
Wilson Fisk.
“I did,” you offered, wincing only slightly as Jack pressed the cloth to your temple. His other hand lifted to the corner of your jaw to keep your head steady, and you found yourself wishing your mask was off, wishing you could know what it would feel like to have his fingers touch the bare skin of your jaw. Your lips parted beneath the fabric. Focus. “And you?”
“I did,” Jack continued, placing the cloth down and prepping the bandage. You leaned forward almost involuntarily as he pulled his hands away, quickly pulling back to save yourself any embarrassment. “Sounds like we’re chasing after something similar.”
“Maybe we are.”
He reached back up to the slit beside your eyebrow, pressing each side of the cut together and securing it with the butterfly bandage. His touch was sure and firm but gentle, and you found yourself welcoming it. You didn’t even wince this time.
“If I didn’t work alone,” you mused, Jack’s hands releasing their pressure just slightly as your lips quirked up, “I’d say we make a pretty good team.”
He smiled, put a final press against the wound, and pulled his hands into his lap. “If I didn’t work alone,” he hummed, his voice a soft rumble, “I’d say the same thing.”
The two of you sat there for a short moment that felt more like an eternity. Your eyes traced the curve of Jack’s stitches up to the curve of his lips, falling to the edge of his shirt and then rising back up to where his eyes would be beneath the mask. His head tilted just slightly as his breaths came smooth and even, his focus not on your injuries, not on stitching you up, but just on you. You felt a coil of warmth swirl and expand through your core into something tight, tangible, and addictively pleasant. You knew you should tell yourself to stop, to breathe, to focus, but as the energy swirled through your chest and teased itself against your brain, it became so hard to want anything other than the way you felt in this moment, sitting a breath away from the Devil.
Jack shook his head and cleared his throat, tilting his head away from you. You noticed a flicker in his jaw and wondered, on a whim, if he was struggling to focus the way you were. As he spoke again, his attention lifted once more to you.
“Maybe I’ll see you out there again, then. Since we’re chasing after the same man.”
You smiled, the warm energy in you becoming lighter, your tone coy as you tested more playful waters. “Not if I get to him first.”
“Wow,” Jack purred, his lips curving into a smirk. Yes. Took the bait. “A minute ago you said we’d be a great team, and now I’m just competition to you?” He lifted a hand to his chest, his attention on you as rapt and probing as ever. “I’m hurt.”
You shrugged, getting to your feet and grinning beneath your mask. “Well, be hurt, because if you keep stitching me up like this, I’ll be unstoppable.”
The Devil stayed where he was and relaxed back into the couch. With his posture slack, his large thighs spread slightly, and he moved his arms to relax at his sides. The peaks and valleys of muscle from his torso to his chest and shoulders practically forced your lips apart. He shifted his jaw, tongue flicking over a still-smirking lip. “You suggesting this isn’t a one-time thing?”
“Oh, Jack,” you chided, half-expecting your voice to break under the weight of this growing tension. “Don’t we both work alone?”
“Oh, Eve,” he chided right back, getting to his feet. The straight line of him - all black fabric and muscle and heat and intoxicating charm - was almost intimidating as he stood in front of you, the intensity nearly making you shiver. “Helping you out could hardly be considered work.”
“Kind comment from the Devil,” you breathed, so close to him you swore you could hear your words reverberate off his body.
He tilted his head, the low drone of his voice rolling against your skin like silk. “And I can be much kinder. You’d be surprised.”
Oh my fucking fuck.
You moved to take a step back, give yourself a metaphorical cold shower - but you stepped wrong, twisting your calf awkwardly and painfully.
“Ah!” you yelped. Jack’s hands were on you in no time, one grasping your arm, one on the small of your back.
“You okay?”
“Yeah, I just- ugh.“ You groaned. “Fuck, that hurt.”
“The stitches didn’t tear, which is good. I’d just watch your step for the next few days.”
You nodded, electing to ignore the strange fact that he somehow knew your stitches were still intact. “Very much planning on it.”
Jack stroked his hand up and down your back once before pulling away. He walked back over to the living room window you’d entered through and slid it open, letting a cool breeze flow through the room. You bit the inside of your lip, one part of you wanting him to stay a moment longer, another part wishing you could follow him into the night.
What? No. Not the person, not the time, and absolutely not appropriate.
You settled on a simpler, more suitable request.
“Try to get some rest, okay?”
He turned back to you, smiling. “Back at you.” His voice was tender and yet rough, dark and yet light. “Guess I’ll see you when I see you, Nightingale.”
You smiled, and he slipped through the window onto the fire escape. For a moment, you could make out the movements of his body, a living shadow climbing up to meet the moon on your roof. Then, the Devil disappeared into the night, but his warmth and his touch lingered, and you found yourself hoping it wouldn’t be long before you saw him again.
“Jesus,” you groaned, throwing your head back in disbelief at yourself. Finally alone with your thoughts, you pulled your mask down, wiping off a light sheen of sweat that had formed over your skin.
You didn’t need the Devil’s help to get shit done. Certainly didn't need his company.
And yet, you found yourself staring out that open window long after he had slipped back into the moonlight and all its darkness, your skin throbbing not with your injuries but with the memory of his touch.